Ghosts of Villa de Zenith

By Kenna McKinnon

At Villa de Zenith, a quaint seniors' apartment, something odd is afoot. After a mysterious new couple - Karen and Alfred Grindelwald - move into the building, rumors begin to circulate among the residents.

Soon after, strange things start happening in the building: flickering lights, mysterious sounds, objects moving on their own. The residents begin to suspect that the Villa may be haunted, and a group of seniors decides to investigate the mystery.

A fun, heartwarming ghost story, Kenna McKinnon's GHOSTS OF VILLA DE ZENITH is a tale of mystery, humor and friendship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: May 8, 2024

Book preview

1

On the first day of autumn 2027 in the city of Edmonton, Canada, cold rain blasted silver shadows through the historic Westmount area. Beyond its front yard, a five-story apartment building, Villa de Zenith, housed quiet and independent seniors who shuddered through the storm - the outside walls ran wet, as red brick flashed with lightning bolts thrown from ancient gods above.

The tenant shivering on the front walk hunched over her Zippo and lit an already drenched cigarette. She inhaled greedily. Smoking was not permitted inside the building. Forced to expose herself to the fury of the gale, Mariya didn’t mind the inconvenience. Five stories above, a slim figure watched from a hallway window, silhouetted by a crimson Exit sign. Azalea Bright, peering out, threw malevolent thoughts like the gods’ lightning bolts to her neighbor below, hoping to exterminate her own demons by a purging of her tortured soul to the pure soul of her former friend.

Zenith means the time at which something is most powerful or successful. It is also the highest point above a terrestrial object. Any other meaning is paranormal and inaccurate, not to be confused with the musings of the figure in the yard, whose name was Mariya Babiak. Her rival five floors up watched as Mariya shivered, extinguished her smoke, and scurried toward the glass front doors of the seniors’ complex. Then the watching figure, Azalea, melted into the dim lights on the fifth floor.

Talk ran underground and rampant in the small rooms. Villa de Zenith housed all manner of personalities, and any empty apartments and rooms smelling of death and sweet smoke were no worse or better than imaginations could fathom. Mariya glanced up. The war in her home country continued. She was peace loving and close lipped about international news, especially that which involved her ancestral nation. Azalea, she knew, avidly watched television news and avidly watched Mariya. Why? She thought: I have been a good friend. Mariya was a good friend to all tenants in Villa de Zenith and Azalea had been no exception. Perhaps an incident no longer remembered as significant?

The glass doors opened with a click of her large steel key and the sturdy figure entered. Inside to the left was the common room. Music rang out of the open doors. Darian and Kay strummed joyfully on guitar and rattled maracas as usual on this, a Tuesday evening. The common room was used by all tenants. This was their time.

Good, Mariya thought. I’m safe.

In her apartment, Azalea smoked hiddenly and thought of salt and vandalism, but her spirit longed for release. Some of the tenants, including Mariya, understood this but the slim woman simply hated. Their kind thoughts were foreign to her.

Azalea was in a safe place, a sanctuary unrelated to the blowing streets outside and the screams of the gale; however, she loved the night and its inhabitants. She longed for those in the shadows of the empty city and the anonymity of darkness. She smoked and simmered. Simmered and smoked.

Azalea understood all too well the chaos of mental illness. Not the relief, not the release, not the love that poured out of the world for her tortuous journey. In her mind, a story took place. A story of intrigue and paranoia, and conspiracy that was unfounded but responsive to the demands of modern medications and prayer, if she would accept them.

She didn’t know that Villa de Zenith wished her well. The kindly tenants sometimes left gifts at her door. Brilliant and wary, Azalea scorned them until they gave up. Inwardly and out, the storm raged on.

2

Commune with a circle. Laugh. Sit in darkness and know the power of ritual. She knew all that to be medicine for her soul yet with her walker her only friend, Ariel remembered daily that her life used to be free when she would run with the wind through her greying hair, with a buddy at her side, and relish the never-ending days. Now she felt like she was in a cage. Constrained by excess flesh and illness, Ariel Dahlen remembered when she was an Amazon and Viking woman; she remembered in her aging bones, but time stretched interminably now that youth had fled. She gazed at the world out of intelligent probing grey eyes, a life tumbled sideways from good health. Dreams dashed on the doorstep of an inevitable future, she had surrendered.

Ariel lived on the second floor of Villa de Zenith. Across from her apartment was Mickey Planter’s old suite. His door was a constant reminder of the endearing and vital Mickey - his raspy voice, twisted smile and – oh, they loved him! He was very active and full of life. Loved sports, especially soccer. He was often seen rocking back and forth on his chair like a mischievous child, and he’d been known to stop a car and shout, Your wheels are turning! or yell, I have lice!.

That’s why, when Mickey died in the spring of that year, his absence was a shock to the whole community. An avid sports fan and runner, he rarely spoke of the heart condition that eventually felled him one night in late April as he sat at his solitary meal of chips and gravy. When he didn’t appear in public for four days in a row, his neighbors called management to unlock the door. They found him on the