The Craghold Legacy Read online

  THE CRAGHOLD LEGACY

  Michael Avallone

  as

  Edwina Noone

  © Michael Avallone 1971

  Michael Avallone has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1971 by BEAGLE BOOKS, INC.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  For that talented lady

  who has the very good taste

  to appreciate Fredric March and Michael

  Avallone and Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde

  —Miss Virginia Coffman.

  Table of Contents

  Comes A Lady

  Sees A Ghost

  Stays To Tremble

  Makes A Mistake

  Learns A Lesson

  Hears A Warning

  Cries In Terror

  Goes A-Walking

  Stops To Suffer

  Touches Torment

  Finds A Foe

  Leaves A Legacy

  (From page 2 of the tourist brochure, Come to Kragmoor)

  kragmoor (pop. 2337, alt. 379 ft.)

  Lying at the foothills of the Shanokin Mountains, west of Craghold Lake, this picturesque town was settled by Anglo-Saxon families in 1735. A great stone and wooden house known as craghold at the northeastern ridge of the Shanokin Range is the last standing reminder of the town’s origin. Once the site of a pre-Revolutionary War farmstead, which rumor still holds was formerly an ancient Indian burial ground, Craghold is rich in legend and lore. Surrounded by such natural phenomena as Craghold Lake, Goblin Wood and The Caves of Hex, the area is soaked in the traditions of superstition, witchcraft and ancient folklore. This, coupled with the location nearby of the Dutch settlement of morganby, Amish farmers who persist in their beliefs and way of life—they still have “hex doctors” who contend they can ward off evil as well as “bring it on”—has made the Kragmoor territory a perpetual magnet for all tourists and interested visitors.

  craghold house

  Built in 1875 by Colonel Hendrik Van Ruys, a wealthy Dutch farmer who distinguished himself at Second Manassas in the Civil War. Van Ruys built Craghold into a Victorian Gothic pile, leaving little of its original Revolutionary design. The Colonel died in seclusion; details are not clear as to the cause of his death—save that it was of a violent nature. The Van Ruys descendants in the following decades have done little to lessen the enigma of the Van Ruys history—a mad artist, a horsethief, a wanton female who disgraced her heritage as a dancehall singer in New Orleans, a soldier who betrayed his country in the First World War. There are no known living Van Ruys—the last one, a confirmed celibate named Otto, who was lost in the Chicago Fire of 1940, was seemingly the last of an ill-fated and unfortunate line.

  Since the late thirties Craghold has maintained itself as a resort hotel, catering to the sort of clientele who demands seclusion and privacy and is not disturbed by the curious history of the building. Craghold is believed to have a “ghost”—identity unknown—though local believers, as well as those at the neighboring Dutch settlement of Morganby, believe it to be the shade of the old Colonel, who lost a leg in the Civil War. They claim that on any wintry eve when the moon is three-quarters full, the ghost of Hendrik Van Ruys can be seen stalking, in full military dress, along the shores of Craghold Lake.

  Craghold House continues to be a Mecca for the discriminating tourist, as well as the one who wants something “a bit more interesting in the way of hotels.”

  As such, the hotel and its environs are particularly appealing…

  Comes A Lady

  Now where had her luggage gotten to?

  For one incredibly perplexed moment, she stood like a frozen statue at the Registration Desk, not knowing which way to turn or whom to call. The utter and desolate silence of the interior of Craghold House was something she could have cut with a butter knife. And the gleaming old brass candelabra glowing down from the wall niches on either side of the low, mahogany-grained counter gave the entire scene all the aspects and dreadful cheeriness of a fashionable funeral parlor. She found herself blinking in the candle glow, unable to think coherently beyond the fact that the two pieces of luggage she had set down behind her upon entering the hotel were now unmistakably, definitely missing!

  Yet she had seen, had encountered no one. Not from the very second that the ancient taxicab bringing her from Kragmoor Station had bounced to a stop on the long, curved and gravelly road that led to the enormous pile of Gothic silhouette lying like a Rorschach stain against a dark and miserable October sky. The fairly short trip from the cold and deserted depot had been free of incident and conversation. She hadn’t wanted to talk at any rate, not this soon after the disaster of George—George would have to be thought about in a lot of solitude, during long quiet walks, restless dreams—yes, she had come to Craghold to think out the problem of George, hadn’t she?—but not even her own misery of heart and soul and spirit had made her think that she wanted to carry her own luggage up the stone steps of the hotel into the lobby. The cab driver, a thin, bony, cadaverous man, had grabbed at the fare in her outstretched hand and whipped away from the gloom-shrouded building with a burst and a clatter of speed. She had seen the two shadows of fear in his shining, moist eyes. Now, she could remember that the fellow had not spoken a word during the entire trip. But at the time she had been too wrapped up in her own aching memories of George to think about how unusual that was.

  Then there had been no time to think about anything except the situation at hand, such as it was proving to be—the hotel itself, the impossibly squat and rambling and pointedly ancient magnificence of the structure before her. Yet there was no sign of life or illumination from any of the many windows she could make out, as dark as it was. The surrounding terrain seemed walled in by high trees, and she could see little else; yet, according to the brochure she had received in the mail, there was a large lake within a hundred yards of the rear of the place. And the mountain range of Shanokin——

  Feeling a trifle wary and a bit taken aback by so much imposing silence and deep serenity—she couldn’t even hear a bird in the trees—she had bravely picked up her own luggage and literally lurched into the hotel proper through the huge double front doors, which mercifully opened easily at her first touch. The overnight bag had been a simple matter, but the wardrobe trunk which held most of her clothing seemed to weigh a ton. For the first time in her twenty-one years on this planet, Anne Fenner of Boston realized how heavy silken underthings and simple frocks and skirts and blouses and shoes could be. She could feel the pull of new-found muscles in her arms and thighs.

  And now that luggage was missing!—seemingly, not two seconds after she had set it down on the floor, which was a medley of mismatching woolen carpets and throw rugs, trying to mask a plainly planked floor of some odd and indefinite hue. She leaned against the counter, catching her breath, seeing the pigeon-holed racks and letter boxes and rows of nameless buttons and buzzers nippling out of the pale amber wall. Bewildered, she noticed a punch bell, all silvery and shining, just to the left of her elbow. Something to summon someone with—a desk bell, obviously. Swallowing nervously in spite of herself, mindful of the deep stillness of this curious lobby, intimidated by the gleaming candles, which didn’t throw illumination far enough to light the great gloom beyond the desk and her immediate environs, she began to stretch a tentative hand out to the bell. Almost a timid hand.

  “Good evening,” a rich, masculine voice sounded, no further than a foot from her ear. “Welcome to Craghold, Miss Fenner.”

  Anne Fenner might have been suddenly skewered with a hatpin. She literally sprang back, and her mouth drop
ped open. Miraculously—as silently and swiftly as a wraith, which knows no limits of time and place—standing before her, with only the counter separating her from him, was a tall, lean man, bowing slightly from the waist, his smile very nearly a painted-on thing. He had obviously materialized from the dark alcove just to the right of the rear of the registration booth. Anne Fenner, despite her wonder, managed a nervous giggle.

  “Oh——you startled me—it’s so quiet in here—”

  “Carteret. At your service.” The man stood solemnly behind the counter, both hands spread out like wings, each set of five fingers splayed against the surface of the counter as though he were holding himself erect that way. “We have given you Number Seventeen. You will like it. A fine view of our lake. In the morning you will see it bathed in the sunlight. If there is a sun.”

  “My luggage—”

  “It is already in your room. Wentworth may be old, but he is easily the finest and most efficient porter anywhere. Have no fears on that score. I trust you had a pleasant journey here.”

  Everything was going too fast for her: to have been so expected, to have been so readily accommodated. For this so strange man to know exactly who she was. She found herself shaking her head foolishly, though the furthest thing from her mind was to be difficult. It was the last thing she wanted to be, now. Thanks to George Twemble.

  “Wentworth?” she echoed like a parrot. “But I saw no one. I heard no one. He couldn’t have taken the luggage without my at least catching a tiny glimpse of him.”

  The man, Carteret, lost his smile. It didn’t transform into a frown; it was merely a disappearance of a kind. She now saw the dour handsomeness of his face—the high-bronzed cheekbones, the lofty forehead capped with a crown of sleek, black hair, parted as if by a ruler in the middle. His eyes were deepset and incredibly intelligent-looking. His mouth was the sort any woman would have given her eye teeth for—shapely, peerlessly matching, with a full ruby tint of health and warmth. A very seductive mouth. And the shocking length of a faint scimitar-shaped scar on his left cheek did not dim his facade of romance and excitement—and glamour. If anything, it was gilding for the lily. Anne Fenner, beginning to feel mesmerized, barely caught the gist of what the man’s reply to her question had been. It seemed the mysterious Wentworth was a pearl beyond price.

  “—Oh, yes, he’s fairly old and wizened. But for all of that he has the strength of two of any of the college youths we employ here from time to time. Wentworth is all over the place, quite literally. You shall see. You will find everything in good order when you go to your room.”

  “I’m sure I shall, Mr. Carteret.”

  A thousand protestations, queries, died a-borning on her lips. This Carteret’s voice was another humbling aspect of him. It was a measured, resonant voice, bespeaking great culture and learning. It struck her as odd that a superior type person like this should be saddled with such a menial job as managing a hotel in a wilderness. Still, you never could tell, could you? About people. Just as George Twemble had deceived her into thinking he really loved her, when all he had wanted was one of those sordid little affairs she had read so much about! And had never wanted to be a partner in, thank you. There were going to be no Back Street romances in her young life—not if she could help it. God, what a cad George had been! A real fooler!

  Yet, there was one question she had to ask, and she did, for it had lain at the back of her mind since her first sight of Craghold House rising like a dark monstrous shadow against the cold night sky. It is one thing to want solitude and peace and privacy while you have your cry, but one doesn’t want a desert island. Or does one? Anne Fenner didn’t know. She hadn’t been sure of anything since she slapped George Twemble in the face in that dingy furnished room he had rented, and fled from Boston.

  “Why is the hotel so—deserted, Mr. Carteret? Don’t tell me I’m the only guest?” The man’s somber dark suit and tie were funereal.

  “Not quite, Miss Fenner. But it is the off season. The summer is done, and most of our staff are back at their studies. Kragmoor University provides us with many of our maids and busboys and office help during the summer months. But—we have adequate staffing; never fear. As for the guests this week—you are in good company, I think. Not quite our usual full house, of course, but still eminently interesting for a young woman, I should say. You are young, are you not, Miss Fenner?”

  The man’s eyes burned into hers above the desk, but already he was swinging an enormous ledger-type book around on its swivelbase. He extended a chained, black ball-point pen toward her. She took the pen, trying not to blush. After all, this Carteret didn’t look more than thirty, himself. Thirty-one, at the most.

  “For the record, Mr. Carteret,” she said with evenness and a return of her own estimate of herself, “I am past the age of consent, and to my mind it seems foolish that I should call you by a title. What may I call you?” Her eyes found a vacant line in the opened book and she quickly, and with good script, inked in her name and address. There was no time to examine the names and addresses above her own; Carteret was answering her question with a faint hint of amusement in his impeccable tones. His expression was saturnine.

  “Call me Carteret, Miss Fenner. I should like that. But I will not call you Anne. Not just yet, anyway. You understand, we retain our decorum in Craghold House, for it is all that is really left to us, you know. Decorum and our history. And our legends.”

  She smiled at him, her luggage forgotten, as were her immediate needs for some rest and relaxation after the gruelling train ride and the uncomfortable taxi. It could wait a bit longer. Carteret was an unusual individual. No, a fascinating man.

  “Legends?”

  He nodded curtly.

  “Yes. We have this house and its history. We have Goblin Wood. The Caves of Hex. We have voices in the night, and a mystic aura you will come to know the longer you stay here. And we have the ghost. The prescribed, traditional ghost. But come—you must know all that from the brochures and pamphlets we sent you. May I ask why you chose Craghold? You seem very outgoing and modern for such as this. Or is it that you too are a dabbler in the occult?”

  She laughed nervously, shaking her head.

  “Not on your life. I don’t even read the daily horoscopes in newspapers. No, Carteret—I simply wanted to be by myself for awhile. Nothing more simple than that. Was I wrong?”

  His curt negative was subtle. And almost sinister.

  “That remains to be seen. Now, if you are hungry, I shall have a meal prepared—”

  “No, no. It’s late enough. However, I could do with some tea.”

  “Done. Wentworth will see to that, too.”

  “What time is breakfast?”

  “There is no specific hour here at Craghold. When you are ready, you will be served.”

  On that enigmatic remark she shrugged and opened the buttons of her toggle-coat with its fur-lined parka hood. She had worn her two-piece slack outfit of Scotch plaid design, the one George had admired so much because it set off her fairly tall and lithe figure—

  “Fine with me, Carteret. How many other guests are there in the hotel at this time?” The question seemed an appropriate one.

  Carteret’s deep eyes seemed to glow with some inner light of their own. His perfect mouth barely moved.

  “Number Twenty-Four is Mr. Guy Warmsby. You may have heard of him, a wealthy young man with a very keen interest in archaeology. Number Nineteen is Mr. Peter Cowles, a poet with aspirations to be major rather than minor. Number Twenty is Miss Katharine Cowles, his sister. She has made a bit of a reputation as a fashion designer. I believe all three have come here to correlate their own interpretation of modern times with the ecology that once was Kragmoor. You will have much in common with all of them. You can trust them, too. They all are under thirty. That is the expression, I believe—of these categorical times?”

  “It is.” Anne Fenner chuckled. “Anyone else?”

  Carteret shook his head curtly again. />
  “Myself, old Wentworth, Hilda, who will do your room to your satisfaction, and of course some kitchen help, whom you’ll never see. The Dutch keep to themselves, you know. It takes a great while to break down their natural reserve.”

  Anne Fenner nodded and collected herself.

  There was no further excuse to dawdle, to loiter with this man at the desk. Once more she was struck by the incredible, almost tangible silence of the hotel itself—its interior, its environs. True, it was well past ten o’clock, but why would young people retire so early? Where was everyone? Why, there wasn’t even a radio playing anywhere! Or that standard sound of the Twentieth Century—a television set! Unless Craghold House didn’t have radios or TV sets. She shuddered at the prospect. After all, she didn’t want to cut herself off from Civilization completely, George or no George. It was bad enough having been an orphan these last five years—since that terrible day when the Fenners, her father and mother, had been caught in that awful rock slide while vacationing in California. Not to have a living relative—not an aunt, uncle or cousin; or niece or nephew; or brother or sister—was the ghastly joke Life had played on Anne Fenner at the age of sixteen. Thank God, she had already been in Boston U. at the time, and Dad had left her the wherewithal to keep on with her studies. But sometimes it did seem terrible, to lose your parents, while you kept up with the pretense of wanting to become a concert pianist. And after that, for all the lessons, the expertise, the sophistication, to almost throw it all over for a big, sexy hunk of man like George Twemble, who had proved to be only an opportunist after all. Yes, she needed this vacation, this time to think. Needed it badly. For all its spookiness and strangeness, this Craghold House might prove to be the perfect place to bury the past altogether. It had better be. Or she just might not ever touch a keyboard again. A damn shame, what with Professor Aleski always keeping after her, telling her—no, proving to her—that she had what it took to debut in Boston or New York or anyplace and make a career of it. It had been the Professor’s considered opinion that any twelve-year-old girl who could do justice to Beethoven’s Apassionata at such a tender age without making it sound like a piano exercize had the goods to earn a living at it—