by Dani Lamia
The author of this book is solely responsible for the accuracy of all facts and statements contained in the book. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2020 by Level 4 Press, Inc.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Published by:
Level 4 Press, Inc.
13518 Jamul Drive
Jamul, CA 91935
www.level4press.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019943929
ISBN: 978-1-933769-62-2
Printed in USA
Other books by Dani Lamia
The Raven
Demonic
Younger
Hotel California
Scavenger Hunt
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1 Phoebe
Chapter 2 The Arrival
Chapter 3 The Room
Chapter 4 Hester and Her Boarders
Chapter 5 Deeds in the Night
Chapter 6 A Dark Day for White Lake
Chapter 7 Onenspek
Chapter 8 The Second Dinner
Chapter 9 Nighttime Seduction
Chapter 10 Gifts & Invitations
Chapter 11 Evening Interlude
Chapter 12 The Séance
Chapter 13 The Depths of Secrets
Chapter 14 Acquiescence
Chapter 15 Relentless
Chapter 16 Excursion
Chapter 17 Revelation
Chapter 18 The Charmed
Chapter 19 The Search
Chapter 20 Discovery
Chapter 21 Sacrifice
Chapter 22 Panas
Chapter 23 Erasing the Night
Epilogue
Prologue
The house on Gable Way was a lone one, built upon a gentle rise of land that could scarcely be referred to as a hill. The rise was a clearing within a forest, thick and green with great, tall white oak trees. In contrast, those nearest the Victorian residence, its carriage house, and outbuildings, were thin, weak, and pale with an illness unknown. Even in ideal conditions, they could only manage to cover their spindly branches with tiny leaves of ashen green. In winter, they appeared dead.
The lawns surrounding the mansion could yield nothing healthy in appearance, and nothing at all within a yard of the home. Groundskeeper after groundskeeper had come to the residence to take on the tasks of seeding, fertilizing, and watering, only to become perplexed over their ineffectiveness and subsequently get terminated by the landowners.
Some thirty yards away, the carriage house, which had capacity to grant shelter to four horses and two carriages, was embraced on three sides by a thick, lush lawn. It was here that gardeners concentrated their efforts. Nevertheless, even the annual flowers of the carriage house garden died well before their expected lifespan, and perennials never reappeared once winter melted into spring.
The house was built three levels high, not including the spacious attic, which drew to a long, peaked roof at the center with windows facing the east and west. Cupolas capped the corner rooms of the third floor, and the master bedroom sat overlooking the south-facing front porch. Each peak of the mansion, seven in all, was topped by a decorative gable, each ensconced with either griffins or gargoyles, except the largest set above the master bedroom. There, looking down on the cobblestone path, was the figure of a woman draped in robes and spreading her welcoming arms. Her hair fanned and arched behind her head, set to flight by unseen wind.
The lone residence of Gable Way, as the Pyncheons named their path upon the home’s completion in the year 1887, had at first been regarded by the residents of White Lake, Michigan, as elegant, perhaps even decadent. The Pyncheons were well educated, successful, and well bred. However, in the short few years following their arrival, some of the people of White Lake incurred inexplicable tragedies, many in the form of family members gone missing or strange illnesses that doctors could not diagnose nor affect. Some of these sicknesses abated, while others ended tragically. There were accidents involving carriages, of which some were fatal. Homes or barns would spontaneously combust without apparent cause, and cases of accidental firearm discharge became common.
These seemingly unrelated incidents were cataloged by the local constabulary and spoken of by the victims’ surviving family members. In some cases, members of the Pyncheon family were blamed outright, as whatever incident had befallen their loved ones had benefitted the Pyncheon family, either politically or financially.
Among these suffering families was one by the surname of Maule. Having emigrated from Great Britain before the colony declared its independence, the Maules were wealthy and owned much of the commerce and property in White Lake. Since the arrival of the Pyncheons, many tragedies befell the Maules, and many held a Pyncheon responsible.
However, no evidence could ever be found to tie any Pyncheon to any of the happenings, and never had any criminal charges been brought.
Despite this, rumors spread that the Pyncheons did indeed bring the bad tidings, and many residents of White Lake grew wary of those living in the House of the Seven Gables and remained aloof.
The Pyncheons were eventually forced to hire laborers from out of town, some out of state. One of which was a young woman named Alice Pyncheon, a distant cousin from an unfavored branch of the family from the East Coast. The Michigan Pyncheons took pity, so it seemed, when they hired Alice as a chambermaid. She was of a slight build, but mentally resilient and bright. She labored hard and efficiently for nearly two years until, by mid-September of 1895, she had witnessed many odd occurrences. Visitors would arrive at all hours of the night, their carriages and teams awaking her. Alice would watch from her bedroom window on the second floor of the southeastern turret as the passengers exited their luxurious vehicles and slipped out of sight under the porch roof on their way to the front door. The women always wore expensive black dresses with flouncy hoop skirts that skimmed the ground. When they weren’t using umbrellas, the women wore hats with veils, so Alice never saw their faces, even in the daytime. Another visitor was a man of great height, but Alice never had a chance to see more than a glimpse of his face. His long gait spirited him along as quickly as some men ran. Alice asked the family’s other servants about these visitors, but none knew of them—or at least would refuse to speak on the subject.
Clifford Pyncheon was a gruff, stern head-of-household who never smiled. His second wife, Alvaretta, was just as inanimate, and ordered Alice about like an untrained puppy. Her voice was sharp, her sentences short, and her glares hard. Clifford’s daughter from his first marriage, Hepzibah, was the nastiest of the Pyncheons. Short, stout, and sporting an arched, bird like beak of a nose, she appeared at her most evil when she smiled. Her long black eyebrows arched high on her forehead and were steeped at a sharp angle, giving the impression that they would simply slide from her face. The servants avoided her whenever possible. Alice, too, vacated any room Hepzibah occupied, even if it meant leaving a task partially finished until Hepzibah moved on.
In the presence of Clifford, Alvaretta, and Hepzibah, Alice’s skin would sprout goosebumps. Mealtimes were the worst, when the Pyncheons were together in the large dining room, sometimes with visiting relatives or business acquaintances. The vast mansion was quite capable of accommodating dozens of guests comfortably, though the Pyncheons had no friends, and never had the house been at capacity in the time Alice labored there.
Over time, with the snippets of information Alice’s ears and eyes gleaned by he
r natural proximity to the family, it became obvious the family business affairs were not altogether legal, and she became uncomfortable in their employ.
Of late, Alice had her sleep interrupted by nightmares, almost none of the details of which made impressions on her memory. She became increasingly uneasy with each passing day, a feeling made worse by the strange late-night visitors. In her exhausted state, Alice’s features became gaunt, her skin paled, and she developed shadowy pouches beneath her eyes.
Alice grew paranoid, convinced the family knew of her suspicions, though they had nothing to fear. A word overheard here and there, paperwork glimpsed but not understood, and the laughter she caught just before entering a room added up to nothing solid.
Finally, that September of 1895, Alice decided to leave without notice and under the cover of darkness, but on the night of her escape, a rainstorm covered White Lake. She retired to her room and fell asleep to the sound of it splattering against the windows.
A far-off crack of thunder startled her awake. The rain had slowed its assault, allowing her to hear the ticking of her nightstand clock. She looked to its face in time to see it set alight by a bolt of lightning, filtered as it was through her silk curtains. It was just after two in the morning.
Her sigh of melancholy was covered by the rumble of thunder some seconds after the flash. Exhausted, she let her head relax into the down pillow and closed her eyes. As she drifted back to sleep, the sound of hooves clip-clopping along the cobblestones of Gable Way brought her back to full consciousness. She yanked the sheets off and leaped from bed, her feet bare on the cool wood.
Looking down onto the street, she found a familiar carriage, the one with a deep cherry-lacquered finish, which was illuminated by its two large gas lamps. Its driver climbed down from his perch, lit a lantern, and opened the door for his employer, the taller of the female visitors. Her head was blocked from view by the familiar black and red umbrella. As she disappeared into the home, a second carriage turned onto Gable Way. Its mahogany finish appeared black, even with lamps and lightning glancing from it. The mysterious male disembarked and entered the home, appearing for perhaps a second. The third carriage soon arrived. This one was the most modest one, colored a natural light wood. The second female of the trio was certainly inside.
Alice jumped back from the window as the driver of the first carriage looked up. She crept to the far side of the window and moved the curtain away from the glass ever so gently. Alice found the driver again, his upturned face darkened and obscured by a rain-soaked, wide-brimmed hat. He was deadly still, as if staring into her window. She recognized him only by his build, as she had seen the drivers on many occasions in the light. All were grim, ugly men, tall and burly, hired for their imposing physicality as well as their driving skills.
Alice silently climbed back into bed, as she never knew when one of the Pyncheons was about, and the house had always filled her with disquiet, as if the walls had eyes. Irrational, she knew, but the feeling had always been there, unshakable. A chill ran through her, and she tugged the sheet and blanket over her face.
I should have left this Godforsaken house tonight, rain be damned, she thought and bit her lip. Another flash of lightning was screened by her sheets, and the explosive thunder that followed was startlingly close. She let slip a short cry into her blanket.
Alice had never been afraid of storms, but tonight was different. Her nerves had been worked raw with sleep so hard to attain. She took several deep breaths, attempting to calm herself. It was then she heard footsteps coming up the carpeted stairs near her door. One by one, the visitors reached the landing and continued onto the next flight, heading to the third floor.
She counted the footsteps. Each person was distinctive, having a different weight and gait. In her imagination, she could visualize each one of them. The tall man was leading. His walk was confident and slower due to his height. The next one was the shortest of the three. Her footfalls were the lightest, quickest, and quietest. The last was the woman whose carriage had arrived first. Tall with a solid build, her feet stomped along in an almost mechanical rhythm.
The visitors continued up, and from the soft thuds that emanated from the ceiling at which she blindly stared, it was obvious to Alice, who knew the layout of the house perfectly well, that the procession was not heading for any of the bedrooms or the master’s den. Instead, as the footfalls faded to nothing, it was clear they were heading to the back of the house. There was a pair of sitting rooms there, the library, the dining room, and the stairwell leading to the attic.
Alice lay still in her bed, listening, but there was nothing beyond the ticking of her clock. Even the rain had stopped. Curiosity threatened to drive her mad, so she again tossed the sheets to one side and bounced onto her bare feet. Her restlessness escalated, and she silently paced the floor.
Their timing is almost too perfect. Could they suspect me of wanting to escape this place? In her sleep-deprived state, it seemed plausible. Though she had not spoken her intention to any of the other servants, she wondered if she had been conveying the message by her actions. No, she decided. I’ve changed nothing of my behavior.
Alice went to her door and gently gave the curved brass handle a turn. The latch clicked, and she pulled the door open partway. The amber light of kerosene lamps set upon wall sconces glowed against the burgundy and gold wallpaper.
A sudden urge to eavesdrop came to Alice. She absolutely had to see what the visitors were doing. She stepped to her closet, removed a shawl, and clumsily threw it over her shoulders. She thrust her feet into her slippers, picked up her candleholder with its single, half-consumed candle and her small box of matches, and ventured out of her room. Silently, she closed her door and lightly stepped to the staircase.
There she hesitated, thinking of things to say if she were discovered. She had taken the first few steps when another thought occurred. What in God’s name am I doing? For this, she had no answer, but her feet kept moving, lightly and steadily, and continued the climb to the third floor.
Reaching it, she stopped. The lamps were lit here, too, creating a clear path to the north end of the house. The wallpaper in the third-floor hallway was a deep blue with an off-white flowery pattern, breaking for the entrances to the rooms beyond.
At the end of the hall, Alice turned and stepped to the door to the attic staircase. Usually, it was kept locked, but tonight, she grasped the handle and it turned freely. She looked up into the darkness, for there was no room here for wall-mounted lamps, nor shelving, nor tables on which to place them. Alice took a match from the box and lit her candle.
Maybe I’ll overhear something useful enough to take to the sheriff, she convinced herself and took to the stairs. These were uncarpeted, so she took care not to slip on their lacquered wood finish. Near the top of the staircase, she began to hear voices. The attic was separated into two storage rooms, one on either side of the landing. Both doors were closed, but once Alice stepped high enough to become eye level with the landing, she found light coming from underneath the door on the left.
She arrived at the top and remained still for a moment. The voices were clearer now, but the subject of the conversation was lost to her.
This is a grave mistake, she thought. I wish I’d not left my bed.
The murmuring lured Alice in further. She pressed an ear against the wooden door, a far flimsier version of the portals hung throughout the lower floors. She caught a word here and there, but after a moment the gathering relaxed and their voices raised from hushed tones to that of regular volume.
A female voice, one that Alice thought sounded young and familiar, spoke out. Her tone was urgent, bordering on anxious. “But is there enough to split four ways?”
The male’s penetratingly deep voice rumbled. “I never made promises. To any of you. Keep that in mind before questioning me.”
“Yes, Panas,” the same one replied.
> Panas? What a strange name. Alice pressed her ear harder against the door, thinking she’d misheard.
The man continued. “With these in hand, it is we who have control of the Butterfield Overland Mail Company. The Maules are no longer a threat. The Pyncheons will keep this mansion in their possession indefinitely,” he finished with a gravelly chuckle that chilled Alice’s bones.
“Praise Ba’al,” one of the women commented with satisfaction.
Ba’al? Alice had never heard the name, but she was instantly uncomfortable with the gathering’s reverence. An unsettling whisper followed the mention of the strange moniker, one similar to those spoken in church, but different somehow.
“My thanks to High Priestess Ceridwen for her most masterful triumph,” the male said. “I trust Maule was of no challenge.”
Oh, my God! What have they done? Alice asked herself, feeling her heart quicken.
The woman, Ceridwen, laughed. It was airy and short. “He was not, Panas. He’ll recover by morning.”
Thank goodness, Alice thought and let out the breath she had been holding.
Suddenly, Alice smelled something burning. She opened her eyes and quickly found smoke rising from her person. She had brought her candle too close to herself. A fringe of her shawl had caught alight.
Alice let out a guttural call of alarm, a sound that never evolved into a scream. The noise that belted from her throat was a merging of a cry of surprise and a gurgle. She held the candle holder away and beat the quickly growing flame out.
***
An animal-like whimper sounded from the other side of the door halted all conversation in the attic chamber, and every eye of the coven fell upon it. Ceridwen turned and shot a commanding look at her subordinate wicca, Lornabeth, and pointed to the ceiling, holding it close to her own ear. Her other index finger covered her lips, the long, sharp fingernail clicking against the nose of her demonic mask.
With practiced precision, Lornabeth pulled a vial from her small waist satchel and uncorked it. She spilled its crystalline powder onto her palm, curled her fingers around it, then threw it into the air. With a subtle hiss, the colorful powder fought the force of gravity, not only well enough to slow its descent to the floor, but such that each minuscule crystal negated the fall and expanded in the blink of an eye to form a sphere, which hovered in the center of the foursome until it ignited with a muted report, not unlike that of a child’s rubber balloon.
