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The Brewster estate was just waiting to star in a Stephen King thriller. The creepy factors and influences raised neck hairs well before visitors got to the main house that had seen better days many years ago. The elaborate wrought iron gates, once firmly attached to two massive field stone pillars, had thrown off their hinges years ago and leaned inward like a two drunken party goers. The driveway no longer offered visitors a friendly welcome up the winding ribbon of cracked tarmac; instead guests imagined the potholed surface whispering “be gone.” The massive maple trees lining the driveway were bent and broken from years of neglect, and branch breaking ice and snow. The miasma of indifference continued right up to the circular driveway in front of the large red brick house, once proud, but now reduced to a haunt for mice, raccoons and occasional human lovers.
The estate, once host and home to countless race horses that made their mark at the major tracks on the eastern seaboard was a mere shadow of its former glory. But, antique store owner Monica Goodwood, and her best friend and business partner Erin O’Malley had received an invitation from a real estate agent to poke about the property for any items of interest before it was offered for sale, or torn down. Moving slowly up the driveway in the Land Rover towing a large horse trailer that served as their removal and storage van, even the sight of the dilapidated stables, garden sheds and the old house did not dampen their enthusiasm. They were like two kids let loose in a candy store, but instead of licorice, gummi bears and chocolate bars, they were anticipating a treasure trove of heavy silver candlesticks hidden deep in a closet, a Victorian soup tureen left in an old crate, or a trunk full of old books, and photos.
Coppin’s Locks real estate agent Myra Peterson stood on the porch and waved as she saw the girls pull up. She, like Monica stood around 5’9”, and her hair, a very attractive grey color, matched her piercing grey eyes and complemented her black two piece suit. Monica and Erin, who spent many hours in dusty attics and old houses, knew that comfortable jeans and older T shirts were just what this look - and - see mission required. The only difference was that Monica, slim and slender wore her clothes, no matter what they were, with dash and finesse. Red haired Erin, who was six inches shorter than her friend, was plump and round, and anything she wore, even if new, seemed to have a slightly rumpled look to it.
The girls got out of the vehicle accompanied by a small white West Highland terrier in a purple collar who immediately put his black nose to the ground and began to sniff.
“Oh good, you brought Haggis,” exclaimed Myra bending over to pat the wiggly dog who licked her hand with his pink tongue.
“He will be delighted with all the new smells,” laughed Monica as she walked up the rickety front steps aided by a silver handled walking stick.
“This place is in worse shape than I thought,” commented Erin looking around at the broken windows, rotting porch posts and overgrown bushes. She shuddered and picked up Haggis who, like her, sensed things that others didn’t. There was an overwhelming feeling of dread and death about this place. She had felt it as they had driven up the driveway, and the unease would not leave her alone.
“What’s the story behind this estate? And why did the owners just take off and leave it to fall apart,” she asked.
“Mr. Charles Brewster, the owner, made lots of money in the mining business. He and his wife both loved race horses and she knew breeding lineage inside out,” said Myra referring to some notes in her notebook. “Their horses won races everywhere, and their parties and weekend get-togethers were the talk of the town. Well, long story short, apparently everything was going great for years. They had a son Giles and a daughter Mary. Giles was expected to go into the mining business with his father as he got older, get married and continue making money for the family. Mary was expected to be a social butterfly, go to the races, attend parties, and finally marry a suitable and wealthy young man. But poor Mary got kicked by a horse when she was about 17, and she was never quite right again. Then one day about 30 years ago the family just up and left. Shipped the household furniture and the horses to Kentucky, broke all ties with the town of Coppin’s Locks and were never heard of again.”
Myra inserted a huge old fashioned key into the front door keyhole, and twisted it with two hands. The door stood firm, determined not to let anybody inside. No amount of twisting or shoving changed its mind.
“Well, maybe we will have to do what the kids do when they come here,” said Myra gloomily, “and find another way in. I suspect that if we go to the back we will find a broken window or door.”
The quartet walked down the side of the house dodging saplings and overgrown bushes. Flapping curtains beckoned with long dirty fingers through broken windows, and animal paths meandered from the nearby woods right up to broken doors hanging on their hinges. A low moaning sound came from the second floor as the wind crept through holes in walls. At the very back of the house, Myra found a door that gave in and allowed access after a few hefty shoves. The group stepped inside and gasped at the time capsule that lay before them. While the local kids might have written on the walls, lit fires in the old fireplace, and had parties and raves from time to time, many of the house details had stood stalwart and firm. The hand carved mantles above the four fireplaces were intact as were the stair banisters and railings; the mahogany floors were dull and dirty but must have been magnificent once, and the crown molding and plaster walls were ornate.
“I think most of the furniture and effects are all gone,” said Myra stepping over an old box, “but I wanted to give you girls the chance to see if anything was here that might be saleable. Some old horseman who worked for the Brewsters and who still lives just off the estate told me that we should check the stables too. There might still be things there.”
All three floors of the house were investigated for over an hour. The main floor dining room, living room, kitchen, office, and the once all glass conservatory were poked and prodded to see if they had secrets to reveal. The family and guest bedrooms had once offered magnificent views through tall windows looking out over the fields, woods and paddocks, but now showed off little more than overgrown weedy meadows, broken fences, and forests that were thick, dark and overgrown. Even the attic had been stripped and emptied and there was nothing there but mouse droppings and broken windows that let the bats, rain and snow in at will.
“Let’s have a look in the basement,” said Monica dejectedly hoping that there might be a treasure trove of forgotten and untouched trunks and boxes below. Sadly, the musty, damp smell lingered in the basement, and the warren of rooms and walkways had nothing to offer.
“The Brewsters certainly cleared the house completely when they left. The only things that could be salvaged and sold from this place would be the ornate moldings, banisters, mantles and sconces. The floors are of interest too. I’d like getting them for the store. Somebody would love them in a house renovation.”
Myra closed the basement door behind the group and made her way to the front door where she attempted to open it from the inside. “The estate still belongs to the Brewster family though Charles and Victoria are dead. Charles, for some reason, hung onto the place, but never had people in to take care of it which was kind of strange. Over time it just fell apart as you can see. ”
“It would cost a fortune to fix up the house,” commented Erin. “It gives me the creeps anyway.”
“Did you ask why they left the place so fast 30 years ago?” questioned Monica as they were walking towards the old stables, the front door finally giving up the struggle and allowing the girls and Haggis to leave.
“No. I didn’t want to pry. I got the impression that something bad happened here. I have asked a few people but nobody seems to know what.”
The stables, in their glory days, must have been the epitome of comfort for the horses inside, and a source of pride for the Brewsters. The two massive main doors slide left and right on tracks, and though rusty, they still worked with some hefty pushing and shoving. Monica and Erin both breathed in the inescapable smell of “eau de cheval” as Patrick, Monica’s boyfriend called the smell of horses and stables. It was still faintly evident even after decades of desertion.
“Wow, now this is a stable and a half,” said Erin enthusiastically, running her hand over the ornate dark wooden stalls. The floors were made of patterned cement, and a wooden ladder went to the hay loft upstairs. A large tack room that would have smelled of leather when used was on the right side of the building dividing the stable into two sections, ten stalls in each part. On the tack room wall were wrought iron saddle and bridle hooks, an old wooden saddle horse gathering dust in one corner, and a broken leather halter that never got repaired, now green with mould and damp.
“You girls must be in your element,” laughed Myra who knew that Monica was a former world class show jumper and Erin had been her head groom travelling throughout North America, England and Europe with their horses. A terrible fall had shattered Monica’s leg, and now with six pins in it, she and her cane were never far apart. Her whole world, her lifestyle and her horses had been a part of her life ever since she was a teenager, and in one minute, her whole life had changed.
“Just the smell of a stable brings back so many memories,” said Monica wistfully looking up into the dark opening of the hay loft above her head. “Erin, let’s go up there into the loft and see what we can find,” she suggested determined that her leg wouldn’t stop her from doing as many things as she possibly could.
Myra stayed below with Haggis who barked and jumped up against the ladder as his two best friends disappeared from view. The loft was home to an owl who hooted at them from a massive beam above their heads. A mouse scurried past Erin’s foot, and pigeons fluttered and flew in and out of the opening at the end of the huge room. There were two large doors at one end of the loft, and Erin pushed one open to let the sunlight in. Monica began to walk around looking and hoping that she might find an old tack trunk full of goodies, or a hidden room or cupboard. “This loft is going to be as disappointing as the house I think,” she called out to Erin who was moving a few old bales of hay from a back corner that threw up clouds of clouds of dust.
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” answered Erin in her Irish accent. “Come on over here and help me open this.”
A small door was built into the end of the loft and was easy to miss thanks to the shadows around it. Erin grasped the handle and pulled gently. The door groaned and the hinges squealed but it opened to reveal a small cupboard.
“What on earth would this room have been for?” asked Monica, “It’s too small to be really useful.” She stuck her head inside and then saw a small box tucked in the back corner. “There, a box Erin. Can you grab it?”
Erin moved past Monica and grasped the handles on either end of the box. She drew it out and sat it on top of a moldy, dusty bale of hay. There was a small padlock on the front panel but the hinges on the back of the lid had rusted so badly that one jerk opened the lid. Two dirty brown blankets were folded around two small shapes, one on each side of the box. Tattered cloths that looked like baby bonnets and edged in filthy lace were at the top of each.
“Oh, baby dolls,” exclaimed Erin putting her hand forward to pull back the bonnets.
“No!” shouted Monica grabbing Erin’s hand.
“What’s the matter?”
“Erin, it’s not what you think.”
Slowly Monica put her walking cane into her right hand, moved it forward and pulled back the blanket on the right side of the box. A cracked plastic head with pale pink lips, and sightless glass eyes stared back at the girls. She then moved her stick to the left side of the box and gently pulled back the rotting blanket. There were no glass eyes or pale pink plastic lips there, just two empty eye sockets in a yellowed skull, and small pile of tiny bones.
The Brewster estate had just given up its greatest mystery.
