From late June through mid-July of 1916, several days and several blocks apart, three local families awakened to find the corpse of a young female stranger tucked into a spare bed under their roof.
The girls’ throats had been neatly slit ear to ear. The investigation determined that they hadn’t died where they lay, nor in the immediate vicinity. No, they had been transported to the houses by someone who was never caught, someone whose motive remains utterly inexplicable to this day.
Ghastly death portraits were printed in newspapers across the country in the futile hope that someone might recognize a sister, daughter, niece. In the end, their unidentified remains were buried in the graveyard behind Holy Angels Catholic Church in The Heights.
The residents of the Murder Houses lived out their lives without further incident, most right here in Mundy’s Landing, and some, like Augusta Purcell, in the very homes where the terrible events had transpired.
Is Annabelle really willing to move into a Murder House?
A year ago, she’d have said no way.
This morning, when she and Trib and their son Oliver were crashing into porcelain fixtures and each other in their tiny bathroom, she’d have said yes, absolutely.
Now, staring up at the lofty bracketed eaves, ornately carved balustrades, and curve-topped couplets of tall, narrow windows, all framed against a blood red foliage canopy and an oppressive sky . . .
I don’t know. I just don’t know.
A brisk wind stirs overhead boughs. They creak and groan, as does the gate when Lynda pushes it open. The sound is straight out of a horror movie. A chill slips down Annabelle’s spine, and she shoves her hands deep into the pockets of her corduroy barn coat.
The brick walkway between the gate and the house is strewn with damp fallen leaves. For all she knows, someone raked just yesterday. It is that time of year, and an overnight storm brought down a fresh barrage of past-peak foliage.
Yet the grounds exude the same forlorn, abandoned atmosphere as the house itself. It’s the only one on the block that lacks pumpkins on the porch steps and political signs posted in the yard.
Election day looms, with a heated mayoral race that reflects the pervasive Insider versus Outsider mentality. Most residents of The Heights visibly support the incumbent John Elsworth Ransom, whose roots extend to the first settlers of Mundy’s Landing. Support for his opponent, a real estate developer named Dean Cochran, is stronger on the other side of town, particularly in Mundy Estates, the upscale townhouse complex he built and now calls home.
A Ransom for Mayor poster isn’t all that’s conspicuously missing from the leaf-blanketed yard. There’s no For Sale sign, either.
Noting its absence, Trib asks Lynda—not entirely tongue-in-cheek—if she’s sure it’s on the market.
“Oh, it is. But Lester prefers to avoid actively soliciting the ‘ghouls’—not the Halloween kind, if you know what I mean.”
They do. Plenty of locals use that word to describe the tourists who descend upon the town every summer in an effort to solve the cold case.
Trib turns to Annabelle. “That’s something we’d have to deal with if we bought this place.”
“You’re right. We’d be inundated with curiosity seekers. I don’t think I want to—”
“Just in the summer, though,” Lynda cuts in quickly, “and even then, it’s not a big deal.”
Trib raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t say that Mundy-palooza isn’t a ‘big deal.’ Especially this coming year.”
Mundypalooza is the colloquial name for Ora’s annual Historical Society Fundraiser, which has taken place ever since 1991. That’s when, in conjunction with the seventy-fifth anniversary of the cold case, Ora extended a public invitation: Can You Solve the Sleeping Beauty Murders?