by Scott Thomas
She said the name in a lilting, singsong way, and the sound of it made Sam’s skin crawl.
“When I wrote, the voice would stop. But a few times, I tried to quit on the novel—to stop because I knew that it was taking over my life—and that’s when he would find me.”
The edges of her eyes glistened with tears.
“It felt real, Sam. Exactly like the way it did back then. The pain. The fear. It even knew what I had to say to make him stop. I had to tell him how worthless I was. I had to make him feel like a big man.”
A single tear escaped her eye and raced down her cheek. She angrily wiped it away.
“It wasn’t just the feeling of being back at Kill Creek that made me keep writing. I did it to keep him away.”
He reached out and took her hand. It felt strangely familiar, her fingers folded into his.
Because it happened before. At the Finch House. In the dream.
“But it can’t really be Bobby,” Moore was saying. “He’s alive. Last I heard, he was living in Arizona. He’s an abusive asshole, but he’s not a goddamn ghost.”
“It’s not him,” Sam told her, “just like it’s not my mother. It’s the house using those things to get to us, to break us down.”
“How could it know?”
Because she told it. Just like I told it about my mother. When I told Moore that night. When she came to my room.
But she wasn’t really there.
That wasn’t Moore. That was the house.
Sam felt as if the floor of the plane had vanished. He was plunging through the open air, spiraling toward the earth.
“It was listening,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“The house. When we were there last fall. It was listening. To our conversations. To our thoughts. We told it everything it needed to know to break us down.”
“That’s . . . that’s impossible,” Moore said, but there was doubt in her voice.
Because she knows you could be right, Sam thought.
“It used my ex because he beat me, and your mother because she, what, resented your very existence?”
Sam remembered the dream in the house, and the relief he felt when he whispered those words in her ear.
You can feel that again, he realized.
No. Stop talking. It was a mistake the first time.
Because it was the house. This is Moore. The real Moore.
Tell her.
“Sam?” she asked, confused.
“That’s not the only reason,” Sam said.
He swallowed hard, searching for courage.
Keep going.
“Sam, you don’t have to—”
Yes. You do.
Tell her.
“I killed my mother,” he said. They were the hardest four words he had ever spoken aloud.
Shock rippled across Moore’s face, like the gently disturbed surface of a pond, her eyes widening, her brows arching, her lips parting to suck in a breath. And then her entire expression flattened, the gravity of Sam’s confession pulling her closer. Sam did not seem to see her there. He was lost in a memory.
“She was hurting my brother. She was slapping him, she had him on the floor, and her hands . . . her hands were around his neck. She was squeezing. He couldn’t breathe. His face was red and then purple and I was watching him die. I was watching my brother die. So I picked up a cast-iron skillet and I hit her with it, to stop her and—”
Moore touched his arm, her hand resting on his scars. He looked up into her eyes.
“She burned in that fire. But she didn’t die in it.”
Sam watched as tears began to slip down Moore’s cheeks, and then his own tears came, spilling over, dripping off the edge of his jaw and splashing onto the deformed flesh of his left arm.
“And it knows. Whatever this thing is, it knows.”
Sam thought of his mother’s corpse, motionless on the kitchen floor. He thought of the salvation he found in a novel by Sebastian Cole, third paperback from the top in a stack on a pawnshop shelf. He thought of the life these two things created, a life of stories and secrets, a life that had driven Erin away and left Sam desperate enough to accept Wainwright’s invitation to the house on Kill Creek.
And suddenly this moment in which he found himself felt inevitable, fated.
The plane dipped sharply. They were starting their descent.
Soon they would be on the ground.
TWENTY-SEVEN
11:32 a.m.
THE HARDWARE STORE was on Quivira Road in Lenexa, Kansas, a rare mom-and-pop joint that refused to be killed off by the many chains that populated Kansas City and its suburbs.
Sam led the way.
He’s on a mission, Moore observed as she walked faster to keep up.
Sam was, after all, the one who came up with the plan. As the plane descended into Kansas City International Airport, he had gathered them all together. Each of their novels had led them to a wall. A brick wall. Exactly like the one that kept anyone from entering the third-floor bedroom in the Finch House. There had to be a reason for that, Sam insisted. The key to truly understanding the house and its power could be behind that wall. And if they understood it, they might be able to stop it.
Wainwright was skeptical, and he wasn’t afraid to voice it. “The house was forcing you to write those stories. It might want you—us—to go back. It could be a trap.”
“So what do we do?” Sam’s question wasn’t just to Wainwright but to the entire group. “Go home? Let this thing drive us crazy? Or worse? We know what it did to Kate. We saw what it did to Adudel. There’s no one to turn to. Who’s going to help us? The police? The church? The one man who knew the most about that house stepped in front of a goddamn bus.”
He had paused, waiting for any of them to protest. They had said nothing.
“If anyone else has a better idea, trust me, I would love to hear it.”
The screech of the jet’s tires hitting the runway had been the only reply.
So, like Wainwright, Daniel, and Sebastian, Moore followed Sam as he pushed a shopping cart through the narrow aisles of the hardware store.
Their private conversation on the plane appeared to have freed Sam of a weight he had carried his entire life. Moore could see that, for the moment, he was enjoying a slight reprieve from the crushing burden of keeping the secret. There was momentum, and for that, Moore was thankful. Six months of stasis, of keeping herself secluded while she pounded out a never-ending book, had left her feeling something she had not truly felt in two decades: helplessness. Now they were charging forward.
Toward what?
She didn’t know. None of them did. They had no idea what to expect once they arrived at the house.
But Sam’s right. We can’t just go home. We know what’s waiting for us there.
Along the back wall of the store were hammers of various weights and sizes. Sam grabbed the heaviest of the sledgehammers, a twenty pounder. He tested its weight in his hands and, apparently satisfied, set it carefully in the cart. He then added a sixty-four-ounce blacksmith hammer, a forty-eight-ounce dead-blow hammer, and a standard milled-face framing hammer with a smooth hickory handle. Finally, he found a twelve-inch concrete chisel and tossed that into the cart.
“That should do it,” Sam said.
“You sure you don’t wanna just rent a jackhammer and call it a day?” Moore asked.
Sebastian peered into the cart. “She does have a point. It’s an old wall of eight-inch clay bricks, Sam. I assume the sledge would do.”
Sam’s response to the old man was flat and emotionless. “I’m not taking any chances. I want to get that wall down as quickly as possible.”
Sebastian gave a small nod and looked away, oddly cowed.
Sam doesn’t trust him, Moore realized.
They moved down the next aisle, toward the front of the store. Moore sidled up next to Sam, her hand on the side of the cart.
“What are we hoping to find
behind the wall, Sam?” she asked him.
“Rebecca’s bedroom,” he said, a bit too quickly. “Maybe something that can help us understand what’s happening.”
Moore eyed the other customers as they passed, people going about their lives, oblivious to the torment she and the others were suffering.
“I’ve been thinking about what might be in that room,” she said, her voice low. “The ghost of Rebecca Finch. Or Joshua Goodman. Or the things it sent to each of us.” The thought made her shiver.
Sam let out a slow breath. “Or maybe it’s something else, something that never lived,” he suggested.
Or it’s just a room, Moore thought, and we’re all out of our goddamn minds.
They reached the end of the aisle. A single register was straight ahead, the line of customers long and moving slowly.
Moore leaned in closer to Sam, her words only for him. “If we break down that wall and the spirit of a Finch sister possesses one of you guys, I will not hesitate to take that sledge and turn your head into brain pudding.” She grinned devilishly. “Is it wrong that I hope it’s Wainwright?”
A smile broke through Sam’s serious expression.
That’s good, Moore thought. It’s almost like everything’s normal again.
As quickly as it appeared, his smile faded.
She watched as Sam pushed the cart up to the end of the line, Sebastian falling in silently behind him. Daniel, his hands in his pockets, shuffled after them. There was no warmth among these men, no camaraderie. Only sadness and suspicion.
Wainwright stepped up next to Moore.
“Do you think this is going to work?” he asked, his once-booming voice now thin and weak.
“It’ll work,” Moore said sharply.
It has to work, she told herself. We’ll beat that wall to hell until it comes down. And whatever the house throws our way . . .
You’ll what? her mind questioned.
We’ll deal. We’ll improvise.
Even as she thought it, she hated the sound of the word: improvise. It suggested a sudden change of plans, a desperate attempt to regain control. It meant that things could go sideways and they’d be taking swings in the dark.
The wheels of the cart rumbled wildly as Sam guided it toward the rental SUV parked at the curb. Wainwright pressed a button on the key fob, and the tailgate rose gently into the air, revealing their hastily packed bags and just enough cargo space for the tools.
Sebastian unzipped a dark canvas bag he had found near the front of the store and opened it for Sam and Wainwright to fill with the smaller hammers. It was then that Moore spotted something a few doors down.
Don’t bother, her mind told her.
It will only take a second. It can’t hurt.
It’s a waste of time, her mind insisted.
She ignored the thought and turned to the others.
“Be right back,” she told them.
“Now where is she off to?” she heard Sebastian ask as she hurried down the sidewalk.
A bell above the door gave a friendly ding as Moore entered the used bookstore. She was instantly greeted by the glorious scent of pages—hundreds of thousands of pages—aging silently between their respective covers.
A plump woman smiled warmly. “Good morning. Can I help you find anything?”
“Where’s your religion section?” Moore asked impatiently as she glanced over the cluttered shelves.
“Oh, well now, are you wanting Eastern or Western religion? Because if you’re interested in Buddhism, I have a beautifully illustrated copy of the—”
“Lady, just hold out a finger and point,” Moore snapped.
The woman’s smile vanished. She did as she was told, pointing to a section at the top of a nearby bookshelf. Moore quickly scanned the titles and found what she was looking for. As she pulled the book down from the shelf, a young girl’s voice spoke from the recesses of her mind, words echoing from decades ago, back when she believed in such magic:
She girds her loins with strength, and shows that her arms are strong.
That’s right, Theresa, Moore thought. Stronger than you were. Too strong to ever go back.
Moore dropped the book onto the counter and fished out a twenty, more than enough to cover the handwritten price displayed on a small yellow sticker. She held out the bill.
“Here.”
The woman did not move.
A low growl came from the far corner behind the counter. “Jasmine doesn’t like you,” the woman said.
Moore sighed, irritated. “Who the hell is Jasmine?”
From around a stack of paperback romance novels, a long-haired cat the color of dirty dishwater peered out with yellow eyes. It stared straight at Moore as it growled from deep within its chest.
“Jasmine thinks you’re very, very rude.”
The cat lowered its head but kept its eyes on Moore as it issued another warning, louder than the first two.
Moore dropped the twenty onto the counter and snatched up the book. “Yeah, well, Jasmine looks like a real bitch.”
The ring of the bell seemed much less friendly as Moore hurried out of the store.
The others were already in the SUV. Wainwright was behind the wheel. He rolled down the driver’s-side window as Moore approached.
“What was so important?” he asked.
Moore held up her find: a leather-bound copy of the Holy Bible.
“I didn’t think you were a believer,” Sebastian called from the backseat.
Moore shrugged. “I’m not. But I also don’t feel like taking any chances.”
For a brief moment, she caught Daniel looking at the book in her hand. There was no emotion on his face. He no longer had any connection to it.
“Get in,” Wainwright said to her. “It’s time to go.”
Moore rode shotgun. Her hair was now knotted in a high ponytail. Sam and Sebastian rode in the next row and Daniel sat alone in the far backseat. As he had done last October, Wainwright steered the ship. Kate’s absence was felt by all but mentioned by none.
Wainwright steered the SUV onto the off-ramp that would swing them around onto Kill Creek Road. Before they knew it, they were leaving the paved path behind for the noisy clatter of the gravel road, tiny chunks of shale hitting the undercarriage like inverted hail.
The route was much darker than last time, the barren tree branches now overgrown with leaves. Sam squinted in the low light, staring straight ahead as the SUV passed through the tunnel of oaks and maples. There was sunlight in the distance, an oval of illumination, so far out of reach. Sam felt goose bumps prickling his flesh. The trees blocked out any trace of the blue sky, their bushy limbs clasped over the road like the hands of a strangler.
Sam could hear the slosh of gasoline in the trunk. That had been their last order of business before hitting the highway out of town: a quick stop at a gas station to buy and fill two ten-gallon gas cans. That was the kill switch. If they found no answers in the third-floor bedroom, or if the house came violently alive and they were unable to even reach the wall, they would burn the whole damn place to the ground. Sam wasn’t certain if that would stop the entity for good, but he hoped it would weaken it. It might buy them enough time to come up with a Plan B.
Their bodies swayed as the SUV rumbled down the winding lane. Sebastian’s head was lowered, his eyes staring at the floor. Sam wondered what he was thinking. Since they’d discovered him at Adudel’s brownstone, Sebastian had been remarkably clear, his mind alert. There hadn’t been one single moment where he seemed lost to some insatiable disease. Something had changed him since their trip to the house last year. And the closer they came to returning, the more frightened Sebastian appeared.
He doesn’t want to go back, Sam thought. He doesn’t want to end this.
“Sebastian?” Sam said softly.
Sebastian turned. “Yes, Sam?”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
The old man smiled, but there was sadness in his eye
s, as if he knew he were about to lose something irreplaceable. “Whatever the house is doing, it can’t go on,” he said.
The SUV broke through the darkened passageway and sped into the sudden, brilliant light.
The house was before them, crouching low in the overgrown yard. The tallgrass appeared healthier than ever. Thick and vibrant.
But their eyes were drawn to the beech tree, the hanging tree, whose twisted branches had been devoid of life last autumn. In the months since, it had experienced a disturbing resurgence. Vibrant strings of green leaves draped its body like living jewelry. Thick vines snaked up its gnarled trunk, wrapping tightly to its splitting bark, holding it together, keeping it whole. A few leaves fluttered free in the light breeze, but the rest stuck tight, the long strands of greenery swaying back and forth like pendulums counting down the seconds to their arrival.
TWENTY-EIGHT
12:45 p.m.
SAM SLAMMED THE back door of the SUV shut. He carried the dark canvas bag slung over his shoulder by a tan nylon strap. The chisel and hammers clanked faintly within. Moore insisted on carrying the twenty-pound sledge, relishing its weight in her hands.
The five of them walked up the gravel drive. To each side, the tallgrass rippled, independent of the breeze.
As they reached the front porch, Daniel paused. He stared up at the third-floor window.
Sebastian followed his gaze. “What do you see, Daniel?”
Daniel whispered something, too low to make out.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Sebastian asked.
Keep them moving, Sam told himself. If they wait too long, they’ll start to question the plan. They’ll turn back.
“Come on, let’s go,” Sam called back as he started up the front steps. His boots knocked softly on the wood as he crossed to the front door. Unlike last autumn, there were no vines curled around the doorknob. It was free for him to turn.
Sam paused and glanced around the front porch. The vines that had once covered the planks had also withdrawn. They must have retreated into the tallgrass. It made no sense, but then again, few things did.
Behind him, Wainwright bounced lightly and found that the wood had no give under his feet.