The Killing Room (5 page)

“If only we could all just move far away,” Linda mused out loud, her eyes on her children. “Sever all ties to the rest of the family. Start over. New names…”

Her husband was quick to dismiss the idea. “It was tried. You know that, Linda. Uncle Ernie tried that, and we all know what happened to him.”

They were quiet. Yes, indeed, they all knew what had happened to Ernest Young. After attending two successive family reunions, Uncle Ernie decided he no longer wanted to press his luck. He didn’t want to end up in that room himself. So he bundled up his wife and two young daughters and disappeared to parts unknown. None of the rest of the family had known where he was or how to contact him. But
something
knew how to find him. When Ernie failed to show for the family reunion, Uncle Howard feared the worst for him. But it wasn’t for a couple of weeks that the family learned that his fears were valid. Dental records confirmed that the identities of a family slaughtered by an unknown assailant in their home in the town of Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, were not Jim and Julie Baker and their daughters Kathy and Stephanie, as their neighbors had thought for the past seven years. Rather, they were Ernie, Molly, Ann Marie, and Susie Young. Each had been decapitated, and on the walls of their house, written in their blood, were the words:
ABANDON HOPE
.

There was no running away. That was the lesson Uncle Ernie had taught them. Instead of just one death that year, there were five. The family did, indeed, abandon hope.

At least until Dr. Kip Hobart, a parapsychologist, had come along. There had been séances. There had been exorcisms. There had been Catholic priests and Wiccan shamans. There had been ghost hunters who vowed the house was “clean.” There had been hope. Paula remembered that hope—so painful now that it seemed to burn in her gut. Because the hope had ended the morning they found poor cousin Douglas dead on the floor of that room, his hands tied behind his back and a plastic bag secured over his head.

Poor Douglas. Paula’s mind flashed back to the last family reunion ten years earlier. Douglas had had a teenaged son and namesake whom he sent upstairs to bed before they all gathered in the parlor for the lottery. Little Douglas was sound asleep upstairs, unaware of the terror his father faced in the basement. Paula remembered the way the boy’s face had crumpled in the morning when he learned the news of his father’s death. Little Douglas was now old enough this year to be told the family secret. Uncle Howard surely had plans to sit down with him and break it to him, as gently as possible.

And what happened after Uncle Howard was gone? He was ninety-eight years old. Surely this was his last reunion. Who would take over from him? Paula just wanted to burn the house down—or at least move out. But that had been tried, too. A couple of generations ago, the whole family had tried running away, all except Uncle Howard, who feared such avoidance of the lottery would only bring about more slaughter. He was right. On the designated night, no one entered the basement room—but on the next morning, Francis Young, one of the far-flung nephews, died of a massive heart attack. The morning after, Francis’s infant son Michael was found dead in his crib. And on the morning after that, one hundred miles away, twelve-year-old Andrew Young dropped dead face-first into his oatmeal. The remaining members of the clan got the message. Terrified, they all rushed to Uncle Howard’s house. The lottery was held as it should have been, and David Young, Francis’s younger brother, was chosen to enter the room. The next morning, David was dead of a stab wound to the heart, but the parade of deaths ended after that.

At least for another decade.

What always amazed Paula was how the local Youngsport authorities never seemed to get wise to the odd mortality schedule of the family. Much of it had to do, of course, with Uncle Howard’s wealth: if the richest man in the state, indeed one of the richest men in the country, decided that the strange deaths that occurred regularly every ten years in his house were suicides or accidents, then the authorities simply went along. Even this latest sheriff, George Patterson, known to be a hard nut to crack, had been fooled by the death of cousin Douglas. At first he was skeptical that Douglas had accidentally suffocated himself while trying to play a trick, casting suspicious eyes around at all of them. But the family’s abject grief had finally absolved them of any blame in the sheriff’s mind. They didn’t seem like murderers; they seemed like a family decimated by tragedy—which they were.

Dean was calling the kids to come up and eat. Their hamburgers and hot dogs were ready. Paula stood, feeling no better than she had when she left the city to come out here. She had hoped that Dean might be able to say something to her—
anything
—that could have alleviated some of her anguish. But hope was no longer a commodity in her life. She understood that finally. Karen would leave her. She’d be alone. That was her fate. It was, no doubt, better that way.

She watched as Zac and Callie dried themselves off on the banks of the lake with big white terrycloth towels. She loved the twins with all her heart. There had to be a way to protect them from that room—a way to free their futures, so they would not spend their lives as trapped as she and the others had always felt.

A flash of movement in the woods just beyond the lake drew Paula’s eye.

Was it—a deer?

No.

Paula’s blood went cold.

It was a man. In the woods.

He had been watching them.

In that instant a thousand thoughts and emotions flooded her mind. A man. Watching them. A threat.

But no. Why would he be a threat? A neighbor perhaps. A hiker.

Her heart began to race.

She knew that was wrong. The man was no neighbor, no innocent hiker.

He was likely not even a man at all.

Even as the figure faded once more into the shadows of the woods, Paula knew what it was. In the weeks leading up to a reunion, there were often sightings. Apparitions from another time. The forces that had brought upon the curse that ruled over their lives.

Sometimes there were sightings of a woman. Paula had seen the woman with the long dark hair and white dress several days before the last reunion. She had been standing across busy Commonwealth Avenue just watching her. Paula had known right away what it was.

Other times the sightings were of a man. This was the first time Paula had ever seen him, though others had reported seeing him in the past.

A man—holding something in his hands.

Staring into the woods now, discerning the shadow that was surely him, Paula made out the terrible thing that he gripped in his undead hands.

A pitchfork.

Her heart leapt in her chest.

“Zac! Callie!” she called suddenly, bolting down the hill toward them. The children lifted their faces to her, their hair wet and slicked back. “Come along, darlings!” Paula reached them and swept them into her arms.

She didn’t think they were in any particular danger from the figure in the woods—at least, not for the moment. But she was letting the man know that she had seen him, and that she would do everything in her power to save those she loved from his grip.

And that included the children she would never have herself.

She ushered Zac and Callie back up the hill, where they settled themselves down at the picnic table and happily devoured the burgers and dogs their father had prepared for them. Paula stood a few feet away, watching them, glancing every so often toward the woods. She could no longer make out the man. But she knew he was there.

Watching them.

And she knew something else.

No matter where they were in the world, something would always be watching them.

“Helloooo?” Douglas called, stepping into the great foyer of the house. His voice echoed across the marble.

The place was eerily silent. Where were the servants? Usually there was some old housekeeper who scuffed her way out to greet Douglas when he visited. The face was usually different from the last time Douglas visited. Uncle Howie went through staff quickly. There was never anyone who stayed too long. Douglas wondered if his uncle was difficult to work for. Whatever the reason, the staff was usually comprised of new faces every time Douglas visited. But this time, no one—new or old—was around to greet him.

“Helloooo?” he called again. Once more, his only response was his own echo.

He glanced up at the vaulted ceiling. His eyes took in the portraits on the walls, the suit of armor that stood by the great curving marble staircase. He scratched his head. Odd that the front door would be open if Uncle Howie had gone out.

He took a few steps across the foyer toward the parlor. The double doors were closed. He was about to open them when suddenly they opened inward themselves. He stepped back with a small gasp—

—until he saw that the person who had just opened them was a very attractive young woman, as real as the woman on the cliffs had seemed ethereal.

“Whoa,” he said in surprise.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, a little flustered herself. She had reddish hair, green eyes, and a smattering of freckles. The black turtleneck and pleated khakis that she wore showed off her figure quite nicely. A strand of pearls around her neck suggested she was no servant. “I’m a visitor here myself. I heard you come in and assumed Mr. Young would come out to greet you. He’s just gone to his room for a moment.”

Douglas smiled and introduced myself. “It’s okay,” he said as he shook hands with the woman. “Uncle Howie wasn’t expecting me.”

The woman returned his smile. “I’m Carolyn Cartwright. I’m…” There was the slightest hesitation, which Douglas noticed. “I’m working with your uncle on a project.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m glad to see that the house will have a little more life in it than usual. How long are you here for?”

“Just a few days.” Carolyn seemed to consider something. “To start, anyway. I’ll be back, however. I suspect the project is going to…take some time.”

He grinned. He was pleased to hear that. As much as he loved Uncle Howie, it sure would be nice to have a pretty woman, and one close to his age at that, around to keep things lively. Douglas had an eye for the ladies. Always had. He liked them, and they liked him. His eyes twinkled at Carolyn. She was looking at him, too—but then Douglas realized that what she was looking at were his muddy clothes.

“Oh,” he said, giving a little laugh. “I had a little accident on the way up here. Swerved to avoid…” Now it was Douglas’s turn to hesitate. “A squirrel. I took a spill on my motorcycle.”

“Were you hurt?”

“Just scraped up my leg a bit. Nothing serious. I should probably hop in the shower and change my clothes.”

Carolyn was nodding. “Your uncle is just taking a brief rest. He’s in his room. We’ve been discussing the project for the last couple of hours, and it sort of wore him out. So while he rests, I’m in here going through some books and reports….”

“It’s okay, I know where his room is,” Douglas said, smiling. “I’ll pop in on him and surprise him.”

Carolyn’s face betrayed a hint of concern. “Don’t surprise him too much. He’s…well, a bit overwrought. This project…it’s…stressful.”

Douglas made a face. He had never understood Uncle Howie’s “projects.” Often there were people here, going through books and reports like Carolyn was doing now. Just what Uncle Howie did for his living Douglas had no idea, but even at ninety-eight, the old man still seemed incredibly active in it. Must be a lot of work managing all those investments and properties, Douglas thought.

“Well,” he said, flashing a smile, “it was very nice meeting you, Miss Cartwright.”

“Please,” she said. “Call me Carolyn.”

“And you can call me as many times as you’d like,” Douglas said, his grin pushing his cheeks up into his face, revealing the dimples that many women had told him were irresistible. He counted on them having the same effect on Carolyn.

Whether they did or not, he wasn’t certain. She smiled noncommittally and turned back into the parlor to return to her books and papers. Douglas sighed, heading down the corridor to his uncle’s room. Carolyn seemed like one smart, serious lady. No wonder Uncle Howie had hired her to do work for him.

Once again he wondered just what his uncle had done all these years as actual
work
. Oh, he figured managing millions took a lot of time and effort.
Can hardly call it a job
,
though
, Douglas thought. It sure wasn’t like landscaping, or carpentry, or steering a boatload of slaphappy tourists out to see the sharks. That’s why Uncle Howie always had “projects,” Douglas supposed, and he had “jobs.”

Douglas’s father had been very different from both his son and the wealthy family patriarch. He’d always worked for his living, even though he expected someday to be a beneficiary of at least some of the family fortune. “You’ve got to find your own way in this life,” he’d told Douglas many times. “You can’t rely just on what you hope to get someday. You’ve got to make it happen for yourself.”

Dad was a lawyer, often taking on cases pro bono for clients who couldn’t afford to hire representation. Douglas admired his father, wishing he’d inherited his drive and his commitment to do something for the world, to make a difference. But all Douglas had ever really cared about—well, at least after his father had died—was just getting by. His life’s goal was just to avoid too much hassle. Living the gypsy life had suited him fine for the last several years. No worries. Just be happy.

But now the idea of Uncle Howie setting him up somewhere, maybe in a little house here in Maine—a little cabin on a brook—sounded very appealing. Maybe he was growing up finally, or maybe some of Dad’s sense of stability had finally started to sink in. Maybe, Douglas thought, Uncle Howie could help him set up a carpentry shop where he could build furniture for the locals. Douglas thought he might like that. Maybe he’d even meet a girl up here, someone who might set his heart afire in a way that Mom had once done for Dad, in a way that Brenda, good as she was, had failed to do for him….

He turned the corner into his uncle’s room, tapping lightly on the open door.

“Uncle Howie?” Douglas whispered.

The room was dark. The drapes were drawn in the room, blotting out much of the bright sunshine from outside. But as Douglas’s eyes adjusted, he could make out his uncle lying on his enormous four-poster bed, fully dressed, even wearing his shoes. He lay on his back, his hands folded over his chest. He looked like he was dead and ready for the casket. A tiny flutter of alarm surged in Douglas’s chest.

“Uncle Howie?” he asked again, louder this time, taking a few steps into the room.

The old man didn’t move. Douglas stood over him.

“Uncle Howie?” He spoke for a third time, touching his fingers to the old man’s hand. It was cold.

But the eyes suddenly slid open.

Douglas made a little gasp and took a step back.

“Douglas!” the old man rasped. He struggled to rise to a sitting position, but couldn’t manage. He turned his head instead to look at his nephew. “My little hoodlum. What are you doing here?”

“I…I came to visit,” Douglas said.

“But the reunion is next month.”

Douglas tried to smile. Something about seeing Uncle Howie stretched out like this gave him the creeps. The old man still had not unfolded his hands from his chest. He looked like a talking corpse. “I came early,” Douglas said. “To spend some time with you.”

Howard Young’s tongue snaked out to wet his lips. “Look at you. You are a mess. Why are you so dirty?”

“I had a little accident with my bike.”

Finally the old man raised himself with difficulty on one brittle elbow. “I have always feared that motorcycle would bring you to a bad end.”

“It was just a little spill. I wasn’t hurt.”

Uncle Howard was sitting now. “Are you certain?”

Douglas nodded. “I just need a good hot shower.”

Uncle Howie grunted. “Well, anyway, I’m glad to see you, Douglas.” He smiled. Now that he was sitting up, he seemed warm. Back to life. He was once again the uncle that Douglas knew. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You okay, Uncle Howie?” Douglas asked. “The pretty young lady downstairs said you got kind of shook up.”

The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, so you’ve met her? Yes, indeed, she’s quite pretty.” He frowned. “But I wasn’t shook up. I just get tired more easily these days.”

“Well, don’t work too hard. Whatever these projects are, don’t let them stress you out.”

Uncle Howard sighed. “Would that they would simply go away.” He managed a weary smile at his nephew. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said again.

“So tell me,” Douglas said, grinning. “Is this Carolyn married?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

“I don’t know,” Uncle Howie told him. “But I don’t think so. Not anymore.”

“Good.”

“Now, hold on a moment, you hoodlum.” Uncle Howie was smiling. “Carolyn is here on a very important matter. I don’t want you hassling her.”

“Me? Hassle a pretty woman?”

His uncle just gave him a look.

“All right,” Douglas said. “I’ll go easy on her. But she sure is hot.”

Uncle Howard nodded. “Yes, she is lovely. But what she is working on…it’s going to need her full attention. Which brings me to the reason why I am so pleased you came early to visit me, Douglas…”

The old man was struggling to get off the bed and stand. Douglas allowed him to lean on his arm. Once standing, Uncle Howard got quite close to his nephew and looked him directly in the eyes.

“We need to have an important conversation,” Uncle Howie said. “In the next day or two. There are many things I need to tell you before the others arrive.”

Douglas smiled.
He’s going to give me something and doesn’t want my cousins knowing about it. I knew I was his favorite.

“Sure thing, Uncle Howie,” Douglas said, walking beside the old man as he shuffled across the floor of his room toward the door. “Anytime you want. We’ll sit down and catch up.”

“Mm,” Howard Young said. “Catch up. I suppose you could call it that.”

Douglas escorted his uncle into the foyer, then turned and gave him a jaunty salute. They’d have some dinner once Douglas was cleaned up, Uncle Howard said. Douglas smiled, then hurried up the stairs to the room that he’d always considered his own.

It was the same room where he’d slept the night his father died in this house ten years ago.

He’d come down these very stairs to be met by his cousin Paula. She was crying. “Oh, Douglas,” she’d said, turning away.

And he’d known.

Known that his father had died during the night. He’d been trying to play a prank on his cousins, they said. A funny practical joke. And he had suffocated. It was a terrible accident, they told the sheriff.

Except that Dad didn’t play pranks. He wasn’t that kind of guy.

Douglas pushed the memory out of his mind as he rounded the top of the staircase. He passed a large plate-glass window on the top landing that looked out over the grounds toward the cliffs. Suddenly he was certain if he looked out he would see the woman in the white dress out there again. He hesitated, then turned to look. He peered outside into the bright sunshine.

She wasn’t there.

Of course she wasn’t. The woman wasn’t real. She was an illusion. A figment of Douglas’s imagination.

He headed down the hall to his room.