Latham's Landing

Latham’s Landing

Tara Fox Hall

Contents

All That Remains

All That Remains

The Origin of Fear

The Origin of Fear

The Fire Within

The Fire Within

Epilogue

Thank You For Reading

About Tara Fox Hall

Also by Tara Fox Hall

LATHAM’S LANDING

Copyright © 2013-2019 by Tara Fox Hall

ISBN: 978-1-61235-730-0

Melange Books, LLC

White Bear Lake, MN 55110

www.melange-books.com

Smashwords Edition,

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

Published in the United States of America.

Cover Design by Caroline Andrus

To Mom, who first introduced me to The Haunting...and gave me my love of haunted houses.

To my husband Eric, who will never, ever read this because he doesn't share my love of horror...yet still loves me all the same.

All That Remains

Sandra has come to Latham’s Landing seeking to discover what really happened to her relative who disappeared there years before, persuading her reluctant friend Tina that a little paranormal investigation will be fun.

All That Remains

Sandra, why can’t we go to a nice beach instead? I said, trying to keep the whining tone to a minimum. It’s our last semester. I’d like to get a tan, maybe have a chance to catch up on my reading—

You can catch up on your reading at night! she said enthusiastically. My God, Tina, you’d think you had no imagination whatsoever!

Going to a creepy old resort on the edge of some lake doesn’t sound relaxing. I want to relax, not hunt ghosts.

You’ll have fun, I promise, she said, her eyes sparkling. Now come on. We’re going to be late getting there as it is.

I followed her reluctantly to the waiting car. She was right. We were already an hour behind schedule. Besides, I’d already agreed to her idea back last winter when we planned this trip. When she’d related it to me while sipping cocoa in front of a warm cheery fire at my parents’ house, the idea had sounded interesting. Now, I had a feeling it was something I was going to come to regret.

We arrived a few days later at the town of Cairn Isle. Originally, I’d thought that was the name of the place, as that’s what Sandy had called it. However, the real name according to the welcome sign was Latham’s Landing.

Over lunch at the local diner, Sandy explained. Cairn is really only a nickname the locals use.

Go on. You’ve got a captive audience here. Tell the whole tale.

A local man was very rich. And he was a good man—

And he was called Latham?

Bear with me, Tina. The locals around here are close-mouthed about the island. They don’t like to talk about the disappearances. Even the owner of the bed and breakfast where we’re staying tried to downplay it. But there’s bound to be more real life historical info we can find out when we get there. There’s a small museum there that’s run by the local historical society.

Okay. Go on.

The man’s name was Hans Latham. He got rich in the ship business somehow, but as the years passed, he retired and moved inland, selling his business. But he missed the water, and so he built a house, Latham’s Landing.

I took a sip of my coffee. And that’s where we’re staying?

No. We’re staying at a bed and breakfast associated with the local historical society chapter, like I just told you. Stop interrupting.

Okay, okay. Go on.

The rest can wait until we get there. Come on.

So why are we going there, again? I asked as I grabbed a few dollars from my purse for a tip.

A relative of mine disappeared there twenty years ago. They never found his body. It’s something like an old family mystery—

Sounded like something to avoid to me, but I didn’t say that.

—and I asked my Aunt Red about it, and she told me the story, as much as she knew. I told her I’d come here, as no one else from my family ever has.

I followed her out dubiously.

We arrived at the bed and breakfast later that evening. It was black as pitch when we arrived, so there wasn’t much chance to look at anything. We resolved to get a good night’s sleep, and start out the next morning after breakfast.

About eleven, we wandered outside and then down to the docks. The informative but brusque woman at the front desk of the bed and breakfast had tried to dissuade us. But when Sandra had been adamant about going to the island, she relented and told us to go and see Fred that he would ‘set us up.’

After a few minutes of calling his name, we located a grizzled but friendly looking guy with a greasy brown cap and a day’s growth of grey beard. He was dressed in coveralls with a nametag that said Fred.

When Sandra asked to rent a boat, Fred was incredulous, to say the least. Why you girls wanna go out there to that old crypt? he asked, his words threaded with worry. There’s nothing out there but ghosts and dust.

Can you tell us anything? Sandra asked eagerly, relating the story of her relative.

Two decades ago, her cousin Henry had come out here with a group of tourists, intending to be the first to spend the night on Latham’s Landing in the New Year. They had bunked down in the main hall, and then realized they had no plates to eat the food they’d brought with them. Henry had gone to the kitchen, saying he would look for some. After a few minutes of searching for something else to use, one of the friends had located some plastic plates, and they began eating. It was halfway through the meal when one of them realized Henry hadn’t returned.

They went to look for him and found the kitchen. They found his footprints in the dust, as he’d looked in a few cabinets, and drawers. They found a small stack of mismatched plates he’d collected to bring back. Then his footprints abruptly stopped.

Stopped how? I interjected.

I mean, it looked like he was walking, and then, he just wasn’t there.

I already was having second, third, and fourth thoughts about this, and I hadn’t even gotten to the house yet. You think he fell through some kind of trapdoor?

The friends looked in all the nearby rooms. The house isn’t that big, really. They found nothing. And the only footprints they saw were the ones they were making.

Did they stay there that night? Fuck me, I couldn’t have.

They were the last group that did, Fred replied darkly. I remember that now. The Historical Society cracked down after that fiasco, saying it was too risky to let tourists stay there overnight unsupervised. Final report was he fell into the lake, drowned, and the tide carried his body to the far side, where wolves carried it off. He paused. There are no documented cases of people dying there since Latham’s time. Don’t you gals be the first.

There were no wolves here twenty years ago, Sandy snorted. And Henry could swim. They weren’t allowed to bring alcohol, even then, and none of them were drinkers. They were here just to have fun.

Having fun usually involves lots of alcohol, in my book, Fred said with a grin. But let’s get you gals fixed up. If you’re determined to go there, I want you to be back here in plenty of time before night falls.

We’ve got nine hours, I said, checking my watch. I doubt that we’ll be that long.

Time passes differently over there, Fred cautioned. You just be sure to head back when the sun’s still overhead, not on the horizon. Got me?

Sure, I said quickly. We aren’t packing a lunch, figuring to have an early dinner. So we’ll be back early.

Sandra nodded.

A few minutes later, I was helping to load the raft and shaking my head. I can’t believe I agreed to this.

Come on, it’s an adventure.

You didn’t tell me before that the only way to reach the house was by boat. I thought we were renting the boat to get a scenic view or something. The pictures in the bed and breakfast showed some kind of bridge. Did it fall down?

Sandra narrowed her eyes. You didn’t seem worried about this last winter when we planned to come here. Besides, it’s not as if we have to be a great navigator. The house is less than a mile away, at the most. The raft is made for ten people, and it’s got a heavy-duty motor. It’s a Navy-issue raft.

I grimaced at her, even as I nodded that was a good thing.

We loaded in oars, some life vests, and some water to drink we’d brought with us. As we went to push off, Fred handed us a large spotlight.

You said to be back before dark? Why would we need this?

Take it, he said ominously. Better to have it and not need it, then need it and not have it.

The trip to Latham’s Landing was exhilarating. The waves on the lake were a little rough because of the strong wind, but the boat cut through them like nothing. The strong August sun was out, and the sky was blue and cloudless. Moreover, looking back at the bed and breakfast from out on the water, I discovered something compelling.

That stonework’s amazing! I exclaimed over the roar of the motor.

To reach the dock from the bed and breakfast, Sandy and I had walked down a paved path leading to a small boathouse near the water. An uncannily pretty stone fence ran near the path composed mainly of granite that was almost brick red, with a few whitish and blacker colored pieces mixed in the topmost stones. Looking back from this distance, this granite fence was revealed to be part of a massive stonework. Another fence led up from the boathouse on the other side, and there was a higher fence above that, near what would be the bed and breakfast’s cellar. It looked as if the cellar was open on one side, and that it, too, was made from that same unusual granite.

Sandy lowered the throttle to make her reply heard. There was a bigger boathouse there once, back when Latham lived here. Over time, it weathered, as it wasn’t made of stone, and a bad storm eventually washed it away. So Latham built another boathouse completely out of stone, saying at least he could make that one last. It burned about forty years ago, and most of the stonework was ruined. New owners bought it with the plan to make a bed and breakfast, but they couldn’t afford to use stone, much less granite. They rebuilt a new house out of wood, but used the remains of the house he built as a basement.

Weird. The granite is pretty.

No one knows where he got that. Several geologists theorized that he somehow dyed or painted the granite to make it that red color. But no one’s ever found out how he managed it.

Granite comes in colors, doesn’t it?

I don’t know, Sandy said, laughing. I’m not rich enough to have granite countertops in my kitchen. I’d say he had a rich friend who sold him a load of it for a song, and so that’s where it came from. She pointed suddenly. Look! You can see the house.

I faced front again, and sure enough, there it was, Latham’s Landing.

It was unimpressive, at first glance. There was more of that stonework fence, this one right on the water. Sandy gunned the motor, and we glided right up into a little landing made of the stuff. Despite that the house was over fifty years old, the stonework looked in good condition. Maybe the Historical Society kept it up?

Sandy and I took off our shoes and stepped into the water. It was cool, but not cold. The brown sand felt nice between my toes.

We walked the raft up on shore and tied it to one of the stone columns—there were six—leading up toward the house. There was enough wind that I worried it might blow back onto the water and drift away, even though Sandy said that was ludicrous.

As I strapped on my backpack, I thought to myself that it seemed darker here, despite the sun was still shining. But maybe that was just the cold breeze. It was coming around the edge of the house like a blast.

I hurried up the stone steps after Sandy. When we got to the front door, Sandy used a key to unlock the small padlock, and we went inside.

She shut the door behind us, and we both looked around, though the electric lights she tried to turn on didn’t seem to work. But this was an old house, one built when daylight was used to light the house during the day, and so there were many windows, enough to see well enough through most of the room. I expected there to be some kind of furniture, maybe the decayed remains of some of the elegant stuffed chairs I’d seen in framed pictures this morning on the walls of the bed and breakfast. The décor in those pictures had been extravagant and opulent. These many years later, all of that furniture was gone. There were darker spots on the walls where pictures had once hung, some of the faded wallpaper peeling.

We walked through the foyer and up the wide main staircase. Our feet made tracks in the dust, kicking up so many particles I sneezed.

This is the main floor. Come on, let’s look for the kitchen. Sandy flashed a smile, boldly walking toward a door near the staircase.

I followed warily. The house was interesting enough, though dated from the turn of the century when it had been built. The workmanship was amazing. The wood trim was all carved, the ceilings were high, and despite the dust, it was easy to see that some care and a lot of money had gone into constructing the house.

We looked for a room resembling a kitchen, but didn’t see one, though we did find a room with cabinets that might have been a larder once.

Why is there so much dust on everything? I asked, making tracks in the dust on a shelf with my fingers. Doesn’t the society maintain this? Frankly, I expected something more like a museum.

It’s off the beaten path, Sandy replied, looking into a closet. There’s nothing around here for miles, really. The locals know about it, but there’s barely a mention of it on the Internet, mostly because of it being private property.

I thought the historical society owned it, I replied, confused. And I didn’t want to ask in front of Fred, but how did you get permission to come here? It’s obvious that this isn’t the tourist trap you originally sold me on.

Sandra turned to me, obviously irritated. The Society enforces the house being off limits, which is why they keep it locked. But there’s nowhere near enough money to restore it to its glory days, not to mention all the furniture was sold off to pay Latham’s debts—

You said he was rich.

He was. But he went a little crazy in his old age and spent a lot of his money on weird stuff. Then the Crash happened in 1929, and he lost everything. He died here.

I turned to her, creeped out even though I wasn’t surprised. How?

Hung himself. They say it was from one of the balconies.

I shivered. Let’s not go there then.

Just come on.

We finally