Some houses are only haunted … this one is worse.

Ben Chalmers is a successful novelist. His wife, Rachel, is a fledgling artist with a promising career, and their daughter Stacy is the joy of their life. His novels have made enough money for him to provide a dream home for his family. But there is a force at work in their lives. A dark, chilling, ruthless force that has become part of the very fabric of their new home.

A malevolent entity becomes trapped in the wood and stone of the house and it will do whatever it takes, to find a way to complete its bloody transference to our world. Local Sheriff, Elizabeth Cantrell, and former pastor-turned-cabinetmaker, Jim Perry are drawn into the family’s life as the entity manipulates the house with devastating results. And it won’t stop until it gets what it wants. Even if it costs them their faith, their sanity, and their lives.

PROLOGUE


The house looked down on Pike’s Crossing like a headmaster observing a group of unruly schoolchildren. It stood silent, watching the town from the top of Grant’s Ridge through glittering lead glass eyes.

Errant patches of moonlight played along the roofline, then disappeared. A weather vane, more for decoration than any real purpose, pointed west, then east. In the woods beyond the back yard, nocturnal creatures stirred, scavenging for food and scouting new scents carried on the night air.

A field mouse scurried across the clearing between the woods and the relative safety of the space beneath the deck, its dash for freedom cut short by a sharp-eyed owl. Talons lifted the dying rodent as lightning arced across the flannel sky.

The night groaned in the wake of the coming storm. Rumbles of thunder echoed and died away, replaced by more of the same. The house stood in dark relief against the darker sky, illuminated by sporadic celestial fire.

Hours earlier workmen had collected their tools, climbed into their vehicles, and sped away toward the coming weekend. Soon electricians would come to run the wiring, then the crew would be well on the way to wrapping up the project and handing the keys to the developer.

But for now the house was content to hold its silent vigil over the town below.

And inside, something stirred.

#

Shadows twitched and writhed across the floor, given life by two large flickering candles. Three figures huddled together along a partially constructed knee wall. They watched a solitary figure at work in the center of the room.

Rodney Hardwick checked the circle on the floor. Satisfied that it was as close to perfect as he could draw it, he put the wide tipped marker in his pocket and placed a series of glass votives around the circle. Next, he took a box of kitchen matches from his shirt pocket and scratched a match across the side with no results, repeated the action, and snapped the wooden shaft.

A half-muted snicker skittered through the gloom, and was cut short when Rodney looked up. Robin Davis met his gaze for a second, then looked away. Rodney tried a second match and the head sputtered to life. The flame flickered, caught, then he lit the candle in the first votive. Flame danced on the wick, eddied by unseen currents, and settled itself into a dull glow.

“This is so cool.” Myra Webb giggled and folded her legs up under her. Kenny Randall, sitting just to her left on the plywood sub floor of the living room, shushed her as Rodney lit another match.

“Don’t tell me to shhhh,” she said and punched him on the arm.

“Quit it,” he said, rubbing the spot where she hit him.

“Both of you just shut up.” Rodney glared. The flame burned slowly toward his fingers. Found flesh. He felt the bite of the flame, but didn’t show it. He just shook out the match and pulled another from the box.

“Do you want to do this or not?” he asked, the new match poised above the rough striking surface. “It’s up to you. But you’d better decide right now. Either get serious or go home.”

Kenny hunched forward and looked at the floor. “Sorry Rodney,” he said. “This is all just a little creepy.”

“Yeah,” Myra said, more subdued than before, “go ahead. We just got a little carried away.” She looked at the candles scattered on the floor. “I’ve never been to a séance before.” The three sat back against the wall and watched as another match sputtered to life and deposited a portion of its flame on the remaining candles. Robin drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins. Everyone was still.

Skeletal shadows born of candle flame writhed and twisted on the walls in a macabre tableau. The sputtering of burning wicks produced a bizarre rhythm for their dance.

After repositioning the candles, the older boy reached into a duffle bag at his feet and took out a handful of what appeared to be small, irregular twigs stripped of their bark. The trio watched in silence as he brought out three copper bowls, a plastic sandwich bag filled with a mossy substance, a black medallion, and two smaller black bags.

He removed the marker from his pocket again and connected the candles with a series of straight lines. The resulting form was a five-pointed star within a circle. Each candle marked one point of the star.

“I’ve seen that symbol before,” Myra said. “It’s called a pent-something. Pent . . . penta. . .”

“Pentagram,” Rodney finished for her. “It’s called a pentagram.” He put the medallion on and placed the bowls into position. He took the mossy substance from the plastic bag, and placed it in the first bowl. The twig pieces went into the second. The third remained empty.

Robin spoke for the first time, her voice a faint whisper. “When we tried this at camp all we used was a Ouija board. We didn’t do anything like this.” She pulled her knees in tighter to her chest and watched Rodney arrange the items from his bag.

A whip crack of lightning threw jagged shadows across the room. Kenny flinched but said nothing. The girls inched closer to each other, drawn together by the hollow echo of thunder.

Rodney pulled a mottled brown book from his pocket and fingered the worn cover. The movement of flesh across aged leather made a rasping sound. “Well this is not summer camp, and we are not reaching into the great beyond trying to contact Elvis.” He looked at the three friends, his eyes as dark as the storm outside. “We are not trying to talk to some dearly departed cloud of gas from the other side, and we are not playing around with a Ouija board.” He opened the book and ran his fingers over the first page, savoring the brittle touch of the paper.

Myra broke the silence. “I thought you said we were going to form an occult circle.”

“We are,” he said, still engrossed in the book.

“Well then, do we really need all this?” Her voice sounded small in the open construction of the house. “I mean this all seems like a bit much just to have a little fun. You know, chant a little and get creeped out.”

“You’re right. It is.” He turned a page. “And that’s not why we’re here. This is about more than getting a little creeped out. This is about changing your life.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” Kenny asked.

The older boy stopped reading. “By conjuring an entity.”

“By doing what?”

“We’re going to conjure an entity.” He looked at the wide eyes staring back at him.

Robin shook her head. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m not kidding you, or anyone else.” He spat the words, his disgust obvious. “Do you see this?” He held out the book. “I have been looking for this book for over a year. It’s a book of spells, and we’re going to use it to call up an entity that will do whatever we want. Then we’re going to make it work for us.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Robin scooted away from the circle. “You’re talking crazy now. And besides all that, where could you find a book like that around here?”

He grinned and waggled the book at her. “You can find anything on the Internet.”

“Look,” she said. “It’s one thing to tell spooky stories and fool around with some stupid board game, but this is different. This is just plain wrong.”

“What’s wrong about it?” Rodney asked, moving toward her. “What’s wrong with getting some of the things we want for a change?” He looked at Myra. “Wasn’t it you who was complaining that you couldn’t go to that arts camp in Virginia because your foster parents can’t afford it?” Myra nodded but said nothing. “And you,” he said, turning his attention to Kenny. “You could have been first string on the baseball team this year, but the principal’s kid started every game. And everybody in school knows you can out pitch him on his best day. But you didn’t see very much time on the mound, did you?”

“Yeah, well nobody said life was fair,” Kenny mumbled. “And why are you complaining? At least your folks are rich. You’re the one with the trust fund and the big fancy house.”

“Oh really?” Rodney squatted next to Kenny. “Let me tell you about my trust fund. I can’t touch it until I’m twenty-five years old. Not one nickel. And if my folks don’t approve of what I want it for, then I still can’t touch it. Not while they’re alive.” Shadows and anger played along the hard edges of his face. “As for the big house, oh yeah. I live in a huge house with a pool, a game room, and a sauna. And my folks are quick to point out that they bought the house, which means they also make the rules.

“You would think with all their money they would want me to have a car. But no. They say if I want a car, then I have to get a job and save the money to buy one like they did when they were my age.”

“So what?” Robin asked. “Everybody wants something. And sometimes, no matter how bad you want it, it either takes longer than you planned, or it doesn’t happen at all. That’s just life.

“Besides,” she said as she looked back at the pentagram, “even if this is possible, it’s still wrong. It’s …” She looked to her friends for support, but found only confusion. “It’s evil.”

“Well nobody is keeping you here. You can leave if you want to.” Rodney pointed toward the door. “But if you do, you just remember to keep your mouth shut. You were still here tonight, and we are all witnesses. So that means if anybody finds out about us, they find out about you.”

Robin looked at her friends once more. “Look, fun is fun, but this is just plain wrong. Come on; let’s get out of here before things go too far.” Neither of them made eye contact with her. “Please, come on now.” Their silence was her answer. She started to say something else but stopped before she could utter the last plea. Instead, she turned and ran through the maze of framed walls and sprinted out the front door.

“You just remember to keep quiet,” Rodney said to the slamming door. He looked at the remaining members of the group. “Anybody else?” Kenny glanced toward the front door, then shook his head no.

Myra looked at the design on the floor. A shadow touched her shoe, wavered, then explored spots along the outer edge of the circle. “Let’s go for it,” she said, and smiled. “Who needs her?”

“Kenny, go outside and get the other bag off the porch.” Rodney opened the book again and searched the pages. The younger boy made his way to the front door. He paused, fingers just making contact with the new brass door handle.

Rodney glanced up from the yellowing pages. “Are you going out to get the bag or not?”

Kenny gripped the handle but didn’t release the latch. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I mean, what if somebody comes up here? What if we get caught?”

“What if I walk over there and smack you?” Rodney closed the book. “The house isn’t even finished yet, so it’s not likely somebody is going to come up here at midnight to look at a half-built house.” He glared at Kenny. “We’ve already had one baby go home. Are you ready to make it two?”

“I didn’t say I wanted to go home. I just think we need to think this through a little more is all. I mean, this isn’t what we were expecting. It’s … it’s just not …” Kenny looked to Myra but still held the door handle.

She shook her head.

“Kenny, I’ve had about enough of you. Now either bring that bag in here and sit back down, or bring it in here and go home. But either way, you go out there and get that bag before it rains. I don’t want it getting soaked.”

Kenny glanced at Myra once more. Her lips smiled at him, but her eyes were a thousand miles away.

He sighed, turned the handle, and walked toward the coming storm.

#

Deputy Steve Hughes nudged the Crown Victoria onto highway 55 one last time. He sighed, wishing he was still in Cricket’s Diner having a piece of apple pie and a fresh cup of Helen’s coffee instead of chauffeuring the cooling coffee around in a travel mug wedged in the car’s cup holder.

At least he’d had the chance to stop in long enough to get a refill before he made his last patrol of the night. Good thing too because he had been rolling nonstop since his shift started. If it wasn’t the Claytons fighting too loud and disturbing the neighbors, it was Pete Hammond’s alarm going off at the hardware store for the umpteenth time. One of these days he was going to write him up if he didn’t get the piece of junk fixed. Or better yet, buy a professional system from a real security company instead of relying on the temperamental system he had cobbled together from parts scavenged from his store shelves.

Two drunks, a cat in a tree, a stranded motorist with a dead battery, and two prowler calls were the highlights of his shift. The first call turned out to be Beth Collins’ husband coming back early from a business trip. He had forgotten his house key and tried to slip the lock on their French doors with a credit card. His effort not to wake Beth backfired.

The prowler call from Mamie Hendricks came right on schedule. She had prowlers at the same time every Wednesday and Friday night. Eleven thirty, regular as clockwork. Poor old thing just wanted some attention. She’d been all alone in the family’s home place as long as he could remember. Like so many of her generation, she was accustomed to the familiar and didn’t want to let it go, even when it lost its familiarity. So he checked for prowlers twice a week, talked to Mamie for a few minutes more, then headed into the remainder of the graveyard shift.

Just another thrilling Friday night in Cherokee County.

He watched the town flow past on either side. Courthouse in the town square, library, men’s clothing stores, women’s boutiques, Quarter Moon Café, Trish Arnold’s Art Gallery, the old post office building. It all drifted by, a hodgepodge of new and old, trendy facades and patina-touched landmarks from bygone days.

Tonight the town was both familiar and strange.

He turned right just beyond the square and drove toward the outskirts of town. In another half hour his shift would be over and he would head home for the weekend. Just a quick drive toward Grant’s Ridge, about a half mile beyond the house, and then he could head back to the station.
That’s what everybody called it.

The house.

Charles Monroe started construction on the modern stone and glass structure before he ever had a buyer. When anyone from town asked why he would take that kind of risk in a slow housing market, he just smiled and told them that the house on Grant’s Ridge would be a buyer’s magnet once it was finished.

Normally the sight of the house was a welcome reminder that his shift was almost over.


But normally the house was dark.

#

Words rose and fell in ancient rhythms. Myra swayed to the meter and cadence as the words washed over her. Kenny even loosened up and allowed himself to be caught up in the moment.

Rodney uncapped a vial of thick reddish-brown liquid and poured it into one of the bowls. He lit the mossy-looking substance in a second, and continued reading from the book. The words beat a tattoo on the air, rising and falling in tandem with the wind outside. At the height of his recitation, he poured the liquid from the first bowl over the burning substance in the second and resumed his reading.

The flames licked greedily at the thick liquid as it sizzled and popped. The resulting copper smell left little doubt as to what it was, but neither participant acknowledged the thought or speculated on the substance’s source.

Outside the storm churned. Lightning ripped through the clouds, unleashing peals of thunder that shook the windows in their frames. Inside the air thickened and pressed in around them. Sounds lengthened and distorted like reflections in a fun-house mirror. The trio appeared oblivious to all but the sound and rhythm of the ceremony.

Rodney closed the book and repeated the words he had memorized for the ceremony. He tossed the book aside but kept chanting while he reached for the bag at his feet. It moved and shifted in his hands and he fumbled with the drawstring holding it secure. The bag shuddered and something inside hissed.
“What was that?” Kenny blinked and looked for the source of the noise. Rodney continued the incantation and worked on the knot that stood between him and the final sacrifice, the blood sacrifice, that would make the ritual complete.

“Rodney,” he said again, this time with more force, “what was that?” The older boy ignored him, his voice rose and fell in a dark singsong rhythm while he continued to struggle with the bag and its contents. He stood in the center of the pentagram and gripped the cord below the troublesome knot. His forearms bulged with the effort to snap the cord. Kenny’s questions went unanswered.

Outside the wind intensified, hissing through dry leaves and clicking the wooden fingers of an ancient oak together like the rattle of dead men’s bones.

Myra swayed to the rhythms swirling around her. Kenny sat stiff, fists clenched in his lap. He was afraid to move, though he wanted desperately to run from the room. He couldn’t understand the words, but something about them made him uneasy. They sounded wrong.

Vile.

And he did not want to know what was in the bag.

What had started out as a lark was turning into a nightmare. Kenny opened his mouth to say something and the words died in his throat. The expression on Rodney’s face killed his last reserve of courage.

Rodney’s eyes were blank. Two blue pinpoints of light in an otherwise dark visage. He was no longer in control, that much was obvious, and it was equally obvious he didn’t care. His lips moved and his gestures became more animated, but his eyes were blank.

Vacant.

Dead.

The words of the chant, spoken in a language that was old when the earth was still new, reverberated in the air. They rolled and tumbled through the gloom with an almost tangible impact. The air was thick and every breath Kenny drew felt like he was breathing through dank cotton.

Around him, the house seemed to shrink in on itself. Shadows pooled in the corners and the light cast by the candles advanced and retreated with each flicker of the flames.

He looked toward the front door again, hoping for the courage to break away and run. Oh please dear Lord … The words tumbled through his mind as much a silent scream as a prayer. Please …

Myra weaved side to side as if enraptured by the guttural cadence of the chant. Her movements mirrored Rodney’s. Their eyes were locked on one another, and Kenny was little more than the spectator of a danse macabre.

What?

A flash of light brought him out of his fugue. The reflection illuminated the cut glass panels on either side of the door. Then it was gone.

More lightning, he thought. But there was no accompanying thunder. He listened a few more seconds. Just wind. But if it wasn’t lightning, then what … The answer hit him like a fist.

Headlights.

Someone was coming.

He looked away from the window. Rodney almost had the bag open. The spitting and hissing form inside was thrashing harder than before. Rodney stopped chanting long enough to grab the mouth of the bag.

“No.”

Kenny heard the word but didn’t realize he said it. Rodney only glanced at him as he continued to struggle with the bag’s contents.
Myra glared at him. “What do you mean no? Can’t you see . . .”

“Somebody just drove up,” he said, getting to his feet, “and I’m getting out of here now. Come on.” He started toward the kitchen, hoping to make it out the back door before anyone showed up.

“How do you know somebody’s coming?” she said even as she got to her feet. “Nobody knows we’re up here.”

“I saw headlights reflected in the windows. Somebody turned in at the bottom of the hill.” He grabbed Rodney’s arm and pulled. “You’ve got to stop it now. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Get your hands off me.” The older boy shoved him hard, then pulled against the mouth of the bag once more and the cloth ripped. Myra and Kenny saw what Rodney had been struggling to release. Kenny reached out and grabbed for him again despite the warning.

Rodney held the squirming form with one hand and pulled a curved dagger from the duffel bag at his feet. “I’ve got to finish this,” he said. “It has to be now.” His eyes gleamed and he drew the blade back.

The cat squirmed around and clawed his wrist. Rodney dropped the stray cat and jerked his hand back. Blood spattered the floor and the cat upended the bowls as it streaked out of the room.

“Come on,” Myra said. She saw a headlight flash through the glass door panes. Whoever had turned in at the bottom of the hill was now in the circular drive. “It’s over Rodney … let’s go.”

“OK,” he said, and pushed her toward the kitchen. Kenny was already fumbling with the lock. “Follow Chicken Little and let’s get out of here.”

Someone knocked on the front door. “Get that thing open,” Rodney hissed. He punched Kenny’s shoulder. “Do it now.” Kenny turned the knob again. The door was stuck. He turned the knob again and threw his weight against the door. It shuddered against the jamb, still stuck. Kenny half squatted and hit the door again. It resisted a second longer, then swung open. He fell through the opening as the second set of knocks reverberated through the house.

On the living room floor, scattered droplets of blood quivered, stretched into thin rivulets, and merged with the spilled contents from the bowl. The floor rippled like heat waves rising off hot tarmac, and the blood seeped into the wood until there was no trace.

#

Deputy Steve Hughes eased the door open and waited. The silence was almost tangible. He called out, then paused a moment more before he went inside. More silence.

He sensed movement in the edges of dancing shadows. He eased the door open until he had an unobstructed view of the source.

Five candles surrounding a pentagram.

Something shuffled on the far side of the room. He pointed the beam from his flashlight in the direction of the noise. Twin red reflections glinted in the artificial light and a form came hurtling straight for him.

The deputy leveled his Glock 22 at the approaching figure but it was moving too fast. A blur of brown and tan screeched as it careened off his leg and out through the front door into the waiting night.

He watched the cat disappear in the dark, then made his way through the house, mindful of every creak and footstep echo. Satisfied that he was alone, he walked back to the living room to take a closer look at what he had seen on the floor.

He looked at the bowls, the dried material, and the knife half hidden in the tatters of a heavy cloth bag. His remembered the cat and his stomach clinched.

What happened in here?

~*~

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