House of Reckoning

by John Saul

  “Are you all right?”

  Sarah hesitated, then nodded. “It’s okay,” she said. “I—I love my family. I mean, I loved my mom, and I still love my dad. I really do. Mom was really great, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks, my dad’s still great. But—” Her voice caught and her eyes glistened with tears. “I don’t know—ever since I met you, and came to this house, I’ve felt—I don’t know, different. Like I belonged here.” Finally, she looked up at Bettina. “And maybe I do, don’t I?”

  Bettina put her other arm around Sarah, and drew her closer. “You certainly do,” she whispered.

  “So what’s going to happen?” Nick asked. “I mean, what’s going to happen to all of us?”

  Bettina sat back and shrugged. “I don’t know. But for the first time in a very long time, I’m not frightened. Not even a little bit.” She looked first at Nick, then at Sarah. “And I don’t think you need to be, either.” A gust of wind howled outside and the lights flickered, went out, then came back on so quickly they barely noticed it. “See?” Bettina said, reaching out to give Nick’s hand a squeeze. “The place is taking care of us.”

  As what was now a snowstorm raged outside, they sat quietly in the old house, waiting for whatever was to come, bound together by history, and bound together by fate.

  And bound together by something else, something they knew they might never truly understand.

  Dan West parked his patrol car in the clinic’s parking lot but didn’t immediately get out. Instead he sat perfectly still, willing himself to move back into his role as head of the Warwick police department. But it wasn’t possible. Tonight wasn’t like any other night when he might be called to hear what someone had to say. Tonight it was about his son—his own son—and whatever Tiffany Garvey had to tell him, it better be good. For all he knew, Tiffany could have caused the wreck herself; God only knew what she might have been doing while Conner was trying to drive carefully along the narrow dirt road while snow fell. And what was Conner supposed to do? Push her away? Maybe Conner was barely old enough to drive, but he was still a man, and a man didn’t push a woman away when she wanted to—

  Her fault! That was it—it was her fault his son was dead, and now she would make up some story to get herself off the hook.

  He pulled up the collar on his coat and stepped out of the car, bracing himself against the biting wind that blew stinging shards of sleet at his face and hands. Hunched against the cold, he hurried to the clinic’s emergency entrance and through the big sliding door.

  Mitch Garvey, flanked by Angie and Zach, were huddled together, praying, in the corner of the waiting room. Well, if his hunch was anywhere near right, they had a lot to pray about!

  Mitch looked up when Dan entered, and stood when he saw the fury in his eyes. “Okay, where is she?” Dan demanded.

  “Back there,” Mitch said, tilting his head toward the curtained off area. “The doctor’s working on her.”

  Dan West turned to the nurse at the reception desk, but she was on her feet even before he spoke. “I’ll tell Dr. Nelson you’re here, Dan,” she said, and slipped behind the striped curtain.

  A moment later the nurse drew it aside and waved Dan closer. Tiffany Garvey lay on a gurney, her face bruised and swollen. Ron Nelson, who’d gone all the way through high school with Dan West before heading off to college and then medical school, stood watching the monitors.

  “Hey, Ron,” Dan said, his eyes fixed on the injured girl. “Can I ask Tiffany a couple of questions?”

  “You can ask,” Nelson said. “She’s been drifting in and out of consciousness, so I can’t say how well she’ll answer, but go ahead.”

  Feeling Mitch and Angie Garvey crowding behind him, Dan moved to the head of Tiffany’s bed. “Tiffany?” he said. “Tiffany, can you hear me?”

  Tiffany’s eyelids parted, she squinted up for a second or two, then let her lids fall.

  “Is she sedated?” Dan asked the doctor. If she were under the influence of drugs, interviewing her would be pointless—whatever she said would mean next to nothing.

  “No way,” Nelson assured him. “Nothing like that with a head injury until you know exactly what’s going on.”

  Dan nodded. “Tiffany? It’s Dan West. Conner’s father. Can you tell me what happened tonight?” Her eyes fluttered and her brow creased, but she said nothing. “The accident out on the old road?” Dan pressed. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Finally, Tiffany’s eyes opened, she blinked, then squinted in the bright light. Her eyes found her father, now standing at the foot of her bed. “Tried to kill us,” she said, her voice weak and scratchy. She tried to clear her throat, only half succeeded, then repeated what she’d just said. “They tried to kill us.”

  “Who?” Dan demanded. What the hell was she talking about? According to Harvey Miller, it had been a one-car accident.

  “Sarah,” Tiffany breathed. Then: “Sarah Crane and Nick Dunnigan.”

  Dan West’s eyes narrowed. What on earth would Sarah Crane and the Dunnigan kid have been doing out there? Everyone knew what kids were up to in that area—hell, he and Andrea had gone up there themselves before they got married. But the crippled girl and a kid everyone knew was nuts? Tiffany Garvey had to be lying.

  Lying, and protecting herself. “Come on, Tiffany,” Dan said, doing his best to keep both his suspicion and his growing fury out of his voice. “How could those two try to kill you?”

  Her eyes met his. “Th-They saw us out by the lake,” she said haltingly. “Th-Then they … followed us … and … and set the road … on fire.”

  Dan’s fury grew. Set the road on fire? Was she nuts? Whatever actually happened—and he was surer by the second that he knew exactly what it was—couldn’t she have made up a better story than that? But when he looked at her, she looked straight back at him, her eyes never wavering the way kids always did when they lied. It wasn’t until they grew up that they learned to lie with a straight face.

  “It’s true,” she insisted. “They set the road on fire. If you don’t believe me, ask Conner.”

  Dan flinched at the sound of his son’s name, and Tiffany’s eyes widened as she realized what his reaction meant. “No,” she whispered. “Oh, God … no …” Her eyes flooded with tears, and even in the grip of his fury, Dan West understood that not only had Tiffany not known Conner was dead, but truly believed he would back up what she said.

  “I think that’s enough,” Ron Nelson said, moving closer, obviously ready to step between his patient and the sheriff.

  Dan nodded once, took one last, and penetrating, look at Tiffany, who was now sobbing in her mother’s arms, and walked through the curtain and back into the waiting room.

  Rage was rising in him like a tidal wave now, and as he remembered the tale not only Conner, but Sarah and Nick, too, had told after King’s belly was laid open, he felt his pulse throbbing in his veins. Well, they might have gotten away with killing his dog, but however they’d done it, Sarah Crane and Nick Dunnigan would pay for Conner’s death. If it was the last thing he did, he would see to that.

  “I knew it!” Angie Garvey spat a moment later as she came back into the waiting area, followed by her husband. “I knew that girl was evil! She’s a tool of Satan, and it’s not just her!”

  Dan was already heading to the squad car.

  “Stay with your sister,” Angie told Zach, grabbing Mitch’s arm and starting after Dan West. “Let’s go.”

  She pulled him toward the squad car through the howling storm, yanked open the back door and climbed in.

  “They’re at Bettina Philips’s house, Dan,” Angie declared, her voice trembling with fury. “I’m sure of it. You’re going to have to do something about that woman. She’s destroying all of us! And what did we ever do to her?”

  Dan heard only half of what Angie was saying. He, too, was sure he knew exactly where Sarah and Nick were: at Shutters. He put the car in gear and gunned the engine. Snow clouded the windshield and
the wipers could barely keep up with it, but he stepped hard on the accelerator, his fury building with every second that passed, and by the time he reached the bottom of the driveway that led up the hill to Shutters, he was no longer functioning as Warwick’s sheriff.

  Now he was a father seeking vengeance for the death of his son.

  He’d kill Nick and Sarah.

  He’d kill them tonight.

  And not one person would blame him.

  He turned into the driveway and gunned the patrol car up the long hill.

  At the top, he slammed on the breaks. The headlights revealed the looming bulk of Shutters, its massive form seeming to loom even larger in the swirling snow. Getting out of the car, Dan strode toward the house, Angie and Mitch right behind him.

  For all of them, the time of reckoning had come.

  The heavy oak door swung slowly open even before Dan West could lift the knocker, the gusting wind sending flurries of snow into the foyer and the huge gallery beyond. The lights glowed brighter and then dimmed, and a rumble so low the sheriff barely noticed it emanated from somewhere deep within the old stone building.

  His burning anger driving him, Dan strode inside, the storm swirling around him, his eyes stinging from the snow and sleet, his vision blurring, his ears all but deafened by the gale.

  “Bettina Philips!” he roared, “I know you’re here, and I know those kids are here, too!”

  He heard muffled shouting behind him but could make out the words no better than he could see into the depths of the house. He took another step forward, and suddenly the howling of a dog—a big dog—drowned out the sound of the wind, and then the stinging mist around him seemed to clear and he saw it.

  King! It was King, and a few feet from him he saw Conner, and now Conner was shouting: “Sic ’em, King! Get ’em!” For an instant Dan caught a glimpse of Nick Dunnigan and Sarah Crane, but then everything changed and the dog—his own dog—was charging at him! Its jaws wide, its bared fangs dripping saliva, the dog was racing toward him. Instinctively, West took a step back, and heard the door slam shut behind him.

  “What is it?” he heard Angie Garvey demanding, her voice shrill. “Why are you—”

  But Dan West heard nothing else. All his attention was focused on the animal about to launch itself. But it was no longer the shepherd he’d raised from a pup. Instead it was a Rottweiler, but a Rottweiler far larger than any Dan West had ever seen before.

  Instantaneously, Dan’s rage dissolved into primal fear. His eyes locked on the dog’s, and their eyes bore into each other.

  Stay calm, he told himself. It’s a dog—it’s just a dog.

  But he already knew it wasn’t just a dog. This was a beast, and it was radiating an unholy fury, its eyes blazing with a burning light, an unearthly howl erupting from its throat. The animal was coiling itself for one final leap, and out of the corner of his eye Dan saw an open door. Not caring where the door might lead, he turned and fled, feeling the dog’s breath on his neck and hearing its jaws snap shut where his face had been only a split second before.

  Dan dove through the door, whirling as he entered the room, in order to slam the door shut behind him.

  His hand touched the knob, and then it seemed every muscle in his body contracted as if he’d been shot through with a thousand volts of electricity.

  The door remained open, and now the attacking animal was leaping through it.

  Dan’s arm came up to protect his face, and a second later he felt a searing pain shoot from his hand up into his shoulder, the enormous weight of the animal sending him tumbling back farther into the room.

  The door slammed shut, though no one had touched it, at least no one that Dan West could see. His voice rising to a scream, he tried to shake his arm loose from the grip of the dog’s jaws, but they held fast, and he began lashing out at the beast with his feet and one free arm.

  It was as if he were thrashing at a void, as if he were in the grip of some monstrous creature he could see, and hear, and feel, but couldn’t touch at all.

  Then he felt the animal suddenly drop him, and he collapsed for an instant, only to howl in agony yet again a split second later as he felt the dog’s jaws close on his neck, its fangs tearing deep into his flesh.

  “Help me!” he screamed. “For God’s sake, help me! Get him off!”

  But there was no response.

  Only the endless howl of a wind that seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the house, and the guttural sounds emanating from the Rottweiler as it tore at his body, ripping one of his arms from its socket, then settling down to gnaw at his belly.

  Dan twitched, and tried to cry out again, but his larynx was torn away and no sound emerged from his throat as a gray fog slowly closed around him, muffling everything, even the pain of having his body torn apart.

  A fog that Dan West prayed would never lift.

  Angie Garvey stared mutely into the room where Dan West had just fled.

  Fled, and then disappeared.

  For a brief second—so brief that she wasn’t certain it had happened at all—she thought the door had shut, but when she’d looked again it was still standing open, just as it was right now. But the only living thing in the room was some kind of small dog—one of Bettina’s pets—yapping away at nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  Then what happened to Dan West?

  She wheeled around and found herself facing Bettina, flanked by Sarah and Nick, the three of them standing together just outside the door of what looked like some kind of library or study. Not that it mattered what kind of room it was—all that mattered was what was going on here. “Where is he?” she demanded, glowering at Bettina. “What have you done to Dan?”

  “I’ve done noth—” Bettina began, but Angie’s voice cut her off.

  “Everyone knows you’re a witch,” she began, moving toward Bettina. “Everyone knows—”

  “Stop it!” Sarah shouted, her voice trembling with anger. “Bettina isn’t a witch, and she isn’t evil, and she isn’t any of the other things you say she is. She’s my mother!” As if surprised at the sound of the last three words, Sarah fell silent for a moment. Then, far more quietly, she repeated them: “She’s my mother.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “She’s good, and she’s kind, and I love her.”

  Mitch Garvey moved forward, and once more the house trembled with a nearly inaudible rumble. “You keep a civil tongue in your head when you talk to my wife. You’re no better than your father—you killed Conner and almost killed Tiffany.”

  He continued to move toward Sarah, then Nick Dunnigan stepped in front of him.

  “Don’t touch her,” Nick said softly. Though his voice was low, there was a note of confidence in it that even he had never heard before, and as he faced Mitch Garvey, he felt not even a flicker of fear. “You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything about this house, and you don’t know anything about us. So stay away. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Mitch’s eyes narrowed as his fury built. What was going on? Nick Dunnigan was telling him what to do? “Who the hell do you think you are?” he said, his eyes fixing on Nick with the cold look he used to stare down even the worst of the inmates at the prison. All of them knew what came after that look, and Nick Dunnigan was about to find out. His right hand clenching into a hard fist, he took a step toward the boy.

  “Don’t,” Nick said softly.

  But it was too late. Mitch’s arm had already come up, and now he was swinging his fist toward Nick Dunnigan’s jaw.

  The low rumble that had energized the house before erupted into a crack of thunder, and Mitch felt the floor buckle beneath him. Struggling to keep his balance, he flailed at the air with his arms, but tumbled to the floor.

  As Bettina put her arms around Sarah and Nick and drew them closer to her, Angie Garvey stared dumbstruck at her husband. It looked like Mitch had been seized by some kind of demon, and now he was thrashing on the floor fighting some enemy she could neither see
nor hear. She watched mutely as he crawled toward the study as if trying to escape his invisible assailant. Then he was through the door and into the paneled room, and the door slammed shut, and Angie had a terrible feeling that she would never see Mitch again.

  The room was hot—hotter than anything Mitch had ever felt before. Once again he tried to regain his feet, but despite the carpeting, the floor felt slippery—so slippery he lost his footing and fell again. He tried to catch himself, but as soon as his hands touched the floor it felt as if he’d put them on a hot iron.

  Then he saw it.

  Ants—red ants—swarming over the floor, millions of them, so thick there was not a sign of the carpet beneath them.

  Mitch opened his mouth to scream, but as soon as he did, the ants were in his mouth, swarming over his tongue, stinging the inside of his cheeks, moving down his throat like a searing flame, and in an instant he knew he would never scream again. Once again he thrashed, but the ants were everywhere, crawling down the walls, streaming over the furniture, pouring under the door from the hall. Only the fireplace seemed free of them, and he struggled toward it, his entire body burning not only with the heat, but the poison as well. He scrabbled across the floor, clawing his way, feeling his strength drain away in the burning heat.

  And then he was there, dragging himself across the hearth and into the fireplace itself. His head was swimming and the ants were still swarming over him and the heat—

  Flames burst all around him, and for a moment he felt a ray of hope. Even the ants couldn’t withstand the fire blazing around him now. But in the next moment, as he watched his clothes burning away through eyes nearly swollen shut, he realized the truth.

  It was himself—his own body—that had turned into a conflagration, and now his nostrils filled with the sweet odor of burning flesh.

  He gasped for air, but his lungs were already on fire and he could no longer breathe.

  He was dying—he knew he was dying, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it, and he knew with a terrible certainty where he was going.