The Murder House

by James Patterson

  A tunnel. I’m at one end. The other end, I can’t see. High ceilings, width sufficient for two, maybe three people to stand side-by-side.

  The lightning bolts between my eyes, the fragments coming back.

  Wearing sandals and the bathing suit Mommy just bought me, a Lion King T-shirt over it. So hard to walk in these sandals, especially when the boy pushes me, afraid that if I fall he’ll get mad, afraid of what he might do to me—

  Stepping forward gingerly, every forward advance an effort, half blind from the sweat burning my eyes, electricity filling my body—

  I don’t understand what is happening, why this boy is making me go down here, where are we going, where are we going—

  The beam of my flashlight dancing along the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and then I see it.

  A wall. The end of the tunnel.

  A doorknob.

  I tuck the flashlight under my left arm, my left hand holding a wobbly gun. With my right, I reach for the knob.

  I steel myself. “You can do this,” I tell myself.

  I turn the knob slowly, then whip the door open.

  112

  I POINT the gun inside the room, my pulse pounding against my temples.

  The smell of bleach and burning oil. A square, windowless room, a single kerosene lamp on one side casting flickering orange light about. Next to the lamp, a sleeping bag, unfolded, but nobody inside it. Nobody in this room, period. No chairs or furniture or anything except—except something near the back—

  A spear. Protruding from the floor, a long narrow missile with a sharp top—

  “No,” I say. “No.” Hot tears blurring my vision, running down my cheeks into my mouth.

  I step into the room, my words echoing between my ears, the walls moving, the room spinning, the cries, the horrific, ghoulish screams from all directions filling my head, my legs unsteady as I move forward—

  —as I move toward the other end of this square room—

  —because somehow I know, some internal compass is directing me, some force is moving me toward a door at the other end of the room, a door I can’t see but that I know, somehow I know is there.

  Everything slowing down, like I’m moving through quicksand, but I must reach the door, I have to reach it for some reason, but my legs are suddenly numb, up is down, down is up, the floor is suddenly rising up to meet my face with a violent smack, sending shock waves through my skull, jarring the roots of my teeth.

  The revolver bounces out of my hand on impact with the floor.

  Everything fuzz and fog, but I can’t let go now, can’t let go now.

  The flashlight underneath me—I fell on it—but the gun…

  I need the gun.

  My head lifting off the floor, searing pain over my right eye, nausea rising to the surface; I’m woozy and disoriented. Patting the floor around me. Forcing myself to my knees, light flickering in and out from the glow of the kerosene lamp, the gash over my eye making me pay a severe price every time I whip my head from one side to the other, but I need the gun—

  Words screaming at me, but I can’t make them out, so loud that I can’t hear them, echoing through my head with such force that I can’t understand them, what is he saying, what is he—

  Come with me

  Footsteps, coming from the other side of the room, near the door I can’t see, footsteps, someone’s coming—

  Come with me

  Come with me

  The gun, I need the gun—

  Where is that gun?

  The click of a doorknob, the groan of a door opening.

  And Aiden Willis walks in.

  113

  AIDEN, THE scarecrow hair sticking out from his baseball cap turned backward, his features lit up with the flickering orange light, holding something in his hand, a thermos, closing the door behind him.

  I hold my breath, hold my body still, searching for the gun only with my eyes.

  There. I spot it. Justin’s revolver, over by the wall.

  “Oh—” Aiden jumps upon seeing me on the floor to his left. The thermos falls from his hand, clanging and bouncing on the ground. He falls against the wall and struggles to keep his balance.

  I slide my body toward the far wall and grab the revolver, cock the hammer.

  “What—how—what do you—”

  I grip the gun with both hands, trembling so fiercely that I couldn’t possibly aim properly.

  My insides on fire, my head ringing, nausea and bile at my throat, oxygen coming in tiny, thirsty gulps—

  The door opens

  Bright light streaming in, and a boy, a boy with scarecrow hair

  With some reserve energy I didn’t know existed, as if I’m watching someone else perform the task, I rise to my knees and aim the gun toward Aiden.

  Aiden’s eyes go wide; he looks ghoulish in the intermittent orange light, pinned against the wall, watching me.

  Lightning, thunder between my ears.

  Come with me

  Come with me

  The gun so unsteady in my hand, rising and falling, swaying back and forth.

  Aiden watching me, watching the gun bob up and down, back and forth.

  Tears filling my eyes again, my chest heaving, my throat so full I can’t speak—

  Come with me

  Sobbing and shaking, the gun moving all over the place—

  Aiden watching me, watching the gun.

  Come with me

  The gun dropping to my side. I can’t do it. I know it and Aiden knows it.

  Aiden pushes himself off the wall, straightens himself.

  Looks at me, just for a single moment, those darting eyes making contact with mine.

  Come with me

  Then he walks toward me. No sudden movement, just slowly approaching me.

  Come with me

  The boy with the scarecrow hair

  Aiden places a hand over my gun hand, then carefully removes the revolver from it.

  I look up at him, on my knees, helpless.

  He uncocks the revolver, points it upward, pops open the cylinder, and empties all six rounds from the chamber into his cupped hand. He locks the cylinder back in place and hands the unloaded gun back to me.

  “Aiden, wait,” I manage, my throat full, my words garbled.

  Then Aiden Willis disappears through the door from which he entered.

  “Please, wait,” I say as I get to my feet, the synapses not firing properly, but I manage to stumble and stagger toward the door.

  114

  NOAH WALKER sits on his idling Harley, down the street from Justin’s house in East Hampton. He’s logged a lot of miles tonight looking for Jenna Murphy, driving loops around Bridgehampton, hitting some familiar spots like Murphy’s apartment, Tasty’s, the Dive Bar, even Aiden’s house, but always doubling back here to Justin’s place.

  Because Justin’s the best bet for finding her. Jenna was last seen, according to Isaac, being picked up outside the police station by someone driving a Jaguar, which almost assuredly means Justin. And it would make sense she’d call him.

  They aren’t together right now, apparently, because all Justin has done for the last couple of hours is pace back and forth in his living room.

  There he is right now, standing close enough to the window on the west side of his property that Noah can see him. Checking his watch. Pacing. Running his hands through his hair. Nervous. Anxious.

  Maybe it’s time to drive around some more, do another loop.

  He jumps at the sight of Justin’s garage door lifting. A moment later, the Jaguar pulls out of the driveway, backing up not far from where Noah rests on his Harley.

  This is it. He’s sure of it.

  He waits until Justin has turned off his street before he starts up his bike and drives. He turns in the same direction as Justin and follows him from a distance, only a small amount of traffic on the roads but sufficient to hide his presence.

  Justin travels west on Main Street toward Bridgehamp
ton. Noah keeps his distance, considers even killing his lights, but he sees no indication that Justin knows he’s being followed.

  If only he knew where Justin was going. If he knew that, he could—

  Justin’s car slows near the cemetery. He puts on his signal for a right turn.

  Wait.

  Wait a second.

  He’s heading for Ocean Drive. Sure. Of course. He’s going to that house.

  And I know a shortcut. I can beat him there.

  Noah veers off Main Street and drives his bike across the open field of the cemetery, taking a straight line instead of the right angle Justin is forced to take by driving on the streets.

  Noah crosses through the south end of the cemetery and hits Ocean Drive before Justin has even turned off Main Street. With a good two blocks’ lead on Justin, he kills the lights on his bike and guns it forward, making sure he’ll arrive at the mansion at least a full minute before Justin.

  He stops at a group of trees just off the street, very close to the mansion. He looks back, seeing the headlights of a car in the distance, heading his way.

  He removes his gun and flashlight from his saddlebag. Then he ducks into the shrubbery across the street from the mansion and waits. Only moments later, the Jaguar pulls up in front of the mansion.

  Justin gets out of his car without any sense that Noah is nearby, or that he’s been followed, jogging up to the mammoth gate blocking the driveway. He grabs it, then pushes it open and heads onto the driveway.

  Noah creeps closer, obscured by darkness, in soft grass, watching Justin.

  Justin jogs slowly up toward the dark house, looking at it. Looking, as well, at the old carriage house at the end of the driveway.

  Noah crosses the street and hides behind the Jaguar.

  Justin, at a crossroads, decides to head up the driveway, toward the carriage house. Noah slinks up to the gate by the curb and pushes it open as softly as he can.

  A flashlight comes on, Justin illuminating the space in front of him.

  Noah sees what Justin saw, the reason he chose to head up the driveway.

  The door of the carriage house is wide open.

  Justin starts jogging toward it, while Noah follows, moving at a slightly faster clip, closing the distance but taking care not to announce himself.

  “Jenna!” Justin calls out in a harsh whisper. “Jenna?” He approaches the carriage house with caution, slowing his pace.

  Then Justin disappears inside.

  Noah reaches the doors and readies himself.

  115

  NOAH PEEKS inside the carriage house.

  Justin is shining his flashlight around. “Shit,” he says.

  You don’t know what shit is, Justin.

  But you’re about to find out.

  Noah springs forward into the room. Before Justin can do anything more than turn around, Noah plows into him, sending him sprawling, crashing into the wall. Noah grabs Justin and throws him facedown on the cement floor, gripping his hair, shoving the gun into the back of Justin’s neck.

  “Where is she?” Noah growls.

  “Noah?” Justin manages, catching his breath. “Is that…you?”

  “Tell me where she is, Justin, or I’ll kill you right now.”

  His fingers tightly gripping Justin’s hair, Noah jerks Justin’s head upward and then down, hard, onto the cement floor.

  “That’s me being nice, Justin. You wanna see me when I’m mean? This is your last chance,” says Noah. “Where is Jenna Murphy?”

  “I don’t—I’m looking for her, too. I thought she might’ve…come here.”

  Cool air to Noah’s right. He looks over, shines his flashlight over the trapdoor, wide open.

  “Did she go down there?”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know.”

  “Don’t bullshit me.”

  “I’m not bullshitting you.” Justin’s voice weaker from the blow to his head. “What…what are you going to do to her?”

  Noah presses the gun into the soft space beneath Justin’s skull. “You should be worried about what I’m going to do to you.”

  “Don’t hurt her,” Justin says. “Please, Noah, just…don’t hurt her.”

  Noah leans down, close to Justin’s face. “Justin, I can’t tell if you’re a liar or a fool.”

  He cracks Justin’s head against the floor again. Justin goes limp with an abrupt groan.

  Noah stands and shines his flashlight along the walls, over the carpenter’s desk. Some things hanging on the walls that could be helpful.

  Then he shines the light back down on Justin, unconscious but still breathing.

  He pats Justin down and feels something in the front pocket of his trousers. He removes a tiny gun, one of those old Saturday-night specials, a beat-up vintage .38 with a pearl handle.

  “I think I’ll take this, Justin,” he says. He stuffs the little gun into his pants pocket, a nice complement to his own gun.

  “I haven’t decided what I’m gonna do to you yet,” he says. “Let’s see how I feel after my nice, friendly chat with Jenna Murphy.”

  116

  I STUMBLE through the door, the door through which Aiden Willis just escaped, away from the smooth marble onto something different, the floor broken and dirty. Once I’m clear of the doorway, I slam the door behind me.

  And take a deep, delicious breath of oxygen.

  The air is dry and stale, but I don’t care. I’m breathing again, on two feet again. I’m out of that awful room.

  Come with me

  I put one foot in front of the other, my legs unsteady but better, feeling better now.

  “Aiden,” I try to call out, my throat and mouth so dry I can hardly speak.

  A small room, it feels like, not open air. I’m reaching out for the walls when something slithers across my face—

  I jump back and wave my hand around, connect with it again.

  A string, dangling in the air.

  I reach out, making my hand still, and the string falls back against my hand. I grip it and pull down.

  A light, a single naked overhead light, comes on.

  Hanging from the walls, medieval weapons. Lances, stars, battle-axes, cat-o’-nine-tails, maces. A full menu of torture devices.

  I shudder but shake it off. I need to figure out a way out of here.

  Three of the four walls are covered with this weaponry, but one wall is naked. Nothing hanging on it. Nothing but smooth wood.

  Immediately next to it on the adjoining wall, a small button.

  A buzzer?

  With a trembling hand, I press the button.

  I know, somehow, what will happen next: The wall slides open.

  I drop to a knee, my weapon useless now without any bullets, and click on the flashlight.

  A corridor. Naked walls, concrete floor.

  The basement of 7 Ocean Drive.

  Follow me

  C’mon

  “Aiden!” I call out, but I get no response. The hallway turns a sharp left into a giant room, just as dark as everywhere else in the basement. I shine my flashlight over the room, though the beam is weakening and I need to preserve the battery.

  “Aiden!”

  Boxes, old furniture, photographs and artwork—the kind of stuff in any basement.

  And a staircase, leading up.

  C’mon

  Follow me

  Be quiet

  I approach the staircase slowly, not trusting my rubbery legs, my head throbbing like I have a hangover from being inside that room.

  I take the stairs just as carefully, lightly touching each step before transferring my weight, unsure of the stability of this staircase.

  When I reach the top of the stairs, the door is ajar.

  Aiden must have blown through here a few minutes ago.

  I take a breath and push the door open.

  I turn the corner and shine the flashlight, the dwindling beam, over the open foyer of the house. The front door is straight ahead of
me, across the foyer and the two ornate anterooms.

  The words coming at me so fleetingly, like smoke, whispers—

  Run go get out of here

  Run!

  “Aiden!” I call out again, my voice shakier this time, echoing upward, nothing in response but a groan from this haunted mansion.

  I hear something upstairs, an elongated sigh. A house sound or a human sound?

  I take a step up the stairs.

  You don’t wanna go up there

  Squeezing my eyes shut, as if it will lock out the whispers between my ears.

  Don’t come up here

  Go, leave, don’t come up here

  “Aiden, please talk to me!” I cry.

  The pressure mounting inside my chest again, the momentary reprieve I felt after leaving that room vanishing in the snap of a finger, everything returning like an avalanche, my heart pounding again, sweat on my face once more.

  Every step an effort, every instinct telling me to turn back, run out the front door, there’s danger upstairs, but I move forward regardless, because I have to know, I have to finally know.

  Even if it kills me.

  I reach the landing on the second floor, the double doors open onto the second-floor hallway. I walk through like I’m in slow motion, like I’m wading upstream, but I’m not stopping now, so I turn left and head toward the master bedroom, the bedroom where Melanie Phillips and Zach Stern were brutally tortured, where various Holdens over the years committed brutal acts on others and on themselves.

  “Aiden Willis!” I call, forcing the words out. “Aiden, I was wrong about you! I know that now! You—you saved my life that day. I remember now. You got me out of this house. Just—just please, please talk to me!”

  One foot in front of the other down the ornate red-and-gold hallway, shining my dwindling flashlight beam in front of me, until I reach the threshold of the master bedroom.

  “Aiden, are you in here?”

  I shine my light over the room. Empty. Nobody here.

  But near the bed, a lamp—another kerosene lamp, the liquid full in the hourglass-shaped clear bowl, a short wick protruding from atop the metal dome. Next to it, a book of matches. I tuck my gun in the back of my pants and pin the flashlight between my arm and body. I strike the match and light the wick, producing a healthy orange glow about the room.