Praise for Frank E. Bittinger
"You're beautiful and I will stab anyone who says otherwise."
—Bram Stoker Award-winning author Brian Keene
Angels of the Mourning Light:
“...an interesting mix of shadowy horror and sunny humor with unpredictable twists and turns. Frank E. Bittinger's unique style will draw you in, entertain and raise the hair on the back of your neck."
—Christina Moss, Author of Vampire of My Dreams
Lead Me Into Temptation story from Sinister Landscapes:
“…The dangers of being a porn junkie highlight Frank E. Bittinger’s excellent Lead Me Into Temptation, the final tale in the collection…A case of saving the best for last, Bittinger’s story is the most polished and effective, a gem that serves as emphatic punctuation to the book. An exclamation point."
—Blood of the Muse
Rhayven House:
"Bittinger created a story that is deep and compelling. The characters are intense and as real as it gets. I couldn't put this book down."
—Mark Miner; Author of The Home
“If HGTV’s Fixer Upper merged with SyFy’s Ghost Hunters, it wouldn’t be nearly as good as Rhayven House! Readers will love the chills (including an inexplicably icy doorknob), the surprises, the uncovering of secrets, and the hero, Ian. It's a touch of Grand Guignol. To paraphrase Poe, 'Quoth the raven—buy this book!'”
--Savannah Russe, USA Today Bestselling Author
RHAYVEN HOUSE
Frank E. Bittinger
Published by Frank E. Bittinger
Copyright © 2016 Frank E. Bittinger
Print and Digital
Copyright © 2016 Laura J. Meese
Cover Design
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction from the author. Names, places, characters, and the story within are either from the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to anything/anyone is unintentional and coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher.
For you…
Abyssus abyssum invocat
in voce cataractarum tuarum;
omnes gurgites tui et fluctus tui super me transierunt.
Rhayven House
A Ghost Story
In memory
of all the animals
who never knew love or kindness—
may you be blessed and at peace.
For the people who work so hard to help the animals—
keep up the good work; bless you.
To my baby girl Chiffon, who loved her peanuts and held my hand when she wanted her head scratched.
To the memory of my little girl Mango who always said “Hello” and did her fancy little bow.
To Jeanean Beachy for helping me try.
And last, but not least:
For all those military and law enforcement personnel
—men, women, and animals—
—past, present, and future—
who work so hard to make the world safe
and to protect me.
Sciomancy:
divination through communication
with shades of the dead.
Damnatio Memoriae:
condemnation of memory—
someone must not be remembered.
Spectrophilia:
sexual attraction to and/or sexual interaction
with ghosts/spirits.
RHAYVEN HOUSE
Frank E. Bittinger
By Frank E. Bittinger
A Christmas Canticle
Into the Mirror Black
#7 Preditors & Editors Horror Novel of the Year 2006 Reader Poll
Angels of the Seventh Dawn
#9 Preditors & Editors Horror Novel of the Year 2007 Reader Poll
Angels of the Mourning Light
#4 Preditors & Editors Horror Novel of the Year 2009 Reader Poll
Sinister Landscapes Anthology
(story Lead Me Into Temptation)
#8 Preditors & Editors Anthology of the Year 2008
Reader Poll
Rhayven House
As Dark As I
Future release
Shadows Amongst the Moonlight
Future release
Memory in a Dream
He struck the match and it ignited with a crack that sounded nearly as loud as the thunder outside. The bitter smell of phosphorous filled the air and he could taste it on his tongue when he swallowed.
Quickly he lit the old lamp, taking off the glass chimney and holding the matchstick to the wick before the match either sputtered out or burned his fingers and made him drop it.
The flame danced, reaching real high, and throwing light across the room before he turned it down. It cast just enough light for him to see by. He put the chimney back on. Looking up at the window, he saw nothing but his own reflection. His grandmother hadn't drawn the drapes when she'd put him to bed. The darkness outside and the lamp inside had combined to turn the glass panes into mirrors. He gave his image a big grin before turning away.
A flash of lightning made him jump and he steeled himself for the accompanying rumble of thunder, hoping it wouldn't be too loud. That meant the lightning had crashed close by.
Moving away from the window, he made his way slowly to the bathroom, carrying the glass lamp as carefully as he could. The storm had knocked out the power and he hadn't been able to find the flashlight his grandmother had placed on the nightstand when she'd tucked him in earlier. If he'd been at his house, he could've found his way to the bathroom in the dark, but his mom and dad had brought him over to his grandmother's house like they always did when there was a bad storm.
Maybe they believed the trailer they lived in, which had a metal shell, would attract the lightning. Besides, they wanted him to be somewhere safe just in case. So every time the forecast called for a bad storm, they bundled him up and brought him to his grandmother's house.
He knew she kept an oil lamp and matches in each of the four rooms of her old block house, not counting the little bathroom. He'd quietly crept out of bed and fumbled around in the top dresser drawer until he'd found the stick matches.
It never dawned on him he should have called out for his grandmother instead of getting the matches and lighting the lamp. Seven was old enough to start acting like a big boy, and big boys didn't need anybody to take them to the bathroom.
Not even in the dark.
The heavy wood door to his bedroom was already open so he didn't have to worry about balancing the lamp and opening the door. He could easily walk right into the living room. Being quiet because he didn't want to wake his grandmother, not after he realized she might get real mad because he'd used the matches to light the lamp, he walked.
Stopping in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, he listened to the rain coming down outside. What if he saw the white-haired man again? He remembered seeing the man several times before when he was little, but he hadn't seen him in a while.
One night when he was almost five, his parents and grandmother sat down with him and showed him old family photo albums, asking him to pick out the white-haired man if he saw him. He was able to pick the man with the white hair out readily enough.
The man was his grandmother's husband, his dad's dad, or so his parents told him. The grandfather who had died six months after his grandson was born.
He'd been too young to remember him, too young for his mind to conjure up images of a dead grandfather. No, the white-haired man had been real each time he'd appeared.
Maybe he sh
ould go back to his room, put the lamp back, blow it out, and then call for his grandmother. But he really had to go and by the time he did all that, it might be too late. The only thing worse than getting yelled at by his grandmother would be her knowing he wet the bed.
No, he could do it.
Across the kitchen was the bathroom. He'd put the lamp on the sink, pee, and get back to his room. It would only take a couple minutes.
Lightning flashed outside, lighting up the kitchen. It was soon followed by the rumbling. He swore he felt the floor move beneath his feet. The sound of the rain really made him have to go. Real bad.
“Don't you be here, white-haired man,” he briefly squeezed his eyes shut and whispered.
Steeling himself once more against the storm and against the thought of the white-haired man, he put one foot in front of the other and counted his steps across the kitchen. Casting a glance at his grandmother's bedroom, he saw she'd left the door open, so he had to make sure he was quiet enough not to wake her. After what felt like an eternity, he finally made it to the bathroom.
Gently, he set the lamp on the sink, making sure it was far enough from the edge so it wouldn't accidentally fall off. The glass against the old porcelain sink made a slight ringing and he winced, hoping the sound wouldn't be enough to wake his grandmother. Then he turned to stand in front of the toilet. He couldn't wait any longer. Lifting the toilet seat with one hand, he pulled his pajama pants down with the other.
The flickering flame cast odd little shadows on the walls and after making sure his aim was true, he closed his eyes. Relief came instantly; it was so great his flesh broke out in goose bumps. He nearly audibly sighed.
Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder...
Born into superstition,
there is a broken mirror in my past;
And I have my suspicion,
my future will be full of shattered glass.
One
...He jerked awake and instinctively reached for the lamp on the nightstand beside the bed. Light drove back the dark. Sitting up, he threw the blankets off and wiped the sweat from his forehead. A bead trickled along his jawline and he wiped it away before it could slide down his neck.
Yet he still felt the weight of the hand, its grasp.
The dream didn't usually cause him to break out in a sweat and wake up with his heart racing. Putting his palm against his chest, he willed his heart to slow down and not burst through his rib cage.
When he'd calmed, he checked the alarm clock on the nightstand and saw it was almost time for him to get up anyway. He swung his legs over, put his feet on the floor, and stood. Somewhere between his bed and the shower, he decided maybe it would be a good day to take a walk, get some fresh air, and just enjoy nature in all its glory.
~ ~ ~
When he caught his first glimpse of the house, Dorian Harket, also known as Ian by his friends, was walking in the hills, a walk he had taken many times before with his beloved dog. Alex would run and bark her heart out on those walks. She’d passed away the previous June, days before his birthday, at the age of sixteen and a half. He’d rescued Alex from an owner who’d neglected the puppy during the first two months of her life; actually, he had stolen her and never regretted his action.
Almost a year had passed since her death and he wanted to see if time had healed the loss of her enough for him to take that walk again and reminisce about the good times. Maybe he'd be able to enjoy his birthday this year.
Ian missed her every day and still found himself thinking he needed to take Alex out for a walk before he went to bed each night. His first thought upon waking and as soon as his eyes opened, was he needed to get up and take her out. Each time he remembered she was gone and he mourned her, the grief squeezing his heart like a massive fist, tight enough to make him lose his breath.
Memories of their time spent walking through the hills flooded his mind, and for a moment it overwhelmed him and he thought it might bring him to his knees. Everywhere he looked brought back memories of Alex bursting through the foliage or barking at a bird or squirrel. She thoroughly enjoyed the time they’d spent outside; if he closed his eyes and believed, he could convince himself he heard her barks echoing off the mountainside.
Almost. But it wasn't the same.
Communing with nature and memories like this, Ian suddenly felt as if he should be chanting or making an offering to the past. Swinging an incense scepter around and spreading the scent. Something more than just walking through the woods and reminiscing. It sounded like a bad song lyric, but that’s exactly what he came to do; walk and think and remember. Honor his little girl, because she wasn’t a pet to him. To Ian she'd been a child.
After an hour or so he couldn’t take it any more and decided to turn back and head for home. It was a pleasant trip down memory lane, but he didn’t feel he was ready to explore those memories any further for the time being.
Out of the corner of his eye. Ian caught a flash of light. Maybe a reflection of light off a shiny surface, and something inside him urged him to investigate.
Taking a closer look, he cupped his hands around his eyes. He could hardly make it out. It was down there, whatever it was. He squinted and peered, willing his eyes to become more binocular-like.
Nestled down in the valley, mostly buried by trees and other foliage, stood a building. Ian squinted to make sure. A house, he was pretty sure. He’d never realized there was anything down there but woods. But upon closer view, he made out an old, overgrown road leading from the house to…somewhere or nowhere.
Ian decided he should investigate. He made his way carefully down the hillside and into the valley, not that it was a particularly long or treacherous journey. In less than ten minutes he stood staring at a stone wall taller than he was. It had to be more than six feet. He looked to his left and then to his right and once again to the right, figuring there would be an entrance at some point.
Choosing right, he walked for a few more minutes and soon he found himself standing before a pair of ancient gates. Stone columns, the same stone as the wall flanking the gates. Atop each column standing sentry were what he assumed were bird statutes. Crows, maybe. Or ravens, had to be ravens. To him, they looked like almost the same thing. Nevertheless, it was creepy. Like discovering an ancient Egyptian relic, but it would have been a heck of a lot creepier if the statues had been vultures or something like that. Very antiquated but ornate lanterns, one on each column, waited to be lit again. Someone had once loved this house.
The attention to detail on the entrance to the property was staggering. The intricate pattern of the gates alone made him pause long enough to trace his finger along some of the metal; he remembered reading an article about Stephen King’s house and the spider web gates he had on his front entrance. Ian loved the photo he saw online, and was a little jealous.
While these gates weren’t exactly wide open to invite him in, one was slightly ajar. Peering through the wrought iron design, Ian glimpsed the house, cloistered as it was. He pushed; he grunted as he pushed again, but the gate was rusted in place and wouldn’t open further. He tested it to see how big the opening was—enough for him to shove his head through.
Wide enough for me to squeeze through.
Hopefully he wouldn’t get scraped or punctured by the metal and end up needing a tetanus shot to stave off some kind of bizarre infection. That'd be the last thing he needed. But no risk, no payoff.
As he endeavored to push his way through, and in the process, he ripped some of the vines that had entwined the scrollwork and they snagged his shirt.
Once inside, he surveyed his surroundings. Weeds dominated what apparently used to be a gravel or crushed stone driveway. Even a few trees had taken root and grown. It didn’t require a genius intellect to know no vehicle had traveled to this place for quite some time, decade upon decade. Even so, enough of the driveway remained for him to recognize it for what it was.
During the couple minutes it took for him to reach the
house, he’d figured out what story he would tell if in fact he stumbled upon someone living there. He needn’t have bothered. When he came close enough to the house, he knew immediately it had been abandoned years before.
Strong white block architecture mixed here and there with what could be Victorian and Second Empire, Italianate, and quite a few other elements he didn’t recognize right off. Dilapidated and in dire need of patient doctoring, it still possessed enough of its former elegance to entice him. Most of the windows were long gone and the gaps stood out like missing teeth in the weathered face of a former silver screen siren. A handsome porte-cochère had been added at some point at the side entrance and Ian envisioned a fantastic chandelier hanging overhead to illuminate the guests who’d arrived for a dinner party. A work of art, a masterpiece.
He half-expected a few specters to be leering at him through the remaining windows, their phantom faces a mix of sunlight and shadow, as they watched him and wondered what the hell he wanted with their house. Their sanctuary. And even if those specters weren’t there, a creative writer such as himself could spin a tale about a house like this and populate it with a legion of lost souls; some lusting for vengeance because they’d been wronged in some way or another; others wiling away their afterlife in the place they’d loved the most and been the happiest.
Walking up to the main entry, he knocked and waited just in case. Beautiful double doors with what could only be sidelights and a transom window above that had been boarded up; hopefully the original glass was still intact behind the boards. When no one came to answer the door, he tried the handle. Locked or rusted in place, it refused to budge. Then Ian noticed the padlock; he wasn’t deterred. He walked around the house and saw each door was padlocked.
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