Carmen and Eric were alive. They had to be. They were alive, and he was stuck in this nightmare, and the only way for him to wake up was for him to get away from Mika and this lunatic place.
After he’d run a couple of dozen yards, he reached a head-high wall of shrubs that completely blocked his path. Pines and maples crowded the area, their leafy boughs interwoven like an immense net.
The last time he’d been here, he’d had to force his way through the shrubbery.
How had Mika’s Rolls Royce gotten through this? Could there be another way out?
In his mind’s eye, he envisioned Mika commanding the bushes to part, like Biblical sea waters, to allow the car to nose through. Nothing seemed impossible anymore.
The thicket certainly didn’t move aside for him, and he didn’t see a way around it, so he began to clear a path. He ripped aside branches and kicked down bushes. Cold sweat coated his face. Thorns scratched his arms and hands, but he didn’t register the pain. Desperation had numbed him to any distractions from his goal of escaping.
He fought through the last patch of shrubbery, and emerged in a clearing, underneath a canopy of trees.
Beyond the trees, Mourning Hill loomed like an old, abandoned fortress. He’d arrived at the back of the house.
This was impossible.
He’d been running away from the mansion.
You can’t leave. Ever.
It was as if he’d been magically teleported to the rear of the property.
He ran to the boundary of the vast lawn, on another side of the yard. A tall line of shrubbery formed the perimeter; black woods grew beyond. He plunged into the bushes and drove through them, pushing into the forest.
Nocturnal creatures croaked, hissed, and scampered around him. Bugs buzzed against his face. He batted them away, and pressed on.
After he’d run for at least a quarter of a mile, the woods thinned, and gave way to a high wall of bushes. He fought through them and stumbled into a clearing.
The broad, moss-covered side of Mourning Hill stood ahead of him.
Again, he’d been transported to another location on the estate grounds.
He shouted a wordless cry of anguish.
His lungs burned from the running he’d done. He sank to his knees in the thick, wet grass, drawing deep breaths.
He could no longer avoid the truth, as unbelievable as it was to his rational mind.
He was like a tiny mouse in a big maze with no exit. Trapped.
He found Mika on the veranda. She swayed on the wooden bench swing, clicking her heels together like a schoolgirl on a playground.
She cocked her head, eyes amused. “Tired of running, Andrew?”
“I want to go home,” he said. “Please.”
“You are home.” She hopped off the swing, and offered her hand. “Come inside with me.”
He didn’t want to go inside this madhouse. But what was the point of resisting? He couldn’t escape. He didn’t have the energy to continue what seemed to be a pointless fight.
However, he nursed a delicate hope that, once inside the house, he would discover something that would give him an edge over her.
He took her hand, like a child.
She led him inside Mourning Hill.
Chapter 55
The interior of the mansion looked nothing like the dusty, cobweb-filled estate that Andrew remembered from his initial visit, or that his father had described.
This was an utterly contemporary, fantasy place, like something from the MTV show, Cribs.
“This is . . . amazing,” he said, as Mika led him down the entry hall.
“This is your home now,” she said. “I redecorated and furnished it to please you.”
Gaping at his surroundings, he could only shake his head.
There were polished marble floors in the hallway, which was wide enough to accommodate driving a Hummer across its length. The creamy walls were adorned with dramatically lighted, framed artwork, with numerous insets full of Greek sculptures and ornate vases. Near the middle of the long corridor, an enormous crystal chandelier hung overhead, illuminating a grand spiral staircase; the staircase featured a gold balustrade and marble steps, with nary a cobweb in sight.
He peeked inside the living room. A vast space. Soaring cathedral ceiling. Snow-white carpeting. Humongous, flat-screen television. Plush, Italian leather furniture. End tables gilded with gold. A black grand piano. An aquarium large enough for he himself to swim in, full of shimmering water and stocked with exotic, colorful fish. A marble fireplace sufficiently spacious to contain an inferno.
A song played in the background, piped to his ears from hidden speakers: “Fantasy” by Earth, Wind, and Fire. They were one of his all-time favorite bands.
“When did you do all of this?” he asked.
“When I knew you were the one,” she said. She grinned. “Come, Andrew. I’ll show you more of our home.”
A door off the hallway opened to a theater that put the entertainment area in his house to shame. It had a massive, wall-size screen, seating to accommodate fifteen people, and even an old-fashioned popcorn machine.
The library was next. Pure light filtered from another crystal chandelier. The chamber contained a labyrinth of mahogany bookshelves, every one packed with hardcover volumes penned by all of his favorite authors: Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Tananarive Due, Steven Barnes, Walter Mosley . . . thousands of books, books he’d read and books he wanted to read one day, all collected here. Comfortable leather club chairs were positioned near large bay windows that provided a view of the rolling, manicured estate grounds. The colorful Persian rugs on the floor were so soft he could’ve slept on them.
“And here’s the kitchen,” she said, gesturing to a room beyond another arched doorway. It could have served a restaurant staff: a big marble island, double-ovens, two gigantic refrigerators, a collection of shining pots and pans dangling from hooks, a cappuccino machine, and more, every culinary device he could think of neatly stored on the sparkling counters.
He opened one of the refrigerators. It was packed with food—fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, beverages, and much more, enough food to feed a family of ten for a month.
He removed a ripe peach and held it before his eyes, squeezed it to test its firmness—as if it might dissolve in his fingers like a cloud. He still struggled to accept the reality of what he was seeing. It was like a lucid dream.
He bit into the peach. It was juicy, sweet. Real.
Mika was smiling at him. “There’s much more down here, but I’ll show you the upper level. Follow me.”
On the second floor, another crystal chandelier showered them in golden light. There were more vases and sculpted works displayed on decorative stands. Lush oil paintings on the softly hued walls.
A floor-to-ceiling mirror with a gold-leaf frame hung at the end of the corridor.
She pushed open a door. “Your office, darling.”
The room was at least five times as spacious as his home office. A walnut desk stood in the center of the room, on which sat a computer and a flat-screen monitor. Office quality laser printers and copier machines lined one wall. Blown-up, gold-framed covers of his books decorated the other walls. A bookcase contained every edition of his books that had ever been published, in four languages. Large windows overlooked a rose garden, and a gazebo.
“I can’t believe this,” he said. He ran his hands over the smooth desktop. “This is like my dream office.”
Mika took his hand. “Wait until you see the bedroom.”
She led him farther along the hall, opened another door.
“Wow,” he said.
The master bedroom was bigger than the entire first floor of his old house. A hand-carved, four-poster bed dominated one side of the room. He stroked the sheets, recognized the high thread-count, Egyptian cotton bedding. A luxury he’d hoped to have one day.
Another immense, flat screen TV hung suspended from a wall. There was a roomy sitting area, w
ith leather chairs, tables edged with gold, and another marble fireplace. A mini-bar sat against another wall, stocked with top shelf liquors and glasses for every purpose.
She showed him the walk-in closet. It was larger than the main bedroom at his other house. Dozens of designer suits—Armani, Hugo Boss, Versace, and more—for every conceivable mood and season, waited on hangers. There were so many pairs of shoes he could’ve worn a different pair every day for three months without rotating them.
“I know all your sizes,” she said. “Every piece of clothing will fit your handsome body like a glove. Come on.”
Winking at him, she strutted across the room, and through a doorway. He followed her.
Into the master bath. Tons of space. Polished Italian tiles. Marble counters. Twenty-four-karat-gold faucets. A shower stall so roomy you could practice somersaults inside of it.
There was a Jacuzzi, too, full of steamy, gurgling water. A gold ice bucket stood at the edge of the tub, chilling a bottle of Moët champagne and two flutes.
The feeling that he was trapped in some kind of fever dream gripped him more tightly than ever.
Part of him railed against everything that he was seeing, believed that he was imagining these fantastic sights and needed to shatter the illusion and see the mansion as it really was—a place of torment and death.
But another part of him was seduced. Had accepted that there was no escape and wanted to enjoy this heavenly prison. Wanted to surrender his soul to this beautiful woman once and for all . . .
She handed him the champagne. “Would you do the honors?”
Like a robot, he popped the cork. She held the flutes, and he poured the bubbly into each. She gave him a glass.
“Let us toast,” she said. “To our eternal, youthful love.”
He clinked his flute against hers. Raised the glass to his lips.
His gaze wandered to the window behind her.
The glass gave a view of a side of the property. He spotted Walter below, in a big garden full of boxwoods and stone, life-size statues. Walter was digging.
He’s digging a grave . . . Carmen, Eric . . . oh, Jesus . . .
The glass slipped out of his hand and shattered against the floor.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Mika asked.
What was he doing, sharing a toast with the monstrous woman who had murdered his friends?
Nausea wormed through his guts. Symptom of critical stress, a remote, rational side of his mind theorized. He bent over, gagged.
Murmuring words of comfort, Mika rubbed his shoulder.
As dizzy as if he’d stepped off a spinning carousel, he pushed her away, staggered across the room.
Suddenly, he saw cobwebs on the walls, not colorful oil paintings. Dusty antiques everywhere, not shiny gold tables and big TVs. A grimy, claw foot tub, not a Jacuzzi . . .
He blinked, eyes filling with tears. Separate realities wavered before his watery eyes like heat mirages.
Groaning, he fell onto the bed, and passed out.
Chapter 56
Driving as fast as he dared without risking a wreck, it took a little over two hours for Raymond to reach Mourning Hill. As he drove, he played a CD of old school jams that Andrew had recorded for him, weeks ago. Roberta Flack, Donny Hathaway, The Emotions, Sly and the Family Stone, Minnie Ripperton, so many other classic artists. Although listening to the soulful cuts usually brought back memories of what he’d been going through in his life when those melodies first hit the radio airwaves, this time, he thought only of his son, and how badly he wanted to see him again.
The ghost rode shotgun with him. He didn’t see the entity, but coolness occasionally tapped his hand, as if the spirit wished to reassure him that he was not alone.
It was the kind of night during which you no longer questioned what was possible.
He didn’t call anyone, and didn’t accept any calls on his cell. His wife would’ve tried to talk him into doing something more sensible than what he planned to do. But he could not be moved from the task ahead of him.
Around a quarter past nine, he parked across the street from Mourning Hill.
He noted, with an ironic smile, that he was only a few feet away from the same ditch into which he had spun several weeks before.
Beyond the shoulder of the road, a large, white-tail deer perched at the edge of the forest. It watched him with onyx-black eyes.
Was this the same deer that he’d attempted to avoid hitting—resulting in his truck flipping over?
The animal stared at him for a beat, almost challengingly. Then it snorted and walked into the woods.
He frowned. Everything about this place was weird.
He looked across the road. Trees hid the house from view. Yet he swore he could feel Mourning Hill back there in the darkness. It radiated an aura of malignant energy.
He didn’t want to get any closer. It was the last place in the world that he wanted to go. A night in a maximum-security prison would be preferable to this.
Coolness streamed over his lap. The driver’s door popped open.
Sammy was prompting him to get out and do what he had to do. His son was in there against his will, and he was his son’s last hope.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m moving. Let’s do this.”
He opened the glove compartment, retrieved a pocket-size flashlight.
Then he reached to the floor. To get the axe.
Raymond used the axe to hack a path through the thick shrubbery that blocked the driveway. The branches cracked like bones under his blade. Clearing his way sapped his strength, though, and he prayed that he could summon a second wind before he made his main move on the house.
Crunching across the last of the felled bushes, he rested the axe on his shoulder and gazed at Mourning Hill.
Look up the word “spooky” in the dictionary, he thought, and this house would be featured. The mansion appeared unchanged since he had first visited, thirty years ago.
His hunch had been correct, too. Mika had come here.
The Rolls Royce was parked at the end of the driveway. Soft light glowed at several of the front windows.
The window of the upper chamber—where, in his dreams, he glimpsed the pulsating green light—was black.
What did that mean? Was their theory about the unearthly power in the house wrong?
He wasn’t quite sure what to believe, and it frightened him.
Although he was afraid, endorphins flooded his blood, granting him the renewed energy boost that he’d hoped for.
And his sense of purpose—indeed, of destiny—had never been more acute. He was scared enough to piss his pants, but it was right for him to be here. No matter the ultimate outcome, he would never regret his decision to come here to rescue his boy. He was, in the truest sense, fulfilling his responsibility to his child.
If he died tonight, he’d die as a man who’d finally earned the right to call himself a father.
From his nightmares, he remembered that approaching the front door would lead him into a trap. This time, the consequences were real, so why take a chance that the same thing might happen here?
Therefore, he walked to the north side of the property. He gripped the axe’s long handle in both hands, ready to swing.
He heard a noise that grew louder as he walked. The sound came from an enclosed area along the side of the house—in his dream, the cemetery of unmarked graves.
It was the sound of shoveling.
Just like in his dream. Walter, undoubtedly, was digging a grave.
But for whom?
He recalled Walter tossing Carmen’s body into the car’s trunk.
Lord, please don’t let it be what I think it is.
Tightening his hold on the axe, he sought cover behind a stout pine tree. He peered around the trunk.
Ahead on his left, there was a wrought iron archway, enwrapped in Spanish moss. A tall fence entwined with more moss enclosed the area beyond the entrance. He didn’t see foot-high crucifixes ju
tting from the ground, however, as he had in his dream. He glimpsed, instead, tall stone statues standing within, veiled in mist and darkness. And the hulking shapes of boxwoods that begged to be trimmed.
Nevertheless, he knew what was really in there, underneath the surface. It was a garden, but a garden of death, not life. Seeded with the corpses of innocent people. Mika’s victims.
Fear skittered down his back.
The shoveling continued with the cold repetition of a machine.
He didn’t want to move any closer. But Walter was in there, and if he didn’t take care of him, first, he would never make it inside the house to help Andrew.
Leaving the cover of the tree, he crept closer to the entryway. He peered around the corner.
Wearing a maniacal grin, Walter swung a shovel at his head.
Chapter 57
When Andrew returned to consciousness, he found himself lying on the bed in the master bedroom.
Mika dozed beside him, her arm covering him possessively. She had changed into a silky, crimson kimono. An empty champagne flute lay on the gold-rimmed nightstand.
On the wide, flat screen TV across the room, a film played, the volume muted. It was one of his favorites: the first Matrix movie.
He remembered seeing flickering images before he passed out—shabby furniture juxtaposed with elegant surroundings—but as he looked around, the chamber was unquestionably luxurious.
He brushed his fingers across the sheets. They felt genuine.
What had he seen before he’d blacked out? Was he losing his ability to distinguish between fantasy and reality?
He didn’t even know the time. He wasn’t wearing his watch, and there were no clocks in the room. He had no idea how long he had been asleep. It could have been minutes, or hours.
It was still night, however; darkness filmed the window across the room. His throat tightened. He didn’t dare glance out of that window again, lest he once more suffer a crippling emotional aftershock.
He carefully lifted Mika’s arm and rolled away from her.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Feeling better?”
Within the Shadows Page 30