Chapter 2: The Mansion with Secrets

Following his directions, I found my way to a mansion downtown.

It looked like something out of a Southern Gothic novel—columns, ironwork, and a lawn big enough to lose a football team in. My boots crunched on the gravel driveway as I stared up at the place, feeling out of place in my old flannel and jeans.

“Damn, that’s some serious money! Looks like something a Vanderbilt would live in.”

The words slipped out before I could stop myself. The place screamed old money—like the kind of house you see on history tours, where the guide whispers about ghosts and scandal. I felt like I was trespassing just by standing there.

It was my first time in a big city. The mansion wasn’t just grand—it had that old, stately feel, probably a relic from the Gilded Age.

The brickwork was faded but solid, the kind of craftsmanship you don’t see anymore. Ivy crawled up the sides, and the windows gleamed in the afternoon sun. I felt like I’d stepped onto a movie set.

“Anyone here?”

I called out, my voice echoing against the stone. The silence was thick, broken only by the distant hum of traffic. My words sounded small in all that emptiness.

The big iron gate out front wasn’t locked, so I decided to go in and take a look.

I half-expected an alarm to go off, but nothing happened. The air felt heavy, charged with something I couldn’t quite name. My heart thudded in my chest.

I grabbed the two brass rings on the gate and pushed.

Creeeeak—

The sound sent goosebumps racing up my arms. It was the kind of noise you hear in horror movies, right before something bad happens.

A piercing, hair-raising screech echoed out, like a woman wailing in grief.

It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone watching from the upstairs window.

I stepped one foot inside.

The ground felt colder, the air heavier. My boots left faint prints in the thin layer of dust on the walkway. Something in me wanted to turn and run.

Immediately, a chill shot up my spine, making me shiver.

It was the kind of cold that sinks into your bones, the kind you can’t shake off with a hot shower or a strong drink. I hugged my arms to my chest, trying to steady my nerves. For a second, I almost wished I’d stayed home.

The place was heavy with something unnatural. But someone lived here, right?

The garden looked tended, the porch lights were on, but the whole property felt abandoned—like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. I felt watched.

Why was the air so thick with it? Something felt off.

It was like stepping into a room where someone had just had a fight—charged, tense, and ready to explode. I forced myself to keep moving, even though every instinct told me to leave.

Creeeak—

Bang!

The iron gate slammed shut behind me all on its own.

The sound echoed through the yard, sharp and final. I spun around, heart thumping, and tried the gate, but it wouldn’t budge. No going back now.

A bad feeling crept over me.

My instincts screamed at me to turn around and leave, but I was already in too deep. Every body fisher I know has a story about a job that felt wrong from the start. This was mine.

Having spent years in the business of death, I’m extra sensitive to things that aren’t right.

It’s a sixth sense, honed from too many nights spent waiting for the river to give up its dead. I could feel it now—a prickling at the base of my skull, a warning to tread carefully. Something about this place set my teeth on edge.

I knew right away—this house had problems.

Not the kind you call a plumber or an electrician for. The kind that sticks with a place, seeps into the walls, and refuses to leave. The kind that gets inside your head.

I turned to leave.

My hand was halfway to the gate when I heard a voice behind me.

“Hey, buddy!”

The sound was sharp, almost cheerful, but there was an edge to it that made me pause. I froze.

I turned and saw the mansion’s front door open. A couple stood in the doorway.

They looked like they’d stepped out of a magazine—polished, poised, and completely at odds with the gloomy house behind them. Like they didn’t quite belong.

The man looked to be in his forties, slicked-back hair, a little too polished—definitely someone with money.

His suit was tailored, shoes gleaming, and his smile just a little too wide. He had the air of someone used to getting what he wanted. Something about him made me uneasy.

Next to him was a woman, maybe thirty, wearing a tight, black cocktail dress that showed off two long, pale legs. Her body was curvy and striking, with bright red lips and eyes that seemed to glimmer in the shadows—she looked almost otherworldly.

Her heels clicked against the porch, and she moved with a confidence that made it hard to look away. She gave me a once-over, lips curling into a sly smile. It was like she knew exactly what effect she had on people.

Damn. Money really was something—she was way more attractive than any girl back in Maple Heights.

I tried to play it cool, but my cheeks burned. Back home, the prettiest girls wore cutoff shorts and smelled like river water—not Chanel No. 5.

“You must be Mr. Morgan?” the man asked with a smile.

His voice was smooth, practiced—like he’d spent years closing deals in boardrooms. I wondered what he wanted with someone like me.

“Yeah, you’re the one who contacted me online, right?”

I kept my tone businesslike, but my hands were sweating. My palms left little damp prints on my jeans.

“Yes, yes! Clarissa, go ahead and show Mr. Morgan inside.”

He waved a hand, and the woman—Clarissa—stepped forward with a practiced grace. Her smile never wavered. She looked me up and down, like she was measuring me for something.

As soon as he spoke, the woman came over, every step graceful, and gestured for me to come in. As she leaned forward, the neckline of her dress dipped, revealing a deep, distracting cleavage.

She caught me looking and winked, making my ears burn hotter. She smelled like expensive perfume and something darker underneath. I couldn’t help but stare.

Gulp…

I swallowed hard, sneaking a few more glances before following them inside, trying to act all businesslike. My heart was beating a little too fast.

The foyer was all marble and gold trim, the kind of place that made you want to wipe your boots twice. I tried not to gawk, but it was hard not to stare at the chandelier overhead. Everything sparkled, even in the dim light.

Once the three of us sat down, I got straight to the point.

The couch was softer than any bed I’d ever slept in. I perched on the edge, not wanting to leave a mark. "So, where’s the body? Can I take a look first?"

The couple exchanged a look, then cleared their throats. The house staff in the living room all quietly left.

I noticed how the butler and two maids slipped away without a word, eyes downcast. Even the dog in the corner slunk out after them, tail tucked. The room felt emptier with every step they took.

“Mr. Morgan, there’s something you should know,” the man began. “This house has been in my family for generations. There’s an old well in the backyard, said to date back to the Civil War.”

He spoke with the weight of history, voice dropping to a near-whisper. I glanced at Clarissa, but her face gave nothing away. She just stared at the floor, lips pressed tight.

“A few years ago, I wanted to fill it in, but after three days and nights, the construction crew didn’t even manage to make a dent. So we just left it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration plain on his face. "We tried everything—concrete, rebar, you name it. The well just... wouldn't close."

“But recently, several maids fell into the well while cleaning, one after another!”

Clarissa shuddered, her fingers tightening on the armrest. "We thought it was just bad luck at first, but after the third time..."

“We called the police, the fire department—tried everything. Nothing turned up. The case is still open!”

He sounded desperate, the kind of desperation that comes from too many sleepless nights and too many unanswered questions. His voice cracked a little at the end.

The man looked genuinely troubled. It was clear this had caused him a lot of grief. I could see the lines in his face, the way his eyes darted around the room.

His eyes darted to the window, as if he half-expected to see something staring back at him from the yard. The whole house seemed to lean in, waiting for the next thing to happen.

I couldn’t quite make sense of it. Old wells were usually dug by hand, maybe sixty or seventy feet deep at most—how could it be like he described? Something didn’t add up.

I tried to picture it, but nothing about this story fit what I knew. Wells that old should have caved in years ago. My mind spun with possibilities.