Case of the Highland House Haunting Read online

  Case of the

  Highland House Haunting

  By

  J.M. Poole

  www.AuthorJMPoole.com

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and locations appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real locations, is purely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America

  WARNING! FRAPPING CORGIS DON’T YIELD!

  For a complete list of titles available by Jeffrey M. Poole, including the best-selling series Bakkian Chronicles, Tales of Lentari, Pirates of Perz, and Corgi Case Files, please click here!

  Case of the

  Highland House Haunting

  By

  J.M. Poole

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Acknowledgments

  I never consider the publication of a book an achievement I earned by myself. There are a number of people I need to thank for their help. First up is my wife. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Giliane is the hardest worker I have ever known. How she squeezes out enough time each day to do the things she has to do is beyond me. You have my eternal thanks, babe.

  Up next would be the members of my Posse who helped me out this time around. We have Jason, Carol, Clare, Elizabeth, Louise, Caryl, Mefe, and Diane. You guys and gals have all added some polish to the book, and for that, I am (always!) eternally grateful.

  The cover was once more illustrated by the multi-talented Felipe de Barros, an artist I found a while ago on DeviantArt.com. I know I’ve started quite a few emails to him that say, “Well, what do you think about…” I know it must be annoying. Felipe, fantastic work, amigo. Thanks again!

  The last person I need to thank is… drum roll, please… you! Thank you very much for continuing to support an indie author. Your constant stream of emails, words of encouragement on Facebook, and the comments on my webpage make my day every single time. Thank you.

  J.

  Giliane –

  At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I wanted to tell you, again, that I count myself the luckiest man in the world to have you by my side each and every day.

  Love you always & forever!

  PROLOGUE

  “And we’re walking. We’re walking. We’ve got a lot of places to see, so please try to keep up, okay? Timothy, where’s your buddy? Go find him, please. And Terrence? Where’s yours? Okay, we’re coming to a stop. Now, what is the first… kids? We’re stopping. That means stop walking. Now, who can tell me what was the single most important rule of today’s field trip? Anyone?”

  “Stay together!” thirty kids chorused.

  The teacher held a hand to her ear and pretended to be hard of hearing.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. What was that?”

  “STAY TOGETHER!” thirty voices screamed.

  Acting supremely unaffected by the eardrum shattering response, the lead teacher smiled. She signaled to her partner, who was bringing up the rear of the group, and together, they began to walk. The first teacher gestured at an approaching house.

  “Precisely. Now, boys and girls, what I want you to remember, as we’re passing these lovely homes, is that many of them were built way back when your grandparents were no older than you are now.”

  “No way!” one boy exclaimed.

  “Take this one, for example,” the second teacher said, as the group came to a halt in front of a quaint Victorian story-and-a-half cottage. “This house is even older than your grandparents. It says here it was built in 1901. Who can tell me how old this house is?”

  Not one child spoke.

  “Come on, kids,” the teacher scolded. “Math is one of the most useful subjects you’ll ever use. Now, what year is it?”

  “2019!” nearly half the students shouted.

  “And if you subtract 1901 from 2019, what should we get?” the second teacher continued.

  “Ermm, a hundred?” one boy hesitantly asked.

  “You’re close, Daniel,” the first teacher said. “But, I think you’ll find that it’s a little older than that. Anyone else?”

  “118 years,” a quiet female voice all but whispered.

  Both teachers zeroed in on the young girl who had answered and enthusiastically began applauding. The bespectacled 8-year-old girl in question blushed furiously and tried to hide behind her fellow students.

  “Well done, Jennifer!” the first teacher praised. “You are exactly correct. This house is 118 years old. Just think what it must have been like to live back then. William McKinley was President of the United States. And, do you know what was really fascinating? Steam-powered cars were more prolific than gasoline powered cars.”

  “Steam powered?” several kids repeated, confused.

  “Steam and electric were more popular than gasoline,” the first teacher added knowingly. “Does anyone know when the first gasoline-powered combustion engine vehicle was invented?”

  There was another collective round of silence.

  “I know what to do the next time I need them to be quiet,” the second teacher quietly mumbled, eliciting a soft chuckle from the first.

  First Teacher laughed and waved a dismissive hand, “Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn’t expect any of you to know that.”

  “When was it?” one boy curiously asked.

  “1885,” Second Teacher proudly answered. “I’ll bet none of you know how much groceries cost back then.”

  “I doubt any of them do now,” the first teacher muttered, under her breath.

  Being careful to maintain a straight face, the second teacher continued on.

  “A gallon of milk was only fourteen cents, a 5 pound sack of flour went for twelve cents, and can anyone guess how much a pound of chocolate retailed for?”

  “Ten dollars!” one boy shouted.

  “Fifteen!” another added.

  The second teacher smiled patronizingly at the group of students before singling out the one girl who had managed to get an answer right.

  “Jennifer? What’s your guess?”

  “Umm, I’d say around 34 cents?”

  The teacher’s jaw dropped. Both teachers stared, dumbfounded, at the girl. How in the world could she have known that?

  “Once more, you’re exactly right!” First Teacher praised.

  “Show-off,” a few of the students muttered.

  “I have to ask,” Second Teacher hesitantly began, “how you could possibly have known that? I didn’t know it until I read it from my notes here.”

  Jennifer shyly held up her phone, “Because I looked it up when you weren’t looking.”

  The kids broke out in laughter as the two teachers flushed with embarrassment.

  “Okay, that’s one for you, Jennifer. Now, please put your phone away for the remainder of this excursion.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The group walked
on, coming to the next house on their list of places to see.

  “Here we have one of Pomme Valley’s finest treasures!” First Teacher crowed excitedly. “Highland House. It’s a wonderful example of a Victorian Italianate villa. And, believe it or not, it’s actually a little bit older than the last house.”

  “I want to go in,” one voice said, belonging to a tousle-headed blonde boy.

  First Teacher shook her head, “I’m afraid not. Do you see the construction trucks parked just outside? I do believe someone has finally bought this house and, from the looks of things, is renovating it.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” Second Teacher observed. “I would love to see this one fully restored.”

  “But I wanna go in there!” the blonde boy repeated. “My daddy says it’s haunted! I wanna see the ghost!”

  An 11 year-old boy hesitantly raised a hand.

  “Please,” First Teacher quietly scoffed. She quickly looked around and noticed all the kids were staring at her. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Now, if you would all look at… yes, Steven?”

  “You believe it’s a haunted house, dontcha? Ain’t ghosts been sighted in there before?”

  “That isn’t a word, Steven,” the teacher firmly told the boy. “And to answer your question, there’s no proof. I mean, there’s no reliable confirmation that the lovely Highland House is frequented by ghosts.”

  Another boy raised a hand.

  “Yes, Charles?”

  “My sister went in there a couple of years ago. With her boyfriend. They said they encountered the ghost up on the second floor. Isn’t it true that a ghost stays behind because of unfinished business?”

  “And I thought I watched too many movies,” Second Teacher softly groaned.

  Sensing a chance to steer the conversation away from the supposed supernatural occurrences thought to exist in the two story villa, First Teacher retrieved her own notes from her purse and began to read.

  “Constructed in 1892, Highland House was built by Major General Harrison Highland, a veteran of the Spanish-American War. He settled here, in the area, where he married a local girl in the late 1880s. They had one daughter, miss Hilda Highland. A confirmed bachelorette, she was known to dabble in…”

  First Teacher trailed off as a loud scream suddenly ripped through the air. The two adults fell silent as Highland House suddenly exploded with activity. Contractors were seen rushing out of the house, as though the Devil himself were chasing them. One man, wearing an orange hard hat and a bright yellow vest, caught sight of their group and rushed over.

  “Do any of you have a phone?”

  Both teachers nodded and immediately dug into their purses.

  “Please call for an ambulance. Hurry! One of our guys has been electrocuted!”

  ONE

  “This has got to be the cutest little car ever! I mean, there are two seats, perfect for the two of us. Plus, there are six tires, for… hmm. Why are there six tires?”

  “It’s for going over some rough terrain,” I explained, as I navigated the utility vehicle over the worn dirt road.

  “Can it go through water?” my passenger asked.

  “It’s not a boat,” I clarified. “But, the guy that sold it to me said he’s gone through some pretty deep puddles with it. Just for the record, no. I really don’t plan on taking it through any water. Not unless I have to. If there are huge puddles around here, then we’ve got bigger problems to deal with.”

  Jillian Cooper laughed delightedly as I stepped on the gas. The 6x4 John Deere Gator may have only had a top speed of 20 mph, but when you’re going over uneven terrain, it certainly felt a lot faster.

  “May I drive it?”

  I grinned and took my foot off the gas. After a few moments, the Gator came to a stop. I hopped out of the driver’s seat and held out my hand.

  “Sure! I mean, this may look like a big toy, and I’ll admit that it feels like a big toy, but it really is a useful tool around here, especially when Lentari Cellars added all that additional land.”

  Well, let’s go ahead and get the formalities out of the way. My name is Zachary Anderson, but my friends call me ‘Zack’. Sitting next to me here is my girlfriend, Jillian Cooper. And if you couldn’t tell what we were doing, we were currently driving the winery’s newest addition, the 6x4 Gator, around the property. I should also mention that I own my very own winery, Lentari Cellars. It’s located off the Rascal River in southwestern Oregon, in a little town called Pomme Valley. If you were to look for us on a map, I can tell you that PV (as the locals call it) sits comfortably between two other towns, Grants Pass and Medford.

  When I’m not purchasing large new toys, er, tools for the winery, I’m typically found indoors, in front of a computer. The other title I hold, and I’ve held it considerably longer than that of ‘winery owner’, is romance author. Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Not many male authors can say they’re successful in the romance genre. Then again, I should also point out that all my readers believe I’m a woman.

  For the record, in writer’s lingo, it’s called a ‘pseudonym’. Or a ‘nom de plume’. What’s my nom de plume? Chastity Wadsworth. Don’t laugh. That name sells books, and lots of ‘em.

  Oh, I should also mention that I hold a third title, and it’s one that started last year. I’m a police consultant, but to be totally honest, I’m just a handler. Who does the PVPD really want to help solve a case? It certainly isn’t me. You see, that distinction belongs to my dogs.

  Sherlock and Watson are two of the smartest dogs I have ever encountered in my life. Sherlock chose me the moment I locked eyes on him in the pound after I moved here. As for Watson, well, I can thank a good friend for giving me her.

  Yes, Watson is a she.

  I probably should’ve named her something different, only it went with Sherlock, who was already named when I broke him out of jail. Plus, they are about as unintimidating as you can possibly imagine. No, they aren’t Rottweilers, or Pit Bulls, or anything like that. They’re corgis. Pembroke Welsh Corgis, if you want to be exact.

  While not the most popular breed of dog on the planet, I will say that they are probably the most adorable breed of dog you’ll ever encounter. True, I may be biased. Then again, I’ve always said that the corgis are a big dog wrapped up in a small dog package. They’re intelligent, loyal, and for some odd reason, my two dogs are the absolute best at solving murders.

  I said no laughing.

  Sherlock and Watson have solved a number of cases now, and that includes, I’m sorry to say, a number of murders. Somehow, and I have no idea how, they always seem to be able to find clues pertinent to our case. As for me? I’m manual labor. I hold the leashes, provide their Royal Canineships with kibble, pick up their poo, and act like I know what I’m doing. But, in all reality, it’s the dogs who are the celebrities.

  Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Jillian and I were out touring the winery in our new (for us) Gator. I had just pulled over and was getting ready to explain the controls when Jillian stomped on the gas and the Gator took off like a shot. Fields were whizzing by us, one after the other. All, I couldn’t help but proudly notice, had row after row of vines with big fat bunches of grapes. Since this was the time of year where we were well into the ‘ripening stage’ for the vines, practically every plant we passed had 2-3 clusters of big, fat grapes. In case you’re wondering, yes, the vines were capable of producing more clusters than that, but we (meaning my winemaster, Caden) purposefully trimmed the clusters back so the vine could devote its energy into ripening just the clusters that were left. Think of it like pruning a rose bush. If you let too many flowers grow, then the poor plant overtaxes itself as it tries to keep all those blooms happy.

  I don’t know. I don’t really understand it, either. Caden was the one who came up with that analogy. He’s already proven to me that he knows what he’s doing, so if he says we have to prune the vines, then so be it.

  Jillian and I had just crested a small hi
ll and were about to cross over into the winery’s most recent acquisition of land when I felt the Gator slow.

  “What’s all this?” Jillian asked, with wonder evident in her voice. We drifted to a stop as Jillian waited for an answer.

  I should explain.

  We were looking at row after row of young trees. Not saplings, mind you, which would have suggested that no one here knew how to look at a calendar. This certainly wasn’t the time to plant new trees, but I had been convinced to shell out even more money for ‘older’ trees. I smiled and nodded as I looked at Caden’s latest project. My winemaster had been hard at work, that’s for sure. He and the rest of his team had said that the shipment had arrived and were eager to get them all planted. Looks like they were able to do it, all in less than a week.

  “Those are fruit trees,” I explained. “That section over there is apple trees, while the area to your right are the cherry trees.”

  “You’ve planted an orchard? How wonderful!”

  “It’s something Caden wants to try.”

  “And those over there?” Jillian asked, as she turned to point to a third section, directly behind the cherry trees. “Those don’t really look like trees.”

  “An astute observation, Lady Cooper,” I drawled, trying my damnedest to sound like an English gentleman. “They are, indeed, not fruit trees, but fruit bushes.”

  Jillian giggled and swatted my arm.

  “Stop talking like that, you silly man. You said this is Caden’s idea? Does he want to open up a fruit stand?”