The Haunting of Lockwood Estates | Nancy Drew x Supernatural Crossover 01

Prologue - Donovan Hughes

Lockwood Estates

Blackridge, New Hampshire

Saturday 8 March 2008

The green skies are lit only by stars, the moon hidden either by hills or clouds. The road to get back here was just as winding and out of the way as promised. Seems no one wanted to live nearby. From what little information I gleaned from my source, I can't say I blame them.

They should have called in a ghost hunter sooner than they did. Idiots.

I look out the driver window of my van. The icy gates of the property are locked tight by a thick chain, and a tacky "Danger: No Trespassing" sign has been screwed to the gate to keep out locals, as well as a few other signs declaring that the local sheriff's office has forbidden entry. Some of them are rusting and have obviously been here awhile, but there are a few that look so new they could have very well been posted today.

Foot firmly on the brake, I pull the letter from my pocket, the one bidding me to come, to make sure that I am at the correct place. Seems I am.

According to the letter, some stupid twenty-something-year-old went into the house a couple weeks back, and got himself killed by the "ghost" while doing some research--research that I am getting paid a small fortune to finish. While I feel sorry for the poor bastard, not everyone is cut out for, or prepared for, real-life ghost-hunting.

All I need to do here is spend the night, collect data, and get out. I've been paid much less to do far more. It's a good deal, what with the expenses going up.

Everyone in town seems to know the story of the Lockwood mansion. Haunted by hungry souls from centuries past, tormenting any living person who dares enter the grounds. According to the locals, all children in Blackridge learn to not dare set foot across the threshold of the Lockwood property, if they want to remain in the land of the living.

I am better than them. More alert, more prepared. Armed with professional, top-of-the-line ghost hunting equipment and even a glock, should the situation call for it. I will be the first person to spend the night in Lockwood mansion, and not drop dead from any "ghosts" that may or may not haunt the halls. I've been around the block. I know what to do.

I shift the gear into "park" on the side of the road next to the mansion, the van's chassis slightly tilted. The bright headlights show the snowy, hilly road ahead for miles, and reveal a thick wall covered in frozen ivy, which seems to surround the property.

Time to go.

After grabbing a few things, I slam the back door of my van shut, checking my backpack straps and equipment once more before going over to the gates barring me from direct entry to the Lockwood Estates. I trace my fingers across the intricate metalwork. Though slightly rusted and choked with vines, one can still see the Victorian-era beauty, the prestigiousness of a family all but forgotten.

After adjusting my headlamp, checking the camera clipped to my shirt pocket to make sure it's turned on, and making sure my backpack is secure, I take a running jump and vault over the fence, smirking all the while.

Rumors abound from those who claim they have spent the night... and lived. They tell tales of moving floors, changing rooms, and of course, the ghosts. As far as anyone can tell, none have actually spent the night as they claimed. No one has, since the property was officially abandoned over a decade ago.

Those who go on the property during the day, whether by accident or curiosity, always come back in shock, muttering about voices in the forest, an unshakable chill (even during the hot and sticky summer months), and an intense feeling of being watched. Eventually, the ghost hunters began to show up, but not even they spent the night. A TV special was made, although later the producers admitted wishing they had never stepped foot in that house, as what they had seen and felt still haunted their sleepless nights.

But still, they come. Most come and go without much incident, scaring themselves silly before moving on to their next haunt. Others... do not.

Because they are fools.

I dust my hands off as I approach the front door, carefully stepping around weed-choked asphalt from where some skeptic tried and failed to make the place habitable a few years back.

The house itself was a marvel in its time, but has long-since aged out of its prime. Three stories, not including the attic, with a wrap-around porch, and a separate shed. But the paint is peeling off, and most windows are cracked or shattered if they even remain. The roof is even caved in on one side. There is a thin blanket of fresh snow where the trees didn't block the house from the weather.

Cherry double doors, cracked and graying with decay, are all that stand between me and getting inside that house. So the rumors that the door had been padlocked, like the gate, were false. I pull the door open, wincing at the earsplitting creak.

The interior is just as horrendous as I had imagined. The pair of wooden staircases leading upwards matched the front door, and were carpeted with a dusty, worn carpet that has long-since been bleached of its color. Directly ahead, is a fireplace lined with dusty marble. The furniture placed around the room must have once been handsome, but now look like sad thrift-store rejects. A moldy, tasseled rug has thinned to the point where you can see the outlines of the wood floorboards beneath it.

I blow out a puff of air as I cross the threshold, my breath a plume of steam. It is much colder in here than outside. Like breathable ice. The floorboards creak beneath my feet. A trickle of unease fills my chest. You shouldn't be here, the voice in my head warns, conditioned from the warnings from town.

I shake off the feeling.

Above the fireplace is a very large, and very old painting of a man, covered in cobwebs and years of caked dust. It draws my attention because of its prominence in the room. Cocking my head, I move closer.

My headlamp flickers.

I need to replace the batteries, I think to myself, glad that I had the foresight to bring some extras, as well as an extra flashlight to work with. The fresh ones I put in right before I left must have been faulty.

Something creaks upstairs... no, skitters. The wind? Or mice perhaps. I take off my backpack, bending down to root through.

A light breeze seems to drift past me, as if someone is blowing on the back of my neck. I jerk around, only to see nothing. I stare for a couple more seconds, before slowly turning back to my bag.

It happens again, this time coming from my right, just as my hand finds the extra flashlight. I swing my arm out as I turn it on, just in case there is someone attempting to scare me.

Both my headlamp and flashlight flicker in unison. Something brushes against my leg. The floorboards creak behind me.

Shit.

I whirl around.

The lights go out.