Chapter 1
 The
house wasn't at all like the pictures. They had been
taken at a distance with a cheap camera, and there was
nothing in them which would give him some indication of
scale, so he hadn't been able to judge its size. Now that
he was standing in front of it, he realized that it was
much bigger than he had thought. In fact, it was huge;
the word "house" was an understatement: this
was a mansion.Johnathan Ravenhurst leaned against his car,
comparing the pictures to the building which loomed above
him. There were four rows of windows in the center, or
main portion of the house, suggesting four levels, but
there may have been five because the ground floor windows
were at least twenty feet tall.The second-story entryway was set in the
middle of the main structure; two curving stairways set
at opposing angles led from a courtyard up to a large
porch or deck which jutted out into the courtyard. Above
the porch was a portico supported by massive stone
columns. At the corners of the main structure were round
towers some ten feet in diameter, rising above the steep
roof, capped by cones. Small rectangular diamond-paned
windows wound helically up the towers, suggesting the
presence of staircases. Wings curved out at an angle from
either side of the main house, making the entire
structure crescent-shaped. A circular drive completed the
picture, which is where John's old 1976 Corvette was now
parked. John tossed the pictures back in the car and
wandered around, taking it all in. Why anyone in their
right mind would build a house like this on a hill
overlooking Bartlesville, Oklahoma was beyond John's
imagination. And now Ravenhurst Manor was all his. He had
never known his birth father so he had been shocked to
discover that he had inherited this...thing. While some
might have been excited at the prospect of owning a
baronial mansion, John was not. The master of this
place should be a old grey-haired...baron, he guessed was
the word, or maybe a guy wearing a cape with long, sharp
teeth. And a house this big was bound to be haunted; John
imagined seances being held in the tea room, or wherever
one held seances.The weather was not cooperating with the
scene; John's introduction to the manor should have been
during the middle of a thunderstorm: the wind screaming,
the spires of the towers jutting above the swaying
trees--the classic "dark and stormy night."
Unfortunately, the sun was high in the sky, it was a
beautiful spring day, and had there been any flowers in
the formal garden, they would have been in full bloom.
There was a fountain just off the courtyard; a concrete
bowl about fifteen feet in diameter, with a smaller one
above it, supporting life-sized bronze statues of three
naked girls pouring water out of pitchers. Now the
pitchers were dry and the fountain was full of dead
leaves.John walked around the fountain, staring up at
the maidens. They were gazing down, their long wild hair
flying, standing with their feet spread apart. He was
surprised to discover that they were anatomically
correct--it was the ultimate upskirt shot. John didn't
normally become aroused by looking at statues, but the
sculptor had done his work well; he resisted the urge to
scramble up the fountain and meet the girls face-to-face.
Indeed, from a certain vantage point, each of them looked
down into his face, faint smiles on their lips, teasing
him, beckoning to him.John climbed one of the stairways to the porch
and approached the large entry doors. They were at least
ten feet high, highly ornamented, laminated with copper
which was green with age. In the middle of each door was
a large carved R, obviously representing the Ravenhurst
family. The attorney had mailed him a set of keys along
with the deed. He pulled them out of his pocket; the
first three failed to work, the fourth slipped neatly
into the slot and turned--the bolt slid back. John
wondered if the door would creak when he opened it, the
sound echoing ominously throughout the foyer--haunted
houses always had creaky doors. No luck there, either;
the door swung in as if the hinges had just been oiled.The foyer was illuminated by the multi-colored
light from tall Tiffany-style stained glass windows set
on either side of the entry doors. Even these depicted
nude maidens: one of them contemplated a red rose, the
other held a white dove on her hand. The floor was set in
black and white marble tile laid checkerboard-style on
the diagonal. On opposite sides of the foyer were
mahogany staircases which wound up to a balcony which ran
along the rear wall of the foyer. John could just make
out some doors which ran along the balcony. Set at
intervals along the side walls of the foyer were gothic
arches opening into other rooms and marble statues of
various Greek goddesses, all of them nude and
anatomically correct, as had been the maidens in the
fountain and the windows. Apparently the former owner of
the manor had been an admirer of the female figure and a
stickler for realism.He walked around the mahogany-paneled walls,
trying to locate some light switches. He found a row of
them; they were the old-fashioned kind, small round
buttons, set in pairs. Push them as he would, he got no
response from the crystal chandeliers hanging from the
ceiling. Not that he expected them to work; no one had
lived in the mansion for nine years.Without a strong flashlight--and maybe a
companion--John was not eager to explore. He was not
superstitious, but the old mansion was starting to spook
him. He stepped back out onto the porch, pulling the door
shut and locking it, then he walked down the stairway and
climbed back in his Corvette.There was a portal at the edge of the right,
or east wing. John drove through it; it led to another
courtyard, this one bordered by a number of garage doors
and what appeared to be some stables. Beyond the
courtyard, directly behind the manor was a large concrete
patio and a swimming pool. John's eyes lit up when he saw
this; obviously it had been added sometime after the
original house had been built.He stopped the car and walked over to the
pool. It was empty, the bottom coated with some kind of
black gook, probably from rotten vegetation and rain
water. The diving board was propped up against a small
building which protruded from the main edifice; John
assumed it was a bath house. If John had had the money,
this would have been the perfect place for a party; he
could have invited half the population of Bartlesville,
but he had no desire to invite any of his old high school
acquaintances to a party, except for maybe one.John had left Bartlesville twelve years ago
after high school graduation and he hadn't been back
since. There hadn't been any reason to come back, really;
his parents were both dead, he had no brothers or
sisters, and the girl he had loved had dumped him long
ago. John had always been told that his parents had
adopted him when he was three days old. It had been only
four months since an attorney had contacted him,
informing him that he was a Ravenhurst; something his
adopted parents had never told him. There was only one
stipulation to his inheritance: he must legally change
his surname to Ravenhurst. So, he had scraped up three
hundred dollars and changed it; he was no longer
Johnathan Lee Robinson, he was now Johnathan Lee
Ravenhurst. What's in a name, anyway, he figured.John had grown up in Bartlesville; he had
known of the Ravenhursts, they had been a legend. Charles
Ravenhurst had been one of the early oil tycoons, along
with men with names like Phillips, Sinclair and Skelly.
All of them, plus many others, had come to Bartlesville
and had gotten their starts in this small town, leasing
land from the Osage Indians and pumping oil as fast as
they could drill for it. The oil had made them rich, and
old Charles had been among them. The Ravenhursts had
lived on Raven Hill--what else would they have named
it?--since the thirties; John had read the accounts of
large social events at Ravenhurst Manor while he was
growing up, but his station in life did not include
invitations to such events; his father--his adopted
father--was a simple draftsman with Phillips Petroleum
Company, which was headquartered in Bartlesville. So,
John had never driven up Raven Hill, much less seen the
manor house close up.The citizens of Bartlesville could see it at a
distance, of course; it towered high above them at the
top of the hill like a fortress; it was as if old Charles
had had a bone to pick and had built the estate where he
could look down on the town and say, "screw you
all." Some time in the mid-1990's, Charles
Ravenhurst had died. Ravenhurst Petroleum had been a
victim of the 1970's oil crunch and some said the old man
had died deeply in debt. Whatever was left of the
Ravenhurst family and the manor servants had vacated the
house nine years ago. Since that time, it had sat on
Raven Hill, empty and abandoned.As John stood by the empty pool, he imagined
he could hear the squeals of young debutantes as they
splashed in the pool and dived off the board. Young
fraternity men chased them around the pool, hoisting them
on their shoulders, swimming up to them and pulling off
their bikini bottoms, carrying them into the bath house
to make love. John opened his eyes, the voices faded, the
pool was empty.He left the manor house, winding his Corvette
down the hill, stopping to lock the iron gates, and then
onto Highway 123 and north into Bartlesville. Cruising
through the downtown area, he pulled into the Best
Western motel and checked in, paying for three days in
advance. He unloaded his luggage rack and laid on the
bed, looking at the pictures again.The attorney had told him that when old
Charles Ravenhurst died, a search had been made to locate
any living relatives. Charles had had a son and three
daughters. The son, a product of Charles' second
marriage, had died in 1967. The three daughters had been
by his third wife. The two oldest daughters had died in
the early '90s. The whereabouts of the youngest daughter
Sarah was unknown; she had been lost in a boating mishap.
Her body had never been found, and after three years she
had been declared legally dead.Because there were no living heirs, the
Ravenhurst estate had sat in limbo for nine years, until
some records had uncovered John's adoption and the
attorney had tracked him to Lawrence, Kansas. He
suggested that John had been born out of wedlock after
Charles' second divorce and before his third marriage.
His birth mother's name was listed as Claire Louise
Nellis. Why Charles had not married Claire was unknown,
but it was surmised that Nellis was Claire's married
name. The lawyer volunteered to trace Claire--for a
nominal fee--but John was uninterested and couldn't
afford it, anyway--an assistant professor didn't make
much money.John stared at the pictures of Ravenhurst
Manor. The house itself , all 78 rooms, sat on 19 acres,
all of it wooded except for three acres. What in the
world was he going to do with a monstrosity like that? It
wouldn't be suitable for habitation; it would cost a
fortune to heat and he doubted if one of its features was
air conditioning. Just getting the power reconnected
would probably cost more than he had in the bank, and the
first month's electric bill would bankrupt him.And then there was the matter of property tax
and insurance. For several million dollars, it could be
turned into a hotel, but the city of Bartlesville was too
small to support a hotel of that size. No, John's best
bet was to sell Ravenhurst Manor. Perhaps Osage County or
the City of Bartlesville would be interested in
purchasing it; make it into a museum or something. He'd
check into that, but first he wanted to explore the
house; maybe there was a vault in the basement full of
Madam Ravenhurst's jewelry or something, maybe some
silver.He knew she had died in 1990, only a year
before the first of her daughters had been lost. No
wonder old Charles had died a raving lunatic: he had lost
his wife and three daughters inside the space of three
years.Sometime in the middle of all this heavy
thought, John dozed off. When he awoke, it was six-thirty
and he was hungry. Now is the time, he told himself, to
find out if she was still around. He had made it a point
to drive past the Emerald Bar and Grill on his way into
town; it hadn't changed except for a new sign above the
entrance. The bar had been owned by a retired Navy
Captain, Abner VanSkike. His only daughter Brandy had
been John's childhood sweetheart; they had known each
other all through grade school and middle school.Brandy had been more than just a sweetheart.
John and Brandy had been inseparable during their youth,
had dated exclusively, had chosen each other to learn
about the wonderful world of sex. It was a given between
them that they would eventually marry and spend the rest
of their lives together.And then the captain had died prematurely;
Brandy dropped out of high school and took over the bar.
She had only been sixteen at the time and could not
legally serve liquor, but off-duty policemen frequented
the bar and kept her secret; they also protected her from
men who knew she was young and alone in the world.Every night at nine o'clock, Brandy would get
out the captain's old Martin guitar and sit on a stool in
front of the men, singing the old Celtic songs the
captain had taught her. The older bar flies, friends of
the late captain, had sat and listened with tears in
their eyes; they remembered Brandy doing this when she
had been but a small girl sitting on the captain's lap.John pulled into the parking lot and walked
into the Emerald Bar and Grill; there was no hostess to
seat him so he found a table near the front and sat. No
waitress appeared, so he wandered through an open doorway
and stood at the bar. The bartender, a small female, had
her back turned to him. He pulled up a stool and cleared
his throat; the girl turned around--it was Brandy.Brandy squinted at him, then her eyes went
wide. "My god, Johnathan," she whispered.
"You're finally back!""Yeah," replied. "How are you,
Brandy?"Brandy stared at him; her green eyes
sparkling. She was a small girl; she looked even smaller
standing behind the bar counter. Her jet-black hair was
still long and wavy; it tumbled down over her shoulders
and back. Her face was small and delicate; she wore no
makeup, but she didn't need any--she was as beautiful as
the day he had last seen her over twelve years ago.Brandy smiled at him. "Well," she
said, "the restaurant is closed and you're the only
one in the bar. It's been this way for months now. Other
than that, I'm fine. Why are you here, Johnathan? I
thought you were some hotshot doctor or something in
Kansas."John chuckled. "The doctor part is
semi-correct; I'm not a physician, I have a doctorate in
cybernetics. As for the hotshot part, I'm a lowly
assistant professor at the University of Kansas.""Wow," she said, "A professor!
Oh--can I get you a drink or something? I'm being a
terrible hostess.""No, you're not. Uh, I'll have a...rum
and Coke.""I should have known that--it's always
been your drink. With a slice of lime, right?""Please. Brandy, I'm really surprised to
see you here after all these years. I'd have thought a
handsome guy would have married you and carried you away
from this place."Brandy snorted as she mixed his drink.
"It almost happened," she said. "I did get
married, a long time ago. It was after you left for
college. A guy came in flashing a big roll of
hundred-dollar bills. Of course a lot of guys did that,
but this one was different, or so I thought. He said he
was some government man from Tulsa; said he was up here
on some sort of project out at the airport. All hush-hush
because of some government thing he said was out there.
'Skyguard,' he called it, but nobody I've talked to has
ever heard of such a place. He said he...but I'm rattling
on. Sorry, I tend to get a little bored these days.
Here's your drink.""Thanks. How much?""No, it's on the house. So what about
you? Married? Kids? House with a white picket
fence?""None of the above," he answered.
"No wife, no girlfriend, no lover. One cat, named
Ondine; she's staying with my next door neighbor.""I had a cat once," Brandy said,
staring off into the distance. "His name was Puddy;
you know--for 'Puddy-Tat.'""I know," said John. "You used
to tie a bow on him and he hated it.""That's right," she said. "Of
course you would remember--you spent half your time at my
house. Johnathan, my feet are killing me; do you mind if
we sit somewhere?""No," he replied. "I'd really
like that.""Great,"she said, ducking under the
end of the counter. She didn't have to duck far, she was
only about five feet tall. She was dressed in a short
black skirt and white shirt, over which was a black vest.
She had a green string tie around her collar which
matched her emerald eyes; John guessed it was her
uniform. Her legs were glossy and smooth; she had no need
of pantyhose. She led him to a booth in the corner; he
slid in and she sat opposite him, a glass of water in her
hand. "Ahhhh," she said, relaxing. "It's
getting hard to stand up all evening. So, where were
we?""You were telling me about the government
man.""Are you sure you want to hear about
this? It's really boring.""Not to me, it isn't--we have twelve
years to catch up on.""Okay, you asked for it. Anyway, he said
he was on this secret government project. You know how
the Air Force used to have that big radar base up on the
hill and then they moved it to a big hangar at the
airport? Well, that's what he said he was working on. So,
he asks when do I get off work and I tell him I own the
joint, so he says to let my employees take over--that's
when I had employees--and he takes me to the
best restaurant in town. I'd never been able to eat there
in my life."Anyway, he said he was going to take me
away from all all this--buy me a house in Tulsa and get
me a car--the whole bit. And I bought the whole thing,
hook, line and sinker. I married him, but the guy turned
out to be an asshole; gambled on horses all the time and
he couldn't keep his hands off of other women.""Good God, Brandy. How long were you
married?""Six months. You know what he said to me
on his way out? He said I was the worst piece of ass he
had ever had. That part was probably true.""Wow--I don't know what to say.""Oh, it was years ago, Johnathan. It just
pisses me off every time I think about it. I didn't mean
to dump on you.""No, no, that's all right," he said.
"I want to know what you've been doing. After all,
we share a little secret between us--that is, if you even
remember."Brandy giggled. "Oh yes, I remember. We
were, what--twelve when we started having sex? And as I
remember, it was a little secret.""Hey!" he said. "How big should
I have been at twelve years old?""I'm kidding," she said. "I'll
never forget that afternoon, Johnathan. Who could forget
their first time? You were gentle, even though neither of
us knew what we were doing.""Oh, I don't know," said John.
"If I remember correctly, you had a huge orgasm, and
so did I.""Yeah," she laughed, "I guess
we both did something right.""And it got better and better the more we
practiced.""Yes, it did. After you let me be on top.
I always do better when I'm in control.""I believe that, Brandy," he said.
"You always were a survivor. You said you haven't
had many customers for months now. What happened?""It's because of Snakeweed's Emporium and
Eating Establishment. New place, opened four months ago,
just a block west of here. That's where everybody goes
now. Business was great until Snakeweed showed up. Some
Cherokee Indian owns three of them. I figure two more
months and I'm bankrupt.""That sucks, Brandy.""Yes and no. I've been running the
Emerald since I was sixteen years old, Johnathan. I've
never known any other life--I can mix drinks you've never
heard of; I've only been stumped once. If I lose the bar,
what will I do? I'll be damned if I'll tend bar for
anybody else."On the other hand, I keep telling myself
that maybe this is the best thing that can happen; if I'm
ever going to do anything else, now is the time to do it.
I just don't know what it is, yet. Is that somebody out
there in the parking lot?"John looked over her shoulder; there was a
middle-aged couple climbing out of a Lincoln Town Car.
"Yeah," he answered her. "You have
customers."Brandy waited until they had come in.
"Sorry folks," she said. "We're
closed." They turned around and left; Brandy slid
out of the booth and locked the door, turning the Open
sign around so that it said Closed. Then she came back to
the booth. "There," she said. "Now we
won't be disturbed. I was thinking of closing, anyway.
You want another drink?""Only if you let me pay for it.""Deal--I'll bring the whole bottle and
sell it to you wholesale." She fetched a fifth of
Bacardi light, a two-liter bottle of Coke, a bucket of
ice and a glass for herself. "Okay," she said.
"This is great, seeing you again. You were my only
friend Johnathan; I dropped out of school so I didn't
know anybody, and even if I had, they were too young to
come in the bar. I've dated a few guys that came in, but
I've learned over the years that a bar is no place to
meet a man, or a woman either, for that matter--not if
you're looking for a long-term relationship. You're not a
bar fly, are you?""Not really," he said.
"Actually, I came in because I was curious about
you. Also, I wanted to get something to eat. You used to
serve fantastic reubens.""Yeah," she said, "well, my
cook quit a month ago. I can offer you some popcorn and
some packets of catsup."John laughed. "I'll tell you what,
Brandy. Since you're closed anyway, why don't I take us
somewhere to eat. I don't have a roll of hundred-dollar
bills, so I can't take you to the fanciest restaurant,
but I can do better than McDonald's.""You've got yourself a date," she
said. "And I know just the place: Snakeweed's. I
haven't been in there yet--I want to scope the place out.
Give me a second to change; I'll be right back."John wandered around the bar. Brandy had done
it all in a nautical theme, with models of sailing ships,
oars, ropes, big steering wheels and other things
reminiscent of the sea. Brandy came back wearing a
stretchy black, sleeveless dress of T-shirt material
which came half-way down her thighs; it fit her like a
glove. John remembered her body well, he had explored
every inch of it in his youth."Wow," he said, admiring her.
"You look fantastic!"Brandy put her hands on his shoulders.
"So do you," she said. "I'd say we're
doing pretty good for thirty-year-olds. She reached up on
tiptoe and gave him a little kiss on the lips.
"That's for coming back to me," she whispered.
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