Winterbay Abbey Read online

  Other Books by the Authors

  John Bladek:

  Roll Up the Streets!

  (Kane Miller, 2010)

  Lost in Ghostville

  (Capstone, 2016)

  Davonna Juroe:

  Scarlette: A Paranormal Fairy Tale

  (BumbleB Media, Inc., 2012)

  Seeing Red

  (BumbleB Media, Inc., 2013)

  Winterbay Abbey: A Ghost Story

  By John Bladek and Davonna Juroe

  Copyright

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Winterbay Abbey Copyright © 2016 by Davonna Juroe and John Bladek

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9973648-1-1

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without written permission from John Bladek and Davonna Juroe. For inquiries, address Coda Media Ink at, [email protected]

  Summary: A Seattle architect travels to a small town in Maine where he becomes entangled in the terrifying past of a menacing ghost haunting an abandoned abbey.

  To learn more about author Davonna Juroe, see her website at www.davonnajuroe.com.

  To learn more about author John Bladek, see his blog at http://johnbladek.blogspot.com.

  Book cover design, layout, and formatting by Scarlett Rugers Design, www.scarlettrugers.com

  EBook layout and formatting by Polgarus Studio, www.polgarusstudio.com

  Editing by Jim Whiting, http://jimwhiting.com/

  John Bladek and Davonna Juroe author photos © Davonna Juroe, http://www.davonnajuroe.com/

  Table of Contents

  Other Books by the Authors

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Authors’ Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Scarlette Sample

  ab·bey

  noun

  the building or buildings occupied by a community of monks or nuns

  chapter one

  Something felt wrong as I sat down at my desk.

  More “wrong,” anyway. I loosened my tie.

  I was already half an hour late because my car broke down again. After wasting time trying to start it, I had to take my wife Emily’s car. Then, as soon as I got into the office, Noelle gave me that I’m-glad-and-sorry-you’re-here kind of smile. Something was up, but not enough to account for my prickly anxiety. It went beyond ruffled. It gnawed deep.

  Outside the window, the backdrop of gray clouds seemed endless. For over a week now, a constant, silent rain had fallen so lightly you didn’t notice until suddenly you were drenched. That definitely was Seattle.

  Someone laughed from the narrow aisle between the cubicles behind me.

  I turned and glanced over the top of my little cell at the Ikea furniture and plastic plants. Noelle had spilled coffee all over the reception desk and frantically tried to wipe it up with the only thing available—an empty tissue box. Dustin snickered as he watched the scene unfold. He didn’t make a move. I guess Noelle wasn’t single enough for him to lend a hand.

  “Here, let me help,” I said. I scurried around Dustin to grab a roll of paper towels in the break room and dashed back to wipe up the spilled coffee.

  “Thanks,” Noelle said. “At least someone’s a gentleman.” She glared at Dustin, smirking over his coffee as he returned to his cubicle. “How’s Emily? Did she see that specialist?”

  I shook my head. “Insurance won’t cover any more physical therapy this year,” I said, a lump rising up my throat. “And next year’s coverage isn’t even that good.”

  “Sorry,” Noelle said. “How’s Emily handling it?”

  “She’s okay, I guess. Thinking more about the baby now.”

  Noelle smiled. “Only four more months, Dad.”

  “Four and a half.”

  Dustin got out his cell phone and loudly put his feet up on his desk. He laughed. “Anyway, sorry, so that blonde I was telling you about…yeah,” he said. He leaned back in his chair and continued yet another exaggerated story, this one about a blonde groupie in a miniskirt and glitter, from his ritualistic weekend trips to music venues downtown.

  Dustin noticed me watching and flashed an arrogant I-know-something-you-don’t-know look followed by another smirk. “It’s a great day, isn’t it, Larson?” he asked.

  “Whatever,” I said. “Some of us actually have work to do.”

  Dustin moved the phone away from his ear. “Why don’t you learn how to relax?”

  I ground my teeth. It took everything I had to not flip Dustin off. Last week he’d said—behind my back, of course—my latest conceptual sketches looked like Grandpa Simpson had drawn them. I’m sure that got a laugh. Dustin was always the center of attention, especially when he was waiting for you to screw up so he could score points with our boss, Lance.

  “What’s up with numb-nuts?” I whispered to Noelle.

  She shrugged. “I’m not quite sure. He’s been giggly since he got here.” Her brow furrowed in concern. “You look like a bus ran over your dog. What’s wrong?”

  I shrugged. “I wish I knew. Must be the weather.”

  She nodded, and I returned to my desk. A framed photo of Emily, with a smaller, blurry and unidentifiable ultrasound of the baby tucked into the frame, stared back at me. I pushed it aside with a sigh and pulled up my plans for the Greenwood Community Center. Not even Emily’s smile could rid me of the sour taste of office politics and jerky co-workers. Creating great buildings was all I wanted to do.

  As I paged through my drawings on the computer, I spotted an odd addition. A front exterior elevation sported a pair of windows hovering above the main entrance. The design looked like something out of a 1950s sci-fi movie, and not a good one. They weren’t mine.

  Dustin snickered again.

  I turned around. “Did you do this?” I snapped.

  Dustin slowly popped his head over the short wall and locked eyes with me. “Problem?” he asked, putting his hand over his phone.

  Heads turned from behind cubicles.

  “Damn right,” I said. “And you know what it is.”

  Just then, a sharp ding sounded from my computer. I glanced at the monitor. A message popped up.

  Will,

  My office. Now.

  Lance Graves

  Senior Architect

  Graves and Sons

  As I stared at the message, punching Dustin faded from my thoughts. My shoulder muscles tightened.

  Perfect. I needed to fix Dustin’s addition before Lance saw the drawings. But there was no time.

  Dustin continued smirking. I gave him a last look and got up and headed toward Lance’s office, the big corner one across the hall with the view down Phinney Ridge toward Ballard. I tried to not run the worst-case sc
enario through my head as I knocked on the frosted glass door.

  Lance called, “Come in.” I opened the door into his private space.

  Lance stood near the window holding his cell phone to his ear, reminding me of Dustin. His smile disappeared as soon as he saw my face. Also reminding me of Dustin. He sat down at his custom-welded, steel-gray desk, which matched the frame surrounding a photograph of the Discovery Park Lighthouse.

  “Yeah, I got it. Seven o’clock. Yup. Benaroya Hall. I made dinner reservations at Canlis, and I’ll pick up my suit during lunch. Don’t worry,” he said into the phone.

  I stared out the window as I waited. A flock of starlings swirled in tight, rhythmic patterns. They moved as one above the traffic.

  “There’s gas in the Lexus. I have to go.” Lance put his phone down. “Sorry. Symphony evening pow-wow,” he said.

  Sounded rough. Especially as I was spending tonight trying to figure out how to scrape the money together to get my car fixed.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” he said.

  I sat down in one of his leather chairs. A slight twinge raced up the back of my head. “What’s up?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.

  “Look, I’m going to cut right to the chase.” He swiveled his computer screen toward me, my drawings on display. “Mark Takamura didn’t like the sketches and quite frankly understandably so.”

  “Sorry, someone hacked my account and made those changes. I’ve nearly got them fixed.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lance looked at me like I was wearing a red clown nose and big floppy shoes.

  “The windows…over the main entrance?” I said.

  He shook his head. “Oh, yeah. I liked those. Why didn’t you make the rest of the building match? Did you not hear that the client wanted a modern feel?”

  I stared at the drawings. Yeah, I’d heard. The project was an old community center next to the Greenwood Farmers’ Market. Originally an elementary school, but now, after several re-purposings, it had been sold to be turned into condos and a restaurant in a mixed residential neighborhood. Mark Takamura’s idea was to make the building modern enough that spaceships could land on top of it.

  “Well, yeah, but based on the surrounding architecture, I thought maybe a modern look would feel out of place in a building from 1890.” I always scoffed at “modern” re-dos of classic structures. Every time I looked at the 1960s “modernist” addition to the Gothic library on the University of Washington campus, I cringed.

  Lance sighed. “Will, this business is all about what the client wants. It doesn’t matter how ugly or out of place you think it looks. That building was never important or unique enough to make it on the historic register. They’re free to do whatever they want with it. And remember: they are paying you….” He cleared his throat. “Us, and it’s our job to make it fit their needs.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll do it over again,” I said. Note to self: put in a garage for flying cars.

  “Not necessary,” Lance said. “I’m handing the account over to Dustin.”

  A knife blade shot into the back of my head. “What? Hold on. I think that—”

  “No, you’re too late. Will, when you first came here, I was impressed with your ideas and vision. That Will listened to clients and executed what they wanted.” Lance tapped his finger on the screen again. “I know every architect dreams of injecting their personality into buildings. You’ll get to do that someday, but not now. Business trumps art.”

  I squeezed my fist. “Sorry. I guess I’ve been a little distracted lately with Emily. If you just give me another chance to fix things…” I said, ashamed of the pleading in my voice.

  Lance checked his watch. “Yeah, well, everyone’s had a pregnant wife. Figure out how to listen through your personal distractions and when to give up on wrong ideas. Stop making excuses.”

  I stared out the window as Lance continued his lecture.

  “This is the same thing as the Denny project,” he continued. “Getting that simple atrium ‘perfect,’ by your standards, cost us a month.”

  I could feel his laser glare. This wasn’t my first job or the first that had taken a wrong turn. For a second, I thought about resigning, telling Lance I was sick of his micromanaging my work, sick of Dustin and his pranks, sick of working for clients who wanted to turn Seattle into San Francisco.

  But the words that came out were far different. “Isn’t there something I can do to fix the design?” I was pleading before; now I sounded like I should be on my knees.

  Lance spun in his chair and looked out the window. “I’m sorry, but maybe you aren’t cut out for a firm like this. Too much pressure. You need something less stressful, give you more time to take care of your wife.”

  “I need a job to do that,” I said. “She hasn’t been able to work. If you’ll just give me one more chance, I promise….”

  Lance swiveled back and picked up a file from his desk. I sucked in a breath, expecting him to hand me my severance notice. My head pounded. What was I going to tell Emily? And the mortgage company?

  “I’m going to give you one more chance,” Lance said.

  I blinked, unsure I’d heard him right.

  “Over the weekend, I met with two Seattle developers who are looking to convert an old abbey into a hotel. The project is on the coast of Maine. Winterbay. Maybe you’ve heard of it. I know I haven’t.” He gave me a slight smile and handed me the folder. “You would leave tomorrow.”

  “Maine?” I asked. “Now?”

  “No one else is interested, frankly, or I wouldn’t offer it to you. Take it or leave it.”

  I flipped the folder open to a couple of photos of a weather-beaten building with crumbling brick walls, missing shingles, cracked windows, and a general look of decay and abandonment. The dreary old building brought an even bigger rain cloud down on me.

  What choice did I have? “I won’t mess up again. I promise.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I got up to go, hoping we were done.

  “I’ll see you back here in a week or so,” Lance said. “Unless the developers aren’t happy.”

  I didn’t ask what would happen then.

  “We can’t give you the new 3-D hemispheric laser scanner. Dustin needs it. You’ll have to get by with the old one.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks for the chance.” I let myself out the door, closing it quietly.

  My temples throbbed. I reached into my pocket for a bottle of Tylenol and dry-swallowed two pills. A vibrating buzz shook my pocket. I picked up my phone. The caller ID flashed a picture of Emily holding her newest sonogram. I pushed the “decline” button and walked down the hall to arrange my flight.

  chapter two

  The traffic on Greenwood Avenue North on the way home was slow even by Seattle standards. The wind blew leaves in twisting swirls across the road. As the trees swayed in the breeze, the streetlights flickered on while the sunless sky dipped further into darkness.

  I had skipped out of work as soon as the clock struck five, otherwise I might have punched Dustin’s fat face. I took another look at the Winterbay folder while sitting at an intersection standstill. I didn’t have any ideas for it: a rundown wreck of a building in the middle of nowhere. As I scanned the photos, I thought again of quitting, looking for work somewhere else, somewhere I’d be appreciated and treated like a professional.

  Who was I kidding?

  Maybe I should just quit architecture altogether. It’s not like it paid that well, and it was one of the most volatile professions anyway. I should’ve gone into the tech industry. Almost every single programmer here was driving around in a Tesla.

  A motorcycle pulled up next to me, engine revving. I closed my eyes. My head spun. All of a sudden, I was skidding and could hear Emily screaming. Her hand, oh my God, her hand!

  The car behind me honked and brought me back into the moment. My heart pounded in my ears, and my hands shook on the wheel. I shut the folder and eased forw
ard twenty feet to satisfy the pushy guy behind me. It would be nice if the flashbacks didn’t happen every time I heard a motorcycle. I took a long breath, trying to keep my memories from overtaking my emotions.

  Traffic stayed slow, and I was glad for the extra mental recovery time. Half an hour later, I finally snailed my way into our tree-lined Broadview neighborhood. The lights were on in our house, creating a warm glow against the dark fall sky. I’d never felt so glad to get home and relax in my recliner. I groaned. I was really starting to sound like my dad.

  I pulled into the driveway to the sight of my non-starting car with a gash in the side door. It had never been the same since the accident. I parked and got out to check the mail. A red stamp marked “Final Notice” highlighted a letter from the mortgage company.

  I ripped the envelope in half.

  I’d have to call them again.

  “I thought I heard you pull in!”

  I jumped when I saw my wife standing at the door. Emily was wearing overalls, accentuating her growing belly, and her blond hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. Dark circles outlined her eyes. I hoped she hadn’t seen what I’d just done.

  “You just missed your mom,” Emily said.

  “Oh, uh. She was here?” I gave her a hug and tried not to knock over the new planter.

  “Yeah, she dropped off some of your childhood keepsakes. Come look at this stuff! It’s soooooo cute!” she said.

  I rolled my eyes. Space was precious in our cramped little house. I’d left my old junk behind at my parents’ house for a reason. Probably the same reason they were dumping it here.

  The smell of chicken noodle soup filled the air as I crossed the threshold. The TV hummed in the background, reruns of some weird program Emily liked about people contacting dead relatives or something with angels. I never watched it.