Harmony House

by Nic Sheff

  He forces my head under and I gasp and sputter and my lungs fill with water and I’m choking and the world is fading out.

  I struggle and cough and get free for a minute, only to be plunged back down.

  Under the water I open my eyes.

  Through my open eyes I see my father’s twisted, lunatic face—his teeth clenched, his eyes wild and blind to all reality. His sickness has turned him into a shadow of a person. His guilt has flayed the meat from his bones. His mind has warped like a wax figure left to melt in the sun. He has been destroyed by this house, by the church, by his humanity in the face of impossible expectations.

  I grab hold of either side of the tub then and pull myself up. I breathe with needles in my lungs.

  “Stop it!” I yell again. “Dad, please, you don’t have to do this.”

  “The glory of the Lord is risen upon you!” he shouts. “I cast you out!”

  He tries to push me down again, but I shake myself free.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I yell. “What happened to Sister Margaret—you didn’t know what he was going to do to her. You didn’t know he was going to kill her.”

  Hearing my words, my dad falls to his knees at the side of the tub. His eyes fill with blood and he cries with tears of blood streaming down his face.

  “Silence, evil spirit,” he shouts. “You will not trick me. I will not listen.”

  “Dad, it’s the truth,” I tell him.

  He raises up then and he gnashes his teeth together and he shouts with a terrible high-pitched cracking to his voice, “I cast you out, devil!”

  And then he puts one hand on my stomach and one hand on my head and I plead with him, “Dad, no. You don’t have to . . .”

  But he will not hear me. He presses his weight down on me and my head goes under again and water fills my mouth and he holds me there with the strength of ten men. I cannot move. I cannot even struggle. And I know if I swallow this water I will die.

  I close my eyes.

  I remember Rose’s words.

  I remember everything—every moment of my life—it plays like a sped-up film reel running through a projector. I see it all unfolding to this moment.

  Not only that, but I see my father’s life.

  And my mother’s, too.

  I see the history of Harmony House passing before me in half a second.

  And then I focus on the spark of hope—of flame—of smoldering fire at the base of my spine. I focus on it spreading from vertebra to vertebra—engulfing me—transforming my body into a pyre of burning embers.

  Around me the water begins to steam and come quickly to a boil. My father yelps and withdraws his scalded hands. But I let the fire burn in me ’til the water is at a rolling boil and the shower curtains erupt in flame and the fire climbs the walls and the mirror shatters and the windows combust in a fireball of raining glass.

  A noise tears through the house louder than anything that has come before—a terrible wrenching sound, like wood and metal being pulled slowly away from its foundation.

  And then I hear my mother’s voice.

  She whispers softly to me.

  I can’t make out the words.

  But they comfort me.

  And soon the fire dies out.

  And I curl onto my side.

  Everything goes black around me.

  And my mother’s voice whispers.

  Two perfect words.

  “Thank you.”

  And then it all fades out.

  CHAPTER 18

  I open my eyes.

  And I am in Harmony House.

  The rain and wind has stopped.

  I sit up and look.

  A tree branch lies splayed across the bathroom—having broken through the side window and drywall. It’s the twisted branch of an oak tree. And my dad is lying prostrate, crushed beneath it. He is dead. His mouth is open and his tongue is lolling. Blood pools beneath him.

  Then I look down at myself—the blood dried and caked on my jeans. My stomach aches.

  My father is dead.

  And I must’ve miscarried.

  The sun shines brightly now through the break in the wall. The smell of wet grass and rotted leaves and mud is thick in the air. I lean on the sink, then make my way over to my dad’s crumpled body.

  Stepping out into the hall I see that the roof has been torn off and the sky is blue and clear. The side of the house facing the street, too, has collapsed completely, so walking down the hallway is like walking in a giant doll’s house.

  I go to the room that was mine, the horrible pink walls stripped away. I grab a bag from under the bed and throw some clothes in it. I take off my blood-soaked jeans, too, and put on a pair of corduroys.

  I hoist my bag up on my shoulder, climbing carefully down the collapsed stairwell, walking around Sheriff Jarrett’s sprawled, dead body and stepping out of Harmony House for the last time.

  Parked on the gravel, the sheriff’s truck has been split almost completely in half by a fallen tree.

  In fact, all the surrounding trees have fallen in the storm. They lie like so many dead bodies, rotting, piled on top of one another.

  Only the white oak remains standing—the one Sister Margaret carved her initials into—but with those two other letters—the ones I never saw in my vision.

  AMJG.

  I walk on down the driveway, climbing over fallen branches.

  When I reach the street heading into town, I put my bag down and concentrate.

  “I need a ride,” I think. “I need a ride.”

  And then an old man in a pickup pulls to the curb.

  “Some storm,” he says as I open the passenger door.

  “Sure was,” I say.

  “Where you headed?” he asks.

  I don’t answer him.

  But he drives me to the Staffordshire Township Hospital—because that’s where I want to go.

  The hospital is overflowing with people injured from the storm, but I manage to find Christy’s room on the third floor.

  I duck my head in, carefully, trying not to make any noise opening the door. Christy is lying in the bed, her legs propped up in a cast, an old black-and-white movie playing on the wall-mounted TV. I recognize Robert Mitchum dressed as a preacher—right hand tattooed with “love,” left hand tattooed with “hate.” The Night of the Hunter. Christy watches absently. She seems okay. That, at least, is a relief.

  Then from behind me I hear Rose’s voice.

  “You did it,” she says. “Oh, Jen, I’m so proud of you.”

  I turn to her with my head bowed.

  “Sheriff Jarrett came to the house last night,” I say, feeling the tears at the backs of my eyes again. “My dad . . .”

  “Shh,” she says, not letting me finish. “Shh. I know. It’s not your fault.”

  “But I could’ve saved him,” I tell her.

  She puts her big arms around me.

  “You did everything you could.”

  She holds me to her. I smell the smell of her shampoo and laundry detergent. I start to cry.

  “You don’t have to worry anymore,” she says. “You’re safe now.”

  “I’ve got nowhere to go,” I tell her.

  She pushes my hair back out of my eyes.

  “You’ll stay with me,” she says. “I’ll protect you.”

  “But what do I do with this power I have?” I ask her. “I don’t know how to control it.”

  “You do know how,” she says, smiling. “And I’ll help teach you.”

  From her hospital bed, I hear Christy murmur weakly, “Jen? Is that you?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  And I go to her.

  “You’ll stay with us now, won’t you?”

  I take her good hand in mine and feel the softness of her skin.

  “Is that all right with you?” I ask.

  She manages a smile.

  “Yes,” she says. “I want you to.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her.


  And then I turn away so she doesn’t see me cry.

  Rose walks over and takes me by the arm.

  “Come on,” she says. “I’ll take you home.”

  “Home?” I ask.

  “To my home,” she says.

  She smiles more.

  I remember my mother’s last words to me—in Harmony House.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  And that’s what I say now.

  “Thank you,” I tell Rose.

  “It’s all right,” she says. “It’s all going to be okay.”

  And for the first time since I can remember, I think that might be the truth.

  I say good-bye to Christy, and then Rose and I walk out of the hospital together into the bright perfect clear cold sky.

  HARMONY HOUSE

  May 1961

  Anselm Noonan

  11 years old

  EPILOGUE

  It is a warm night—the moon half-full, shining bright across the grass. The leaves on the branches of the trees shimmer in the light. A cool breeze blows in from the ocean.

  I climb out the open window and down the trellis on the side of the house that is overgrown with vines and purple blooming wisteria. I repeat a prayer to myself, saying it quietly over and over.

  “God,” I say. “I humbly offer myself to thee, to do with me and build with me as thou wilt. Thy will, not mine, be done.”

  I pray unceasingly—walking through the grass—smelling the damp earth—hearing the night sounds of mice and garden snakes and mosquitos. My linen dress shirt is damp with sweat down the back. My hand grasps at a small pocketknife. I say the prayer.

  Any time I might have a thought about anything—anything sad or scary or mean or sinful—I just replace it with the thoughts of the prayer. I don’t let myself think anything else. With the prayer, I am able to hold only God in my mind. And he makes me a channel of His will. And so I enact His will. I do nothing on my own. I do everything with God. And as long as I keep on praying to him, then nothing I do can ever be wrong.

  So what happened to Sister Margaret, that was not my fault. It was God’s will. His will guides me forward. His will, not mine, is being done.

  Sister Margaret had to be punished.

  Father Meyers was right.

  For he is a man of God.

  And I must follow him.

  Just as I must follow Him.

  “God, I humbly offer myself to thee. . . .”

  I say it again.

  I say it and say it.

  I cannot stop.

  I will never stop.

  God’s will makes me walk through the grass here and into the forest. His direction guides me to the tree—the great white oak—where Sister Margaret carved her initials with that boy—where she sinned against God. Now God has vested me with the power to make it right. He tells me what to do. He tells me to take the knife and with its blade to carve into the bark of the tree. On one side of the initials he has me put a G—a G for “God”—so that Sister Margaret can be with God, in the afterlife, for all time.

  And then my hand moves to the other side, next to the initial M—next to Sister Margaret’s initial—and I carve an A—bigger than the other letters—so that I can be with her forever more. Anselm and Margaret.

  And God.

  All together.

  Forever more.

  The power of God courses through me. It leaves me breathless and flushed with heat. The power of God is so strong it can raise me off the ground. I feel it all in my body. I feel it like a thousand electrical currents. I feel it in the very center of me. I feel it shiver for a long time—and then release.

  Anselm and Margaret.

  And God.

  Together in Harmony House.

  Never to part.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you: Amanda Urban, Kristen Pettit, Hrishi Desai, Molly Atlas, Dan Halsted, Nathan Miller, Ron Bernstein, Jeremy Kleiner, Felix Van Groeningen, Luke Davies, Brad Weston, Andre and Maria Jacquemetton, Patricia Resnick, Julia Cox, Nicole Yorkin, Tim Shaheen, Veena Sud, Peggy Knickerbocker, Armistead Maupin, Chris Turner, Gary Lennon, Jerry Stahl, Susan Andrews, Sue and Nan, Yoko and Sean.

  And then my family: Jette Newell Sheff, papa and mama K, Jasper & Daisy, Mom, Nancy and Don, Susan and Steven, Mark and Jenny, Lucy, Becca, Bear, Joanie and Sumner. Is it dumb to thank dogs? They don’t speak much human. But Ramona, Rhett, Cold War Charlie, and Cole, who’s a very bad cat. Deep in my heart there’s a house that can hold just about all of you.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  NIC SHEFF is an author, screenwriter, and recovering drug addict and alcoholic. His memoir of addiction, Tweak, was a New York Times bestseller. His first work of fiction, Schizo, won him much critical acclaim. Nic is a huge fan of horror—in film and on the page. Harmony House is his first novel in this genre.

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  CREDITS

  COVER PHOTOGRAPH OF GIRL © 2016 BY STEPHEN CARROLL / TREVILLION IMAGES

  COVER PHOTOGRAPH OF STAIRCASE © 2016 BY ŁUKASZ SWIATKIEWICZ

  COVER DESIGN BY FACEOUT STUDIO

  COPYRIGHT

  HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  HARMONY HOUSE. Copyright © 2016 by Nic Sheff. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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  ISBN 978-0-06-233709-2 (trade bdg.)

  EPub Edition © March 2016 ISBN 9780062337115

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