How to Survive a Killer Seance (6 page)

Or get rid of the extra baggage.

“This is going to be so much fun!” my mother said from the tiny backseat. I was sure she wasn’t referring to the ride over to the Winchester Mystery House, located about forty to sixty minutes away—depending on traffic—in the nearby city of San Jose. But there was no way Brad could fit in the backseat, so my mother, being the good sport she is, climbed into the rear and curled up. She sat on the right side behind Brad, with her long legs extended into the area behind my seat. Her authentic designer bag filled the rest of the space, leaving barely enough room in the car for our three to-go coffees (mine a latte, Brad’s an espresso, and Mom’s a nonfat, decaf cap, extra dry, with whip).

As was her habit when we visited a place together, Mother lectured about the history of the site, filling in with exaggeration and rumor when the facts grew scarce. Although I’d been to the foreboding Winchester mansion when I was a Girl Scout, Brad had never toured the place and ate up the tidbits of information that Mother fed us on the ride over. For me, the details reminded me of how much the place still haunted me since that initial visit.

“You know, Bradley,” my mother said, tapping Brad on the shoulder to make sure he was listening, “the Winchester House is supposed to be haunted.”

“Oh yeah?” Brad said, tossing the words over his shoulder. “Do you believe in ghosts, Ms. Parker?” Although my mother has been married a number of times, she’s kept the last name of her first husband.

“Me? No. Not really. Well, sort of. You never know.”

Brad glanced at me and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me. No way am I superstitious,” I told him. I hoped I was convincing . . .

“Anyway,” Mother continued, “Sarah Winchester, the owner of the house, was told by a medium that she had to keep building the place to appease the spirits of Native Americans that had been killed by her husband’s rifles. So she did, for thirty-eight years.” If Brad had heard the stories, he didn’t let on, seemingly absorbed in my mother’s narration. “That must have cost a bundle,” he said.

“Back then, about five and a half million,” Mother stated. “Today it would be more like seventy million.”

Brad whistled.

“She did most of the architecture planning herself, using the backs of napkins and scratch paper. The house is Victorian in style, but she added a lot of things that make no sense, plus a lot of psychic symbols everywhere. Can you imagine?”

I marveled at my mother’s ability to recall so many specific details, when she had trouble remembering what she’d done the previous day or where she’d last put her purse. The more I learned about Alzheimer’s, the more puzzling it became.

Brad grinned. “Like what?”

“The number thirteen,” Mother said. “It was thought to ward off haunted souls.”

“A lot of people are superstitious about the number thirteen. But it sounds like she was more than a little ‘off,’ ” Brad said.

I saw Mother shake her head in the rearview mirror. “I think she was just overwhelmed by the deaths of her young daughter and then her husband. She went to the medium hoping to contact them, but the medium told her she was cursed, and that the spirits wanted vengeance—and a place to live. Sarah was told that if she kept building her house, she’d live forever.”

And keep the medium in plenty of money, I thought. “Apparently that wasn’t true,” I added, “since she eventually died.”

Ignoring me, my mother continued. “After all that construction, the house became a maze, with twists and turns, dead ends, and doors that lead nowhere. She figured the spirits would get lost in the house and never find her.”

I was stunned at the lengths Sarah Winchester went to, all based on something her so-called “medium” told her. I doubted if anyone would believe such nonsense today—although we had plenty of psychic hotlines and palm readers on every corner of the city. But back in her day, psychic readings, mediums, and séances were all the rage, and common parlor entertainment.

We arrived at our destination in time to have a quick bite of dinner at Santana Row, one of those live-where-you-work-and-shop neighborhoods kitty-corner to the mansion. Passing up high-end shops like Gucci, Salvatore Ferragamo, Anthropologie, and Tommy Bahama, we stopped in at Maggiano’s Little Italy and had pasta with a nice Chianti. As we headed to the Winchester Mystery House, I couldn’t help but notice the unlikely juxtaposition of a rambling old Victorian set in the midst of high-tech Silicon Valley. A sign claimed the house was OPEN EVERY DAY EXCEPT CHRISTMAS. Judging by the cars still in the parking lot, the place attracted large numbers of curious tourists from all over the world.

Brad and I got out of the MINI, and he popped the seat handle to free my mother from her tiny prison. She managed to step out gracefully. We all gazed up at the turreted Victorian house, lit up by old-fashioned gas-type lanterns and moonlight.

“There used to be seven stories,” Mother said, “but the 1906 earthquake knocked down three. Now there are only four.”

I searched for evidence of the lost floors of the Queen Anne Victorian, but even at four stories, the house was imposing because of its utter vastness, odd angles, and bizarre history. The turrets, towers, cupolas, cornices, and spires all added to the castlelike appearance.

“There are one hundred and sixty rooms, forty bedrooms, thirteen bathrooms,” Mother said. “Plus there are six kitchens, forty-seven fireplaces, seventeen chimneys, forty staircases, two ballrooms, and one séance room.”

Brad blinked at the numbers Mother had thrown at him. How did she retain all that minutiae with her disease?

I did remember that Sarah Winchester, for all her eccentricities, kept abreast of the “new technology” of the times. She had been one of the first to install a hydraulic elevator in her home, use steam and forced-air heating, and indoor plumbing, all rare at the time. She’d been ahead of her time in terms of science and industry, yet hampered by superstition.

I checked my watch and glanced around for Jonathan Ellington. I caught a glimpse of him striding over from his late-model Mercedes. He’d parked in a red zone near the front, apparently unconcerned about breaking the law or getting a ticket. For all I knew, he could be rich enough to buy the old mystery house and discard the ticket.

“Hi, Presley,” Jonathan said. “Ms. Parker, what a nice surprise!” He reached out to shake our hands. Brad had wandered off a few steps, but returned when he noticed Jonathan had joined us.

I spun around to introduce Brad. “Jonathan, this is my friend Brad Matthews. He . . . helps me with some of my events. I hope you don’t mind my bringing him and my mother along.” I decided not to mentioned that Brad had been at Hella-Graphics yesterday, cleaning up after one of his employees. Maybe Jonathan wouldn’t recognize him.

“Not at all,” Jonathan said, although his tiny frown said otherwise. “Nice to meet you.” He shook Brad’s hand, then stopped. “Have we met before?”

Brad said nothing, but pulled his hand out of Jonathan’s grip. I interrupted before things got uncomfortable. “I can’t wait to see the place again.”

Mother touched Jonathan’s arm. “How’s your father, Jonathan?” Her eyes pleaded for a positive response.

“He’s holding his own,” Jonathan said, placing a hand over hers. “Thanks for asking. As I told Presley, he’s lost use of his left side, but the doctors are optimistic. With physical therapy, medication, and perhaps a motorized wheelchair, Dad should be up and around and back at the care home soon.”

Mother let out a breath. “I’m so relieved.” The others probably didn’t notice, but Mother’s eyes had clouded with tears. She blinked them back as she turned away.

“Well,” Jonathan said, rubbing his hands together. “Shall we get started? The last tour ends at seven so we’ll have the place to ourselves. I’ve arranged for the manager, Mia Thiele, to give us a private tour. She’s excited about the prospect of a Séance Party here at the house.”

We followed Jonathan as he led the way, ducking under the low roofline that must have been just right for the diminutive Sarah Winchester. At four feet ten inches tall—I remembered that only because I was taller than she was by the time I was in junior high—she could apparently maneuver the narrow hallways, staircases, and doorways with ease, while Brad, Jonathan, and I, at five ten and over, would have to watch our heads at every entrance, elevation, and turn. Mother just had to watch her bouffant hair.

We entered the gift shop and Jonathan knocked on the door nearly invisible to shopping tourists. Without waiting for an invitation, he opened the door and led us inside. The tiny space was cluttered with a small desk and a table filled with a computer, printer, shredder, and other electronic equipment. They all seemed completely uncharacteristic for the setting. What had I expected? A butter churn and a printing press?

An attractive fortysomething woman with wavy shoulder-length auburn hair, manicured nails, and big green eyes looked up at us from the desk and gave a lip-glossed smile.

“Mr. Ellington, I présumé?” the woman said, rising to her feet. She was dressed in black slacks and a “Winchester Mystery House” T-shirt with the image of a skull superimposed on the outline of the house. She held out a hand.

Jonathan shook it firmly. “Ms. Thiele?” Was that a glint in his eye I saw as he looked the woman over?

“Please,” she said, smiling as she returned to her seat, her face flushed. “Call me Mia.” She tore her eyes from Jonathan and glanced at the rest of us.

Jonathan gestured a hand toward me. “This is Presley Parker, the premiere party planner I told you about.”

“Event planner,” I corrected, reaching for her extended hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“And this is Presley’s charming mother, Veronica Parker, a very close friend of my father’s.”

Mother nodded and blushed. She wasn’t much of a hand shaker.

When it became quickly evident that Jonathan didn’t plan to introduce Brad—perhaps he’d just forgotten his name?—I said, “This is my . . . coworker Brad Matthews. He’ll be helping me with the event.” I hoped that wouldn’t be as a crime scene cleaner.

Mia took his outstretched hand and held it—a little too long for my taste. There was an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes when she smiled at Brad, much like the one she’d given Jonathan. I made a mental note to stab her at the first opportunity.

What an interesting party this was turning out to be, full of intrigue and mystery, with a side of possible romance. And I hadn’t even sent out the invitations yet.

“So I understand you want to host a party here, with a séance theme—is that right?” She spoke mostly to Jonathan.

Jonathan took the reins. “Yes. It’s my father’s idea. He thought it would be a great way for me to showcase my newest product for investors. I’d like to get a ballpark figure for renting out the place and . . .”

My attention lagged at the financial details, and I quickly became distracted by some of the photos and news articles Mia Thiele had framed and displayed around her small office. There were enlarged but blurry black-and-white snapshots of the house from every angle, along with snapshots of the once-plentiful acreage where Sarah Winchester grew orchards of apricot and plum trees. Her property was apparently self-sustaining, and she’d harvested, canned, and sold her own fruit, even though she certainly didn’t need the money.

But my gaze caught on the large portrait of the woman herself, hanging behind Mia’s chair. Petite, dressed in a long full skirt, hat, veil, and gloves, she sat in a carriage, almost oblivious to the camera. With her small closely set eyes and pale white skin, she looked as frail as a child. Mia caught me staring at the portrait.

“That’s the only known photo ever taken of Sarah Winchester after she moved out West. She had a fear of having her picture taken and wore a veil to keep prying eyes away.”

I nodded at another one of Sarah Winchester’s eccentricities.

“So, what’s it cost to clean this place?” Brad asked out of the blue.

Everyone stared at him, surprised at the question, but Mia took it in stride, and brightened her smile as she replied. “Plenty. We have a full-time cleaning staff that dusts, sweeps, cleans fingerprints, and so on. And we have the place repainted throughout the year. It takes roughly twenty thousand gallons of paint, working every day for a year, to finish the house. By then, it’s time to start over.”

“Whoa,” Brad said, under his breath.

“What about the number thirteen?” my mother asked. She’d been standing quietly listening until now, but apparently felt the meeting had opened up to random questions. “I hear it’s everywhere throughout the house.”

Jonathan sighed and I sensed he was becoming irritated at going off topic.

“That’s true,” Mia said patiently. Obviously she’d heard all these questions before, but she seemed to enjoy sharing the quirky details of Sarah Winchester’s house. “You’ll find the number thirteen throughout the house, along with spiderweb motifs. These symbols were especially important to Mrs. Winchester—she thought they would protect her from the unhappy spirits. The chandelier holds thirteen candles, the hooks on the walls are in groups of thirteen, and the spiderweb-patterned stained-glass windows have thirteen stones. There’s even a topiary tree in the garden shaped like the number thirteen.”

Mother’s eyes widened. She loved this kind of folklore.

“Shall we begin the tour?” Jonathan asked, obviously anxious to get started. No wonder he was CEO of his own company, with leadership skills like this.

“Right this way,” Mia said mostly to Jonathan. She squeezed past us, and we followed her, one by one, out the door toward the inner sanctum of the so-called haunted house. Just after I exited the room, I heard a loud thump, followed by a whispered curse, coming from behind me. I whirled around to see Brad rubbing a red spot on his forehead.

“You all right?” I asked, grimacing in sympathy.