House on the Bluff

Legacy Series, Vol. 1

by Elena Dorothy Bowman

The last voice heard from the house was an 18th Century ancestor's blood-curdling screams in the dark of night. What was it about the "house" that made people tremble? Why had no one dared venture near it since 1789? Had it not been there for centuries, tall, empty, beckoning? Abigail Adams Pierce could not envision that the information she stumbled upon would take her on a hair-raising journey she would never forget. A journey that once started would have no turning back, even at the risk of losing her life in the physical sense and being trapped within the spiritual realm, which had invaded the Pierce House. And nothing, in her wildest imagination, could have prepared her for the effect her discovery would have on her life from that moment on.

ISBN 1-59431-363-6 Romantic Suspense/Mystery/Thriller

Cover Art © David P. Bowman



Prologue

Situated in a dense forest, a scroll, in White Stone Abbey, which held the secret to the present Pierce House, lay hidden in a chamber behind an altar, protected, down through the ages until the18th Century, by brown-robed monks. The papyrus, enclosed in a white leather hand-bound sheath, emblazoned with a Crest and a Cross, had been consecrated and sealed with a Royal Imprint.

Sometime during the 18th Century, those who had no fear of God, or man, plundered the Abbey. The case was stolen, the scroll removed, and the seal broken. On the hand-printed, quill- scripted parchment were words that foretold the future of a dwelling, its surrounding properties and, through generations, its final location. Granted by Divine Decree, to a mortally wounded Noble Knight and all his descendants in perpetuity, this Royal Boon was awarded in tribute for his sacrifice in the service of God and King.

The bequest, and all it contained, passed from one generation to another. With the seal of both a reigning King and Archbishop’s blessing, along with the request of the Royal Knight’s descendants, the Royal Grant was eventually transferred to consecrated ground in a distant land across the seas.

When the Nobleman’s descendants left England for the Colonies, they took with them a small bronze cask containing a relic of the Noble Knight. To lay claim to the consecrated land forever, the Relic was to be buried within the foundation of their home in the new land-its final resting place.

The papyrus wound its way to America and into the hands of vandals. From the latitude and longitude inscribed within the scroll, these raiders knew the location of the grant and set out to find it. Word reached them about the priceless articles that were purchased over time, to furnish the now existing dwelling, and the tragic death at sea of the most recent in its long line of owners. This spurred them on. It was their intention, then, to use the sacred document as a means of obtaining possession of the property and all within it.

Since the residence was built on an isolated bluff above the bay, a sailing ship could easily slip its way up the cove away from prying eyes, and pillage the place. In order for these marauders to keep their dastardly and diabolical act secret, any vessel, along with its crew, entering the harbor, would surreptitiously vanish. It didn’t take long before the inlet became known as the Bay of Death and, from the 18th Century to the present, no one dared sail nor moor their boats in the beautiful blue pristine sound.

With the bay secured, the buccaneers launched a full-scale assault on the house on the bluff. With visions of riches clouding their minds, they invaded and ransacked indiscriminately. But, to their complete horror, the house fought back. It restored everything to its untarnished condition, at the same time, assimilating the transgressors within its confines, while the sailing ship, anchored in the bay, slipped quietly beneath the sea, taking with it the sacred papyrus stolen from the White Stone Abbey.

Only the Holy Knight’s descendants, however remote, connected with, and in-line to, the prophecy could claim ownership of the property and all it contained, by right of succession. Any violation or attempted usurpation of the sacred bequest or authority, whether intentional or accidental, would only bring misery and gloom to its perpetrators and, as punishment, doom such brigands to spend an eternity as non-entities within the confines of the estate for violating the edict of the God-centered prophesy.

The energetic memory that encompassed the dwelling and its surrounding area was in tune with those not yet born, whose own vibrational energy stemmed from the passing down through the ages. To ensure the authenticity of the true line, it was ordained that the descendent who opted to claim ownership must remain in the house alone, enduring whatever precarious events occurred until such time as the house permitted the intrusion of others-a champion, but especially a Consort. Failure to adhere to the doctrine would negate that descendant’s right of ownership forever and could, instead, claim that person for its own as it would with any interloper.

Of the two, only the true Consort’s vibrational energy passed down through time would be in-line with, and connected to, the prophesy, as well as the vibrational energy of the house, and to its future occupant. And, it was the Consort who would be the vessel necessary to ensure the prophecy’s manifesto coming to fruition.

According to the Legacy, the entire estate would be within an extremely strong, eternal, energy vortex. Since we are all energy and the energy of that vortex is timeless, nothing within it ages as we perceive aging to be. As a living entity, it would bring forth a time-capsule of History, as well as forming visions of people, places, and things that did not exist, to thwart those who might become too curious or those whose intentions were ominous, to intimidate a descendant who didn’t have the stamina to withstand the onslaught manifested by the house itself, or one whose only purpose was to plunder. Since, in reality, time and space have no meaning, but simply are, all things are possible.

To the day Abigail entered her ancestral home, with its promise of fulfillment, it maintained its enchantment and its ageless elegance, standing as a silent sentinel waiting for the one long destined to enter along with her Consort, to claim ownership. At that moment in time, the papyrus would physically appear as a sign and a blessing to the rightful heirs.



Chapter One



Abigail stood against her red Jeep Cherokee parked at the edge of the gravel driveway of the deserted mansion. The wind blowing out of the Northeast across Adam’s Point flattened her long-sleeved white blouse and new navy blue pantsuit against her body, whipping her hair around her face while she desperately tried to keep its long strands from blocking her view of the scene spread before her. Her unbuttoned jacket took on the appearance of a navy blue sail flapping in a gale behind her. The widow’s walk perched high above, struck her as a crow’s nest on a sailing vessel of long ago. Shading her eyes, she swept the dunes to the ocean beyond and back to the house. A flutter of a curtain from the third floor caught her attention. She looked again, but saw nothing. Must be tired, she thought. I’m beginning to imagine things. She laughed.

Her laughter, echoing over the dunes, stopped short as the curtain on the second floor moved ever so slightly. When she looked again, all was still. She shook her head. Without knowing why, her heart suddenly began to race as an excitement arose within her being. Spellbound, she held tightly onto the front of her jacket and to a broken picket. As she stood transfixed, with her gaze upon the house, her long dark hair blew unrestrained in the wind.

It didn’t look any different from other stately houses she had seen on her travels along the shoreline and inlet seas of New England. It still had an air of dignity about it with itswhite, clapboard-covered, multi-tiered and dormer-studded roofs, and its blue shuttered windows. And, it seemed to be easily accessible by front, back, side, or basement doors. As always, there were the large floor-to-ceiling windows, first and second floor wrap-around porches, and a widow’s walk sitting high atop the house. But then, too, there was a white picket fence in disrepair, running along the front of the property, its broken slats standing aloft, weaving in and out of the holding rails like drunken sailors on shore leave. To complete its demeanor, the gate squeaked unattended as it swung free from restraint. On the top floor, from a shattered window, curtains periodically flowed through the break as gusts of wind blew wantonly through it.

The house sat imperviously on a bluff, above windswept dunes that seemed to drift down to the sea. The open ocean beckoned as its waves washed against the fragile shoreline. What was it about this place that caused one to silently shiver, then shudder violently, and swiftly pass, always looking back over one’s shoulder until they were a safe distance away? No one could be sure. Was it because it stood unoccupied for decades, appearing so alone and forbidding? Or was it because the last person to stay there had vanished into the night after a blood-curdling scream had permeated the air? Something had happened here. Yet, to this day, no one was really sure what.

Abigail felt a compulsion to move forward toward the house. Though her head told her “no,” she wasn’t listening to her head, only to the challenge that was in her heart.

In a rash moment, she was standing inside the grand main entrance hall. Before her, the stairs rose to the second level and above. Her heart thumped as she felt herself being propelled forward step by step to the second floor. The click of her heels echoed throughout the house.

From the darkened second floor hallway, she looked furtively around at the closed doors leading to the rooms behind them and shuddered. Then she looked up. The stairs led even further. She followed them to the third floor. Again, the doors were closed to the rooms hidden behind them. What am I doing here?

The light flickering in from atop the house sought her attention. She again moved forward, on up a ladder, and out to the widow’s walk above. Staring at the vast ocean before her, she wondered about the people who had once lived here, and who they might have been searching for as they scanned the ocean, waiting for the sailing ships to return to shore.

Abigail felt a tap on her shoulder and turned. No one was there. She laughed silently as she shook her head. My imagination again.

Once more, her eyes sought the sea before her. There wasn’t a single ship in sight. No sails. No modern vessels. Nothing—just the clear blue ocean. Its waves were washing gently upon the dunes and back again into the waters, taking with them a part of the fragile land.

It was dark when she looked away from the sea and back into the house. If she were going to get out, she would have to make her way through a lightless house. Then again, she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave. She would wait for morning. At least here, on the widow’s walk, she would be safe. Wouldn’t she?