Turnberry House – a novel featuring suspense, paranormal activity, and a touch of romance!
Copyright Lisa K. Price 2009
Turnberry House
by Elle Price
Prologue
Eleanor rocked back and forth in her rocking chair, just like she had done every evening for decades. As she rocked, her gnarled old hands worked her knitting needles back and forth. Cream colored yarn continuously unraveled from the skein she had tucked in between her hip and the arm of the chair.
Her thin, withered lips pursed as she struggled to whistle a tune. She would have sung the song, but she could no longer remember the words. If her ever-failing memory caused her any consternation, it failed to register on her face.
Oh she could remember some things. Memories of a bygone era; a time when she could tend her own garden, do her own laundry, and rake the newly fallen autumn leaves from her yard. Yes, those days were gone, now. Had been for quite some time. How long, she wasn’t sure.
Her reminiscing was abruptly halted when she heard the front door open down stairs. Odd, as she wasn’t expecting any company. In fact, she hadn’t had any company in … hmmm … she didn’t know how long.
She set her needlework on the stool beside her rocker and glided silently across her bedroom floor. The door creaked open and as she started to poke her head out into the hallway, she heard voices in the first floor foyer.
“Four bedrooms, and three and a half baths,” came an unfamiliar female voice. “Hardwood floors throughout, two fireplaces – one in the front parlor and one in the master bedroom,” the voice continued.
Eleanor heard the distinctive clatter of heels on her hardwood floors, and she cringed at the thought of the scratches that would be left in the wood planks.
She started into the hallway to descend the great staircase. She was going to give her insensitive visitors a piece of her mind and ask them to kindly remove their footwear.
Just as she landed on a step mid-stair, the two interlopers nearly bowled her over on their way up to the second floor.
“Whooo, mental note to self,” came one of the voices, “bad draft on the stairway.”
Eleanor stood in stunned silence as she realized the two women had not rushed passed her on the staircase as much as they had passed through her. She was puzzled by that fact and stood determinedly still, processing what had just happened.
“Nothing a little weather stripping can’t cure,” came the response. “Let’s continue on our tour, shall we?”
The women continued their perusal of the home, opening every door and critiquing every room they entered. Eleanor wondered how people could be so rude.
“Can I help you, ladies?” Eleanor asked, her voice like a wisp in the hallway. Becoming increasing indignant when she received no answer, Eleanor marched up behind the younger of the two women and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Yes, what is it?” the woman asked her cohort.
“I didn’t say anything,” came the reply.
“Didn’t you just tap me on the shoulder?”
“No. I’m nearly five yards away from you.”
“Oh. Hmmmm.”
The younger woman that Eleanor had touched twisted her mouth into look of puzzlement before returning to survey the empty room.
“Are you sure you didn’t just tap me on the shoulder?” she asked once again.”
“I’m positive. You know, Elise, there is an old town wives’ tale that claims that Turnberry House is haunted.”
Elise rolled her eyes at the comment. “Oh jeez, Marla. Are you a realtor or a yarn spinner? What’s the list price again?”
“$245,000.”
Elise stood contemplating. “And just how long has this place been on the market?”
“On and off for the last 15 years.”
“Jeez, what seems to be the problem?”
“I don’t know,” Marla said, “ghosts?”
Elise rolled her eyes once more and trudged out into the upper hallway, scraping her stiletto heels as she went.
At the entrance to the master bedroom, Elise paused before opening the door. “Well, one last room to explore up here, and then we’ll check out the kitchen and dining area on the first floor.”
Eleanor’s dismay turned into disdain as the young woman began to turn the knob on her bedroom door. The nerve of some people! Nosing around someone’s home. That’s it, she decided, and moved quickly to place herself between the intruder and her private room.
“Whooo, drafty up here too,” Elise said and shrugged before turning the knob and entering the empty room.
“I beg your pardon,” Eleanor began and cut off mid-sentence when the realization hit her. The room was empty. Her rocking chair, her knitting, all of it gone. In fact, she realized, the entire house was empty.
It was all coming back to her now. The sudden blow to her head, the intense pain she felt just before sliding into blackness. A blackness she never woke from.
The room started to spin and Eleanor slid as a mist under the closed doorway and out into the hall.
Chapter 1
Elise finished forming the final linen napkin into a rose and placed it into the delicate China teacup, finishing the final place setting. She looked over trappings of the Rose Parlor room and nodded pleasingly to herself at what she saw.
The Turnberry House, a two-story Victorian built in 1882, had been carefully transformed into The Turnberry House Tea Room over the past several months, and Elise was both proud of her work and terrified about the Grand Opening taking place tomorrow.
She was adamant about maintaining the historic and architectural integrity of the building, while at the same time infusing modern touches, such as electric wall sconces and table lamps.
Elise had spent countless hours poring over wallpaper pattern books and samples until she had found the exact burgundy stripe she had been looking for. It was no surprise that the silken rolls were on the expensive side. She had known exactly what she wanted and wasn’t about to spare any expense. She had formed a vision of her tea room over the years beginning when she was a young girl enjoying afternoon tea with her grandmother every summer day.
Her grandmother would be proud, she knew. Proud of the delicate China patterns chosen with great care; proud of the perfectly hued mauve and ivory linens hand picked from many samples; proud of the rows of glass jars of loose leaf tea, flavors and blends chosen after great deliberation and hours and hours of taste testing. And, not a tea bag in sight!
Taking one last sweep of the Rose Parlor, she turned on her heel, crossed the Grand Hall and peered proudly into the Magnolia Parlor. Again, pleased with what she saw, she turned off the lights and walked the center of the exquisite floral runner down the main hallway and into the kitchen.
Nothing historical in there, however. A stainless steel wonderland filled with brand new gleaming appliances, shining mixing bowls, and mirror-like prep tables lit the room up like a carnival fun house.
Elise and JeriAnn had spent the better part of the last two days baking and cooking and folding and putting all the final touches in place, and come tomorrow, they hoped they would see the fruits of their labor.
JeriAnn was a hoot. At 72 years old, she had been married for 50 years, widowed for the past five, mother of three, grandmother to eight and great-grandmother to eighteen.
She had been born and raised in Meadowview and could tell you stories about the town like there was no tomorrow. She knew every one in town and had something on every one. Gossip was her middle name, and she spread it like peach preserves on one of her freshly baked scones.
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