A House of Ruin Read online

  A

  HOUSE

  OF

  RUIN

  A

  HOUSE

  OF

  RUIN

  The Story Behind the Execution Estate

  A Slow Ruin Companion Story

  PAMELA CRANE

  Tabella House

  Raleigh, North Carolina

  Copyright © 2022 by Pamela Crane

  Tabella House

  Raleigh, NC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  www.pamelacrane.com

  Editing by Proofed to Perfection Editing Services

  www.proofedtoperfection.com

  eBook: 978-1-940662-268

  Print: 978-1-940662-275

  Thank you for supporting authors and literacy by downloading this book. Want to add more gripping reads to your library? As the author of more than a dozen award-winning and bestselling thrillers, you can find all of Pamela Crane’s works on her website at http://www.pamelacrane.com/.

  To my fans who have supported me in ways I will never forget. This was written especially for you.

  Author’s Note

  The Story Behind the Story

  If you’ve read A Slow Ruin (it’s the book with my daughter’s picture on the cover—go grab a copy if you haven’t yet!), you’re familiar with the Portman family who live in a gorgeous Victorian mansion nestled in Oakmont, Pennsylvania (loosely based on a real house that I had the joy of researching). What’s better than a stately old mansion? A mansion steeped in murder and mystery! Thus, the Execution Estate was born.

  In A Slow Ruin, the book mentions a 1982 murder that happened in the library—perpetrated by Professor Plum with the candlestick…kidding! It’s not that story, rather it’s one where a family of five was brutally murdered one bitter November night. The massacre was so horrific that the home was forever branded the “Execution Estate,” for something about that house destroyed everyone who lived there, from the family that first occupied it to the last. Some say it was coincidence. Others say it was a curse.

  Well, that 1982 murder was never solved (I can only blame myself as the writer). But now you’re about to uncover what happened on that fateful night all those years ago that left a family of five slayed in their library (because...where else?). Was it with the candlestick? At the hands of a brooding butler? Without giving away the killer or the weapon just yet, all I can tell you is that it was a murder that left investigators stumped as the case grew colder and colder every year (cue suspenseful music: dun dun duuuun).

  Why did I feel the need to tell this story? It was a loose thread I had intended to leave in A Slow Ruin because it was a mystery I myself wanted to unravel separately. A family slayed. Six suspects who worked in the house. Each with a dark past and a motive to kill.

  Meet Derl Newman, the creaky-boned estate manager who found the victims. He’s still alive, and he hasn’t been able to forget the night he found the Eyler family not just shot dead, but mutilated. Despite the wealth of information he provided to the police during the initial investigation, they couldn’t pin the murder on any of the house staff. They all had motive. They all had alibis. And what a motley crew they are! But Derl’s back, and he’s telling the world his story this time.

  In the upcoming chapters you’ll meet a cast inspired by various thriller book and movie characters that I have enjoyed getting to know over the years. Think you can figure some of them out? I dare you to try. Plus, you’ll get acquainted with an odd family harboring a lot of sins and secrets.

  If you enjoy a fun little whodunit, I hope you’ll give this one a shot! (No pun intended…or is there? Mwah ha ha!)

  The Times Tabloid

  Cat Eats Evidence in Homicidal Catastrophe

  Monday, November 30, 1982

  The cat’s out of the bag as a grisly turn of events last week goes public. A murder mystery at a sprawling Oakmont mansion has left police completely baffled.

  The famed Eyler family, murdered in their library, was left eyeless in one of the most inexplicable murders of our time. The victims included star sci-fi literary agent Tony Eyler, his philanthropist wife Duchess Jill Eyler, and their three unremarkable children.

  After being shot, they were subsequently mutilated as an eye was removed from each victim and a book placed on each of their faces. As of yet, police don’t yet have a suspect to throw the book at. Though the butler, with the revolver, are at the top of the list.

  As if that wasn’t enough, the cat took a turn with the victims, eating bits and pieces of them. Investigators are hoping the feline will cough up a hairball that could contain hair samples from the killer.

  Investigators have yet to see eye to eye on possible suspects in this eye-plucking murder. This slaying will certainly go down in the books…though not the sci-fi genre Tony is famous for.

  Prologue

  The Night the Estate Was Branded

  November 26, 1982

  It was a weekly tradition, the family nestled in a semicircle around the library’s hearth while the father read aloud, a tradition that would end in their deaths. While the steady beat of Tony Eyler’s words drummed against the massive space, warmed by a crackling fire, the children were too enthralled to hear the approaching footsteps outside the door.

  The mother was too preoccupied with a tricky crochet stitch to notice the creak of hinges opening.

  The father was too focused on the story he was reading to feel the presence of an uninvited guest.

  The cat was too disinterested to care about the figure unlocking the glass case that secured the 9mm pistol.

  The house was too secluded for the neighbors to detect the gunshots that pierced the silent night.

  Only the slightest creak from a loose floorboard alerted Tony Eyler that someone else was in the library. Glancing up, his gaze locked on his assailant, then slowly navigated down to the gun in hand. A gasp escaped his mouth as realization hit him…along with the first bullet.

  The projectile zipped across the room, instantly embedding itself in Tony’s chest. The book he was holding smacked to the floor; his body slumped in the plush armchair now soaked in his blood.

  The unwavering hand that held the gun next aimed for the mother. While Jill scrambled to collect her children to safety, their screams joined in the thunder of a second bullet splitting her chest open. She dropped instantly to the hardwood, her last moments a whispered plea for the killer to spare her children.

  The last three shots were met with tears and begging as one, two, three children were sent to untimely graves. First Charlotte, the oldest, futilely blocking her siblings with outstretched arms. When her body fell with a dull thump, her brother Dustin sobbed behind her, hugging his remaining sister as the next bullet came for him. Last was the youngest, Jennifer, whimpering, tears wetting her cheeks. The shooter hesitated with this one, as if humanity had surfaced for only a moment before cold-blooded hatred prevailed. Then the final gunshot rang out…

  If only it had ended there.

  But it was just the beginning. For the killer wasn’t content to simply end the Eyler bloodline; each member of the family must suffer one final humiliation.

  Dragging the bodies across the floor, a smeared bloody trail in each body’s wake, the killer formed the family into a pentagram shape connected by
their feet. Once done, the killer plucked the right eyeball from each of the victims using a small knife. It was a gruesome task, but necessary.

  An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. It was the price for cruelty. As the Eyler family had taken much, so much would be taken from them. They had been blind to all the pain they had caused to those around them, thus it felt a fitting gesture.

  The killer assessed his handiwork, but it wasn’t yet complete. One final stroke was needed to paint the perfect picture. Lastly, and most importantly, were the books. First the one Tony had been reading from, a first edition of The Hobbit, his most prized possession, was gently splayed open across his mutilated face. The other literary selections were plucked from the vast floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, handpicked for the mother and three children, a title resting open across each horrified one-eyed expression.

  Soon the police would arrive on the scene, and investigators would gasp in horror, covering their noses from the putrid reek of decay. Tony Eyler would no longer be remembered for the famous authors he represented, nor Jill for her literary nonprofits she organized, nor the children for simply owning the Eyler name. Today they would go down in infamy as the family brutally murdered in their pretentious mansion, and perhaps, if fate decreed, all their sins would be exposed.

  The killer had planned every gory detail, creating a scene so dreadful it was guaranteed the dominate the news. A scene too terrible to ever forget. Too graphic to miss the message. Today this house, celebrated for its dollhouse-like architecture, had been home to the insufferably arrogant Eyler family. Tomorrow it would be branded the Execution Estate, a house of horror.

  As the killer stood at the fireplace hearth examining the scene, both proud and distraught by his creation, the intended message seeped out from the blood on the floor, the books covering their faces, the holes in their hearts:

  Time does not heal all wounds.

  Chapter 1

  The Interview

  Now

  I waited at the library door, a room that could have been magical, if not for the horror that stained the floorboards. As the hinges squeaked, begging for lubricant, I felt the past in this room rise from its grave. A shiver shook my old bones. Not from the bitter autumn chill that seeped through the walls and single-pane glass window overlooking the estate’s hibernating grounds, but from the presence of an evil that still lingered here. Even forty years after the murder, I felt it pulsing. Reaching for me. This house would never let me forget.

  Trust me, I had tried.

  The image crept up on me. Crowded my vision. Five bodies—father, mother, two daughters, and son—like points of a dying star. Bloody blossoms on their clothes, sticky residue across the floor. Faces covered with open books…and rightly so, because what was hidden beneath was too gruesome to put on display.

  Help me, a whisper caught on the stale air.

  No one was here but me.

  Help me, I heard again.

  No one but me and apparently their lost souls.

  “I…I don’t know how,” I whispered back. My voice cracked with the dry sound of someone who hadn’t spoken in decades.

  Help me, more urgent this time.

  “Please tell me how,” I begged. Tears dripped down my cheek in memory of this family I had once cared for. Forty years ago I had the misfortune of finding their bodies; forty years later I still couldn’t expunge the ghastly scene from my memory.

  Two stories down, I heard a car door slam shut, delivering me from the recurring daymare. I mumbled gratitude for the small mercy. She was here. It was time.

  Famed documentarian Keisha Fenty had agreed to meet me in the Oakmont, Pennsylvania, mansion called the Execution Estate, thus christened after the brutal killing of the Eyler family that had lived here. Over the years the dwelling had attained a regrettable notoriety, sought after by haunted house enthusiasts and horror-loving looky-loos. Eventually another family, the Portmans, found the courage to overlook its scandalous past and build a life here. I couldn’t help but wonder how long the Portmans would survive before the house destroyed them too. As for me, I preferred to stay as far away from it as possible. Unfortunately, my resolve was not as strong as the house’s unsavory allure.

  After a random letter showed up in my mailbox weeks ago, it took me days to reply. Though my mind often faded these days, the words of the handwritten note stuck in my brain:

  Dear Mr. Newman:

  It took me a while to track you down and find your mailing address, so I hope this reaches you. I understand you were the estate manager for the Eyler family in 1982, and the one who found their bodies. I’ve been in touch with the lead investigator on the case, and I was wondering if I might interview you for an unsolved mysteries documentary I’m producing about the Eylers’ murder. While I understand you might be reluctant to revisit this tragedy, I hope you’ll consider this an opportunity to provide closure for you and the family.

  My contact information is below, if you’d allow me to speak with you in person.

  Thank you for your time,

  Keisha Fenty

  The sender was kind, courteous, professional. Reminiscent of how the police investigators had treated me while I was still in shock after discovering five dead bodies in this very spot where I stood.

  I glanced down at my classic black pinch penny loafers—some fashions never go out of style—unaware I had somehow drifted to where the blood still stained the floor. Without my knowing, the Eyler family ghosts pulled me here, their siren call drawing me closer. I shuffled back to the doorway to safety, my joints groaning like the ancient floorboards, as a sudden fear swept over me.

  Clearly Ms. Fenty didn’t understand much about what I had endured. Or what I continued to endure. I was terrified, only wanting to forget. Every arthritic bone in my body warned me to turn down her request. But she offered one thing that time and therapy could not: justice.

  During the initial investigation I had voiced my suspicions of who had done it and why. The Eyler estate was teeming with suspects—a bitter butler with an ax to grind, the cagy chef who loathed his job, the gardener with a grudge, the maid hiding her fair share of mischief. Even the mailman had a motive.

  I had explained all this to the lead detective, who professed to find my insights invaluable. But without sufficient evidence, and investigative techniques in the 1980s being primitive by today’s standards, no immediate arrest was made. I’m afraid I made a pest of myself, over the ensuing months and years, by contacting the detective upon my recollection of the slightest minutiae. As the murders eventually became just another cold case, my voice dwindled to silence. Now was my chance to address the public on a much larger platform.

  Agreeing to the interview certainly was a risk, regurgitating the most traumatic memory of my life in front of a camera. And in the very place that birthed my nightmares. But in a way, I’d been preparing for this moment ever since that night. I yearned to end the nightmare as much as the nightmare yearned to end me.

  What else could I add that I hadn’t already told police? That the aftermath of Friday, November 26, 1982, would forever traumatize me? That I would never again be able to hold a full-time job? That I battled recurring hallucinations of the bodies rising up from their graves, seeking vengeance? After all, the killer had never been found, and had never killed again…as far as the police knew.

  Keisha had no idea what she was in for, not really. How could she? After all, she wasn’t the one who had walked into this very library on a cold November day to find a husband, wife, and their three children, bellies stuffed from the previous night’s Thanksgiving dinner, shot execution style, a book splayed on each of their faces, covering the missing eye that had been ruthlessly gouged out by their killer. It was my curse that the shadow of that grotesque scene should fall upon me all these decades later.

  Although every member of the house staff was questioned, every lead tracked down, the police had come up emptyhanded, with neith
er a motive identified nor or a shred of convicting evidence found. Well, until now, that is.

  Which was why I was here, standing at the threshold where my trauma originated and still resided, waiting to share once again what I knew, and how I had come to discover who killed the Eyler family and why.

  I’m no Remington Steele, the lead detective had tactfully informed me way back when—although I appreciated the comparison to the debonair TV detective. But as the years passed and I watched the staff of the Execution Estate go on with their lives—and deaths—while I remained stuck in my living nightmare, eventually the answer would reveal itself to me.

  Answers were buried in the little things. A comment that didn’t quite fit, like a misshapen puzzle piece. Or a behavior that seemed off. Separately they were idiosyncrasies, but together they were clues. Clues that eventually led me to the aha moment of discovering the killer.

  Who killed the Eyler family in their mansion’s library that fateful night, you ask?

  It’s not so simple as a name. First you must understand the graphic details surrounding one of the most horrifying murders of the twentieth century in their full context. And then you must explore the history of the individuals who had something to gain—or something to lose—from the Eyler family’s demise.

  Downstairs the heavy oak front door slammed shut. I heard the tap of footsteps across the hardwood entryway, then the treads creaking as Miss Fenty climbed the first flight of stairs. She paused on the landing—probably to take in the impressive stained-glass window depicting the Victorian couple that built this monstrosity of a home. Up the next flight the footsteps resumed until they paused somewhere behind me in the shadows of the hallway.