The House on Spooner Avenue

Joe’s phone beeped an alert. He was using it to record a video of his client’s husband sharing a very intimate coffee with his girlfriend, so he ignored the incoming message until he’d recorded their good-bye kiss, then checked his messages. There was one, from an Unknown Caller: Your package is ready for pickup at the Post Office rm 312 any time before 2:30 PM. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands as he re-read the message – what would they have to face this time?

The rest of the team arrived at the Post Office at the same time, and they all filed into room 312. It was an empty conference room with a chipped Formica table and army-green metal chairs. Agent Eduardo, one of their usual handlers, was already waiting with a thin manila envelope in front of him, along with a metal ashtray that already held two cigarette butts.

“This is an odd one, and I don’t have much information,” he said without any pleasantries, lighting another cigarette. “FBI Special Agent Arthur Donnelly worked bank robberies and financial crimes for the FBI, out of their Trenton office, but he was also a veteran Delta Green agent. Two weeks ago, he told his ASAIC he needed to take some personal time. No explanation. A week later, his ex-wife called the Trenton FBI office and reported him missing – their son was sick and she’d been trying to call him for over a week with no answer. The FBI sent two agents to check his apartment. It was empty, but Donnelly’s cellphone, service weapon, and badge were there. They started working with the cell provider to track his GPS movements. The phone had been in the apartment for a week, but in the weeks prior they showed numerous visits to an address in Meadowbrook, NJ: 1206 Spooner Ave. The last visit was the day he requested leave. The address wasn’t associated with any case Donnelly was working.

“The next day, the agents drove to Meadowbrook to check out the Spooner Avenue house. They found the house vacant and the front door unlocked, and entered. Inside, they found Donnelly’s body in the master bedroom. His throat had been cut cleanly, as if by a straight razor, and his blood drenched the walls – one agent said it looked like ‘someone had set off a bomb full of blood’. The FBI agents notified local police, who called the county coroner.

“Now this is where it starts getting weird. The coroner ruled the death a suicide, even though no suicide weapon was found in the house. What’s more, Donnelly’s death was almost an exact copy of the previous owner’s suicide – a Yamilla Isari, whose body was found under precisely the same circumstances sixteen months before.

“When the FBI talked to Donnelly’s ex, she told them Donnelly had grown up in Meadowbrook, although his family moved away when he was in high school. And she said that ten years ago, Donnelly had briefly become obsessed with buying the house at 1206 Spooner Ave., but the owner at the time wouldn’t sell. About that same time, Donnelly sent word up the chain in Delta Green, saying he suspected Unnatural activity associated with 1206 Spooner Ave., but apparently his suspicions never resulted in any action.

“Right now, the FBI is happy to just sweep Donnelly’s death under the rug. His co-workers and ex-wife all agree that Donnelly had a reputation for being obsessive, depressive, and often overwhelmed by stress. As fellow Delta Green agents, I’m sure you can relate. His web browser history dovetailed with his recent movements – lots of queries about 1206 Spooner Ave. and its former residents. The FBI story is that the house must have had some childhood significance to him, that he went there, suffered an overwhelming emotional crisis, and killed himself. They’re happy to keep things quiet, avoid the embarrassment of an unhinged agent.

“We in Delta Green owe it to Agent Donnelly to finally pay attention to his concerns. We don’t have any idea what they might have been, but we need to find out. We need you to go to New Jersey and check out this house: its background, history, previous owners, county records, neighborhood rumors – anything you can find. You need to keep a low profile – no reason to stir the pot with an ‘official investigation’, but feel free to use your FBI credentials discretely. Local police and the county coroner could have useful background – your FBI connections could be helpful here if you’re not overbearing about it.” He gave Jamal a not-so-subtle look as he said that. “But make sure the Bureau doesn’t get wind of what you’re doing – they’ll be quick to come down hard on any unauthorized investigation.

“There are a couple of local assets who could possibly prove helpful. They’re both Friendlies who have worked with us in the past, but only in a peripheral way. One is Elizabeth Tucker, an antiques dealer who lives in Meadowbrook. She might be able to help with some of the local lore. The other is Emil Yarrow. He’s a professor of abnormal psychology at Fulton College, a couple of towns away, but he’s also fairly knowledgeable in the occult and may be able to provide some advice there if you need it.

“When our people went through Donnelly’s cellphone contacts, we spotted something that didn’t mean anything to the FBI: an entry for ‘GB2230’ with an address in Meadowbrook. That’s the designation for an old Green Box that had slipped off our radar back in the 80’s. No idea how Donnelly knew about it, but he obviously did, and we need to know if he kept anything there. It’s a storage unit at the Meadowbrook Store-It, at 819 Dewlark Lane. Don’t know which unit, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Eduardo ground out another cigarette, his third since he’d started talking. “We need you to find out why Agent Donnelly died – suicide, murder, or something else. And we need to know if the house at 1206 Spooner Ave. or anyone associated with it represents an ongoing Unnatural threat. When you have those answers, call me for further instructions.” He slid a beat-up flip-phone across the table. “My burner number’s in there, along with the numbers for Tucker and Yarrow.”

The group split up to return to their apartments and gather their gear, then met up and piled into Joe’s Town Car. It was already rush hour, and the trip to New Jersey took almost three hours. Meadowbrook was in south-central Jersey, roughly equidistant between Trenton and Philly. As they drove, Thomas was working his laptop. “According to Zillow, the house is for sale,” he said as he typed. “Current owner is an Abdullah Isari, but he lives in San Jose, California. I’ll call the real estate agent in the morning, set up a tour. Here’s a picture.” He passed around his laptop, screen showing a Google Street View of the home. It was a modest single-story brick home, with a gable window in the front. A garage on the side looked newer than the rest of the house, and looked to have a small room above it. Nothing about the house’s appearance raised any red flags.

“Isari,” Joe muttered, “wasn’t that the name of the previous owner, the one who died like Donnelly?”

“Yamilla Isari,” Jamal nodded, confirming Joes recollection. “Maybe Abdullah is her husband. We can ask the realtor.”

By the time they reached the exit to take them to Meadowbrook, it was almost 9 PM. They checked into a motel just off the Turnpike and turned in for the night. The next morning, Joe started off with a call to the realtor whose name was on the listing. A stereotypically chipper female voice answered. “Mary Freemon, West River Realty – how may I help you?”

“Hi Mary,” Joe answered, “Larry Jackson here. I’m looking for a small place in your area, and one of your listings caught my eye. It’s 1206 Spooner Ave. I was hoping I could get you to walk me through the house.”

There was a short silence on the other end of the phone line. “That’s a lovely property,” Mary answered at last, “but it’s currently not available to show. It’s still on the market, and I’m sure that in a couple of weeks I’ll be able to take you through it, but right now it’s, um, undergoing some renovations that prevent us from taking any buyers through it. We do have some other lovely homes in the area, though, and I'd be happy to show them to you.” She spent the next several minutes trying in vain to schedule showings for ‘Larry’.

“I can’t find anything on this Elizabeth Tucker,” Thomas said as Joe finally managed to get off the line with the realtor. “All we’ve got is a cell phone number, but I’m not finding any antique stores in this area that have her name associated with them.” Tucker was the local ‘Friendly’ that Eduardo had pointed them to.

“Let me give her a call,” Garrett said, and minutes later a woman’s voice answered his call. “Hello,” she said simply.

“Uh, hi. My name’s Joe Jackson, and I got this number from a friend. I’m looking for some antiques to furnish a new house, and I wanted to come by your shop, but I’m afraid all I’ve got is this number.”

The woman on the other end laughed. “Don’t feel bad,” she said. “I don’t actually have a shop. We’re not an actual antiques dealer per se. We’re an online service that specializes in locating very specific items: tracking down old family heirlooms that have passed out of the family, finding matches for partial sets, locating very specific items, that sort of thing. www.antiquetracker.com – that’s us.” Garrett thanked her, hung up, and told the others what he’d learned. “I guess if we want info, we’ll just have to set up a meet.”

“Let’s check out this Green Box,” Jamal suggested. He was remembering ‘Betty’, the Green Box they’d found in Long Island and its bizarre contents. “We should see if Donnelly had anything interesting in there. The others agreed, and half an hour later they pulled up in front of Meadowbrook Store-It. The storage lot looked to have 50 or so metal storage sheds arranged in several rows, all surrounded by a 12-foot fence topped with razor wire. A trailer stood at the entrance, serving as an office. Joe parked the Town Car in front of the trailer and Jamal took the manila folder with Donnelly’s photo and bio in it. “You guys wait here – I’ll go inside and sort this out.” He was out of the car before anyone could speak. “Did we really just let him go in there alone?” Garrett asked, and the others slowly nodded. Joe left the car running, ready for a quick get-away.

Inside, a skinny kid with a greasy pony tail sat behind the counter. “Can I help you?” he asked, not looking up from his phone.

Jamal held his FBI badge in front of the phone’s screen. “I’d like to talk to your manager,” he said. That got the kid’s attention, and he moved to a closed door and knocked loudly. “Mr. Sertello – somebody needs to talk to you.”

The door opened and a pot-bellied man with a thick black mustache and an impressive comb-over emerged. Jamal flashed his badge again. “I’d like a word in private, if we could.” Sertello ushered him back into the office and closed the door.

“I have some questions about one of your customers,” Jamal said, and slid Donnelly’s photo out of the folder. “Do you recognize this man?”

Sertello scowled. “I sure as hell do. That deadbeat owes me money. He’s nine months behind on his unit’s rent – 1200 bucks. You find him, you let me know where he’s at and I’ll come collect personally.”

“I’m afraid you won’t be getting your money from him,” Jamal replied. “He’s dead. I’d appreciate it if you could let me into his unit.”

Sertello’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing. “Well now. I’d be happy to let you into his unit. Just show me a warrant. See, these units are my property – customers just rent them. As long as they pay their rent, everything’s copacetic. But if they don’t pay for twelve months, everything inside their unit also becomes my property.”

Sertello’s mustache lifted in a slight smile. “Now if someone was to bring the rent on the unit up to date, they’d become the new owner. Be able to come and go as they please, full access to anything inside. Just pay $1200 and it’s all good.”

“How about I pay you one month’s rent for one visit?” Jamal offered, but Sertello shook his head. “That’s not how it works. No one gets in unless they’re the unit’s owner, and that means payment in full.”

Jamal fingered his badge, considering just how hard he could push Sertello. But the man’s cocky grin told him this was a guy who had experience being on the other side of a badge and that he would be hard to intimidate. “Do you take credit cards?” Jamal grumbled.

While the kid at the front desk filled out the paperwork to transfer ownership, Jamal asked a few more questions. “How often did Donnelly visit the unit in the last six months?” Sertello tapped on his keyboard for a bit, checking for when Donnelly’s passcode had opened the front gate. “Last time was 10 days ago.” That would have been right before he was killed. “He was here three more times over previous two weeks. Then nothing before that, at least this year.”

“How long did Donnelly own the unit?” More tapping. “About five years.” Sertello anticipated the next question. “Owner before that was an ‘Adam Smith’.” Jamal almost chuckled – if this was a Delta Green Green Box, the odds of that name being real were zero.

Jamal bought a new padlock from the kid at the counter, and Sertello generously rented him a pair of bolt cutters for a mere $20 (cash, into his pocket). Joe was leaning against the hood of the Town Car when he emerged. “You know I’ve got bolt cutters in the trunk,” he said helpfully. Jamal just scowled.

They drove to the back of the storage lot, to unit #42, Donnelly’s mysterious Green Box. Jamal snapped off the old padlock and they rolled the door open. As their eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, everyone caught their breath, and Joe instinctively drew his gun. There was quite a bit of junk inside the unit, but one object drew their attention: a child-sized, four-foot long wooden coffin, dirt still clinging to its sides. When nothing burst out of the coffin, they cautiously approached. It was clearly old, the wood on the sides starting to split and collapse. The lid was closed, but the bolts that had held it shut were missing. A tarnished brass plaque was set in the lid, and Garrett leaned cautiously forward to read it: ‘ANTON TURÉ, 1958–1967’.

“Who the hell is Anton Turé?” Thomas asked, but no one had any ideas.

“Whoever he was, he only eight or nine years old,” Jamal said, doing the math. “What the hell did Donnelly want with his coffin?”

“And what’s inside it?” Garrett asked. No one was in a hurry to find out, so they began examining the rest of the unit’s contents. A pair of brand new shovels leaned against one wall, dirt clinging to their blades, and next to them were some work gloves and a headlamp; perhaps Donnelly had done some late-night grave robbing. A well-worn sofa bed sat against one wall, in front of a pair of twin mattresses, still wrapped in plastic. Stacked beside it were fourteen quart sized gasoline containers and a pair of gallon gas cans, all empty and new smelling. On the other wall were two bags of quik-lime, a pair of brand-new shotguns with their serial numbers filed off, and twenty boxes of 12-guage shotgun shells. Beside them was an antique table. A Nikon camera with telephoto lens sat in the center of it, beside a bowl containing the remains of a couple of dozen burned photographs. Next to them were three newly-minted keys, taped together on a piece of cardboard, a small stack of handwritten papers, and several ID cards. The papers were held in place by a metal lockbox.

The group began going through everything. “These look like they might have been pictures of a house,” Garrett said, sifting through the ashes of the photographs. “The Spooner Avenue house?” Thomas asked, but Garrett just shrugged. “Maybe. Hard to say. They’re mostly destroyed.” Thomas checked the camera, but the memory card had been removed, so there was no record of what it might have been used to photograph.

“These are all for Donnelly,” Joe said, sorting through the fake IDs. Most were driver’s licenses from various states in a variety of names, but one was for a Meadowbrook gas inspector and another showed him as an assistant county coroner. Maybe Donnelly hadn’t had to resort to grave robbing to get the coffin.

Jamal picked up the lockbox to get to the papers beneath it; something heavy rattled around inside, but he ignored it for now. The papers were handwritten, and had been torn from a notebook. They all seemed to have been written by Donnelly. At first, they were simple surveillance notes, recording Donnelly observing the house on Spooner Ave. and its residents over a period of about eight years. Over time, the notes became more rambling, more obsessive. When Yamilla Isari showed interest in buying the house, Donnelly approached her directly, trying to dissuade her, without success. Donnelly’s notes recorded that Isari eventually isolated herself in the house, and his surveillance stepped up after that. By the last page, the notes had degenerated into a disjointed, almost incoherent string of statements and questions. Jamal shook his head as he read; Donnelly was clearly losing his mind.

They passed around the notes, trying to make some sense out of them. “So it looks like Donnelly though the Turé kid was a ghost – that must be why he dug him up,” Garrett said, studying the last page. “But who are these other names? Falcone? Wheeler? Why did he care about Wheeler’s furniture? Who are the ‘survivors’ he’s talking about?”

“By the end, he thought he was talking to something in the house, and that it was talking back,” Jamal said, looking over his shoulder. “Was he just crazy, or …?”

In the end, they had more questions than answers. They pocketed Donnelly’s notes, and Joe turned his attention to the lockbox. He pulled a folding knife out of his pocket and easily popped the lid. Inside was a palm-sized stone tablet with a symbol like a four-armed humanoid carved into it. The edges of the stone and the carving itself were heavily worn, and appeared to be very old.

“What do you think this is?” Jamal asked, turning the tablet over in his hands.

“Put. That. Down.” Joe whispered. He’d taken an involuntary step back as he’d seen the tablet and its strange carving. Jamal saw his expression, and dropped the stone as if it were hot. “What is it?” he asked.

Joe took a moment to gather himself. “I’m not certain – I’ve never actually seen one before. But I think that’s an Elder Sign.”

“A what?” Thomas asked.

“An Elder Sign.” Joe was still whispering. “They’re emblems with power over the greater forces of the Unknown. Sigils that offer protection against the things that are trying to get into our world. Or maybe that show allegiance to them. There are conflicting stories. But if that is what this is, it’s got power that we don’t understand.” Jamal picked the tablet up with two fingers and carefully laid it back in the lockbox, regretting that Joe had broken its lock.

There was only one more item to examine: the coffin. Thomas pumped six shells into one of the shotguns while the others drew their pistols. Joe used one of the shovels to carefully slide the lid off the coffin; it toppled to the floor, the rotted wood splintering as it landed. Inside, was a small, barely recognizable skeleton, already crumbling to dust. Scraps of black cloth were all that remained of the child’s funeral suit. The party slowly exhaled as nothing rose up out of the coffin to assault them, and quickly confirmed that the crumbling corpse was the only thing inside the coffin.

“Who was Anton Turé, and why did Donnelly go to all the trouble to dig him up?” Jamal asked. Hearing nothing but silence, he rephrased his question. “We need to figure out who Anton Turé was and why Donnelly cared about him. Assuming he was from around here, I think we should go to the courthouse and pull up his death certificate and see what we can learn.”

That sounded like an actual lead to follow, and the others quickly agreed. Locking the storage unit up behind them, they rolled out of Meadowbrook Store-it, and off to the courthouse. That was in Mt. Holly, the next town over from Meadowbrook. The courthouse was a two-story limestone building dating from the mid-1800s. Outside it was clean and well kept, but inside there were obvious signs of age and neglect – water-stained ceiling tiles and worn and aging furniture. County records were in the basement, and they filed down the stairs to a long wooden counter manned by an affable kid in his early twenties. “Afternoon!” he piped as they approached. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re looking for a death certificate for an Anton Turé, probably from 1967,” Joe said.

“No probelmo! Wait right here.” The kid disappeared back into the rows of shelves that filled the rest of the basement. He was gone for over fifteen minutes, but when he returned he had a slip of paper in his hands. “Sorry it took a bit,” he apologized. “Nothing’s ever been digitized so there’s a lot of paper to sort through.”

Joe held the death certificate up so everyone could read over his shoulder. Anton Turé had died on January 11, 1967; the cause of death was listed as ‘Accidental Drowning’. He’d been born in 1958 in Montreal and his parents were Adam and Rebecca Turé. But what caught everyone’s attention was their address: 1206 Spooner Ave.

“So he did live in the house,” Garrett whispered. The others nodded. “I think we need to get a list of everyone who lived in that house,” Joe said, and turned back to the clerk. “This is really helpful,” he said, sliding the death certificate back across the counter. Now we’ve got another request. We’d like to get a list of everyone who’s ever owned this property, 1206 Spooner Ave., in Meadowbrook.”

The kid gave a low whistle. “That’s going to take a little longer. Like I said, they’ve never approved the money to computerize any of this, so it’s like the dark ages back here.” Then he grinned. “But I’ll tell you what – you bring me a Starbucks Grande Mocha tomorrow around, say, 11 o’clock, and I’ll have it all for you. Well … at least back to 1940. All the records prior to that were moved off to storage in Newark ten, twenty years ago. Even God can’t find anything there.”

As the group filed out of the courthouse, Garrett offered up a theory. “Donnelly’s ex said he grew up in Meadowbrook. I’m betting he lived in that house.”

“Well, I guess we could ask her,” Joe offered, and pulled out his cellphone. A few minutes later, he was on the line with Roberta Donnelly, the ex-wife. Joe concocted some story about being an FBI historian creating a profile of a fallen agent. He managed to learn that, while he’d grown up in Meadowbrook, Arthur Donnelly had not lived at 1206 Spooner Ave. He got nothing else of value, and by the end of the conversation had managed to arouse the ex-wife’s suspicions that something about this call was not kosher. “I’ll bet she’s already on the phone to the real FBI,” he grumbled as he hung up. He removed the battery from his burner phone, just to be safe.

“I think it’s time we visited this house,” Garrett said as Joe started the car. “It’s vacant, and we have keys.” He held up the three identical keys they’d found in the Green Box. “I say we spend the night.”

Thomas shuddered. “Um, maybe we could just look around a little first.”

They drove back to Meadowbrook, and found their way to Spooner Avenue. The neighborhood surrounding 1206 Spooner Avenue was composed of small houses on large lots. Trees blocked the back and sides of properties, and sometimes a privacy fence stood there as well. As Joe pulled the Town Car to a stop in front of 1206, they noticed that there was no ‘For Sale’ sign in the front yard. “I’m staying in here,” Jamal stated – he was used to sticking out in neighborhoods like this and didn’t want to draw attention.

“Thomas and Garrett – you guys take a walk around the property, see what you can see,” Joe suggested. “If anyone asks, you’re prospective buyers checking out the house. I’ll go talk to the neighbor across the street, see if they can tell us anything.” The team split up, and Joe crossed the street. As he approached the front steps to 1205 Spooner Ave, he had to detour around a big-wheel on the sidewalk. He rang the bell and a woman in her mid-thirties answered; he could hear kids playing somewhere in the house.

“Good afternoon!” he said, turning on the charm. “My name’s Jack Franklin, and I’m with a group that’s interested in buying the house across the street. We thought it was for sale, but there’s no sign in the yard. I was hoping you could tell me something about it.”

The woman frowned. “Hasn’t anyone told you?”

“Told me what?”

Her frown deepened. “I thought they were required to disclose stuff like this. Someone just died in that house, committed suicide. Actually two people – the previous owner died a year and a half ago. They’re supposed to tell prospective buyers that sort of thing!” Her indignation seemed real.

“Oh my gosh!” Joe responded. “I’m so glad we talked to you. No one said anything to us. Did you know the people who died?”

She shook her head. “No. The guy who died last week didn’t even live in the house – he must have broken in. And we only moved here a couple of years ago, and I never met the previous owner. You know, there was going to be an open house later this week. I kind of wanted to go check it out – I’ve never seen the inside. But Ms. Cooper, across the street, warned me I shouldn’t go. She wouldn’t really say why, just that there was nothing good that could come from setting foot in that house. I guess it doesn’t matter now anyway.”

Joe thanked her, and turned back to look at the houses flanking 1206 Spooner Ave. on either side. Maybe having a little chat with the neighbors would be a good idea.