House of Dark Shadows
house of
dark
shadows
BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR
Comes a Horseman
Germ
Deadfall
DREAMHOUSE KINGS SERIES
1 House of Dark Shadows
2 Watcher in the Woods
house of
dark
shadows
BOOK ONE OF
DREAM HOUSE KINGS
ROBERT LIPARULO
© 2008 by Robert Liparulo
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherâexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
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Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Page design by Mandi Cofer
Map design by Doug Cordes
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Liparulo, Robert.
House of dark shadows / Robert Liparulo.
p. cm. â (Dream house Kings ; bk. 1)
Summary: When fifteen-year-old Xander and his family move into an old, abandoned house in the middle of a dense forest outside of a small California town, they discover that not only are some of the rooms portals into other places, but that malevolent forces are at work.
ISBN 978-1-59554-494-1 (hardcover)
[1. SupernaturalâFiction. 2. DwellingsâFiction. 3. Family lifeâCaliforniaâFiction. 4. CaliforniaâFiction. 5. Horror stories.]
I. Title.
PZ7.L6636Ho 2008
[Fic]âdc22 2008004620
Printed in the United States of America
08 09 10 11 QW 6 5 4 3 2 1
TO MY SON ANTHONY ,
whose enthusiastic and energetic spirit
makes our home as adventurous as
(but eternally brighter than)
the house in this story.
“A house of which one knows every room isn't worth living in.”
- GIUSEPPE TOMASI DI LAMPEDUSA
Contents
THIRTY YEARS AGO
The walls of the house absorbed the woman's screams, until they felt to her as muffled and pointless as yelling underwater. Still, her lungs kept pushing out cries for help. Her attacker carried her over his shoulder. The stench of his sweat filled her nostrils. He paid no heed to her frantic writhing, or the pounding of her fists on his back, or even her fingernails, which dug furrows into his flesh. He simply lumbered, as steadily as a freight train, through the corridors of the big house.
She knew where they were heading but not where she would end up. In this house nothing was normal, nothing as it appeared. So while she knew in advance the turns her attacker would take, which hallways and doors he would traverse, their destination was as unknowable as a faraway galaxy. And that meant her
taking
would be untraceable. She would be unreachable to searchers. To would-be rescuers. To her
family
âand that realization terrified her more than being grabbed out of her bed. More than the flashes of imagined cruelty she would suffer away from the protection of the people who loved her. More than death.
But then she saw something more terrifying: her children, scrambling to catch up, to help. Their eyes were wide, streaming. They stumbled up the narrow staircase behind her attacker, seeming far below, rising to meet her. The thought of them following her into the chasm of her fate was more than she could stand.
“Go back,” she said, but by this time her throat was raw, her voice weak.
The man reached the landing and turned into another corridor.
Temporarily out of sight, her son yelled, “Mom!” His seven-year-old voice was almost lost in the shrillness of his panic. He appeared on the landing. His socked feet slipped on the hardwood floor, and he went down. Behind him, his little sister stopped. She was frightened and confused, too young to do anything more than follow her brother. He clambered up and started to run again.
A hand gripped his shoulder, jarring him back.
The boy's father had something in his fist: the lamp from his nightstand! He passed the boy in the hallway. His bare feet gave him traction.
Thank God
, she thought.
He reached her in seconds. With the lamp raised over his head, he grabbed her wrist. He pulled, tried to anchor himself to the floor, to the carpeted runner now covering the wood planks. But the brute under her walked on, tugging him with them. The man yanked on her arm. Pain flared in her shoulder. He might as well have tried pulling her from a car as it sped past.
She caught a glimpse of the bizarrely shaped light fixtures on the corridor wallsâmostly carved faces with glowing eyes. The bulbs flickered in time with her racing heart. She could not remember any of the lights doing that before. It was as though the electrical current running through the wires was responding to a disruption in the way things were
supposed
to be, a glitch in reality.
“Henry,” she said, pleading, hopeful.
His grip tightened as he stumbled along behind them. He brought the lamp's heavy base down on her assailant. If the man carrying her flinched, she did not feel it. If he grunted or yelled out, she did not hear it.
What he did was stop. He spun around so quickly, the woman's husband lost his grip on her. And now facing the other direction, she lost sight of him. Being suddenly denied her husband's visage felt like getting the wind knocked out of her. She realized he was face-to-face with the man who'd taken her, and
that
felt like watching him step off a cliff.
“Nooo!” she screamed, her voice finding some volume.
“Henry!”
His hand gripped her ankle, then broke free. The man under her moved in a violent dance, jostling her wildly. He spun again and her head struck the wall.
The lights went out completely . . . but no, not the lights . . . her consciousness. It came back to her slowly, like the warmth of fire on a blustery day.
She tasted blood. She'd bitten her tongue. She opened her eyes. Henry was crumpled on the floor, receding as she was carried away. The children stood over him, touching him, calling him. Her son's eyes found hers again. Determination hardened his jaw, pushed away the fear . . . at least a measure of it. He stepped over his father's legs, coming to her rescue.
Henry raised his head, weary, stunned. He reached for the boy, but missed.
Over the huffing breath of the man, the soft patter of her son's feet reached her ears. How she'd loved that sound, knowing it was bringing him to her. Now she wanted it to carry him away away from this danger. Her husband called to him in a croaking, strained voice. The boy kept coming.
She spread her arms. Her left hand clutched at open air, but the right one touched a wall. She clawed at it. Her nails snagged the wallpaper. One nail peeled back from her finger and snapped off.
Her assailant turned again, into a roomâ
one of the small antechambers, like a mud room before the
real
room. He strode straight toward the next threshold.
Her son reached the first door, catching it as it was closing. “Mom!” Panic etched old-man lines into his young face. His eyes appeared as wide as his mouth. He banged his shoulder on the jamb, trying to hurry in.
“Stay!” she said. She showed him her palms in a “stop” gesture, hoping he would understand, hoping he would obey. She took in his face, as a diver takes in a deep breath before plunging into the depths. He was fully in the antechamber now, reaching for her with both arms, but her captor had already opened the second door and was stepping through. The door was swinging shut behind him.
The light they were stepping into was bright. It swept around her, through the opening, and made pinpoints of the boy's irises. His blue eyes dazzled. His cheeks glistened with tears. He wore his favorite pajamasâlittle R2-D2s and C-3P0s all over them, threadbare and too small for him.
“Iâ” she started, meaning to say she loved him, but the brute bounded downward, driving his shoulder into her stomach. Air rushed from her, unformed by vocal cords, tongue, lips.
Just air.
“Moooom!” her son screamed. Full of despair. Reaching.
Almost to the door. “Moâ”
The door closed, separating her from her family forever.
SATURDAY, 4:55 P.M.
“Nothing but trees,” the bear said in Xander's voice. It repeated itself: “Nothing but trees.”
Xander King turned away from the car window and stared into the smiling furry face, with its shiny half-bead eyes and stitched-on nose. “I mean it, Toria,” he said. “Get that thing out of my face. And turn it off.”
His sister's hands moved quickly over the teddy bear's paws, all the while keeping it suspended three inches in front of Xander. The bear repeated, “I mean it, Toria. Get thatâ”
At fifteen years old, Xander was too old to be messing around with little-kid toys. He seized the bear, squeezing the paw that silenced it.
“Mom!” Toria yelled. “Make him give Wuzzy back!” She grabbed for it.
Xander turned away from her, tucking Wuzzy between his body and the car door. Outside his window, nothing but treesâas he had said and Wuzzy had echoed. It reminded him of a movie, as almost everything did. This time it was
The Edge
, about a bear intent on eating Anthony Hopkins. An opening shot of the wilderness where it was filmed showed miles and miles of lush forest.
Nothing but trees
.
A month ago his dad had announced that he had accepted a position as principal of a school six hundred miles away, and the whole King family had to move from the only home Xander had ever known. They were going to a place he had never even heard of: Pinedale, almost straight north from their home in Pasadena. Still in California, but barely. Pine-dale. The name itself said “hick,” “small,” and “If you don't die here, you'll wish you had.” Of course, he had screamed, begged, sulked, and threatened to run away. But in the end here he was, wedged in the back seat with his nine-year-old sister and twelve-year-old brother.
The longer they drove, the thicker the woods grew, and the more miserable he became. It was bad enough leaving his friends, his schoolâ
everything!
âbut to be leaving them for Hicksville, in the middle of nowhere, was a stake through his heart.