“Truth.”
“A little. Just a little. But I didn’t feel it all the time.”
“Harrow wanted us because it’s scared of us. ‘You hold your enemies closer than your friends,’ my dad used to tell me. You watch your enemies. It’s afraid of us. I think we’re going to have to go back there someday and make sure that house is brought to the ground. And then salt the ground so nothing grows. And then pour concrete over it or something. Get biblical on its ass. And I think it has to be you and me. It got everyone else it was afraid of, Dory. I don’t think we even have a choice.”
Dory looked at Ronnie, who watched the highway beyond the parking lot. Beyond that roadside, a dip in the hill went right down to the Hudson River.
Dory said, resignation and determination in her voice, “Okay. We’ll do that. Someday. I promise.”
“Good,” Ronnie said. “We’ll be prepared next time. We know what we’re up against now. Because it’s not over, you know that.”
“It might be.”
“See that Chevy Malibu?” Ronnie nodded to the far end of the parking lot. “Looks kind of dirty?”
Dory glanced over at a sleek but dusty car. “Sure.”
“That’s my car. I bought it from all my summer jobs. It breaks down all the time, but it runs most days. I let my sister drive it all the time. I loaned it to her that night—the one last summer when Arnie Pierson’s body was cut up out at Harrow. It should be in the driveway at my house. But my mother’s dead. And I’m pretty sure my sister’s dead. So why is it parked here?”
Dory asked, “Are you sure it’s yours?”
“I know my own license plate. See the cracked back window? It’s mine. It’s the one she drove that night. She drove it most nights when she had a date or a party. And I think I saw someone I know in the diner. From Watch Point. She was sitting at a booth near the restroom. I didn’t see her at first. I noticed her when I was paying the cashier for our breakfast. Like she had come in to sit down just before we left.”
“Jesus Christ. Who?”
Ronnie shifted uncomfortably. “Someone who should be dead. Or maybe I imagined I saw her. It’s funny, isn’t it? It is like a whisper, the way Harrow gets into you and stays with you. It’s playing games with us now,” Ronnie said. She fell silent a moment. Took a deep breath. “Let’s keep walking. Ignore anyone you see. Don’t stop until we get to Beacon. It’ll be chilly, but we’ll live. Harrow’s still afraid of us. It’s not being direct. Eventually, we’ll get beyond its reach.”
“What if—” Dory was about to ask: What if we never get away from it?
“For all I know,” Ronnie said, “we’re carriers. We may have Harrow in us just as much as that boy did. I guess if that’s true, there’s not a hell of a lot we can do. We may be spreading the plague wherever we go. Typhoid Mary’s on the run.”
“Thanks for that thought.” Dory grinned, shaking her head slightly.
“Glad you kept your sense of humor.” Ronnie slapped her lightly on the back. “You know, it’s good to make new friends.”
As incongruous as the words were, Dory felt them, too. “Sure is,” she said with a trace of sadness in her voice.
They began walking south on the highway, with the sun shining and the wind picking up. They heard someone calling them back to the diner, and at first neither Ronnie nor Dory wanted to stop to find out who it could be.
Dory glanced back, briefly.
“I told you,” Ronnie said. “Ignore everyone.”
It was Marjorie, standing out at the edge of the parking lot, waving her hands. The waitress shouted to them that she had given them the wrong change, but the two seventeen-year-olds ignored her call, and walked faster down the highway.
EPILOGUE
1
At sundown, the Nightwatchman had decided to take the back roads, the twisty-turny unpaved roads across the fields, between the patches of woods. His old Ford station wagon ran just fine, and he’d filled it with a mattress and some blankets so he could sleep in it, if need be. He no longer knew the name Speederman or Mr. Spider, and felt that he was truly the Nightwatchman, and always had been and always would be.
He asked directions, at a gas station in Peekskill, of a twenty-year-old with slicked-back hair whose face was covered with grease as he came to get paid for the gas.
“Where you going?”
“South, I think.” Even when he spoke, the Nightwatchman saw the look in the young man’s eyes. He feels it. He knows what’s inside me. The Nightwatchman reached out and touched the young man on his shoulder, and the man flinched.
The Nightwatchman didn’t know when it would happen, but he knew that the grease monkey’s life would be over sometime soon. It might be in an accident at work, or he might fall down some stairs and hit his head on something hard and sharp. But he had passed a whisper of Harrow on to him. The Nightwatchman grinned as he saw the young man’s reaction to his touch.
The gas station attendant’s eyes widened with a slight, and perhaps imagined, fear.
It felt good to have that touch, to pass it so easily.
“Take care,” the Nightwatchman said to the attendant as he got back into his car. He watched the young man in the rearview mirror as he pulled out onto the road—the attendant was staring at his hands as if they had been plunged into some kind of filth.
He drove along the byways of the Hudson Valley, and took a southerly route toward the city, taking hours to get there because he wanted to see the small towns and stop for coffee in Ossining and look at the prison there. He thought about Sing-Sing, and what a delightful place it would be for him, but the voices did not give their approval, so he continued toward New York City, waiting for a sign from within.
2
He slept most days in the car, parked under bridges down by the waterfront. By dusk, he arose, and went looking for a place to spin a web. One night in November, he found it—an advertisement in The New York Times for a nightwatchman. He applied for the job, and knew he would get it because he had managed to touch the woman who interviewed him, although she had seemed repulsed by him. He had gummed her up good with visions of love and lust for him, and he thought as he started his first night of work that she would make an excellent Mrs. Fly one day soon, and maybe they’d have a whole litter of shiny white maggots. She had even asked him out—right after hiring him—and he had said to her, “Sure. Maybe Friday. You can invite me to your place. We’ll get something to eat.”
She had nodded, a slightly confused grin on her face as if she didn’t understand why she felt she had dreamed of this moment. But in her dream, she had seen the man standing in the doorway of a house that loomed against the sky as if it were a bird of prey, descending.
3
You can just see it sometimes, over the tops of the trees if you’re on one of the hillsides or if you’re out on the river in a boat. Not the whole house at once, but parts of it—the spires and the turrets, and the way the treetops seem like fingers clutching its uppermost windows.
Few venture up the road to it, to the long private drive, overwhelmed with brambles and grasses and the fences and “no trespassing” and “hunting not allowed” signs posted along the way.
Some overcome the fears and the legends and the stories and the signs and the fences.
Some go there, because there are always those people— usually very few—who are called to places like this house.
* * * *
Be sure to get all the keys to Harrow – read the books, including:
Isis (Prequel)
The Necromancer (Prequel)
Nightmare House (Book 1)
Mischief (Book 2)
The Infinite (Book 3)
The Abandoned (Book 4)
AFTERWORD
Dear Reader,
When I wrote this novel, I knew I was taking the fourth Harrow novel into the territory of the heartless. One of my goals with the Harrow stories was to create various aspects of what a haunting might be, and write a novel for each of th
em -- from the unquiet of Nightmare House, the coming-of-age of Mischief, the psychic investigation of The Infinite, and -- with The Abandoned -- the tale of All-Hell-Breaks-Loose. Sometimes horror is Horror. And The Abandoned is the capital H variety.
Now, go back to those nice dreams you had of hatchets and rooms of the strange mansion in the Hudson Valley. Thank you for coming along with me as I visited Harrow.
Best,
Douglas Clegg
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Publication Information
Published by Alkemara Press, in an arrangement with the author. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2005, 2012 Douglas Clegg
Cover Design Copyright © 2012 Alkemara Press
Cover image courtesy of iStockphoto.com, used with permission. Copyright © 2012 Royce DeGrie
eBook Creation by Book Looks Design www.booklooksdesign.com
About the Author
Douglas Clegg is the award-winning author of more than 25 books, including Afterlife, The Children’s Hour, The Hour Before Dark, The Harrow Series, The Criminally Insane Series, Purity and many others.
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Table of Contents
THE ABANDONED
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PROLOGUE
PART ONE
THE DARK PLACE
CHAPTER ONE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
CHAPTER TWO
1
2
3
4
CHAPTER THREE
1
2
3
4
5
PART TWO
OH, THE DREAMS YOU'LL DREAM
CHAPTER FOUR
1
2
3
4
CHAPTER FIVE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
CHAPTER Six
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
CHAPTER SEVEN
1
2
3
4
CHAPTER EIGHT
1
2
CHAPTER NINE
1
2
CHAPTER TEN
1
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
CHAPTER TWELVE
1
2
3
4
5
6
PART THREE
THE MIND OF HARROW
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1
2
3
PART FOUR
REBORN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
1
2
3
4
5
6
CHAPTER NINETEEN
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
CHAPTER TWENTY
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
EPILOGUE
1
2
3
AFTERWORD
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About the Author
The Abandoned - A Horror Novel (Horror, Thriller, Supernatural) (The Harrow Haunting Series) Page 33
