The House That Death Built
Read The House That Death Built Online
Authors: Michaelbrent Collings
Copyright © 2016
by Michaelbrent Collings
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reserved.
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NOTE:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental. The scanning, uploading, and distribution
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PRAISE FOR THE WORK OF
MICHAELBRENT COLLINGS
"… prepare to be creeped
out." –
San Francisco Book Review
"Collings is a great
storyteller!" – Larry Correia, NY Times bestselling author of
Monster
Hunter International
and
Son of the Black Sword.
"
Move over Stephen King... Clive Barker.... Michaelbrent
Collings is taking over as the new king of the horror book genre.
"
–
Media Mikes
"[
Crime Seen
] will
keep you guessing until the end…. 5/5. " –
Horror Novel Reviews
"It
'
s rare to find an ending to a
novel that is clever, thought-provoking and surprising, yet here Collings nails
all three…." –
Ravenous Reads
"
Crime Seen
by
Michaelbrent Collings is one of those rare books that deserves more than five
stars." –
Top of the Heap Reviews
"I
barely had time to buckle my mental seatbelt before the pedal hit the
metal...." –
The Horror Fiction Review
"
Collings
is so proficient at what he does, he
crooks his finger to get you inside his world and before you know it, you are
along for the ride. You don't even see it coming; he is that good.
"
–
Only Five Star Book Reviews
"
A
proficient and pedagogical author, Collings' works should be studied to see
what makes his writing resonate with such vividness of detail….
"
–
Hellnotes
"
[H]auntingly
reminiscent of M. Night Shyamalan or Alfred Hitchcock.
"
– horrornews.net
"
The Haunted
is a terrific read with some great scares and a shock of an
ending!
"
– Rick Hautala,
international bestselling author; Bram Stoker Award
®
for Lifetime
Achievement winner
"
[G]ritty,
compelling and will leave you on the edge of your seat....
"
– horrornews.net
"
[W]ill
scare even the most jaded horror hounds.
"
– Joe McKinney, Bram Stoker Award
®
-winning
author of
Flesh Eaters
and
The
Savage Dead
"
Apparition
is a hard core supernatural horror novel that is
going to scare the hell out of you.... This book has everything that you would
want in a horror novel.... it is a roller coaster ride right up to
a shocking ending.
"
–
horroraddicts.net
"
What a ride.... This is one you will not be able to put down
and one you will remember for a long time to come. Very highly recommended.
"
–
Midwest Book Review
Dedication
To...
Elison, who kept me there,
and to Laura, FTAAE.
TWO: ... that killed the cats
...
39
THREE: ... who lived in the
house ...
130
FOUR: ... that death built.
294
These
are the rats...
This was the life of the man.
He had little. But it was enough,
because he also had her. She owned him, completely and utterly, but he owned
her as well so he never felt himself either possessor or possessed. The word
"we" came more readily than the word "I." He never went out
for a poker night, never yearned for a week away where he could do manly things
like camping or hunting or just be around anyone other than her.
She was his best friend.
She was there for all his
happiest moments.
In his favorite dreams, they were
together forever.
The knowledge that this was a lie
was the only darkness in a world she made bright.
This is what the house looks
like.
This is the house where death has
come to call.
It is nice –
very
nice –
though its obvious value comes not so much from its size (though it is large)
or its spacious grounds (though spacious they are), or even the topiaries and
fountains that grace its surroundings (though there are, of course, many of
those).
No, its value can be seen, even
by the least discerning eye, in the details. In the
whole
.
The house is white, and instantly
brings the word "estate" to mind. The kind of thing you might picture
in a movie about Southern gentry – warm summer nights with white-clad people
sipping dainty mint juleps on the porch that embraces the main structure.
Ladies who wear frocks and hold ribboned parasols, men who sit in seersucker
suits and fan themselves with Panama hats while speaking and occasionally dab
beads of sweat away from foreheads.
Of course, this is no movie.
These are not such gentle times, and this is no such gentle place.
But that's getting ahead.
The house is surrounded, as we
said, by a porch. Tuscan columns stand tall and even along the outer edge of
the porch, anchored directly to the white structure and leading to ornate headings:
astragals leading to neckings leading to echini and abaci, with the whole
cemented to beautiful entablatures.
Many windows stare out from the
sides of the house. In daytime they shine, during night festivities they glow
warmly.
Now, they are dark – eyes blinded
nightly by the dark cataracts of a black sky.
Around the home, there are many
things, as we said.
A beautiful lawn, so green it
seems painted and large enough to play a dozen games of croquet at once and
still have room left over for a church ice cream social.
Topiaries and hedgerows, spaced
to allow for visual impact while still permitting easy passage between and
among the greenery.
Fountains, enough that no matter
where you stand you can hear the calming burble of water over stone.
And four shadows, moving in a way
that shadows should not. A way that cries out – that
screams
, that
shrieks
– "Danger, danger, danger!"
The shadows came over the high
privacy wall that encircles the grounds. Just seconds ago they were outside,
and now…
within
.
They move to a box near the wall.
One of them – slighter than the others, but moving with speed that speaks of
certainty and a physical awareness that is itself frightening – kneels. Moves.
The lights that brighten the
grounds flicker. Flicker.
Go out.
The shadows are shadows no
longer. They have been swallowed by the sudden darkness. Now only visible as wraiths
– not things of this world, but of another, and far crueler, plane.
They flit toward the house. Shrub
to fountain, fountain to tree, then back to hedge again – a stuttering run that
keeps them in the darkest pits of the night. You would think of cockroaches,
watching them: things that fear the light and embrace the darkness as a refuge
and a home.
Things of night. Things that feed
on the refuse of others, and the rot of a dying world.
They arrive at the back of the
house.
Again, the slight one kneels,
this time beside a door.
A moment later: a click.
The door opens.
The wraiths slip inside, seeming
to melt from shadow without to shadow within.
What seems like a long time
passes. It isn't, of course, but watching this all makes time stretch out to
obscene lengths. Seconds are minutes, minutes days.
So days pass by. Days in which
there is no sun, in which the starless night holds sway, in which all observers
hold their breath. And wait.
For what?
For the only thing that might
happen, in a night like this, a place like this.
For the screams to begin.
And begin they do.