Haunted House of Hillman - Frank F. Weber

Haunted House of Hillman (eBook)

(H2 OH)

Frank F. Weber (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
416 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-88895-556-7 (ISBN)

Maddie Dehler demonstrated one of the most remarkable survival escapes in history. Still horror returns to the same county, and eventually the same house. Investigator Jon Frederick searches for a common thread in the crimes to bring resolution to this true crime thriller.

Maddie Dehler demonstrated one of the most remarkable survival escapes in history. Still horror returns again and again to the same county in rural Minnesota, and eventually to the home Julia Adams built. The cases go cold until BCA Investigator, Jon Frederick, is called in to find a common thread to a series of crimes that appear unrelated. Jon's relationship with Serena is put to the test by an old "e;friend."e; Serena makes a mistake with profound costs. Jon, despite his aversion to hauntings, and strains on his personal life, finds his way through the fog to solve the case. Based on a true case that eluded resolution for years.

MADISON “MADDIE” DEHLER

5:30 P.M. SUNDAY, DECEMBER 4, 2011

CHRISTMAS POINT WILD RICE COMPANY

14803 EDGEWOOD DRIVE NORTH, BAXTER

Minnesota weather could be wicked, and the news could be just as cruel. Let’s start with the weather. The bitter, arctic air bit down on my bare fingers as I fumbled for my keys. Good lord, it was 21 degrees! I understood it was December, but we just had 40-plus degrees three days in a row, and I was still mowing my lawn in November. The freezing wind burned my ears. I needed to keep a hat and gloves with me. Winter always came sooner than I was ready.

The Occupy Wall Street protests were ending, which was disheartening to me. Nobody I knew but me cared about this, primarily because they didn’t understand the significance of it. The protests were about the growing inequality between the wealthiest and the rest of us. Last year was the first time the top 1% of Americans had more money than the entire middle class combined (46% of the U.S. population). What people didn’t get was that the violence of the 1980s and 1990s was the result of a lack of opportunity for our poorest and, mark my words, it was coming back.

I started my car and rubbed my hands together, hoping somehow, they’d spontaneously combust. My back was aching from a long day of standing on the concrete floor at Fleet Farm, operating the cash register all day. On the upside, most people were in a good mood, which made the shift easier. I decided to call my husband, Tyson Hattie. For Ty, the biggest problem following my refusal to take his name, when we married, was the Minnesota Vikings football team. I should explain, keeping my birthname was nothing personal. I just didn’t want to be called “Maddie Hattie.” I pointed out that if he took my last name, Dehler, he could be called “TD,” for “Touchdown.” To put it mildly, Ty wasn’t wild about it. He took the suggestion as an assault on his ego and was irritated about it for months. I knew a little about football and saw the writing on the wall when the Vikes signed an over-thehill quarterback, Donovan McNabb, hoping he would give them a season like Randall Cunningham or Brett Favre did in the past. McNabb hadn’t thrown a touchdown pass in the last two minutes of a game for eight years. After six games of watching McNabb bounce passes in front of receivers, the Vikings cut him. This left the franchise with a young quarterback, Christian Ponder, who didn’t have the benefit of a preseason with the starters.

I called Ty to see if we could enjoy a night together, but as anticipated, he was in a mood. He grumbled and I could barely hear him over the loud background noise: “Groundhog’s Day again. Ponder threw an interception on our last drive. Denver returned it to our twenty-yard line, kicked a field goal and won 35-32. The only good news is Rocori graduate, Eric Decker, got his first win of the year for the Broncos. For us, it’s our fourth loss in a row.”

I softened my tone, “I’m sorry I’ve been so distant, lately. I’ve been so tired, and the extra shifts haven’t helped.”

Ty cut me off. “I can’t hear you.” I could tell he was annoyed. It didn’t make any sense that a bunch of overpaid athletes would ruin his day by underperforming —but they would.

I raised my voice and offered, “Anything I can do to cheer you up?”

“I’m at the Fort Bar. Stop in. I don’t even care if you’re still wearing the hunter orange.”

“All right. I love—” The call was cut off. Our work smocks were bright orange, with Fleet Farm written in black, block letters. I’d just leave my jacket on.

I’d had a sadness that crept inside of me over the last couple months. Cut me open and I’d bleed blue. I had no excuses. People who knew my family told me I was so lucky. They were the happy, gregarious people you saw at parties in holiday movies. And I would’ve killed to have this body as an adolescent—Barbie-like breasts on a thin frame. Instead, when people were pairing off, I was built like a prepubescent boy. I’m dying—hair first. I’d just hit 23 and my hair was thinning and dull, fraying out like a worn appliance cord. I tied it back because I was starting to look like my imaginary picture of Shakira’s grandmother. I pinched myself. Enough self-pity. Grandma used to tell me, It only takes a moment to turn your life around.

I decided to surprise Ty by picking up sandwiches and salads from Christmas Point in Baxter. They have good food, but I could never get him to go there because somehow, he got it in his head that men don’t shop at Christmas Point. I wanted to give him a little more time to get over the Vikings game. I also didn’t feel like cooking, and it gave me a chance to look for Christmas gift ideas. I was looking forward to a night alone with my husband.

5:35 P.M.

THE FORT STEAKHOUSE

643 FRONT STREET, FORT RIPLEY

WHEN I DROVE THROUGH FORT RIPLEY, Tyson’s truck was still at The Fort Steakhouse. I wasn’t in the mood to sit at the bar, but I thought I’d be cordial and stop in to let him know I was on my way home. The game had been over for two hours, so maybe he had enough time commiserating with the boys to join me. I flipped down my visor with the lighted mirror to make sure my long, blonde hair remained in the low messy bun I’d fumbled into place before heading to work this morning.

An old, red Chevy truck slowly cruised by. Fort drew a good crowd for the Vikes; he was probably seeing if I was going to pull out so he could park.

The bun looked effortless but had taken me ten tries this morning to get it to look this way. I wasn’t going to mess with it again. Good enough.

When I stepped into the bar, I immediately spotted Ty. He was built like a big blonde bull, so he was hard to miss, sitting at a table with his friends from the lumberyard. Ty wasn’t frustrated, as I anticipated. He was giddy and I was damn mad about it. The new gal at the lumberyard, platinum hair raining down from underneath her baseball cap, was sitting at Ty’s side, directly facing him rather than the group. The manner in which Darlene affectionately dar-leaned into him, knees spread, made me want to tear that slut apart. Tyson was drinking it all in. I wanted to scream, Noooo!!!

My face flushed as I stood in silent misery.

One of Ty’s friends tapped him on the shoulder, in an effort to get him to look my way. Ty was too enamored with his new playmate to give me a glance

I could feel my blood pressure rocketing and I was seconds away from bursting into tears. So, what did I do? In my head, I was fighting like a wildcat. But there was a canyon between what I thought and what I did. Disheartened, I slinked back out of the bar. I didn’t want to make a scene. I’d end up looking like a blubbering fool and he’d act like I was crazy.

6:30 P.M.

JOHNNY C’S SPORTS BAR

108 BROADWAY EAST, LITTLE FALLS

MY SADNESS WHIRLED INTO RAGE, so I was steaming when I drove into my hometown of Little Falls. I stopped at Johnny C’s, a bar just off the main drag. The bar had a few tables of Vikings fans in their purple jerseys. The lights were dimmed and I sat away from others, at the darkest high-top table, to match my mood. Ring of Fire played on the jukebox. Within ten minutes, I’d pounded down a glass of Starry Eyed Cream Ale. This is stupid! I was too miserable for conversation and getting drunk wouldn’t resolve a damn thing. I was about to head home when a second glass was set in front of me.

Johnny told me, “It’s on that gentleman.” He nodded toward the bar.

A man with thick, wild hair and a buffalo plaid shirt slid onto the barstool next to mine. He was physically fit, but shorter than I and incredibly unsure of himself. Head bowed in submission, he seemed to be looking at me through his eyebrows when he asked, “Mind if I ax you something?”

Feeling bitter, I obnoxiously remarked, “Ax? Aren’t you a little too white to be using that lingo?”

Embarrassed, he explained, “They were saying ax in England long before they were saying it in America. The very first English translation of the Bible spelled ask, A-X-E. It wasn’t until Shakespeare’s plays and the King James Version that it was switched to A-S-K.” He apologized, “Sorry for the mispronunciation. Something I picked up from my dear old mum.”

“All right, ax me something,” I challenged.

He didn’t seem to know how to respond to my brazen banter. “Having a rough day?”

Now I felt bad. He was just a socially awkward man trying to comfort me. He wasn’t a bad-looking young...

Erscheint lt. Verlag	1.5.2023
Sprache	englisch
Themenwelt	Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
ISBN-13	979-8-88895-556-7 / 9798888955567

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