by Micol Ostow
EGMONT
We bring stories to life
First published by Egmont USA, 2014
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © Micol Ostow, 2014
All rights reserved
www.egmontusa.com
www.micolostow.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ostow, Micol.
Amity / Micol Ostow.
1 online resource.
Summary: Two teens narrate the terrifying days and nights they spend living in a house of horrors.
ISBN 978-1-60684-380-2 (eBook) — ISBN 978-1-60684-156-3 (hardcover)
[1. Haunted houses—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction.
3. Brothers and sisters—Fiction.
4. Family life—New England—Fiction. 5. Moving, Household—Fiction.
6. New England—Fiction. 7. Horror stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.O8475
[Fic—dc23
2013045748
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
v3.1
For Mom, Mazzy, and Lawsy—three fearless broads
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Here
Now
Part I: Arrival
Ten Years Earlier: Day 1
Now: Day 1
Ten Years Earlier: Day 2
Now: Day 2
Ten Years Earlier: Day 3
Day 4
Day 5
Now: Day 6
Ten Years Earlier: Day 8
Now: Day 8
Part II: Evil
Ten Years Earlier: Day 11
Now
Before
Always
Part III: Amity
Now: Day 13
Ten Years Earlier: Day 15
Now: Day 16
Ten Years Earlier: Day 17
Day 18
Now: Day 20
Ten Years Earlier: Day 24
Part IV: Concordance
Day 28: (Always)
Part V: After
Now
Epilogue
Here
Acknowledgments
This inhuman place makes human monsters.
—Stephen King, The Shining
PROLOGUE
HERE
Here is a house; bones of beam and joints of hardware, stone foundation smooth, solid as the core of the earth, nestled, pressed, cold and flat and dank against the hard-packed soil and all of its squirming secrets.
Here is a house; sturdy on its cornerstones, shutters spread wide, windowpanes winking against the speckled prisms of daylight. Weather-beaten slats of knotted siding, drinking in nightfall. Tarred shingles surveying star maps, legends shared in the pattern of dotted constellations above.
Here is a house; not sane, not sentient, but potent, poisonous, drenched with decay.
Here is a house of ruin and rage, of death and deliverance, seated atop countless nameless unspoken souls.
Here is a house of vengeance and power, land laid claim by wraiths and ciphers, persistent and insistent, branded and bonded and bound.
Here is where I live, not living.
Here is always mine.
NOW
Dear Jules:
The Halls moved out of Amity today.
She told me. Amity did.
Like a bat out of hell. Or bats, I guess, seeing as it was the four of them—Mr. and Mrs., and the kids, Luke and Gwen. Who aren’t really kids, you know, with Gwen being exactly my age—our age—and Luke barely a full year older. Not quite twins—not like us. But close enough, right?
Anyway: Gwen. I could tell Gwen was different right from the start. Something about the light in her eyes told me that she had ways of seeing that were … well, you know, different from normal people.
I liked that about her. Of course. I like different.
It reminds me of me.
But Amity? Well.
Amity doesn’t care much about different. Amity doesn’t care much about anything, does she? Amity just wants what she wants.
Twenty-eight days. Barely a month. That’s how long they lasted, the Halls, at Amity.
Exactly the same as us.
—Connor
TEN YEARS EARLIER
DAY 1
IT WAS HOT ON THE DAY WE MOVED IN, brutally hot, in that way that makes you feel almost crazy, sweat dripping into your eyes so bad you’re practically blind. When we first pulled up in the van, Amity glimmered so you could almost see the ripples of heat with your own eyes, like a mirage plunked down far outside a tiny New England town. It wasn’t a day for heavy lifting; only a crazy person would have tried moving all on their own, in that kind of weather.
But no one ever said that Dad wasn’t completely insane.
Even being so close to the water, the sun was near unbearable. When Jules whined, Dad fixed her with one of his looks. Dad was never known for his patience. Not like me. I can be very patient. When it’s useful, I mean.
Normal people would have hired movers, professional guys, to get the job done. But Dad said, “Why would I pay hard-earned money when we’ve got four pairs of hands among us?”
Yeah. Four pairs, so at least he wasn’t expecting Abel to do much lugging.
Abel was only six, but you kind of never knew with Dad.
I just hoped that even then, even little, my brother knew he was getting a pass. Dad wasn’t much for passes. This was definitely your onetime-deal kind of thing.
There were no onetime-deal passes for Jules, or for me. Seventeen, I wasn’t an athlete at all—team sports rubbed me the wrong way—but I was strong enough.
Strong enough for some stuff.
So there we were on moving day. Jules whined, Dad glared, Abel mewled, and Mom worried. And I hitched my shorts up, and wrangled a box marked FRAGILE in six different places. It made a clinking sound as I hiked down the drive and past Mom, who made a face at the tinkle of shattered glass.
Our first day in Amity, and things were already all falling apart.
MOM HAD BOUGHT THIS SIGN, I REMEMBER.
Seriously, it was the stupidest thing. Like so stupid, I mean, that you almost had to feel all sorry for her for even having it. For, like, going into a store, and seeing it, and thinking, Yes, I want that, I should have that thing, and then paying real, actual money to own it. I can’t even tell you. I didn’t even know where you could find something stupid like that, a sign for a house.
AMITY, it said: this fake etching on a cheap, shiny, little fake-wooden plaque. She must’ve had it made up special, which made the whole thing even dumber. I didn’t know anyone whose house had a name. It was the kind of thing you’d see in a movie, like if someone were rich or whatever. But no rich person would buy something tacky like this.
We weren’t rich. I mean, we weren’t poor. Which I guess meant we were in the middle. Probably from the outside it looked like we were doing better than we really were. That was Dad’s thing—making sure we looked like we were doing better, doing well. God only knew what his sketchy “business” deals were. He had to sell off the Ford dealership downstate real quick, and I knew some neighbors had their own theories about his work. None of them were all that flattering.
But even with Concord being a little speck on the map, the kind of small town even small-town people are bored by, it was pretty, sort of. Like respectable. The kind of place you could maybe put down roots, not the kind of place yo
u rushed to, all cowering in the dead of night, your stuff piled sky-high in the back of a pickup, no forwarding address left behind.
Concord was a respectable town, one of the oldest in the country. I guess Dad picked it thinking some respectability might rub off on us.
Also, the house came cheap. I didn’t know why at the time.
I didn’t care much about things like what a house cost, but I had to admit that Amity was nice. It was pretty big. Much bigger than our old place. In Amity, my bedroom was connected to Jules’s by a bathroom we had all to ourselves. That bathroom felt like a real, big-time luxury after sharing just a single john with Mom and Dad for so long. It had one of those ancient bathtubs with the heavy iron claw feet that looked about a hundred years old. Jules thought it was cute but I thought you had to wonder how many people had soaked their bones in a tub that old, and where those people were now. And Abel’s room was way down the hall, so for the first time in forever Jules and I wouldn’t be woken by him at the unholy crack of what-the-sweet-living-Jesus every day.
On the third floor, there was a room I hoped for a second would be a den or something, like for me and Jules to hang out in, especially since Dad wasn’t one for sharing the old remote in the family room. It would’ve been nice to have a space of our own just to, you know, be in. But Mom said it was going to be her “sewing room,” like we were living in a fifties sitcom, so that was that. Never mind that I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her sew. Jules was always trying to get me to go easier on the old lady anyway.
Hanging that sign from the mailbox was Mom’s first and last sitcom moment at Amity, it turned out. And she never did spend any real time in that sewing room.
I remember moving day, and her linking the plaque through some hooks that’d been in the mailbox before we even arrived—I thought it was funny or just dumb luck or something that the hooks were already in, like they’d been waiting for us. Dumb luck didn’t come easy to Mom. Or me, or Jules, now that you mention it. Any of us. But Mom smiled as she slipped the cruddy little sign in place, and then stepped back, holding a hand flat over her gray-green eyes to shield them from the sun.
Amity. It was ours now.
Mom had another little smile as the sign swung in the slow afternoon breeze. Even though we were in the real dog days of summer, there was a breeze coming off the Concord River.
She caught me looking at her. “What do you think, Con?” Her voice turned up at the end. Mom’s voice always turned up at the end. It made everything she said into a question, even stuff that wasn’t supposed to be, which says everything you need to know about Mom.
I shrugged, ignoring the little twitch of disappointment on her face as she tucked a stray, gray-streaked curl behind her ear.
I could have said a lot of things then: How we weren’t the kind of people who named their houses—even if Amity did seem like the exact right name for this place. How you couldn’t, like, change the future, alter your destiny just through the power of positive thinking, you know? How hoping didn’t make things happen. Couldn’t make things happen.
How, really, it would take much more than just moving upstate to turn things around for the Webb family.
But I didn’t say any of those things out loud, and that slow grin stayed at the corners of her mouth.
“It’s cute!”
Jules came up behind me. She beamed at Mom, her cheeks all pink and shiny from the humidity. She fixed me with a crooked frown, and shoved an elbow into my ribs. She flashed “thumbs-up” to Mom. “I love it!”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You love it?” Too far, even for Jules. It was a sign, you know? I mean, a really stupid sign, honestly. “Stupid.” I actually said that part out loud, though I didn’t mean to.
“I love it. Love.” Jules poked me again. “Don’t be a jerk. That’s Dad’s job.”
Fair enough.
Jules was the only person who could make me see reason. Just a weird twin thing, I guess. She was the one who kept me grounded … when I was grounded, I mean.
“Speaking of …,” I said.
Jules wound her mass of bright copper curls into a knot at the base of her neck, patting it in place, and fanned her face with her hand. I thought then how funny it was that we were actually twins, seeing as how we looked and acted like two people who hadn’t even grown up on the same planet, much less in the same family. Jules’s personality was like her hair: thick and wild, impossible to ignore.
Mine was just, you know, brown. Wavyish brown.
“He’s down at the boathouse with Abel,” she said, gesturing. “That little shed at the base of the dock. Apparently, someone left some tools and stuff in there.”
“He’s pissed that stuff was left behind. Or—wait, he’s pissed that nothing good was left behind.”
“Bingo.” She frowned.
There aren’t too many things that get to me, but Jules’s frown does. That twin thing, maybe? Whatever it was, Jules’s smile was just about the only “real” thing I knew. So I preferred when she was happy.
I reached out and pinched the tip of her nose, which I knew she hated, but which always made her laugh anyway. She snorted back a giggle, like always, and ducked, swatting my hand. Then she sighed, folding her arms across her chest. “It’s so weird.”
I followed her gaze. “What? The way the house is, like, sideways?”
It was weird, kind of. Whoever designed Amity was trying to make the most of the land they had to work with, I guess; since the lot was deeper than it was wide, the house sat perpendicular from the road. So it was the side that looked out at you as you pulled up the drive, not the front.
And it did look out at you, eerily. That’s what Jules meant. That Amity sensed you.
That sewing room on the third floor had these little half-moon windows, like blank bookends opening out onto the road. They turned in toward each other, winking in the sun. They almost looked like—
“They look like eyes,” Jules said. Her voice was low and breathy now. “Beady little eyes, just staring down at you.” She shivered.
“Yeah.”
She turned to me. “Does it give you the creeps?”
I shrugged. “It’s a house,” I said, like that explained anything.
It didn’t, of course. Maybe Amity was just a house, but there was still that feeling that it was … aware, that it was breathing somehow. Seeing you.
But it still didn’t give me the creeps.
“Right, of course,” Jules said. “Nothing creeps you out.”
“It’s a house,” I said again, which still wasn’t really an explanation.
We heard a smash, followed by Mom’s usual desperate squeak. Something about the wind on the river made the sounds hazy, but Dad was for sure on another tear. Jules widened those sea-green eyes of hers and ran off. The only thing to do when Dad went off was to get gone.
I paused for a minute before following, but I didn’t stop to wonder whether Amity was watching me go.
It was only a house, after all.
And nothing creeped me out. Never did.
Never does.
MOM CRIED DURING DINNER, so Abel did, too. I swear, the slightest thing can set him off.
I can relate.
You’d think move-in day would be all hopeful, maybe? The promise of new beginnings, or whatever. And maybe for some people—for some families, I mean—it is. Or it can be.
I wouldn’t know.
All I could see were stacks of unpacked boxes, the monster-sized clumps of dust in the corners, the chip in Abel’s favorite drinking glass, which didn’t survive the ride up intact.
Did any of us?
We ate greasy pizza straight out of the box, sitting Indianstyle on the dining room floor. A dusty chandelier that was still hanging when we showed up swayed, threatening, with any little breeze. Good thing the air was mostly as thick as the mood. It was quiet in that live-wire way. I could hear myself chewing from inside my head, and the clench in my throat when I swallowed. Abel
mouth-breathed while he gnawed at his own food.
Then the telephone rang. It was a scratched-up, black rotary thing that had to be as old as the Concord River. Mom’s eyes flew open soon as that bell sounded, and she flashed a glance at Dad, all panicked. I didn’t think they were so free with their forwarding number when we hit the road, so the call probably wasn’t coming from the local Welcome Wagon.
“It’s loud,” Abel said through a mouthful of cheese. It was. The ring of the telephone cut into me, sending little vibrations buzzing in the floorboards. “Should someone—” He snapped his mouth shut when Mom put a hand on the back of his neck.
Dad cleared his throat, hacking into his closed fist. We all knew that closed fist well enough, which was why Mom cut Abel off when she did.
“Annie, answer the phone,” Dad said.
Jules—Julianne, that is (she went from Annie to Jules with everyone but Dad by our fifth birthday)—nodded and jumped up. She scampered over to the doorway to the kitchen, grabbing at the receiver and cutting the phone off mid-ring. “Hello.”
I waited, itching to see who was on the line. The floorboards prickled at the backs of my thighs.
“Hello?”
She frowned. She held the receiver at arm’s length so the cord popped and snaked like something alive. From across the room, I swore I could just make it out: the low hum of static, cracking and sparking like a whisper. Like Amity was calling out to us, almost, from those angry, thrumming floorboards.
Jules hung the phone up abruptly. She came back into the dining room, but stayed leaning against the far wall, like she didn’t want to get that close to Dad right then.
“There was no one there,” she reported, like we hadn’t all just heard that for ourselves. “Maybe it was a wrong number.”
Dad grumbled something, stood up, and lumbered to the phone, grabbing the receiver in his hammy, callused fist. Grunting, he stared at it like he could just sort of … will it to tell us our fortune, to tell us how things would be here at Amity.
