by K. J. Young
THE DARK HOUR
K.J. Young
Contents
Story Description
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2021 K.J. Young / NIGHTSKY PRESS
Interior illustration by Caitlin O’Dwyer
ISBN: 978-0-9864164-3-9
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Story Description
“Deliciously creepy!”
—Barbara Taylor Sissel, bestselling author of The Truth We Bury
* * *
Mark Norman can’t catch a break—until he’s hired as a live-in home health aide for two elderly siblings who live at Alden Manor, a run-down mansion mired in the past. His charges, former stage magicians Roy and Alma Walgrave, give off an eerie vibe, but they are also wealthy and careless with their money. Seizing the opportunity, Mark soon makes himself indispensable to the old folks, losing himself in fantasies of inheriting the Walgrave fortune upon their deaths. When the Walgraves’ assistant, a young woman named Lisa, shares her dark premonitions and insists that evil lurks in the house, Mark thinks she’s paranoid and unstable.
* * *
Until he begins to notice odd, unsettling things himself.
* * *
When nightmares begin to plague him and the house gradually reveals the web of the Walgraves’ lies and twisted secrets, he can no longer deny the possibility that Alden Manor is pervaded by some sinister force. He’s terrified of losing his mind—or worse, his life. But he’s so close to landing a big financial windfall that walking away is not an option.
For those who sleep with a nightlight
Chapter One
We seek an enlargement of our being. We want to be more than ourselves.
—C. S. Lewis
* * *
His day starts with a job interview. If he gets the position, it will change his life.
When Mark Norman climbs onto the bus that July morning, he’s greeted by the stench of body odor and wet hairspray. He scans the rows as he walks, hoping to avoid the most obvious offenders, and takes an empty seat in the back. The bus chugs along, passengers getting on and off, the heat of the day already ruining everyone’s mood. Street noise and hot air pour in through half-open windows. When he’s nearly to his destination, an oversize man with a crew cut and horn-rimmed glasses sinks down next to him. He holds up a newspaper and turns to Mark. “What do you think? Is Jimmy Carter going to get the nomination?”
This is just the type of bullshit small talk Mark tries to avoid. “Couldn’t say.” He looks out the window.
“Did you hear that Lindy Boggs is gonna be presiding over the Democratic National Convention next week? Lindy Boggs! Never thought I’d see a woman running things. What’s this world coming to?”
“Don’t know.”
“Jimmy Carter.” He points at the newspaper photo, a weekly bus pass clutched between his fingers. “A grown man going by the name Jimmy. What’s that all about? I’ll be damned if I want some peanut farmer running the country. The way he talks, too, like some mealymouthed hick. That might fly in other parts of the country, but no one’s gonna buy it here in Wisconsin. The whole thing makes me sick.”
Mark takes a piece of paper out of his back pocket and unfolds the crumpled page, keeping his gaze downward. He senses that the big man still has his eyes aimed his way.
The guy huffs in irritation. “Cat got your tongue?”
“Not really.”
“If you don’t want to talk, you shoulda just said so.”
“Okay, then. I don’t want to talk.”
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he says, giving Mark a smug look.
Asshole. Mark clenches his fists and takes a deep breath.
When the bus stops at Clarke Street, Mark stands and pushes his way out to the aisle. As he heads down the steps, the driver says, “Have a good day,” in a not entirely convincing way. Behind him, the door of the bus hisses shut before it rumbles away. Mark opens his hand and smiles down at the bus pass he liberated from his annoying seatmate. Score! He tucks it into his back pocket for later use.
Looking up and down the street, he compares the printed address on the paper with the buildings in front of him. Taking it all in, he frowns. “No fucking way,” he mutters. She sent him here? It has to be a mistake. He isn’t familiar with all the neighborhoods in the city, but this one has to be the absolute worst. The storefront windows are covered with iron bars. The sidewalk ahead of him is a stretch of patched and crumbling concrete. Graffiti covers the glass panels of the telephone booth on the corner. It’s eerily quiet, too, with little traffic going past.
This just feels wrong.
He is all wrong, with his navy dress pants, his tie pulled down a little so that he can leave the top button of his too-small dress shirt undone. Instinctively he knows that with his shiny shoes and neatly parted hair, he’s conspicuously overdressed. Anyone can see he doesn’t fit in.
It occurs to him that he could leave. Cross the street, wait for the next bus, and head home. His gut says this is the best plan of action. Too bad it isn’t an option.
Mark turns the paper over. Looking at the directions scrawled on the back, he walks to the corner and turns onto the sidewalk running alongside Bartleby Street. Halfway down the block, he spots the place. When he’s directly in front of it, he stops to look up, gaping.
The woman at the placement agency called it a grand old house, and the name—Alden Manor—confirms her description, but he didn’t expect this. Before him stands a stately mansion, crowded on either side by what looks like warehouses. An old glamorous dame escorted by two nondescript brutes. The mansion is three stories of brown brick, with points reaching to the sky. Between each story, the brick façade is interrupted by a decorative band of stone detailed with angels and stars. Steps up to the entrance lead to a covered porch fronted by a row of three stone arches. Curved terra-cotta tiles top the roof. In another lifetime, this would have been a hell of a house, a place where the wealthy would gather to clink champagne glasses and discuss business deals, but now, positioned between two industrial buildings in the worst part of the city, it looks run-down and angry.
Still, at one time this place belonged to someone with serious money.
While he stands taking it all in, a man’s voice yells out, “You don’t wanna be going in there.” Mark turns to see a lanky man with a gray-haired ponytail leaning against the neighboring building, one foot back against the brick. T
he man brings a cigarette to his lips; the tip glows red. He exhales and stares at Mark through a cloud of smoke.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Mark asks.
“People go in that house, they don’t come out the same.”
“Really.”
“You don’t believe me?” He throws back his head and laughs, a gold canine tooth glinting in the light. “I seen it with my own eyes. Bad things happen to folks who go in there.”
Mark gives him the once-over. Tie-dyed tank top, hemp necklace, and jeans with patches on each knee. Birkenstock-clad feet. Nothing to recommend him. Mark doesn’t take advice from aging hippies. “Thanks, but I’ll take my chances.”
The man shrugs. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Name’s Doug, by the way.”
“Sorry, but I have to go. Got an appointment.” Mark glances at his watch. Right on time. He heads up the steps. “Check you later.”
“Of course you have an appointment,” Doug says, his voice gleeful. “They all do. Every single one. You won’t be in no hurry once you see what’s waiting for you. They’re gonna get you.”
They’re gonna get you. Words a child would use. Who would fall for that? Stupid hippie. Standing before the front door, Mark’s glad to be out of the morning sun and in the shade of the porch, even if it has the atmosphere of a catacomb. Now to do it and get through it. Mark needs to be employed, and in this job market, there aren’t many prospects. Overall, he has a good feeling.
Mark bangs the heavy iron door knocker against the strike plate three times. When the door abruptly opens, he’s staring at a young woman about his age.
“Hello,” he says, putting out his most winning smile. “I’m Mark Norman. I have an appointment.”
“You’re late, and they don’t like it when you’re late.” She steps aside to let him come in. He notices then that she is petite, with dark-brown hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. Her pale face, absent of any makeup, highlights a scattering of freckles across her nose. She wears a white peasant top and red-checked flare-legged pants. Around her neck a gold cross hangs off a delicate gold chain. In a second he sizes her up: she’s a real good-girl type. A paragon of virtue. Probably wanted to be a nun just like Sister Mary Agnes, her third-grade teacher at St. Joseph’s Elementary School.
“I’m right on time.” Mark glances at his wristwatch. Inside the house it is noticeably cooler than outside, but a little humid too, making it a cool dampness. He sizes up the space, taking note of a grand staircase leading up to the second floor.
“Just barely.” She makes a face. “They like you to be early. They’re interviewing several candidates, and they don’t want any of them to overlap.”
He was supposed to be early? Why didn’t Beverly at the job placement agency inform him of this? She was so smooth, telling him he was a sure thing. “You’re just what they requested,” she said looking through the file. “Young, tall, strong, healthy.” She held one hand to the side of her mouth as if confiding a secret. “Off the record, they also want a young man who is handsome, with no family ties. For round-the-clock availability, I would guess. They specifically said to send candidates no older than twenty-five.” She nodded approvingly, as if he was clever to be on the short side of twenty-six. “As soon as I heard their requirements, I thought of you.”
Mark was flattered that Beverly mentioned his good looks, but now, standing across from this young woman in the dimly lit entryway of Alden Manor, surrounded by walls of dark paneled wood, he wonders what he’s gotten himself into.
The young woman beckons for him to follow her down a long hall. As they walk, she asks, “Have you ever done this kind of work before?”
“Not yet,” Mark says.
She doesn’t comment on his lack of experience, but begins to spit out instructions. “Don’t talk too much. Wait for them to ask the questions and then answer directly.”
“Okay.”
“The last guy who came tried to impress them. That didn’t go over well.”
“Got it. Nothing impressive.” He smirks. “I’ll try to tone it down.”
She stops, and he almost walks into her. “If you have an attitude, you won’t get the job.” Her tone is flat.
“Look,” he says, annoyed at being chastised. “I’m not even sure I want the job.”
“You want the job,” she says with a sigh. She keeps walking, talking to him out of the side of her mouth. “It pays more than you’d get anywhere else. Plus, you owe your girlfriend your share of two months’ rent, and she’s getting impatient with you. I’m thinking this is your best bet.”
“Hey!” Mark says, incensed. “How do you know that?” He thinks back to Beverly and her bullshit talk about confidentiality. She said that everything he told her was just between the two of them, even miming the locking of her lips and tossing away the key. He’d be within his rights to go over to the employment agency and give her a piece of his mind when he’s done here. Not that he will, but the idea has appeal.
The young woman shrugs. “You won’t have any secrets in this house.” She approaches a set of double doors and ceremoniously opens them, leading the way in. “This is the blue room,” she says. Inside, dark woodwork covers the lower half of the wall, while blue patterned wallpaper rises above it to the ceiling. The tall windows are curtained with a gauzy white fabric.
On the opposite end of the room, a fireplace with bookcases on either side takes up the entire wall. In front of the fireplace, a sofa faces two tall-backed chairs, all of them a tufted blue print. Nothing is stained or worn, and yet the room strikes him as being dated and dingy. The one thing of interest is a wheeled drink cart holding various bottles of liquor, as well as martini glasses and cocktail napkins. Based on the well-stocked drink cart, Mark thinks that maybe the owners of this house aren’t stodgy after all.
“Wait here,” she says, pointing to one of the chairs. “I’ll go get them. They’re eager to see you.”
Mark sits down. He isn’t sure what he was expecting today, but it wasn’t this mansion with its oppressive dampness and dim hallways. Depressing as hell. I’m not even sure I want this job. He lets the thought roll around in his head. And then he thinks of her reply, that the pay is good and that he is two months late on the rent. Granted, it would be nice not to hear his girlfriend rag at him day after day. Get a job. Get a job. Get a job. Like it’s so easy. Like he hasn’t been pounding the pavement trying to do just that.
The problem isn’t getting a job. It’s getting the right job, one where he’s not working among lowlifes supervised by idiot managers. Mark hasn’t had the best luck with jobs, so he may as well wait and hear what they have to say.
Chapter Two
When the young woman returns, she is accompanied by an elderly man and woman who shuffle in on either side of her. Their gait is unsteady, as if they’re afraid of stepping on a slippery spot. Mark is familiar with all the euphemisms to describe old people—senior citizens, golden oldies, retirees—but these two are about twenty years beyond that. One foot in the grave, and the other one sliding toward the edge. The man is bald on top, with a friar’s fringe of gray hair. He wears baggy, old-man dress pants and a long-sleeved white shirt with a striped tie. He walks haltingly with a cane and has a slim build and a long, deeply lined face. The young woman, who Mark realizes has never given him her name, towers over the old lady, who has liver-spotted hands and baby-fine white hair with an unnaturally wide part. The younger woman helps the old lady into the room, one arm looped around her waist.
“Here we are,” the young woman says in a monotone voice. “This is Mark Norman.” She situates the lady on the sofa, while the man settles next to her, propping his cane in between them.
“Excellent, Lisa.” The man’s voice is unexpectedly vibrant. “We’ll take it from here.”
“You sure?” Her forehead furrows. “I can bring you drinks. Iced tea? Lemonade?” She looks at Mark, but he doesn’t respond. He’s here to talk about a job, and then he is le
aving. A beverage adds a complication he doesn’t need.
The man leans forward and grasps his knees. “That won’t be necessary.” He waves a hand. “Off you go.” She leaves, reluctantly, Mark thinks as she passes him. After she closes the doors behind her, the man says, “Lovely girl, that Lisa, but she fusses a bit much. I think she believes that her efforts are the sole thing keeping us alive.” He chuckles. “As you might have guessed, I’m Roy Walgrave, and this is my sister, Alma.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Walgrave and Miss Walgrave. I’m Mark Norman.” He gets up and shakes their hands. The old man’s grip is surprisingly strong, although the feel of his fingers reminds Mark of chilled bones wrapped in crepe paper. He’s never cared for old people, associating them with decaying bodies and failing faculties, but he tries to get past that now, making a point to meet their gaze. Both of them have dark eyes that stand out despite the slight distortion of the thick-lensed glasses they both wear. He sits back down. “I’m guessing you have some questions for me?”
“You would be right about that,” Mr. Walgrave says. “Beverly from the agency seems to think you are just what we’re looking for.”
“I hope so, Mr. Walgrave.”