Within These Walls (14 page)

18

S
URROUNDED BY OPEN
and half-empty boxes, Vee heard the yelling all the way up in her room. She raised her head from the book in her lap and squinted at the muffled tones filtering through her open door. She hated the sound of arguing, but this was new. Her dad was battling it out with Uncle Mark—a person she’d never heard him fight with before. Her curiosity got the best of her. Rather than closing her door to block out the sound, she tiptoed into the upstairs hallway and peeked over the banister to the living room below.

“You know how you said that any idiot with an Internet connection could look this stuff up? Well, guess what. This idiot has an Internet connection and looked it up. I put in the address, found articles about a congressman and his kid . . .”

Uncle Mark’s voice dropped off then, as though he had said too much. She chewed on a nail, descending the stairs one after the other, careful not to make any noise.

“It’s a house, Mark. It’s got walls and a floor. It’s just a place to live in.” Her dad, frustration punctuating his tone. The tension in his voice was familiar. He hadn’t sounded anything but stressed for what seemed like years, but these last few weeks had been particularly hard.

“Right. Like Amityville was just a house.”

Vee stalled at the reference.

Amityville.

She’d watched that movie with Tim and Heidi on Tim’s TV only a few months before. Tim had a whole collection of old horror movies he’d bought at some going-out-of-business sale for a few bucks a pop;
Troll
and
Dolls
and
Critters
. They were cheapie films that Vee laughed at while watching but spooked her when the lights went out. But
The Amityville Horror
had been no joke. Both she and Heidi had watched it wide-eyed the whole way through. Even Tim had kept quiet until the end, which was a feat in and of itself. Tim was notorious for mid-movie commentary; half the time, they couldn’t get him to shut up for more than five minutes.

Was Uncle Mark comparing
this
house to the Amityville one?
No way,
she thought.
Besides, the story about that house wasn’t real.
She’d looked it up after she’d gotten home that night, after Tim had sworn up and down that the filmmaker based the movie on a true story.
You’re full of crap, Tim!
Heidi had yelled when Tim had warned his sister to sleep with one eye open. But that was Heidi’s way. She was a denier, while Vee was a seeker. Tell Heidi that there was a chance she’d get swallowed up by a demon and she’d scream for you to shut up. Tell Vee the same thing and she’d spend hours in front of her computer, researching the possibility. It was one of the undeniable traits she’d inherited from her dad.

But now the Amityville comparison threw her for a loop. Uncle Mark had to have a reason for suggesting there was a correlation between this house and the one in her home state of New York. Maybe the story
hadn’t
been a hoax like it said on the Internet. Maybe people just didn’t understand because they were afraid of the unknown. People didn’t want to believe in ghosts because it meant heaven might not be real. But if ghosts didn’t exist, how had Vee seen the girl in the mirror the day before? If there
wasn’t
some similarity between the house in Pier Pointe and the one in Amityville, why would Uncle Mark suggest that there was?

She did an about-face on the stairs and silently padded back to her room, unable to control the frenzied drumming of her heart. The Amityville haunting may have been a hoax—there was no concrete proof that any of the stuff the Lutz family had claimed actually happened—but the murders that had occurred there were real. Vee had read all about the DeFeos after watching the movie. She’d spent hours searching for family photographs on Google, unable to stanch her own morbid curiosity.

The truth of it was, Vee understood why her father wrote about the things he did. Stories about murder and darkness had a definite pull; they were alluring in how forbidden they were. But she’d never outright admit that her father’s influence reached further than her incessant research of the paranormal. She’d never tell a soul her thoughts regularly barreled toward worst-case scenarios. When she and Heidi had walked past a mangled bicycle surrounded by cops and paramedics one winter afternoon, Heidi had gasped and hoped that everyone was okay. But Vee couldn’t help imagining the moment of impact. The heavy thud of a body tumbling over a car hood. The whiplike crack of safety glass. Without so much as a shred of evidence, she convinced herself that the cyclist was dead.

Her mind had wandered in the same way the night police lit up her Briarwood street with their whirling lights a few weeks later. Vee had woken to a woman wailing as she ran into the mid-December snow. The next day, news broke that a high school freshman had hanged himself with a belt from the wooden dowel in his bedroom closet. The news anchors announced that fourteen-year-old Shawn Johnson had been on the honor roll and had run cross-country track. Vee had said hi to him a couple of times while walking past his house on her way to Heidi’s place. He had always struck her as reserved and quiet, far more delicate than the other neighborhood boys. After Shawn died, everyone talked about how tragic it was, how hard it
must have been for his mother. But all Vee could think about was how it must have felt to know that death was inevitable, how much effort it had taken not to simply stand up. The news anchors failed to mention that Shawn had been a tall boy. Vee doubted his feet ever left the closet floor.

In November 1974, Ronald DeFeo Jr. had murdered his parents and four siblings at his home in Amityville, New York. That was an indisputable fact. There were bodies and autopsy reports and crime scene photos. Vee had found them online; pretty girls wearing bloody nightgowns, their faces crusted with gore. Whether the house they were killed in was haunted, however, was up for debate.
But maybe . . .

The possibility rattled around inside her head. Because maybe, here in this house, nobody had summoned the girl in the mirror, after all. Maybe she was here because this was her home. Could there be something wrong with this house the same way there were rumors of the Amityville house being broken? How else could Vee explain what she’d seen in the living room—the strange furniture, the rug that didn’t belong, the pictures that she’d never seen before, the tap-tap-tapping of wooden beads against the wall?

Vee skidded into her room, quietly shut the door, and locked it behind her. Bounding for her mattress—which still rested on the floor—she grabbed her laptop and threw open the lid.

An email notification popped up in the right-hand corner of her screen as soon as she connected to the Internet. Subject: HELLO FROM ITALY! Vee minimized the email, not having the patience for forced niceties from her mother, and opened up her browser instead.

Searching
Pier Pointe
on its own didn’t bring up much, and
Pier Pointe ghosts
didn’t bring up anything at all.

But
Pier Pointe murder
was a different story.

Vee scrolled through an endless list of articles before clicking
away from web search to image search instead. That was when she saw them—dated-looking photos of the house she was in now. A dark-haired guy standing in the front yard with a bunch of people. A girl with stringy blond hair smiling at the camera from beneath the floppy brim of a hat.

It’s her!

And the boy, too.

The boy with wide, saucerlike eyes who’d leered at her in the orchard before she’d heard that piercing scream.

Oh my god!

She typed the message into her phone, her fingers flying over the on-screen keyboard.

You’re never gonna believe this!

But she stopped short of hitting SEND.
No, not yet
. She wanted to tell Tim first, and before she told him anything, she had to investigate.

19

I
T WAS LATE,
nearly midnight, but Lucas continued to sit at his relic of a desk with his head in his hands. He’d checked up on Jeanie earlier, asked her if she was hungry, made a couple of turkey sandwiches, and left them in the fridge in case she decided to tear herself away from her computer and come downstairs. And then he’d shut himself up in his study the way Caroline had warned him not to, hoping to find comfort in the room’s warm tones of green and brown. He stared at a scrawled list of names, people who he may or may not be able to find, folks who either knew Jeffrey Halcomb or people who had once run in his circle. They were all soft leads, none of which offered what that mysterious and frequent prison visitor could. He had nearly called the prison to ask Josh Morales if he’d talked to Officer Eperson about Halcomb’s caller. But that was unlikely. Lucas had just been to Lambert Correctional that morning. He didn’t want to come off as demanding. Or desperate.

Up until now, he had been able to squelch his anxiety about the project with the knowledge that Jeffrey Halcomb had
asked
him to write this book. With Halcomb at Lucas’s disposal, the book seemed as though it could have written itself. Even Halcomb’s insane deadline seemed manageable. All Lucas had to do was ask the right questions and transcribe Halcomb’s answers. But now, with his main source inexplicably playing hard to get and time running out, Lucas felt on the verge of folding beneath his sudden lack of confidence.
Jeff Halcomb hadn’t just broken his promise—he’d stolen the last of Lucas’s hope.

Book or no book, Caroline was going to leave him. He’d fight for custody, but he already knew that Caroline would use his biggest weakness against him. She’d tell the judge he didn’t make any money. The judge would then ask how Lucas expected to support a child when he could hardly do so for himself. Lucas would lose. And after a few years of seeing his kid on school breaks, Jeanie would decide visitation was a pain in the ass. She’d find a boyfriend, which would seal the deal on her not wanting to spend three months of her life on the West Coast. Suddenly, he wouldn’t know his kid anymore, his daughter opting to not hang out with a washed-up loser of a dad who didn’t understand her, who couldn’t relate, a man who had turned into some weird hermit surrounded by books about ax murderers and serial rapists while living on the rural Washington coast.

And then there was the faithful literary agent John Cormick, the steadfast optimist. He’d drop representation of Lucas in two seconds flat after hearing that the book on Halcomb was stillborn.

Sorry, Lou. We’ve
had a great run, but I gotta cut you loose. Keep your head up. Best of luck.

Without putting a single word of this new project to paper, he was already defeated.

“Fuck.”

He exhaled the profanity into his palms, dragged his fingers down his face, and let his hands slap against the varnished oak. Not knowing what else to do, he stepped out of the room with his head bowed and his thoughts scrambled, only glancing up for half a second to see Jeanie’s closed bedroom door. He made a beeline for the kitchen. Rummaging through the few unpacked boxes, he located his desk-sized coffeemaker—a little four-cup job just large enough to keep him fueled. It was a crappy old thing that needed replacing,
one he had bought out of frustration, each trip to the kitchen for a refill robbing him of precious momentum. That was during a time when he’d actually
had
momentum. Now he was simply hoping for a caffeinated jump-start. Tugging the coffeemaker out of the box by its cord, he tucked it beneath his arm, grabbed a filter from the pantry, and fished a bag of Starbucks grounds out of the refrigerator door. He all but tripped over the box he’d left in the middle of the room, just barely catching himself on the wall.

“Jesus
Christ.”

He continued onward, determined to set up his coffeemaker and get to work, no matter how shitty or unmotivated he felt. Maybe, somehow, by some miracle, he could pull a rabbit out of a hat. Because if he gave up now, it wasn’t just about the book—it was everything. Caroline. Jeanie. His career.

Goddammit, he forgot the water. He turned around, climbed the two brick steps from the recessed living room into the kitchen, and stopped midstep.

There was a voice.

It was far-off. Indiscernible. Nothing but a handful of muffled underwater tones, but it was distinctly female.

Lucas froze and listened as he stood in the mouth of the kitchen. He held his breath, trying to make out where the sound had originated. His first thought was that it could have been Jeanie watching some late-night TV, but there was no television in her room. When he had glanced upstairs on his way to get coffee, her door was closed.

The voice faded as quickly as it had come, leaving Lucas to shake off the goose bumps that had crawled across his skin.

Just my imagination.
After all, houses had a tendency to unnerve new tenants, and this one had an especially good reason to creep someone out. Except what about the shadow figure he had thought he’d seen in the corner of the kitchen minutes after he’d first stepped
into the house? Had that been more of his runaway creativity? It seemed to him that this house was making him jumpy as hell. If anything, it should have been sparking
some
literary artistry. But instead, it was just making him feel like he was losing his mind.

He stepped into the kitchen, still listening for what he swore he had heard—
you didn’t hear a damn thing, Lou—
and stuck the small glass coffee pitcher beneath the faucet. That was when he saw her; a blond-haired woman running through the cherry orchard. It seemed as though someone was chasing her. She looked panicked, half tripping over her feet as she darted between the trees.

Lucas’s heart sputtered. He squinted, struggling to see past his own reflection in the window above the sink. She moved out of sight before he could get his bearings, leaving him to stare at rows upon rows of trees glowing silver in the moonlight. A moment later, he saw a flash of two or three others, tailing her like pale streamers tied to her feet.

“What the hell . . . ?”

He left his pitcher of water on the counter, unlocked the door that led out onto the back patio, and stepped outside.

“Hello? Is somebody there?”

He had seen that sort of panic before, had spotted it on the face of a woman who had run up the platform stairs just in time to miss the number 7 train. Jeanie had been fussy that night, which was why they had left the party they were attending early to head home. Caroline was busy taking care of their toddler while Lucas stared out the train’s scratched-up safety glass, his head still fuzzy from all the wine he’d drunk. A woman had come up onto the platform, just missing the train. A hooded figure appeared at the top of the stairs behind her. The woman’s eyes went wide, as if seeing her own fate approach. She held up her hands, fending the figure off. It was the last thing Lucas saw ­before the
train screamed down the rails, nixing prey and predator from view.

Lucas had scoured for news of a subway station assault for weeks. Haunted by the fact that he may have been the last person to see the woman alive, he struggled with the idea that she was somebody’s little girl, someone’s Virginia. It had taken him months to shake her ghost. Now, the familiar dread was back.

Halcomb’s neo-followers—the new generation who, according to Josh Morales, took the time to write Halcomb prison letters on the regular—could easily be prowling the woods. Copycats looking to sacrifice a pretty blonde on the cult leader’s long-abandoned stomping grounds. The more Lucas considered the possibility of eccentrics hanging around the area, the more likely it seemed. He hadn’t spotted any markings on the property suggestive of such visits, but anything was possible. Some people traveled the country to check out haunted spots. Others drove thousands of miles just to get a look at crime scenes that were long since cleaned up. If people were dedicated enough to write to Halcomb thirty years after his crimes, how much of a stretch could it be for some nut job to visit the infamous house on Montlake Road?

“Is anybody out here?”

He looked into the darkness, but the night was still. All he could hear was the dull roar of the ocean a quarter of a mile away, the constant whoosh of water ebbing away from the shore.

Left with no other choice than to let it go, he turned back toward the house, nearly choking on his own heartbeat when he found Jeanie standing in the open kitchen door.

“Jesus, you scared me.” He exhaled a dry laugh, trying to steady his pulse. But his daughter’s dark expression didn’t offer much consolation. The shadows that cut across her face made her look severe.
Her bruised eye gave her a skeletal appearance, like a death mask waiting to smile.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked.

“Just getting some air.”

She jumped onto the tail end of his lie as soon as it left his throat. “Did you see somebody?”

“What? No.” The last thing Lucas needed was Jeanie worrying about people creeping through the trees.

“Dad.” She stood steadfast in the doorway. Her arms coiled defensively across her chest. “I know.”

Every muscle in his body tensed. For a split second, he tried to assure himself that what she was referring to had nothing to do with the house. But he could see it in her eyes—fresh enlightenment, the spark of a riddle that had suddenly come clear.

“What?” It was the only word he could squeeze out of his throat, a single syllable heavy with the hope that he was wrong.

“I know what happened here.”

Lucas’s face flushed hot. “I don’t . . .”

 . . . don’t know what you mean.

“Dad.” She looked him square in the face, not in the mood for games. “I read all about it online. I know what this place is.”