by J. R. Rain
“Do you really mean that?”
“Sure,” I said.
“That didn’t sound too convincing, Sam.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Allison Lopez, you’re the baddest ass-est witch I have ever known, and it is my great honor to be your friend.”
“I’m the only witch you know.”
“True. But you’re still kinda badass.”
“I am, aren’t I?”
I grinned, glanced at the directions on my phone and pointed toward another street. It wasn’t much of a street at all. That Google Maps knew of it at all was further evidence of their all-encompassing invasion into our lives.
“There’s a street there?” asked Allison.
“According to Google Maps. And Google Maps knows all, sees all.”
“You’re weird, Sam.”
“You can say that again, but don’t. Turn there.”
She shrugged and turned up what appeared to be an overgrown utility road at the far end of a mostly empty, winding street. The heavily weeded path showed little, if any, sign of use in the past decade. Or, in this case, in the past six years. As we bounced along, a view of much of Fullerton opened up to us below. If I had to guess, I would say we were at the highest point in Fullerton, which wasn’t saying much when compared to other high points around the state, but for Fullerton, it was impressive enough. Wooded valleys filled with stunted, twisted oaks, dropped away. Homes seemingly stacked on top of each other crowded the adjacent hill, but the stacking part could have just been a perspective issue. I smelled skunk, and a number of squirrels and rabbits dashed out of the Camry’s path. Shadows fell over the road and soon, we found ourselves in an overgrown living tunnel of greenery. Poor Allison’s car pushed bravely through the brambles, but the thorns and broken branches did a number on her paint.
At one point, when something sharp and nasty was really grinding into her paint job, she looked at me, nostrils flared. “Really, Sam?”
“Just keep going.”
“My car...”
“We’ll buff it out later.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I’m already the only one driving a Camry in Beverly Hills, Sam. Like, the only one. How’s it going to look when I’m driving a scratched-up Camry, to boot?”
“Like a woman who isn’t consumed by materialism?”
“Grrr.”
“Keep going.”
She did, and soon, we were in a clearing... and what a clearing it was. A beautiful, manicured garden as big as a football field spread before us in all directions. I counted not one, but five bubbling fountains, scattered over the grass. Two of the fountains sported bosomy sea nymphs. Or mermaids. I wasn’t sure of the difference. One had a tail. Or a fluke, or whatever the hell they were called. Recently, I’d heard Kingsley talking in his sleep about a mermaid. And not just talking, but emoting what I thought was real emotion. Then again, he’d been talking into his pulverized pillow and I couldn’t make out much. Still, I’d asked him about Alexis the next morning—a name he’d moaned enough—and he only mumbled something unintelligible and went back to sleep. Kingsley didn’t talk much about his past, and what little I’d managed to learn, I’d had to work hard for. And I was gonna have to work for information on Alexis. But it would be worth it. A mermaid? Seriously?
Anyway, beyond the vast expanse of grass was a house to rival Kingsley’s own estate, except this one was older and sported Corinthian columns holding up a wide veranda, and an epic, sweeping, wraparound porch that had probably seen its share of lemonades and rocking chairs on summer days. That is, until a vampire came to town.
Now the deck was empty of any furniture, rocking or otherwise. Not even a wicker stool. As we continued along a crushed seashell drive, I could see now that my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. Great swaths of paint had long since peeled away, exposing graying, old wood beneath. One of the supporting columns had a deep crack that ran up the middle of it, and the porch itself was leaning and probably not up to code. The roof was sagging, too, and the whole place, unless my eyes were playing a trick on me, seemed to lean to the right.
“You inherited this?”
“Er, yes.”
“Can you get a refund?”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“Were you aware that you were inheriting the setting for, like, every horror movie ever?”
“I was not aware of it, but I am now.”
The closer we got, the more dilapidated the place seemed. If the paint hadn’t already peeled off, it was in the process of peeling. The exposed clapboard siding, which usually ran in parallel intervals, wasn’t always running in parallel intervals. Some of the pieces were hanging free. Others were missing altogether. Most were warped and bowed.
Speaking of warped, the wraparound porch looked like a rolling, gray sea, minus the foam and wind... and mermaids. From here, I could see gaping holes in the porch where the planks were gone. I was beginning to think I knew where the skunks were living. Allison parked in front of the “stairs.”
“Sam, this place isn’t safe.”
“Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
“Unless the book doesn’t have a cover.”
I looked at Allison. She smirked.
“You’re proud of that one, aren’t you?” I asked.
She shrugged a little, leaning down and looking up at the house through the windshield. “Kinda.”
I looked up, too, and was certain I spotted a shadow shift from a window on the upper floor. “Maybe I could turn it into an Airbnb.”
“For vampires?”
“And other freaks.” I produced a set of antique keys from my pocket. “C’mon, let’s check out the inside.”
“Do we have to?”
“There are two people still living here,” I said. “I need to check on them.”
“Well, they’ve gotten along fine all these years without you.”
“Maybe. I’ll see for myself. Now, come on.”
Speaking of covers, Allison was right about one thing: the home belonged on Stephen King’s next one. Something like... Dilapidation by Stephen King. Undoubtedly, it would be a #1 bestseller, sold immediately to Hollywood, and star James Franco as a demonic real estate agent. The home, of course, would be a portal to hell, with each cupboard featuring imps and ghouls and gremlins. The devil himself—that is, if he were still alive—would come and go through the fireplace. Oh, and if his three-headed dog were still alive, too (it’s not), it would undoubtedly be chained in the backyard.
“Enough about Stephen King already,” said Allison, picking up on my thoughts and beeping her car locked as we headed for the “stairs.” I glanced back at the Camry and its fresh scratch marks, winced inwardly, and decided not to mention how ridiculous it was that she had beeped the car locked, thus announcing to every ghost and goblin inside that we were here. “Although that book kinda sounds badass. Maybe you should write it.”
I shook my head. “I’ll leave the writing to my sister. She says she’s working on a novel.”
“But you write up your case notes.”
“I do, and how did you know?”
“I can read your mind, silly.”
I studied her closely, wondering if she had done more than just read my mind.
“No, Sam. I haven’t read your case files. I’ve lived through most of them, remember?”
“Uh-huh. Watch your step.”
“Trust me, I’ll be watching every step from now on until I’m safely back in my car. And no, I’m not a drama queen.”
“I hate that you can read my mind and I can’t read yours.”
“It’s Millicent’s rule.”
“It’s a dumb rule.”
“No, it’s not.”
I sighed. She was right, of course. While I slept each morning, the bitch inside me had the ability to report back to others like her anything she might hear or see. Nothing was safe from her.<
br />
Such. A. Bitch.
Anyway, the late afternoon was bright and warm, and my beautiful sunlight ring was doing its job. Without it, I would have been slathered in sunscreen and sprinting up the suspect porch and into the suspect house. Without it, I wouldn’t have been so casually strolling toward the “stairs.” At present, a breeze swept over the clearing, swaying the branches of the surrounding trees and bending the nearby blades of grass. Remarkably, the lawn had been mowed within the week. Who mowed it, I didn’t know, but I suspected I was about to find out.
“Maybe we should go up one at a time,” suggested Allison. “You go first.”
“Why me?”
“Because it’s your house.”
“Fine.”
I took my first step up onto the “stairs” and was surprised when it didn’t collapse under my New Balance shoes, although it groaned mightily. My next step was even more nerve-wracking, but by the time I’d climbed to the porch, I had mostly gotten used to the creaking and swaying. Behind me, Allison looked like a toddler taking her first tentative, unsteady steps. Never had I seen a human being’s knees so wobbly before. By the time she reached my side, I was laughing hard enough to shake the whole porch, which made Allison reach for a railing that promptly broke off in her hand. I laughed harder.
“I wonder about you sometimes, Sam.”
I wiped a tear. “It’s funny.”
“Not really.”
“You’re holding the railing in your hand. Your hand. The railing. I mean, it was good for absolutely nothing.”
She shook her head and tossed said railing aside and, when I had gotten control of myself, we moved in single file over the warped floorboards and toward the front doors. Yes, I definitely heard scurrying beneath us, and the smell of skunk was pungent and ripe.
Amazingly, neither of our shoes broke through the wood. Then again, I had followed a path over an exposed 2x4, trusting that it would hold true, and it did. We avoided the obvious holes, and, once or twice, Allison squeaked behind me when something scurried in the holes beneath. I told her they were probably just cats. She said the “cats” had white stripes and stinky butts, and we both laughed. Dusty windows lined the porch, all curtained. The curtains, I noted, were mostly rags, and the windows were too dirty to see through. None were broken. I was tempted to cast my thoughts out and scan the area around us—which I can totally do, thanks to some weird inner radar system I’d discovered years ago. With a range of about twenty feet in any direction, it comes in handy.
But...
I resisted. I wasn’t concerned or worried about anything within. My inner alarm wasn’t pinging, and, truth be told, I wanted to be surprised by what I saw inside. This was, after all, my new home. Might as well experience it in all its dilapidated glory.
At the front double doors, each featuring plate glass and relief molding, I had just raised my right hand to knock—even while my left held the keys to the place—when the door creaked opened slowly.
There, standing before us, was an elderly couple.
A smiling elderly couple.
Chapter Four
“You must be Samantha Moon,” said the man.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” said the woman.
“We’re so pleased you are here,” they said together. They stepped aside together, too, each to either side of the door, and each inviting us in with a grand sweep of their arms.
I looked at Allison. She looked at me.
We don’t have to go in there, came her words in mind, just inside my inner ear, to be exact. I mean we can run now and save ourselves.
They are a sweet old couple, I thought back. Besides, didn’t you just face down a demon or three just a few months ago?
Honestly? These two are creepier.
I laughed and stepped through the doorway... and into something entirely unexpected. The interior was, well, glorious, epic, and surreal.
And a little magical, too, if I had to guess.
Call me crazy, but the house seemed even bigger on the inside, as if the exterior, although large, had been an optical illusion. Scratch that. Not an illusion at all. I’d just spotted a number of candles hovering in mid-air. The candles were very much not attached to anything living—or dead for that matter. They were hovering as sure as I was standing here. Ah, now the candles were moving, drifting. As they shifted, shadows along the wall receded. And not just normal shadows. These were, I was certain, living shadows. Humanoid shadows. Yes, there were the hands. No, claws. And there were their eyes—red eyes, all. Heads that seemed to change shape as the shadows slithered over walls and fled the moving light.
A hand touched my shoulder and I jumped. Then the front door shut—not quite slammed, but certainly closed louder than necessary—and I jumped again. The hand belonged to Allison. The old couple stood at the door, smiling.
“You see the hovering candles?” Allison asked.
“Yes. You see the living shadows?”
“Yes. Does the home seem bigger than it should, Sam?”
“It does,” I said. “Why are you holding me so tight?”
“Because I’m freaked the fuck out, Sam.”
“Just ease up a little.”
“Sam, is there anything holding the candles?” she asked, which was a logical question. “Like a ghost or something?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Shit.”
Unlike me, Allison couldn’t see into the spirit world. She could perform real magic, but seeing ghosts... not so much. Probably for the best. Seeing those buggers, well, everywhere, took some getting used to. Anyway, as we stood there, with Allison holding on to me, the elderly couple shuffled over the floor, which notably did not squeak or sway or sag, and stood before us. “Let me introduce us,” said the man. “I’m Robert. And this is my wife, Mae.”
“We are Robert and Mae,” they said together.
I nodded. “As you know, I’m Samantha. And this is my friend, Allison.”
I paused, waiting. Allison shuffled her feet.
Say it with me, I nudged her telepathically.
No.
Say it.
Fine.
Ready?
She mentally sighed. Ready.
“And we are Samantha and Allison,” we said together.
Robert and Mae smiled brighter.
Happy? Allison asked me.
Oh, yes, I replied.
“Would you like a tour...” began Mae.
“...of your new home?” finished Robert.
“We would,” I said.
“Thank you,” added Allison.
The house was epic, to say the least. Easily bigger than Kingsley’s and possibly even bigger than the massive Thurman estate on Skull Island in the Pacific Northwest. I counted no less than four hallways, each as long as the next. I also counted three stories, although there was a chance we might have come across a half floor which led to a painting studio full of, perhaps, the most macabre paintings I’d ever seen.
I spotted dozens of ghosts, and more of the red-eyed shadow people. A number of the floating candles followed us around, which was a bit unnerving. I asked about the candles, but neither Robert nor Mae would answer, and when I dipped into their minds, I saw something I’d never seen before: bright light and nothing more. No thoughts. No memories. No internal, running dialogue. Nothing but bright light.
The ghosts were typical fare, ranging from hazy outlines of their former selves to amorphous blobs with no shape or structure—just the crackling static energy that few would ever see. Yup, I’m one of the lucky ones. Allison wasn’t so lucky.
Thank God, came her reply.
Truth be known, because my friend had continuous access to my own thoughts—well, when I allowed it—she also had access to some of my memories. Usually the most recent of them. As such, she could readily see the ghosts as they registered in my memory banks, if she so chose.
I don’t so choose, she thought. I’ve seen enough weird shit in your thoug
hts to last me a lifetime. And when I say lifetime, I mean a normal, human lifetime. Sorry, was that mean?
A little.
Let’s call it payback for all the teasing today.
Fair enough. And for the record, I’ve only been at this immortal business for over a decade. It doesn’t feel much different than what it did before.
Have you ever been sick in the past decade?
Like with a cold?
Yes.
Nope.
Cramps? Bloating? Headaches? Toothaches? Sprained ankle? An ache here and there?
Nope and nope, I thought.
Bitch.
I grinned as we continued the tour.
More rooms. More hallways. And another floor—the third floor. I was shown into the master suite that sported a four-poster bed and a massive semi-wraparound balcony complete with a lounge wicker chair, a glass table and metal chairs. The view from up here was extraordinary. Surely the best in all of Fullerton. Hills rolled this way and that, all dotted with homes. Many were surrounded with fences which, if you asked me, seemed completely unnecessary on a hill. Why fence off a freakin’ hill? The view faced the south. Beyond the hills, in the hazy distance, were the mini-skyscrapers of Tustin and Irvine. Somewhere farther beyond was the beach, but I couldn’t see it from here. Had I been in my dragon-bat form, I would have been able to see it. Talos’s eyes were the shit.
The bed was well-used, the mattress saggy and ancient. If I knew Jeffcock at all, and I didn’t, he didn’t give a lick if the mattress was saggy or not. Like him, when I lay down my head at the butt-crack of dawn, I am out like a light, with the need for sleep overwhelming all of my other senses.
So, yeah, a bed was useless, really. Myself, I didn’t need comfort to fall asleep. I just needed the arrival of the sun. And since I didn’t wake up with a kink in my neck, I could just as easily sleep on a plank of wood. Or sleep standing up. Or sleep in a casket. Like a coming avalanche, daytime sleep was coming, whether I wanted it to or not.
There was a heavy-duty telescope on the balcony, complete with tripod, which I planned on taking full advantage of. There was an adjoining bathroom and a bathtub big enough for two. I almost—almost—imagined Kingsley and me in there, until I remembered where I was. This wasn’t your everyday house. This wasn’t even your everyday haunted house. This was a true house of horrors which, I suspected, hadn’t yet given up its secrets. This is was where a vampire reigned supreme, where he undoubtedly fed on many a victim, if the sheer amount of ghosts were any indication, and where an old couple had been cursed to continue to work and live, even long after their master’s death, where enchantments held firm, and where other, darker, nastier entities dwelled. Most importantly, here dwelled the very vampire who had turned me, who had rocked my world, who had upended my world, a world that was still spinning out of control. Allison was right. This house was creepy. I should hate it, but I didn’t. Was I comfortable? Not enough to imagine Kingsley and me in the tub, but certainly comfortable enough to imagine myself on the balcony, looking up at the stars with my new telescope.
