J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House)

by J. A. Konrath

  “Something in Butler House did this to me. I’m sure of it. Something evil. That’s why I begged Roy to stay away. And you should stay away, too.”

  Tom pursed his lips.

  “Look, your partner, your friend, Roy. He’s dead, man. Butler House got him. And if you go looking for him, you’re going to die.”

  “Thanks for your time and insights, Rich. I’ve got to get going.”

  Tom disconnected, guilty about his lie. He didn’t have to leave. He just couldn’t stand looking at Rich’s disfigured face anymore, and the conversation had greatly disturbed him.

  Tom’s hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood at attention, and he had a very strong feeling he was being watched. By who? Eavesdropping co-workers?

  Or was someone else watching? Someone, or…

  Some thing.

  Tom swiveled around, seeking the staring eyes he knew were on him.

  But no one was there.

  At least, no one he could see.

  Realizing he was letting his imagination mess with him, Tom called Joan’s cell phone. Thankfully, his girlfriend picked up on the third ring.

  “Tom? I’m in the middle of something. Director wants a rewrite on set, writer is throwing a hissy fit. Is this important?”

  “I just wanted to hear your voice, babe.”

  “That’s sweet. Can I call you back?”

  “Yeah, sure. And hey, wait… Joan… you still there?

  “Yes?”

  “Did you write anything on my mirror?”

  “What?”

  “My bathroom mirror. Someone wrote I’m watching you on it.”

  “Wasn’t me. Gotta go, lover. Call you soon.”

  His long distance romance hung up, and Tom’s creepy feeling got a whole lot creepier.

  THE NEXT DAY

  Charleston International Airport

  Frank

  Dr. Frank Belgium walked out of the baggage claim area and onto the sidewalk, the warm blast of summer air welcome against his overly air-conditioned body. The plane had been chilled to meat-locker temperature, so cold he’d had to ask an attendant for a blanket. The airport had been similarly refrigerated.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the temperate heat warm him. But he couldn’t feel the sun’s rays.

  Belgium squinted up at the overcast sky. The clouds were an ugly swirl of gray and black, but the air didn’t feel humid or sticky. It didn’t look like rain. It just looked ominous.

  A man of science, Belgium publicly scoffed at the paranormal. Omens. Superstition. The afterlife. These didn’t hold up to the scientific method, and had no empirical evidence to support them.

  But privately, he feared the supernatural. Because he had, in a way, experienced it. To Belgium, the sky looked like a warning meant specifically for him. Like a big sign that said GO BACK WHILE YOU STILL CAN.

  Something reddish brown darted toward Belgium, swooping into his peripheral vision, and he dropped his carryon bag and ducked down, emitting a less-than-masculine yelp as he did. Covering his head with his hands, he prepared himself for another attack.

  “It’s a finch,” a female voice said from behind him.

  Belgium turned, squinting through his fingers. “What?”

  “A house finch. They won’t hurt you.”

  Belgium stared at the woman. She was maybe in her late thirties, short hair, baggy sweater, no make-up. He could guess, on a good day, she’d be cute. But it didn’t look to Belgium if she’d had any good days in a while.

  He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry.

  “Oh. Thanks. I I I thought it was a…” he let his voice drift off, and then picked up his bag and stood up, warily searching the area for more dive-bombing finches.

  “You thought it was what?” the woman asked.

  “Hmm? Oh. A bat.”

  “A red bat?”

  Belgium frowned. “You’d be surprised.”

  The woman shrugged. Belgium glanced around, trying to get his heart rate under control, wondering why there weren’t any cabs. Shouldn’t an airport have cabs?

  He watched a traveler cross the street, where he was met by a blue Honda. A woman got out, they had a quick but poignant hug, and then he loaded his suitcase and got into the car and they drove off.

  “Where are the taxis?” the finch lady asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m waiting for one one one myself.”

  Another minute passed. Belgium considered renting a car. But he didn’t want to go back into that freezer of an airport. In fact, he didn’t want to be in South Carolina at all. The thought of being arrested for treason began to hold some appeal. At least, in that case, he knew what to expect. Knew who his enemy was.

  There was security in knowing. But the unknown, however…

  “Do you have a cell phone?” the finch lady asked him.

  “Hmm?”

  “To call a taxi.”

  “No. Don’t carry one. You?”

  “Me neither. We’re probably the last two people in the world who don’t.”

  Finally, a lone yellow cab pulled onto the throughway. Belgium held up his hand and at the same time noticed his companion did as well. He’d gotten there first. And at the rate cabs arrived at this airport, this could be the last one of the day. But even though Belgium was rattled, and hadn’t been with a woman for a very long time, he still had a streak of chivalry in him.

  “You can take it,” he summoned the courage to say.

  “Are you sure? You were here first.”

  The cab pulled up. Belgium took a quick look at the sky again, which was getting even uglier.

  “It’s okay. I’m sure sure sure another one will come along.”

  The lady smiled, and it took ten years off her face. “I didn’t know there were any gentlemen left. We could share it.”

  “I’m heading west. Solidarity.”

  Her brow crinkled. “Really? So am I.”

  Belgium did a quick mental calculation on how coincidental that was, and considering Solidarity had a population of less than a thousand, he found the odds to be extremely high. Unless…

  “The Butler House?” he asked.

  The woman nodded, eyes wide.

  He remembered his manners and offered his hand. “Frank Belgium.”

  “Sara Randhurst,” she said. Her touch was soft and warm, her grip strong.

  Belgium opened the door for her, then helped the cabbie put their bags in the trunk. When everyone was seated, he gave the driver the address.

  “I don’t go there,” was the gruff reply.

  “Pardon me?”

  “The Butler House. No hacks go there. Bad news, that place.”

  Belgium considered asking how close he’d take them, but then realized they’d have the same problem once they got there. Renting a car was still an option, but that would be a hassle.

  Plus, he had the paranoid delusion that if he left the cab, the sky would open up and lightning would fry him.

  “I’ll double your fare,” Belgium said.

  “No way.”

  “Triple it.”

  The cabbie turned around in the driver’s seat to face him. “You serious?”

  Belgium nodded.

  The cabbie let out a noise that was part sigh, part shrug, and said, “It’s your funeral buddy.”

  They pulled out of the airport parking lot and headed west, into the woods. Belgium kept his eyes out the window, trying to look casual instead of nervous. He was aware that the side of Sara’s foot touched his, and he was hoping she’d keep it there. That small measure of human contact was keeping him grounded.

  “So,” she said, “you’re doing this to win a million dollars?”

  “Hmm? Me? No. I’m… well, being coerced into this.”

  “By whom?”

  “I’m not not not at liberty to say. Sorry.”

  Sara nudged him with her thigh, and when he looked she was smiling again.

  It dazzled him. She l
ooked so pretty, so real, so near. Like a safe port in a terrible storm.

  “Real secret stuff, huh?” she asked.

  He smelled something on her breath. Whiskey. Belgium rarely drank these days, but he really wished he had something to take the edge off.

  “I was involved in a government project that I’m not allowed to talk about.”

  “What do you do, Frank?”

  “I’m a a a molecular biologist.”

  She seemed to appraise him, and Belgium lapsed into self-consciousness. Had he combed his hair? Were there crumbs on his face from breakfast? Did he have any stains on his shirt?

  “This is a fear study,” she said. “I take it something bad happened with that government project.”

  “Yes. That’s… well, it’s actually understating it a bit.”

  The horrors of Samhain all came rushing back at him like they were still happening. The deaths. The blood. The certainty he was going to die. Frank could feel his larynx tightening, and he put a hand on his throat to massage it. The sides of the cab seemed to be closing in, making it hard to breath. He stared outside, saw something fly past, and flinched like he had at the airport.

  “You look freaked out, Frank. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Would you mind if we stopped somewhere for a drink? I mean, I I I don’t want to be forward, or for you to think I’m trying anything with you. But I could really really really use one.” He winced. “The past… it… hurts.”

  Sara opened her purse and took out a tiny, plastic airline bottle of Southern Comfort. She passed it to Frank, who was shaking so badly he couldn’t get the small top off. Sara put her hands over his, helped him to remove the cap, and he downed it in one gulp. Almost immediately, he felt better. But he didn’t know whether to attribute that to the booze, or Sara’s touch.

  “That’s… that was… thank you.”

  She patted his shoulder. “No problem. I get panic attacks too.”

  Sara turned away, looking out the window. Almost immediately he missed her looking at him. Belgium felt the liquor burn into his belly and wondered how he could draw her attention again. He figured maybe the truth would do it.

  “I was locked underground with a…” Belgium chose his next word carefully. “Maniac. I barely got out alive. A lot of people died. Badly.”

  Without facing him, Sara said, “I was trapped on an island with dozens of cannibals, and several serial killers.”

  “You were… seriously?”

  Sara nodded into the window. “A lot of people died. Badly. I guess that’s why we’re both here.”

  Belgium had a sudden, overpowering, completely inappropriate surge of affection toward this woman. He wanted to hug her. For her sake, and for his. If she was a kindred spirit, as he suspected, it would do both of them a world of good.

  Instead he sat rigidly in his chair, trying to will his heart to slow down.

  “I read up on Butler House,” Sara said, still not looking at him. “Lots of tragedy there.”

  Belgium had begun doing some research on the house—the devil you know and all that—but it had scared him too badly to continue.

  Sara seemed to be expecting some response, so he grunted noncommittally.

  “If any house in the world could be haunted,” she continued, “this would be the one.” Sara turned, and touched his arm. “Do you believe in ghosts, Frank?”

  Belgium didn’t believe in ghosts. But there used to be lots of things he didn’t believe in.

  “I can’t rule out that they might exist,” Belgium said.

  “I think the supernatural is bullshit. I don’t believe in any sort of afterlife. But…”

  Sara opened her purse. Besides a wallet and a few more SoCo bottles, there was a bible, a rosary, and a vial of clear liquid.

  “Holy water,” Sara said, snapping her purse closed. “Does that make me a hypocrite?”

  Belgium shook his head. “No. It makes you prepared.”

  “No atheists in foxholes, I guess. Did you bring anything?”

  Belgium hadn’t. For the same reason he’d never bought a gun.

  “Um… no. I guess—this might sound silly—but I sort of feel like I’m living on borrowed time. Ever since… well, let’s just say I’m lucky to be alive, and these last few years I’ve been waiting for my past to to to catch up with me. Whatever happens, happens.”

  “Kind of fatalistic, don’t you think?”

  He was surprised by the frankness of her words, and wondered how much she’d had to drink. But perhaps it wasn’t the liquor. Maybe Sara was always this straightforward.

  He liked that. A lot. And it had been a long time since he could admit to liking anything.

  “I don’t don’t don’t think it’s fatalistic. More like realistic. When you see dark things—”

  “You can’t unsee them,” Sara said, finishing his thought.

  They looked at each other, and Belgium saw understanding in her eyes. This woman was just as wounded as he was. He’d heard about the concept of kindred spirits, but hadn’t experienced it before.

  “I have a very bad feeling about this trip, Sara,” he said in hushed tones.

  Then the front windshield burst inward and the car spun out of control.

  Pittsburgh International Airport

  Mal

  Growing more and more uncomfortable as they inched their way through the security line, Mal let his wife go through the metal detector first.

  She beeped, as expected, and then got into a conversation with the bored-looking TSA guard. He waved his wand over Deb. That led to her pulling off her jogging pants—which had snaps on the sides instead of seams.

  Mal’s prosthetic hand always got a few raised eyebrows, but Deb’s artificial legs drew attention like a marching band down Main Street. Though Deb was always offered the option of a private search, away from gawkers, she never accepted, preferring to strip down to her shorts and show everyone on the planet her high tech artificial limbs.

  Mal knew Deb did it because she didn’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else. But they did treat her differently, and Mal watched the crowd finger pointing and murmuring, some assholes actually snapping pictures.

  It was made even worse by the fact that Deb was an athlete, and very fit, so standing there in her running shorts like a sexy female Robocop getting ready to pose for Playboy 2054 made him feel jealous as well as overprotective. As expected, after her scan and pat-down, Deb was immediately approached by a smiling Lothario who was better looking, a better dresser, and no doubt younger and richer than Mal was.

  So I get to endure her humiliation of stripping down to her stumps, and then nurse my own humiliation because I don’t feel I’m man enough for her.

  Mal was expertly in tune with his own feelings, thanks to the unrelenting therapy. Besides lacking a hand to touch his wife with, he also felt powerless to protect her. That led to feelings of inadequacy which normally didn’t reveal themselves during daylight hours. But as he watched CEO Joe chat up his wife while TSA played stupid with his mechanical hand, Mal felt himself getting angrier and angrier. When they finally let him through, he stormed over to Deb as she was re-snapping her running pants.

  “Picked up an admirer, I see,” Mal said, sizing up the man. He looked fit, and could probably kick Mal’s ass all day long and not break a sweat.

  “Just paying the lady a compliment,” the guy replied. He looked confident, which Mal hated. Especially because Mal remembered being that confident once.

  “I’m the lady’s husband,” Mal said. “Now go run off to your board meeting.”

  The guy puffed his chest out. “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll beat the shit out of you, then make you lick it up.”

  Doubt flashed across the man’s face. He muttered, “Asshole,” then turned and walked off.

  Deb looked irritated. “Where did all that testosterone come from?”

  “The guy was hitting on you, Deb.”

  “He said i
t was really brave of me to take my jogging pants off like I did.”

  Mal rolled his eyes. “He said that because you have a nice ass. Think he would have said that to some fat guy with artificial legs?”

  “Can’t I be brave and have a nice ass? You know, Mal, I feel like a freak often enough. Some guy innocently flirting makes me feel normal. He wasn’t a threat to you.”

  Mal wanted to turn away. But if he did, it would prove she won and he was wrong. So he forced himself to maintain eye contact. “He saw you as an easy target, Deb.”

  “I’m not easy. And I’m not a target.”

  Mal switched tactics. “Deb, there are… guys… who have fetishes about…”

  Deb’s eyes darkened. “So now he didn’t approach me because I had a nice ass. He came over because he’s an amputee pervert.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “You’re acting like an asshole.”

  Mal studied his shoes. He wanted to kneel down, help her put her snap-away pants back on, but he couldn’t align the snaps with one hand.

  “Look,” he said, letting out a long breath. “I didn’t like that guy swaggering up to you.”

  “Him? You swagger more than any guy I ever met.”

  Maybe, once upon a time. But not lately.

  He changed subjects. “Do you have the Xanax?”

  “My purse.”

  He sat next to her on the bench and pawed through her handbag. The medicine bottle had a child-proof cab on it, and after trying to pry it off with his teeth, he simply cradled it in his lap until Deb finished dressing. She reached over, held his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I used to be fine flying. But now…”

  “It’s okay to be afraid.”

  He wanted to scream, to smash the pill bottle against the floor and stomp it to bits. Instead he clenched his teeth and whispered, “But I’m afraid of everything.”

  “I know.”

  “Including losing you.”

  “I know.” Deb patted his hand. “And that’s not going to happen.”

  “I’m sorry, Deb. You deserve better.”