Copyright © 2016 by Michaelbrent Collings
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NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
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PRAISE FOR THE WORK OF
MICHAELBRENT COLLINGS
"… prepare to be creeped out." – San Francisco Book Review
"Collings is a great storyteller!" – Larry Correia, NY Times bestselling author of Monster Hunter International and Son of the Black Sword.
"Move over Stephen King... Clive Barker.... Michaelbrent Collings is taking over as the new king of the horror book genre." – Media Mikes
"[Crime Seen] will keep you guessing until the end…. 5/5. " – Horror Novel Reviews
"It's rare to find an ending to a novel that is clever, thought-provoking and surprising, yet here Collings nails all three…." – Ravenous Reads
"Crime Seen by Michaelbrent Collings is one of those rare books that deserves more than five stars." – Top of the Heap Reviews
"I barely had time to buckle my mental seatbelt before the pedal hit the metal...." – The Horror Fiction Review
"Collings is so proficient at what he does, he crooks his finger to get you inside his world and before you know it, you are along for the ride. You don't even see it coming; he is that good." – Only Five Star Book Reviews
"A proficient and pedagogical author, Collings' works should be studied to see what makes his writing resonate with such vividness of detail…." – Hellnotes
"[H]auntingly reminiscent of M. Night Shyamalan or Alfred Hitchcock." – horrornews.net
"The Haunted is a terrific read with some great scares and a shock of an ending!" – Rick Hautala, international bestselling author; Bram Stoker Award® for Lifetime Achievement winner
"[G]ritty, compelling and will leave you on the edge of your seat.... " – horrornews.net
"[W]ill scare even the most jaded horror hounds. " – Joe McKinney, Bram Stoker Award®-winning author of Flesh Eaters and The Savage Dead
"Apparition is a hard core supernatural horror novel that is going to scare the hell out of you.... This book has everything that you would want in a horror novel.... it is a roller coaster ride right up to a shocking ending." – horroraddicts.net
"What a ride.... This is one you will not be able to put down and one you will remember for a long time to come. Very highly recommended." – Midwest Book Review
Dedication
To...
Elison, who kept me there,
and to Laura, FTAAE.
ONE: These are the rats...
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2
3
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TWO: ... that killed the cats ...
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THREE: ... who lived in the house ...
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FOUR: ... that death built.
ONE:
These are the rats...
This was the life of the man.
He had little. But it was enough, because he also had her. She owned him, completely and utterly, but he owned her as well so he never felt himself either possessor or possessed. The word "we" came more readily than the word "I." He never went out for a poker night, never yearned for a week away where he could do manly things like camping or hunting or just be around anyone other than her.
She was his best friend.
She was there for all his happiest moments.
In his favorite dreams, they were together forever.
The knowledge that this was a lie was the only darkness in a world she made bright.
1
This is what the house looks like.
This is the house where death has come to call.
It is nice – very nice – though its obvious value comes not so much from its size (though it is large) or its spacious grounds (though spacious they are), or even the topiaries and fountains that grace its surroundings (though there are, of course, many of those).
No, its value can be seen, even by the least discerning eye, in the details. In the whole.
The house is white, and instantly brings the word "estate" to mind. The kind of thing you might picture in a movie about Southern gentry – warm summer nights with white-clad people sipping dainty mint juleps on the porch that embraces the main structure. Ladies who wear frocks and hold ribboned parasols, men who sit in seersucker suits and fan themselves with Panama hats while speaking and occasionally dab beads of sweat away from foreheads.
Of course, this is no movie. These are not such gentle times, and this is no such gentle place.
But that's getting ahead.
The house is surrounded, as we said, by a porch. Tuscan columns stand tall and even along the outer edge of the porch, anchored directly to the white structure and leading to ornate headings: astragals leading to neckings leading to echini and abaci, with the whole cemented to beautiful entablatures.
Many windows stare out from the sides of the house. In daytime they shine, during night festivities they glow warmly.
Now, they are dark – eyes blinded nightly by the dark cataracts of a black sky.
Around the home, there are many things, as we said.
A beautiful lawn, so green it seems painted and large enough to play a dozen games of croquet at once and still have room left over for a church ice cream social.
Topiaries and hedgerows, spaced to allow for visual impact while still permitting easy passage between and among the greenery.
Fountains, enough that no matter where you stand you can hear the calming burble of water over stone.
And four shadows, moving in a way that shadows should not. A way that cries out – that screams, that shrieks – "Danger, danger, danger!"
The shadows came over the high privacy wall that encircles the grounds. Just seconds ago they were outside, and now… within.
They move to a box near the wall. One of them – slighter than the others, but moving with speed that speaks of certainty and a physical awareness that is itself frightening – kneels. Moves.
The lights that brighten the grounds flicker. Flicker.
Go out.
The shadows are shadows no longer. They have been swallowed by the sudden darkness. Now only visible as wraiths – not things of this world, but of another, and far crueler, plane.
They flit toward the house. Shrub to fountain, fountain to tree, then back to hedge again – a stuttering run that keeps them in the darkest pits of the night. You would think of cockroaches, watching them: things that fear the light and embrace the darkness as a refuge and a home.
Things of night. Things that feed on the refuse of others, and the rot of a dying world.
They arrive at the back of the house.
Again, the slight one kneels, this time beside a door.
A moment later: a click.
The door opens.
The wraiths slip inside, seeming to melt from shadow without to shadow within.
What seems like a long time passes. It isn't, of course, but watching this all makes time stretch out to obscene lengths. Seconds are minutes, minutes days.
So days pass by. Days in which there is no sun, in which the starless night holds sway, in which all observers hold their breath. And wait.
For what?
For the only thing that might happen, in a night like this, a place like this.
For the screams to begin.
And begin they do.
2
This was not how it was supposed to have gone.
But you can't make an omelet, blah blah blah.
Rob Johnson looked at the two people kneeling on the floor – a floor covered in wool carpeting that probably cost a hundred bucks per square foot – and sighed. Things went wrong, that was to be expected.
But did they have go wrong so noisily?
He nodded at Tommy Leigh. Like Rob, the other man was dressed in black from crown to toe. Black sweater, black cargo pants with extra pockets sewn on it – the better to take small sundries that would fetch good prices. His face was covered by the same black balaclava all of them wore.
But unlike Rob, Tommy was huge. Six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty pounds of muscle that was knotted so tightly around his frame Rob often wondered how the guy didn't just implode.
Still, that wasn't what made the big man so frightening. It was something that no amount of dark clothing could disguise, something that no one could mistake.
It was madness.
Tommy's sanity held itself even more tightly than his muscles – a straitjacket that, though sufficiently strong to hold him back for the moment, grew ever more frayed, ever weaker.
Someday Tommy would burst free of that jacket, and woe to anyone nearby.
His eyes told all of that. His eyes that never stopped moving, even when he stared at something. The pupils danced a spastic dance, a back-and-forth jig that made it seem like he was always on the verge of jumping behind you and simply breaking your neck with one massive hand.
Tommy leaped forward at Rob's nod. Just waiting for the go-ahead.
The screaming had been coming from the woman. He knew her name was Beth, but Rob hardly cared about proper introductions. He just cared that she was screaming and screaming and now the scream was a long, keening wail and then the wail turned into a shriek and then –
Tommy's free hand – the one not holding his favorite gun – reached out and almost casually swatted the woman.
She flew sideways, slammed into a heavy armoire, and bounced off leaving a splotch of blood behind.
"Beth!" The man who had been kneeling on the floor – Rob did know his name, it was "James," which struck him as a perfect name for a guy who lived in a place like this – screamed and lurched toward his wife. Tommy's backhand turned into a cross between a haymaker and a slap, and James went down as well.
He tried to crawl to his wife, who was sobbing pitifully as blood ran down the side of her head.
He stopped when Tommy stepped on his leg. Rob counted two distinct snaps as bone shattered. James screamed.
"Great, now they're both making noise." Tommy looked at Rob with eyes that clearly said he didn't mind the noise. The freak probably liked it.
Rob pointed his gun at James, then swung it over to Beth. "You two have one second before I blow you both away." That was a bluff, but it worked. Beth's sobs petered into restrained whimpers, and James bit back his pain. He was clutching at his leg, a dark stain spreading through the gray sweats the guy had been wearing when they tore him out of bed.
Rob sensed movement and turned. Another black shape entered the room, pushing a teenage boy about seventeen and a little girl who looked like she was probably twelve. The boy had his arm over the girl's shoulders. Both were pale, terrified, but silent.
"Good." Rob nodded at Kayla as she jabbed her prizes into the room, the muzzle of her gun nudging first the boy, then the girl. "Anyone else?"
Kayla's eyes glimmered. The similarity to her brother's gaze was unmistakable, though the particulars of her madness were different. She was a sociopath – not that Rob had a problem with that: sociopaths always acted in their own interest, and that was something he understood.
Still, beneath that… there was something just as terrifying – perhaps more so – as the mayhem that lit her brother's gaze.
"No one," she said. "Just the two kids, like you said."
Rob nodded in satisfaction. Was about to tell Kayla to push the kids over next to their parents, but a voice came out of the closet, cutting him off.
"I think I need help in here," said the voice.
Rob sighed. He muttered a curse, and Beth's sobs rose slightly, seeming to respond to his anger.
Tommy moved closer to the woman. No doubt hoping he'd get to slap her again – or worse.
Rob nodded to Kayla. "Put them over there," he said, gesturing to a corner of the room far from the kids' parents. He turned to James and Beth. "You be good, now." He pointed his gun at the kids. The little girl cried out, and the teen pulled her closer. Still looking at the parents, Rob continued, "Or I'll start killing people."
Beth's whimpers completely disappeared. "Please," she whispered.
Rob grinned. He liked it when people begged.
Then, without another word, he turned and went into the closet.
3
Aaron Purcill kept stifling the urge to pull of his mask. Sweat had built up on his brow, been partially absorbed by the cotton, and the two of them had combined to form a scratchy wad of damp fabric that made it nearly impossible to concentrate.
Concentration was critical in his line of work. So he wanted to rip the mask off his head and just do the job the way it needed to be done.
He left the mask in place. Not because this was how Rob wanted things, not even because doing so would protect his identity.
It was for the family.
He heard them, first the parents shouting, then the ugly noises that meant Tommy was probably utilizing his favorite skill set. Then screaming.
And then silence.
The silence was the worst. The silence meant that the kids were there. That Rob had made it clear what they were there for.
Just like Rob had made it clear to Aaron what would happen to them if they saw anyone's face, or if the job went sideways.
And it was halfway to sideways already. Maybe more.
Aaron kept his mask on.
But no matter how much he worked, no matter how hard he tried, he could tell this one was going to be beyond him.
He tried for another moment, but he was just spinning his
wheels. Stalling.
Sweat finally dripped from the sodden mask. A droplet found its way into his eye. It stung.
He wiped it away. And as though taking his hand from the safe had removed his last bit of resistance to the inevitable, he finally called out.
"I think I need help in here."
He heard the familiar sound of Rob's voice. Not the words, but the tone. Threats. And Aaron could just imagine what the man was saying. "Move and die. Make a sound and die. Dick around with me in any way and die."
Death everywhere. And Aaron couldn't do anything about it.
Rob appeared in the doorway a moment later, then moved into the closet. There was plenty of room for both of them in here: the closet was bigger than most people's living rooms.
The space was divided neatly into halves. The right held dresses, skirts, blouses. A line of shoes that ran nearly the length of the closet. A set of drawers built into the wall that no doubt held jewelry, underwear, socks.
The other side of the closet was clearly the husband's. A long line of suits – the cheapest easily worth at least ten grand – hung beside a dozen dress slacks organized by color. A tie rack with ties that had names like "Stefano Ricci" and "Turnbull & Asser." Shoes polished to a mirror sheen.
The end of the closet ended in a wall bereft of hanger rods or shelves. The bare space served to highlight the squat custom safe that hunkered between the parallel lines of clothing.
The safe was Aaron's job, and the fact that he'd called Rob in meant the job wasn't done.
And that meant Rob was unhappy.
Rob looked at the safe. Expecting, no doubt, to see the keypad pried away from the metal, the workings exposed, some sort of safecracking magic being performed.
But there was nothing.
Rob just looked at Aaron. Not a word. But Aaron could tell that the other man knew. Knew that this one was beyond Aaron's skills. And that was going to cost him later.
The House That Death Built Page 1
