Haunted Secrets: Tales of the Anderson House Vol. 1

Born in Darkness

Henry Allen Broomfield did not tolerate a cheat. The last man who tried to pull a fast one found himself with a broken nose and an empty wallet at the end of the evening, and that was just over a card game. When it came to bigger deals and bigger money, Henry had a commensurate response.

Broomfield had met Duncan Anderson three months earlier. They had crossed paths in Boston, and Broomfield learned that Anderson was something of a financial wizard. From what he had heard, Anderson could double an investment in as few as thirty days. He wasn't just a flash-in-the-pan success, either. His results were consistent.

Henry wasn't normally the kind of person to fall for such a pie-in-the-sky story. He'd made investments and had some decent success, but he knew the risk of making a bad call. 

In his mind, the market was less consistent than a game of cards. There were only so many ways fifty-two cards could be arranged and played. The stock market had infinite variables that were all too difficult to predict.

Despite his reservations, Anderson had some heavy hitters in Boston who vouched for him. Some were unknown to Broomfield, and their word did not mean much, but some he considered men of reason and wisdom. Their recommendations carried weight, and that was why he was willing to give Anderson a chance to prove himself.

They had met at a members-only club in Boston in the late autumn. Anderson was already in the lounge, a cigar in one hand and a double shot of whiskey in the other. Broomfield respected the man's drink choice if nothing else. 

Henry joined him, and they shared a drink and some pleasantries. Anderson was not big on small talk, however, and he dived into the meat of the matter soon after. 

“I sense the trepidation, and I understand. You don’t know me from Adam. But you’re interested or you wouldn’t be wasting your time talking to me.”

He spoke with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Henry was certain the man’s demeanor rubbed many people the wrong way, but he found it refreshing. After years of dealing with people who trafficked in nonsense and double talk, it was nice to deal with someone who cut to the chase and didn't seem to be blowing smoke.

“I can’t trust just anyone with my money,” Henry explained.

“Nor should anyone who wants to keep their money and not be made to look the fool,” Anderson said.

“The numbers you promise are outlandish, Anderson. You can offer double the money in a month? Unless you’re robbing banks, I’m not seeing it.”

“This invention will change the world, Broomfield. We’re talking about innovation the likes of which we've never seen. Think of how the railroad opened the frontier. Or how the telegraph destroyed the Pony Express. Hell, think of the automobile and what it’s already doing. This is bigger than all of them.”

“A bold claim made by carnival barkers and snake oil salesmen since before my grandfather was born. You need more than words.”

Anderson smiled around his cigar, showing his teeth. Henry finished his drink and set it on the glass table between them while the other man swirled his, letting the ice clink against the side of the tumbler.

“Are you interested in taking a trip?” Anderson asked.

***

The train from Boston to Nashua took nearly five hours, but the journey was not unpleasant. Henry had never been to the town. He had spent little time in New Hampshire but found the state to be quite beautiful. 

The trip was as enjoyable as one could expect an impromptu train voyage to be. Anderson walked the train like he owned the thing and arranged a poker game in the bar car with a pair of bankers on their way to Vermont. By the third hour, half the train was either watching or participating, and Henry made just shy of two hundred dollars. 

Anderson made a call before leaving Boston, and when they arrived in Nashua, his butler was waiting with the car. The drive from the train station to his home on Berkley Street was also pleasant enough. The town was quaint and quiet, not nearly as ostentatious as Henry expected for a man like Duncan Anderson. 

Anderson seemed like a man who should have plied his trade in Manhattan or at least downtown Boston or Philadelphia. That he kept his home in such a quiet, out-of-the-way place spoke of another side he had yet to reveal.

When they arrived at his house, Henry was impressed. It was a large, foreboding structure, set away from the street up a long driveway. The gardens around the house were robust and bright. Anderson had particular tastes and had cultured his home to match them.

Anderson led them through the front foyer. He sent a servant girl to fetch some drinks but said nothing to anyone else as he showed Henry to a staircase and accompanied him to the second floor.

“My study,” Anderson said, opening a door and inviting Henry inside.

The room smelled of something floral that Henry had trouble putting his finger on. It was cold but brightly lit. Anderson took a seat behind a large oak desk and offered Henry a seat on the opposite side.

“Pick something,” the man said, gesturing to his desk.

“I’m sorry?” Henry replied.

“An item from my desk. For a demonstration. Anything you wish.”

Henry was not sure what Anderson was playing at, but he was willing to go along with it. Anderson had been tight-lipped on their voyage about what they would see when they got to his house. He assured Henry that he would demonstrate the power of his invention and convince him that an investment was the smartest choice. Seeing was believing, he had said.

“The letter opener,” Henry said.

To the right of Anderson's hand was a silver letter opener that looked like a small dagger. Henry had seen similar styles and recognized Anderson's as a high-quality one. It was likely worth a decent amount of money.

“Excellent,” Anderson said.

He placed the letter opener in the center of his desk between them. Anderson's smile was confident and cool as he locked eyes with the other man. Nothing happened, and Henry began to grow impatient.