Within These Walls

by Ania Ahlborn

  No. The word screamed through her head. They’re all crazy. She cried out, struggling against Noah’s and Kenzie’s grip. I have to get out of here, I have to save my baby. She opened her mouth to scream—one more attempt at protest. But she was gagged before she could pull in enough breath.

  Deacon pressed a rag over her mouth. It was wet, choking her with the scent of alcohol, or maybe it was acetone. She continued to fight, trying to kick out her legs to get Deacon away. Except they were suddenly too heavy to move. Her hearing went fuzzy, as though she were drowning. Her vision blurred. She heard Shadow bark, watched Maggie’s fading figure catch him by the collar and pull him back while her dog yipped and tried to get to his owner.

  The last thing she ever saw was Jeff leaning over her. He was smiling. And all she could think was that he was still beautiful. If she had just tried harder, maybe it would have been different.

  Maybe it would have all worked out in the end.

  58

  * * *

  VEE COULDN’T MOVE, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t look away as Jeffrey Halcomb grabbed her father and, in a shimmer of light, seemed to vaporize right before her eyes.

  Astral projection, she thought.

  Out-of-body experience.

  Etheric travel.

  But there was something about her father, something different. His eyes. His posture. The way he was now looking at her, a faint smile tugging at a single corner of his mouth.

  “Do you trust me, Vivi?” His words released her from her stasis. The cross glinted in his hand. That nickname . . . her dad would never call her that.

  “I do.” What? She listened to the words come out of her throat—words that she wasn’t saying but couldn’t stop. What’s happening to me? She fought against herself as she moved forward. Her hand extended out to reach for the man who looked like her father but was no longer her dad. She knew then; her father was gone, replaced by the one who had promised her happiness if she’d only forget. Forget he ever existed.

  “Then don’t be afraid,” he said, catching her hand in his. The moment their fingers touched, Vee swayed on her feet. A sharp scent overwhelmed her. It smelled like a salon. Like nail polish remover. Suddenly she was tired, so tired, as though some inexplicable toxin had entered her bloodstream. Her tongue flicked out across her bottom lip, tasting sweet cherries, bitter almonds. Her gaze drifted to the kitchen, to the cherries that littered the orange-topped kitchen island. The mortar and pestle. The cherry pits she knew were there, ground into powder. Why would anyone grind cherry pits for cider? Why would anyone do that? Why?

  “Close your eyes, Vivi,” he whispered, drawing her closer. “Long live, remember? Long live into forever.”

  He drew his hand down her back, and Vee’s legs gave way. Her feet left the ground as the man with her father’s face lifted her up into his arms, moving into the circle of the dead.

  She couldn’t have fought him if she wanted to. Her body, limp now, felt as though it weighed a thousand pounds.

  59

  * * *

  LUCAS THRASHED INSIDE himself. No. He watched himself go through motions he couldn’t control. No! he screamed, but the sound never made it past the space between his skull and his brain, it never reached his throat. He fought to break free. This isn’t happening! And yet, despite his panic, his heartbeat was steady. Even his pulse was no longer his.

  Jeanie’s hair spilled to the floor in easy waves of gold. He smoothed his fingers across her forehead, staring down at his little girl as her eyes rolled back into her head. Lucas’s fingers, Jeff’s fingers, squeezed the cross held fast in his hand. So hard it cut into his palm. Strange how he had stared at it only hours before, wondering what it would feel like to stab something so blunt into the side of his own neck. He had begun to wonder if that’s why Jeff had given him the cross in the first place—to repeat what Schwartz had done in his jail cell. Because this house had become Lucas’s prison. Maybe his blood was supposed to soak into the rug where Audra Snow’s blood had spilled so many years ago.

  But now he understood. Jeff didn’t intend for Lucas to kill himself. Hell, he hadn’t ever meant for Lucas to write a book about him at all.

  I’ve taken a liking to your method . . . your ability to bring the past to life—to resurrect it, if you will.

  Jeffrey hadn’t been speaking figuratively in his letter, and he hadn’t been referring to Lucas’s writing. Jeff Halcomb had known that he’d be taking his own life as soon as he knew Lucas was the right man for the job. Jeffrey needed a vessel for his own disembodied soul, and Lucas was the perfect host.

  And Jeanie? How had Jeffrey known about her? Caroline had expressed her worry about Lucas noting that he lived in New York with his wife and young daughter on the biography page that appeared at the end of his books. Who knows what kind of weirdos are out there, she’d mused. But even if Jeff had known about Jeanie, how could he have been sure Lucas would bring her to Pier Pointe? How would he guarantee himself a sacrifice?

  That’s what Echo was for.

  Echo must have been going back and forth between Jeffrey and Lucas. Jeffrey probably suggested the box of photographs himself. It’s why she had appeared so conveniently, just in time to keep Lucas from packing up again and hitting the road. Jeff had told her to leave the cross at the front desk. Echo had never been there to help, never been there as a friend.

  Dad, what if he makes you do something?

  Lucas had been arrogant. Had underestimated Jeffrey Halcomb’s power.

  Those people that died? They probably didn’t think they were gullible, either.

  He had been desperate to believe his luck had turned. He had allowed blind faith to draw him forward, to pull him to this very place.

  Fighting against Halcomb’s movements, his right arm rose over his head at half speed. A shout of defiance lodged in his throat, Jeff’s throat, as they stared down at the girl draped across their knee.

  You are Lucas Graham! Lucas screamed the mantra inside his own head, desperate to shake free of Jeffrey’s hold. You can do anything!

  Anything but provide for your family, Jeff reminded him.

  Your failures are only failures in your mind!

  And in Caroline’s mind. In your daughter’s mind.

  You will only succeed if you believe you deserve it!

  What you deserve is to be punished, Lou, for what you’ve put your daughter through. This is your punishment. You lose, Lucas. Only God wins in this house.

  “Don’t worry,” he heard himself say. “I’ll finish your book. That’s all you really wanted out of this anyway, right?”

  Jeffrey Halcomb’s word was his bond. He had promised Lucas a story, and a story Lucas would get.

  “Death is the beginning of eternity,” Jeff whispered.

  His arm swung down.

  Lucas screamed inside himself.

  The cross sank deep into the flesh of Jeanie’s abdomen. Warm blood bubbled out from between his fingers as she bucked against his knee.

  Lucas wailed. Thrashed. Used up the last of his energy to break through. But rather than overcoming that strange, involuntary existence, Jeanie began to fade. The walls of the house began to shiver.

  She’s becoming a ghost, he thought. She’s dying.

  Death was clear. The blood that soaked Jeanie’s shirt was assurance of that. But it wasn’t she who was fading—it was Lucas’s vision that was blurring. He was the one who was disappearing. Because Jeff already had a soul. He certainly didn’t need two.

  Blood poured onto the floor.

  And what about the others?

  Who cares about the others?

  The dead, lying motionless around them, began to open their eyes as though waking from a long, lucid dream.

  All of them save for two.

  Echo remained where she had fallen, motionless, unbreathing, unneeded
. Jeanie’s breathing continued to waver as she bled out. For the chosen one to live, some had to die.

  “Death brings life,” Jeff said. Lucas tried to yell again, but he couldn’t. He was too tired. Exhausted. Heavy.

  “Life brings death brings life.” A girl’s voice—Jeanie? No, it was unfamiliar, joined by another, by a third. There were eight people in total, all sitting up now, all crawling toward the center of the circle they had made. Their hands pressed into the blood that pooled beneath Jeanie’s limp and supine frame. They smeared bloody fingers across their faces and throats, tasting new life as it poured from their sacrificial lamb.

  Jeffrey didn’t look away from the dying girl in his lap, but he did smile. He couldn’t help it as the sound of laughter filled the room.

  Joyous. Happy.

  They believed that they too were alive, just like him, able to wander beyond the walls of the house. But how does one wander without a body to do it with?

  They thought everything was just as Jeff had promised.

  Because they were desperate. Sad and reckless like they’d always been. Disaffected, rejected, toeing the edge of insanity with their boundless, teetering hopes. They had trusted Jeff to fix it all, to mend their broken lives.

  And so had Lucas Graham.

  NORTHWEST NEWS 1 TRANSCRIPT

  Aired June 28, 2014 – 08:00 PST

  KATARINA WELLS, NWN1 REPORTER: And finally, tragedy shakes the small coastal town of Pier Pointe, where officers and residents have been left reeling from the shock of what appears to be a murder/suicide at a home once owned by the late Washington State congressman Terrance Snow.

  The late-night emergency call was placed to authorities by the home’s current renter, bestselling true-crime writer and native New Yorker Lucas Graham. The hysterical Graham reported that his home had been broken into by a neighbor, a woman who Graham claimed was a devotee of the recently deceased cult leader Jeffrey Christopher Halcomb. The home, which had been occupied by Halcomb, his group of eight devotees, and Congressman Snow’s late daughter, Audra, from 1982 through March of 1983, has a history of attracting the attention of people with alternative views.

  (Begin Video Clip)

  CLARANCE ALBERTI, PIER POINTE RESIDENT: Yeah, everyone around these parts knew about that place. Most of us would stay well away. Lots of weirdos every now and again, all because of that house.

  KATARINA WELLS, NWN1 REPORTER: When officers arrived on scene, Graham’s twelve-year-old daughter, Virginia, was found dead in the living room next to a neighbor, who police identified as Eloise James. Ms. James appeared to have ingested poison, the same manner of suicide of both Jeffrey Halcomb—his death occurring earlier that day at Lambert Correctional Facility—and his parishioners, who had died in the home thirty years earlier. Officers on the scene reported that a distraught Lucas Graham was covered in his own daughter’s blood, but are confident in his story of attempting to save her life.

  OFFICER EDWARD MCGIBBON, PIER POINTE PD: When the resident mentioned Jeffrey Halcomb, we immediately contacted LCF to try to add the stories up. The front desk receptionist at the prison was familiar with Mr. Graham. We have evidence that Eloise James made frequent visits to Mr. Halcomb in the past few months. We’re in the process of obtaining a search warrant for her home to follow up on Mr. Graham’s claims that she really was a Halcomb devotee. We’re not ruling anything out yet, but we’re confident that Mr. ­Graham’s story is corroborated by the facts.

  (End Video Clip)

  KATARINA WELLS, NWN1 REPORTER: If the Jeffrey Halcomb connection isn’t a bizarre enough twist, early this morning Officer Joshua Morales of Lambert Correctional Facility was found dead at his residence. The officer seems to have stabbed himself in the throat with what appears to be a crucifix he had hanging in his home. This coincides with the artifact used in the death of Graham’s twelve-year-old daughter, suggesting that Morales was also more intimately involved with Jeffrey Halcomb than his job as a prison guard entailed. Officer Morales was the guard on duty when Halcomb took his own life. Lambert Correctional Facility has yet to comment on the case.

  We will continue our coverage throughout the day as details unfold. Stay tuned for local weather after the break.

  THE BOOK

  LOU GAVE THE odd couple standing in front of his table a tentative smile and handed back their signed copy of Jeffrey Halcomb: I Am the Lamb. The Fifth Avenue Barnes & Noble was packed to the gills with readers, and his interview in USA Today hadn’t done much to thin out the crowd. The Halcomb case—from the suicide of Josh Morales to the deaths of Jeffrey, Echo, and Jeanie—had re­ignited public interest. Lou couldn’t have gotten better publicity if he had bargained his soul.

  “You’re very brave,” said the woman. She pursed her plum-­colored lips and pushed a few strands of black dyed hair behind her ear. “To switch from true crime to fiction, that’s a big deal. I mean, the whole based-on-a-true-story angle just gives the book such a boost. And writing this in first person . . .”

  “Effective,” her male counterpart cut in. He was a good fifty pounds overweight, crushing a half-empty Starbucks Frappuccino cup against a faded Metallica T-shirt. “Creepy as hell, man. Stephen King stuff. Almost like you’re writing as Halcomb, huh? Totally effective.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it,” Lou said.

  “And the stuff about eternal life, do you really believe that?” The woman’s sudden intensity was endearing, but the dozens of piercings that littered her face made it hard to look her in the eye. Lou didn’t get it, just as he still didn’t quite get cell phones and the Internet and the popularity of reality TV. The psychiatrist had diagnosed him with a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. She said that, in order to deal with the loss of his daughter, he had blocked out his knowledge of the most everyday things. Most of those things were technological, and she couldn’t quite grasp why that was. But the mind is a tricky thing. Anything is possible with PTSD, she said. Just give it time. Things will get better.

  But Lou didn’t need things to get better. Things were great. Caroline called him every now and again to scream-weep her way through her own grief. She blamed him entirely for the death of their daughter. Other than seething, she wanted nothing to do with him. Thank God. Mark—whom Lou had deduced was one of Lucas’s closest friends—tried to get in touch, but all it took was a simple I can’t handle this right now to start fading that particular friendship. It was incredible what you could blame on sorrow. Nobody could claim that Lou had changed without looking like an asshole. Of course he’d changed. Look at what he’d been through.

  Besides, Lou didn’t want friends. He wanted a family.

  “I lost my daughter,” Lou told the couple, his tone level, albeit a bit softer than before. “It’s easier to believe that she’s still around.” Grief was the ideal platform. Everyone wanted to reach out and relate. Everyone wanted to accommodate the sad, suffering poet. It broke down people’s walls. It made them vulnerable in ways they couldn’t imagine.

  “And your friend, the cop . . .” the guy said.

  “Guard,” the woman corrected.

  “Yeah, guard. That’s crazy. Him killing himself, I mean. Just nuts, man.”

  “Depends on how you look at it,” Lou said.

  Legally, he hadn’t been allowed to write the book as true crime, and he hadn’t been able to reference Josh Morales by name. His editor had insisted they market the book as a fictionalization of actual events, for obvious reasons. Lou hadn’t been crazy about the idea, but if it was the only way to get the book out, so be it. And while Lou hadn’t anticipated Morales going through with suicide, it was a great angle, one he was milking for all it was worth, legality be damned.

  “We’ll be talking about that later tonight, if you want to stop in.” Lifting a small square flyer from next to a stack of books, Lou handed it to the couple. “Join me?”

  “Wow, yeah, mayb
e we will,” the woman said, looking over the details printed on the paper.

  “Cool, thanks, Mr. Graham,” said the man.

  “Please, call me Lou.” He gave them both a wink and waited for them to move on, then let his gaze drift down the crooked line that stretched toward the back end of the store.

  As the couple sauntered away, John Cormick ducked back into the mix, placed a fresh can of Coke at Lou’s elbow, and gave him a sturdy pat on the back as he pulled up a chair. “How’s it going, Lou?” he asked. “Really brought out the weirdos with this one, man. Everything from cult fanatics to ghost hunters, huh? Black T-shirts and witchcraft as far as the eye can see.”

  Lou smirked. He didn’t like John, but Lucas’s literary agent had been the final piece to the puzzle. Without him, Lou wouldn’t have had the first clue about getting his book published. And so he’d stuck with John, despite the guy getting on his nerves.

  “My only complaint is that you didn’t jump on the voodoo bandwagon sooner.” John flashed Lou a megawatt smile, but Lou didn’t return it. “Shit, sorry,” John said. “With all this success, I mean . . . you doing okay, bud? You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

  “Sure,” Lou said. “Get me more readers.”

  “More?” John barked out a laugh. “I think you’ve got all of Manhattan in here and you want more?”

  “More is better,” Lou said. “For the next book.” There wasn’t going to be a next book, but that wasn’t any of John’s business.

  “Your own little cult,” John murmured, giving Lou a wink. “Shit, you paid a high enough price. It’s been a long time coming. You deserve it, man.”

  John had no idea just how right he was.