House of the Lost Girls
Flocksdale Files, Book Two
By Carissa Ann Lynch
House of the Lost Girls
Copyright © 2015 by Carissa Ann Lynch.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: November 2015
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-338-0
ISBN-10: 1-68058-338-7
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To my mother and our unforgettable trip to New Orleans. I love you, Mom.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Epilogue
Chapter One
‘Fuck Flocksdale’. Not my words—someone else’s. The flat black spray paint obliterated the real words—‘Welcome to’—on the shiny metal sign greeting us on our way into Flocksdale. Our new town. Not my choice of towns—someone else’s.
In the backseat of my parents’ SUV, I was slumped down in the seat with yellow earbuds shoved as far into the openings of my ears as they would go. The ornery words aroused me from my black mood, and I leaned forward, pressing my face to the glass as we passed.
I tried not to smile. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who hated this town.
“Wow. That’s just great,” my mother said, also noticing the nasty words scrawled on the sign as we passed by. “Who would do something like that?” she asked.
“Oh, honey. You know who. Rotten teenagers,” my stepdad uttered disgustedly, staring back at me in the rearview mirror. I may as well have written the words myself based on his nasty look. It was so obvious that he hated me. Why couldn’t my mother see that? Or maybe she sees it and just doesn’t care, I thought bitterly.
I narrowed my eyes at my stepdad darkly, sliding back down in my seat. I turned up the volume on my iPod, switched the song to “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” by Green Day. I mouthed words to the song, lonely lyrics about walking alone, as we entered my new town of Flocksdale.
I hated him…not my stepdad, but my real dad. For leaving my mom and I five years ago, and ultimately, bequeathing me to this asshole. Everything between my mom and dad was fine, and then one day it wasn’t. He left a note, saying he was going to live with his new girlfriend.
A note. If I ever got to see him again, I had a few notes of my own to give him.
My mom and George got married only a year ago, but George had been wrecking my life ever since.
Like right now, for instance.
He had accepted a job in Flocksdale, and even though my mom had her own job in Ohio, and I had my school and friends, here we were—starting over. Our lives didn’t matter to him. It was all about him, furthering his career goals. He didn’t care that I had to leave my old school. The school I’d attended my entire life…
Despite the explicit greeting on the way in, the part of town we drove into seemed quiet and quaint. It was nearly ten o’clock at night, but the main street was free of motorists and the sidewalks held no pedestrians. Rows of brick buildings, apparently small businesses, lined the street on both sides, “We’re Closed” signs firmly displayed in their windows.
“Well, this definitely looks like a peaceful town, Georgie,” my mother said, using that stupid pet name I hated for ‘George.’ She patted my stepdad’s arm, her attempt to let him know she was fine with moving here. That she’d forgiven him. Her eyes fluttered back to meet mine, encouraging me to do the same, but I closed them, refusing to cater to Georgie’s sensitivity. Well, I haven’t…I mouthed sulkily.
I was never going to be okay with moving here. Technically, I was almost eighteen and soon to be free to go anywhere I wanted. But even after I finished my senior year of high school, at my new school, there was supposed to be college and all that…
In other words, I was stuck with my mother and surrogate daddy for at least a few more years. And now I was stuck serving out my time in this lame-ass town called Flocksdale.
“Are you sure anyone really lives here?” I asked, yanking my earbuds out. My mother shot me a death glare and my stepdad ignored my comment. He’d grown up here in this dump, and I knew insulting his alma mater would get under his skin.
But getting under his skin was turning out to be one of my favorite pastimes.
I twisted my hair in a tight bun and started packing up my book and iPod into my messenger bag. It was all I’d brought, besides my duffel bag containing a few outfits. Everything else was coming by U-Haul. I didn’t care about my stuff. It was my friends and school I worried about leaving behind.
I was relieved to see lights up ahead, illuminating a McDonald’s and CVS as we entered the heart of town. So, there is civilization here, I thought wearily.
More businesses—a grocery store, diner, coffee shop, and a badass-looking used book store. Then the stores faded away and we entered a cluster of residential houses and neighborhoods. The houses were sm
all and close together, mostly shotguns, but then they got larger and grander as we got further from town.
“We’re getting close. It’s on the river,” George said, his voice taking on an excited, boyish tone. I knew we were getting close to the water because the houses were taking on a strange quality. Some of them were sitting up high on stilts. I’d never seen anything like it.
“I guess they’re worried about floods here,” I remarked softly. I had to admit, the houses looked pretty cool, sitting up high on solid, wooden beams. Like they were too cool to hang out on the ground with the rest of the houses.
“Yeah, sometimes the river gets high around here. But there hasn’t been a major flood in forty years,” my mom said, answering for George.
But then he said, “Nearly thirty houses and businesses were torn down and rebuilt. They built smarter the second time around, preparing for floods. But we won’t have to worry about that…”
Rolling down the window, I leaned my head out, sucking in deep breaths of damp July air. Why did they tear them down? And who were “they”? I wanted to ask, but then I could almost hear…water.
There it was—rolling, murky water with steaming pipes from a nuclear plant on the other side of the river. A huge sea of nothing but water, and more nothingness beyond it. An old, metal walking bridge glittered in the distance. “It’s down here,” George nearly whispered, taking a turn onto Clemmons Street.
There were nearly six houses on both sides of the street, all built on stilts. But at the end was a gigantic Victorian home, its own flood wall behind it, sitting right on the river. It towered in the black night sky, moonlight dancing crazily on the rough waters in the background.
It was beautiful in an eerie sort of way, and as we pulled up in front of it, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand upright. Could it be…? The House of Horrors…?
That’s right. I did my research on this place. The town of Flocksdale had a history. A nasty, evil sort of history.
Nearly twenty years ago, a deranged family ran some sort of trafficking/drug ring. The bodies of nearly forty young girls were found buried in the crawlspaces, basements, and backyards of the townspeople involved in the operation. The townspeople of Flocksdale.
All of the perpetrators were either apprehended or dead, but it still gave me the creeps. I’d read everything I could find on the Internet about the murders. In some of the write-ups, I’d read about the description of the main house used in the kidnappings and subsequent killings—an old, creepy Victorian. A description that seemed to fit this one. Surely, there were other Victorian homes in this town? Right…?
I’d tried to tell my mom, and even George, about it. But George ignored me, and my mom said, “Every town has history and crime is everywhere, Marianna. George grew up there, so it must be all right.” Yeah…that made me feel a whole hell of a lot better.
George parked the SUV in a concrete driveway out front of the house. I made no attempt to get out. I stared up at this beautiful monster of a house, wondering what was in store for me in this creepy little town with its even creepier history. I shivered involuntarily. Two words came to mind: Fuck Flocksdale.
Chapter Two
Despite the historical appearance outside, I was surprised to find modern furnishings and fresh, laminate flooring inside the house. I lugged my heavy duffel bag across the foyer, placing it at the foot of an elegant, carved staircase.
“Why does everything look so…new?” I asked, looking around wondrously. The furniture I could see looked like it’d never been sat on, and the floors were scuff-free. George had a big cheesy smile on his face as he ran from room to room, flipping on lights.
“I told you,” he answered from one of the rooms. “They had to rebuild the houses in this neighborhood. This one was rebuilt too. And they did a wonderful job,” he added dreamily. The house used to belong to his aunt. An aunt I’d never met or spoken to.
My mom and I followed his voice into a large, eat-in kitchen. It contained old-fashioned, black-and-white speckled tiles with marble counters, floor-to-ceiling cabinetry, and a grand oak dining table. George still wore an expression of awe.
“It looks just the way I remember, but nicer,” he said.
“It’s such a great house,” my mother chimed in. George ignored her, as he often did, running his hands along the smooth, vein-y countertops and chairs. He was mesmerized by the house he’d inherited, apparently.
I was over his love affair with this house. With this town. “Um…where’s my room?” More death glares from Mommy dearest.
“Wait. I want to give you guys a tour!” George exclaimed, waking up from his trance.
He led us room by room on the first floor, showing off a lovely master bedroom and bath, as well as a library and a few tiny bedrooms. It was a neat house, with its own interesting design and style. If it wasn’t for the terrible history of this town and George, I might not actually mind being here.
The last bedroom on the first floor was the strangest. I immediately noticed metal bars covering the one tiny window in the room. “Why would somebody put metal bars over the window?” I asked incredulously.
“Oh, back in the day, before security systems were invented, people were concerned with intruders. Especially in a house of this magnitude,” George explained.
“But…didn’t you say they rebuilt…?” I started to ask, but he cut me off.
“Now let’s go see your bedroom!” he bellowed happily, placing a tight grip on my shoulder.
“Okaaaay,” I said, letting him lead me to the stairs.
His chumminess was uncanny. I liked him better when he was being a dick. At least that way, I knew who I was dealing with—the real George. Or Georgie, as my mother would say.
The stairs were steep, curving at the top to reveal another short pair of stairs, surprisingly. Reaching the top, there was a long hallway consisting of more tiny rooms. “A lot of people lived here back in the day,” I noted. But again, my comments were ignored.
“Wow, this is amazing…” my mother said, still kissing up to George. I sighed.
“Pick a room, any room…” George said playfully. There were eight of them to choose from, and they all basically looked the same. A few were empty, and the rest contained twin-sized beds with small nightstands and wardrobe closets.
“Well, I guess I’ll choose one that has a bed, Georgie,” I said nastily.
“How about this one?” he suggested, pointing to the last room down the hall. I followed him in, tossing my bags on the bed. I was actually glad he’d suggested this one. It was the farthest one from the stairs and ultimately, the farthest room from him.
“Let’s give the girl some privacy,” George said, leading my mom out of the room and back down the hallway. I shut the bedroom door behind them, plopping grumpily down on my bed.
So, this was it…my new bedroom. Glancing around, I noted that the walls needed some paint. With a little color and my posters, they wouldn’t look so bad. There was a closet and a tall wardrobe chest, enough space for my clothes. Standing back up, I walked over to the wardrobe. I hesitated, placing my hands on its door handles. What was I afraid of? The boogeyman?
I laughed at my childishness and yanked the wardrobe open. It was empty, except for a few lonely hangers. I checked out the closet too. It was also empty. I kicked my duffel bag inside.
My cell phone chimed in my back jeans pocket. I pulled it out, reading a text from Meg.
Meg: What’s up girly? How’s the new digs?
I thought about the welcome sign on the way in. “Fuck Flocksdale,” I said aloud, tossing my phone aside. I wasn’t ready to tell Meg the truth…that I was freaking miserable. She and my sometimes boyfriend, Jaime, were back in Cincinnati, probably hanging out without me.
Maybe hooking up without me, I thought miserably.
Me, Meg, and Marcy—the three M’s. We’d become fast friends in elementary school, and hung out together every day of our lives practically. Meg and I were close
r than Marcy and I, but I had the feeling they’d be getting closer now that I was out of the picture. I didn’t know what I’d miss most, losing my best friends or my boyfriend. Losing them both really sucked.
“At least I got a room with a view,” I said aloud, breathing out the words unhappily. The window was covered with dusty, cream-colored curtains. I walked to the window, eager to get some air. I yanked the curtains apart and looked at my fancy new view—a boarded up window. What the fuck? It looked like a window, but it wasn’t one.
I ran my palms across the slats, mesmerized by the smoothness of the wooden planks. Why would somebody put them here? Promptly, I went room to room, parting the curtains in each. My room was the only room with a boarded up window. Needless to say, I switched rooms.
I moved to the room two doors down and kicked my duffel bag inside the cramped closet space. I stood in front of my new window, staring out at the dark black river below. Instead of water, all I could see was my own, wretched reflection staring back at me.
I looked as bad as I felt. My white-blonde hair felt matted and greasy, my eyes sunken and sleepy. Some days I felt sort of pretty. But today was definitely not one of those days.
I thought about my best friend Meg with her long auburn curls, busty chest, and athletic waistline. And then I thought about Jaime with his smooth, tan skin and glittery-green eyes. Imagined him holding Meg’s gorgeous body in his. Ugh.
I thought about calling him. I thought about calling her, or maybe Marcy. But instead, I flipped out the light and lay on the bed. Stared at the popcorn-patterned ceiling above and tried to get situated in my new bed. The bedspread was a thin, navy blue blanket made of wool. It felt strange, foreign to me, nothing like my silky duvet on my bed at home. Nothing about this place felt like home.
I pulled the covers to my chin anyway, and tried to get some sleep.
***
I woke to the sounds of waves crashing. Or at least that’s what it sounded like. I sat up, panting, and threw the scratchy blankets off. I was in a strange place—a black, dank room. I jumped up, confused. And then I realized where I was…fucking Flocksdale. In my new fucking house. My creepy, cold house.
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