by Jack Kilborn
He stood up, chin raised, chest out. The flames closed in around him, but Forenzi didn’t care one bit. Even as his coat caught fire, it didn’t matter to him. Forenzi felt invincible.
But in short order, it did begin to hurt.
Quite a lot.
As he burned, Forenzi wasn’t frightened at all, even when the pain became intolerable. And it occurred to him that being scared might actually be a good thing. Soldiers without fear would rush blindly into a firefight without taking the proper precautions. Nations without fear would hit that nuclear launch without considering the consequences.
“Maybe this wasn’t my best idea.” Forenzi thought as the flames ignited his hair.
Then his brain boiled and he didn’t think about anything anymore.
Fran
She hit the dirt, falling onto her chest, bringing up her rifle and not bothering to check if the shots had penetrated her vest or not. Fran quickly sighted the targets, all armed with handguns. An Asian man with black eyes, a woman dressed as a gypsy, also with black eyes, and a guy in a gray suit.
None of them were even attempting to take cover. They walked up the hallway, guns extended, acting as if they were bulletproof.
They weren’t. Fran took them out with three quick head shots.
“Clear!” she yelled to Mal and Deb, who had all fallen back.
Then she checked herself for damage. The Kevlar had stopped the rounds, but it still hurt like hell. Like someone had worked her over with a sledgehammer.
“Help! Help!”
Fran raised her weapon, saw a woman coming at her. She had at least a dozen bleeding wounds on her, and appeared unarmed.
“It’s Moni,” Deb said. “She’s with us!”
Fran covered her anyway.
“Frank got shot,” Moni said. “Sara is with him. There’s also another man who needs help. I’m getting a first aid kit. Also, someone may have started a fire.”
Moni ran past. Fran got off the ground and followed Woof as he led them down two turns and straight to the wounded. There was smoke, and it was quickly filling the tunnel.
Fran glanced at the man who was shot, and the other man, who looked like he’d been dropped in a blender on puree.
She didn’t see how either of them were going to survive.
But she shouldered her rifle and helped just the same.
Moni
She wasn’t quite sure where she was going, but she was in a damn big hurry to get there. It didn’t help that the only light she had was the matches she’d found in the lab, and she had to stop constantly to light one to see where she was.
By some extreme stroke of luck, she found the stairs to the upper level, and less than a minute later she was opening the door to Tom’s room.
Her match went out as soon as she entered. As Moni began to strike another one, she heard something that scared the shit out of her.
“Hee hee hee hee.”
Lighting the match, Moni saw she was standing next to a bloody guy with a gas mask on, holding a huge meat cleaver.
“Hee hee,” he said.
Moni cracked him upside the head with her iron bar, and when he fell she kept beating him until he stopped moving.
“What’s so goddamn funny now, asshole?”
She lit one of the candles in the room and held it while she searched, finding Tom’s suitcase open on the bed. The first aid kit was on top, and Moni grabbed it and ran out of the room—
—right into that psycho who shot Frank. The one who smelled like barbecue.
She swung the metal bar, but he ducked and came up behind her, getting Moni in a choke hold. He pressed the gun to her temple.
“Time to die, whore.”
Tom
Torble ran as soon as he saw Tom coming, and after rounding a corner he ducked into a room. Tom followed, going in low, and saw he was in a root cellar.
An empty root cellar.
Torble had disappeared.
Tom looked around, but the room was completely empty. No place to hide. No exits. It didn’t make any sense.
Then he recalled the Butler House website, which talked extensively about secret passages and hidden staircases. Walking to the far wall, he ran his hand across the brick until he found a seam. Tom pushed against it, and it swung on hinges, exposing an old, wooden ladder.
Tom looked up, unable to see where it led. He went up anyway, climbing in the dark, expecting Torble to shoot him at any moment. The smarter thing to do was to go back, meet with the others, and get the hell out. But Tom didn’t want to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, waiting for Torble to come calling. He wanted to finish this, today.
The ladder ended in a small, dark room the size of a closet. Tom found a latch, pushed it open, and then he saw he was on the second floor of Butler House, the only light coming from a candle—
—that Moni held. And behind Moni…
“Hello, Detective. What are you going to do now?”
Tom aimed at Torble’s head.
“Don’t you remember?” Tom said. “I’m the hero, rushing in to save the day.”
“Don’t be stupid. You’re going to drop the gun, or I’ll blow this whore’s head off.”
“I’m not a whore anymore,” Moni said. “And I’m getting goddamn sick of all these goddamn psychos trying to hurt me.”
Moni thrust the candle behind her, into Torble’s face.
He cried out, letting her go.
She dropped to the floor.
Tom fired three times, two in his chest and one in his head.
Then he rushed over, pulling the gun out of Torble’s dead hand.
“Not bad for a pig,” Moni appraised. “I got your kit. Let’s go save Frank.”
They ran for the stairs as smoke began to fill Butler House.
Duncan
The men in gray walked out of the house and began shooting at Josh. He watched as his Dad was hit in both legs, watched as he fell to the ground, pinning his rifle underneath his body, unable to return fire.
The men kept shooting.
Duncan jumped into the van and didn’t remember anything Josh taught him.
He didn’t put on his seatbelt.
He didn’t check his mirrors.
He didn’t put his foot on the brake when he started the engine.
He just cranked it and mashed the gas pedal to the floor, the van spinning tires, and headed straight for those assholes shooting his father. They didn’t even try to get out of the way as he ran them both over, splattering the hood and windshield with blood.
Then he hit the brakes, threw the van into park, and ran to Josh.
“Dad!”
“I’m okay,” he said. “Just winged in the legs. Come here.”
Duncan knelt down and hugged his father, hugged him so tight.
“Nice driving, son.”
Duncan began to cry. “I forgot to wear my seatbelt.”
Josh patted his back. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. You did really, really good.”
And they held each other until Mom and Woof appeared with a group of people, including two wounded. A moment later, two more people came out of Butler House, a man and a woman. The woman helped Mom use a first aid kit on Dad, bandaging his legs. The man put some sort of plastic disk on another guy’s chest, the guy who had been either stabbed or shot.
“I hope hope hope heaven has heroin,” the shot guy said.
Then everyone got into the van and Mom drove away. Duncan watched through the back window, petting Woof, Mathison perched on his shoulder, as Butler House burned, lighting up the night sky.
Epilogue
At Bon Secours-St. Francis Hospital in Charleston, South Carolina, Dr. Frank Belgium died on the operating table at 12:52am from a gunshot wound to the chest.
He was resuscitated at 12:53am.
When he regained consciousness eight hours later, he asked the duty nurse for heroin. He repeated himself three times. He was administered morphine instead.
The woman who was admitted with him, Sara Randhurst, had eighty three stitches in her fingers, which she demanded be done in Frank’s room because she refused to leave his side.
Both were expected to make a full recovery. As was Chicago Homicide Detective Roy Lewis, who was treated for shock, dehydration, and multiple burns, cuts, and contusions.
Josh VanCamp, also treated for GSWs, left the hospital after treatment against doctor’s orders. He and his wife Fran called an immediate press conference, where they were joined by Mal and Deb Deiter. They all spoke at length about what had occurred at Butler House, and about what happened years ago in Safe Haven, Wisconsin.
Public outcry was universal. Full investigations were demanded.
Butler House burned for two full days, until almost nothing remained. What was left was bulldozed over by the state.
During the demolition, four construction workers reported seeing ghosts, and one was fatally injured when a piece of equipment malfunctioned, crushing him. When tested later, the equipment appeared to be in perfect working order.
FOUR WEEKS LATER
Hollywood, California
Tom
The sun beat down on Tom as he sprawled out on the chaise lounge, baking him almost as brown as Roy, who occupied the chaise to his right.
The Hotel Roosevelt was one of Joan’s hang outs, and she’d pulled some strings and gotten them suites for practically free. Tom’s Sam Adams was almost empty, and he was going to do rock, paper, scissors with Roy for who got the next round when a very pretty little blonde in a teeny little bikini came up to them.
“Ooh, how did you get all those scars?” she asked Roy.
“I’m a cop. I was tortured for a week by some maniacs dressed as ghosts. Shot me, too. You heard of Butler House?”
The swimsuit model’s eyes got wide. “Oh my gosh! You were at Butler House?”
Roy nodded. “Lemme buy you a cocktail, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Roy took her hand and led her to the poolside tiki bar.
“He’s adjusting well,” Joan said. She was in the chaise on Tom’s other side. Also in a bikini, also very pretty.
“Roy doesn’t remember most of it. I think he’s going to be okay.”
“Are you?”
He reached out and held her hand. “I’m getting better every day.”
Joan took a sip of lemonade. She had to visit a shoot later, so she wasn’t drinking. “That hooker. Moni. She’s a real trip. Killed three of those psychos by herself. Amazing woman.”
“No kidding. And she’s not a hooker. She’s a dominatrix. No sex. Just figging.”
“What’s figging?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Joan whipped out her iPhone and Googled it. A moment later she made a face.
“Figging is sticking a ginger root up someone’s butt. It is supposed to cause an intense burning sensation. Why would anyone willingly do that?”
“I said you didn’t want to know. And thanks for finding a press agent for her.”
“Are you kidding? I’m going to produce the movie. There’s a bidding war now for her story. Up to seven figures.”
Tom shook his head, amused as hell. So she finally got her million bucks. Go, Moni.
“Am I going to be a character in the flick?” Tom asked.
“Maybe.”
“Who is going to play me?”
“We’re talking to Nick Cage’s people.”
“Nicholas Cage? Really?
“No. But Jason Alexander is interested.”
“George from Seinfeld?”
“He’s got some serious drama chops.”
Tom shrugged and drained his beer. The sun felt glorious, except for on the scar on his chest, which still hurt like hell a month later. Burns sucked.
“Mind if I ask you something?” Joan said. “Something personal?”
“Shoot.”
“When you were being branded, did you ever want to give up?”
Tom turned to her. “Who? Me? Of course not.”
“What kept you going?”
“Thoughts of you, of course. I realized I couldn’t let him break me, because then I’d never see your face again.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Joan leaned over and gave him a peck on the lips. “I call bullshit.”
“As soon as Torble left, I kicked out the IV to try and bleed to death.”
“That I believe.”
“But I did think of you.”
“I’m sure.”
“I did. I swear.”
Tom gave her a quick, but tender, peck on the cheek.
“So you really want to quit the force?” she asked.
“Yeah. Roy and I are thinking about opening up a fishing charter business.”
“In California?”
“I heard they have an ocean somewhere close.”
Joan ran a finger across his belly and grinned. “I think I could get used to having you around all the time.”
“I could, too.”
“And I remembered something. Something you asked me about. Last time I was at your place, I was watching you take a shower.”
“Pervert.”
“That was the night we drank all that wine. So I think it was me who wrote I’m watching you on your mirror.”
Tom laughed. That was the last thing that had nagged him about the whole Butler House experience, and now it had been resolved. Case closed. Time to get on with life.
“You know what?” he said.
“What?”
“I think I’d like to watch you take a shower.”
“Peeping Tom, huh?” She smiled and sat up. “Race you to our room. Loser washes the winner’s back.”
Joan won.
But Tom was the one who really did.
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Frank
Dr. Frank Belgium was sitting in his easy chair, Jack on his lap. The boy was an absolute marvel. Cute. Smart. More fun than Frank ever could have imagined.
Even if he hadn’t married his mother, he would have still wanted Jack around.
“Ma ma ma,” Jack said.
“I think he wants you,” Frank said to Sara. “He said mama.”
Sara got up off the sofa and took Jack in her arms. “He didn’t say mama. He said ma ma ma. He repeated his word three times.”
“Hmm. Now where do you think he picked that up?”
“Where do you think?”
“Do I do do do that?”
“Yes you do do do.”
They exchanged a smile. The moment was interrupted by the doorbell.
Frank moved to get up, but Sara told him to stay put.
“I’m not an invalid, dear. The doctor said I need the exercise.”
He pulled himself out of the chair, wincing at the slight pain from his still-healing wound, and used his cane to make it to the front door.
Frank didn’t like what he saw in the peephole. Two men in black suits. One holding a Secret Service badge.
“Who is it?” Sara asked.
“It’s for me. I’ve got got got it.” Frank opened the door a crack. “Can I help you?”
“Dr. Frank Belgium? The President sent us. Your country needs you.”
“Tell the President I’m not interested.”
“Please, sir. Can we have just one moment of your time?”
Frank was thrown by how polite they were. Asking, not demanding. Reserved, not threatening.
“I’m done with all this,” he said. “I have a family now.”
“Believe me, Dr. Belgium, your country recognizes the sacrifices you’ve made, and they are appreciated. But we truly need your help. Even if it is only on an advisory basis.”
Frank sighed, then let them in. “Okay, but but but let’s keep it in the hallway. I don’t want you upsetting my wife or son.”
He let them in, and one of them handed Frank a manila folder. Frank didn’t want to take it. As if
sensing his reluctance, the agent opened it and held a picture for Belgium to see.
It was of a cow. A very dead cow, almost stripped to the bone.
“I’m a very good scientist, gentlemen, but even I don’t think I can help help help you save that cow.”
“Here is a close-up of the lower right hand section of the picture, Dr. Belgium.”
He held up a second photo, grainier, zooming in to the cow’s ribcage.
Perched there, staring into the camera, was a tiny, red creature with bat wings and large horns.
“Do you recognize that, Dr. Belgium? We believe it is one of the demons that escaped from the facility you worked at. Project Samhain.”
The biologist made a face, and the first thought that popped into his mind escaped his lips before he could stop it.
“Uh oh.”
AUTHOR NOTE
For those interested in reading the backstories of the various characters in Haunted House, here is the chronological order of the works they appear in.
ORIGIN (Dr. Frank Belgium)
THE LIST (Tom Mankowski and Roy Lewis)
SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT (Moni Draper)
AFRAID (Josh, Fran, Duncan, Woof, and Mathias VanCamp)
TRAPPED (Sara Randhurst)
ENDURANCE (Mal and Deb Dieter)
Dr. Frank Belgium will return in SECOND COMING
Tom Mankowski, Roy Lewis, and Joan DeVillers will return in THE NINE
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Use your device’s BACK button feature to return to your place in the book.
Mal and Deb Dieter first appeared in the Jack Kilborn novel Endurance, which took place at the Rushmore Inn in West Virginia. Mal is a sports reporter. He’s missing his hand. Deb is an athlete who competes regularly in the Paralympics and triathlons. She has prosthetic legs.
Roy Lewis and Tom Mankowski first appeared in the JA Konrath novel The List, which ended in Springfield, Illinois. They have made cameos in several novels in the Jack Daniels series (Cherry Bomb, Shaken, Stirred). They are both Homicide Detectives that work in Chicago.
Dr. Frank Belgium first appeared in the JA Konrath novel Origin, working for Project Samhain in New Mexico. He’s a molecular biologist and has a speech dysfluency, where he sometimes repeats the same word three times.