The House on the Cover of a Horror Novel

Acknowledgments

I must always start with a great big thank you to my husband, Matt, who reads every word, who encourages me lovingly when I need it, edits harshly when my writing needs it, and never ever stops believing, even when I do.

Thank you so much to my publisher, Raw Dog Screaming Press for giving this book a home and for being such great people to work with. My friends Kim, Virginia, and Vanessa who read, edit, and give the best feedback, critiques, and advice anyone could ask for.

To my amazing realtor who sold me my home in Savannah, Brandon Giebler who let me give his last name to the character inspired by him in this book. I’m sorry I kept the name Jacob; he just insisted it fit and who am I to argue with such a cool character as Jacob Giebler.

Frank Pitzer and Joe Ripple: your information of police procedure was invaluable and I can’t thank you enough for your time and expertise.

Last, but never least, to all my friends, family, readers, reviewers, and fellow writers: You inspire me. You make me want to keep writing, to make every book a little better than the last. They say if you have written something, then you are a writer. I say, when your story comes to life in the reader’s mind—that is the day you’ve truly succeeded. So, if you read this, I thank you for making me a successful writer.

Miles:

Present

The moon shone brightly above his home—far removed from all of this business—illuminating the dire situation at hand. There was only one match left in the pack. He should have been keeping track, but fuck if he knew how many were even in a book to start with. Well, that and why would he have been counting in the first place? The whole fucking house should be burning to the ground by now. Certainly, long before he got to the last match in the pack.

Never, in all his forty-three years, had Miles seen a puddle of gasoline extinguish a flame! Yet, here he was, down to the last fucker. Staring at what? Fifteen? Nineteen of its dead siblings floating in an entire can’s worth of accelerant.

Come on, he growled—maybe at the match, maybe at his traitorous trembling hands, or maybe even to God himself, if the bastard actually existed, which was doubtful given everything that had happened.

He held his breath. It wouldn’t do to blow the damned thing out with a panicked exhale, would it? This was it, his last chance. The last match. He pressed his thumb against its head and swiped across the back of the book.

Nothing.

Cheap, son-of-a-bitchin’ piece of shit.

The tiny strip on the back of the book was rubbed bare of phosphorus or whatever the hell they used these days.

Calm down. Breathe. Try again. No use getting worked up. Stay calm.

It would all be over soon and then…what? Because the other half of that truth meant it would all be gone as well. Everything.

No time to think like that. Just try the match again.

It would work this time—it had to work this time. There was simply no scientific reason why it would not work this time.

He swiped once more.

In the silence of the house, the hiss of ignition was the roar of a crowd cheering his victory, and in the darkness, its flame was the goddamned Olympic torch.

Oh, oh, oh, he whispered.

He’d gotten this far before, but this time would be different.

Steady. Steady your breath, steady the tremble.

In that moment, possibly the most important moment of his entire life—or what was left of it—he willed all the alcohol in his bloodstream to evaporate out his pores. His mind and body must be in his complete control. The flame was his to wield with expert precision.

He bent his knees, lowering himself and his precious, fragile weapon in painful slow motion. Closer and closer to freedom. Joints that had aged twenty years in the last two, creaked like the stairs that lay just beyond the halo of light he held tight in a sweaty pinch.

Please, please, please, he chanted. Almost there. He had every intention of laying the tiny paper flare directly onto the puddle of lighter fluid, skin be damned.

The reflection of fire danced seductively on the surface of the liquid, teasing him. Heat nipped at his fingertips. It was now or never. Let go or risk losing the fire to starvation.

He let it go.

In one brilliant, blue wave of heat, the fire spread across the wet floor.

He gasped.

And then, it was gone. Gone out, like all the others.

Inside his dark night of hopelessness, Miles stood up, turned around, and ran out of the house.

9.5 Months Earlier

Chapter 1

Emily

Emily slammed on the brakes. She’d never been this far out Wixom Street before; otherwise, she would have thought of this house immediately. Wixom was full of the big, fancy million-dollar homes all the tourists liked to see, each side of the street lined with live oaks, their branches reaching out like giant arms across the road. Spanish moss dripped over the cars as they passed slowly, their occupants gawking at the great white pillars and art nouveau wrapped balconies. Emily rarely drove into the historic part of downtown, where the mansions clustered together in judgement of those outside their walls—ones who couldn’t afford to live inside them. She hated the way they represented both the face of the coastal south and also served as a reminder of the heinous deeds done by those with enough money to weather their atrocities and still remain the draw of the town.

As far as she knew, Wixom ended with a copse of trees and bamboo, but today, on a whim, she kept driving farther from the center of town. On the far side of the mini-forest, three more houses sat spaced in the center of an actual yard. Across the street and abutting the last house was all swampland. On this June day, the surface of the marsh writhed animatedly. Dragonflies and gnats buzzed the surface stirring the heavy air and sending wafts of cloying amines across the road. Beyond the flying insects, the far end of Wixom seemed bereft of life. The house at the end of the three sat further from the other two and while they all appeared abandoned, only this one sported a For Sale sign in its front yard.

It’s perfect! Exactly the feel I was searching for.

All this time, all those sketches that weren’t quite right, pictures she’d taken then immediately abandoned—none of them mattered anymore. She leaned her forehead on the steering wheel and exhaled. She could do it. This would be her big break. Cooper Yancy! THE Cooper Yancy wanted her, little nobody Emily Lawrence, to design a cover that would inspire him! And she’d almost failed at it! Was about to give up, in fact. To call him and say ‘I’m not the artist you thought I was. I’m so sorry to let you down.’ She shook her head, shaking away all the doubts, all the I can’ts squatting in her brain since the day he called her for help.

She swung the car into the gravel driveway and parked. Every butterfly in the recesses of her guts took off at once and she almost heaved. She was going to design a book cover for Yancy’s new novel. She grabbed her bag and got out. As she snapped photos of the house from various angles, she replayed the phone call in her mind.

Hello, is this Emily Lawrence? a voice asked in a familiar tone, but only enough for her to know she’d never be able to place it without a face.

It is, how can I help you?

You’re the artist, right? You’ve done some book covers, too?

Okay, so most likely a writer looking for a cover artist. He’ll ask my prices next. That’s usually how it went. Then, if they were a serious author or a publisher, they’d go on about the book itself, the genre, what they were thinking should be on the cover, and ask how soon she could get it done. She grabbed her datebook and pen, prepared to negotiate.

Yes! I am that artist. Are you looking for a cover?

"I’m looking for you, actually. I’m looking for the artist who will inspire me. And your work inspires me. I’m sorry, that sounded creepy, didn’t it? Let me start by introducing myself. I’m Cooper Yancy, and I write horror novels."

Emily gasped audibly then had to bite her tongue so as not to interrupt him by screaming like a fan girl. THE Cooper Yancy? Immediately, his voice confirmed it in her head. She saw that voice coming out of his mouth in a million TV interviews and from her car speakers when she listened to his audiobooks which he almost always narrated himself.

"Yes, Mr. Yancy. I am very familiar with your work, and I’m more than flattered that you found me." She hoped that sounded okay and not too silly and unprofessional.

I love your work. It’s perfect for what I want to do. Every piece you create evokes the feel of the south—the painful past, its dark secrets, the stately homes with eyes just beyond brocade curtains watching you, judging you from beneath a frosting of Spanish moss and filigree. You know, I’ve always wanted to write a Southern Gothic, Ms. Lawrence, but if you are familiar with my work, you know I’ve never ventured below the Mason-Dixon line.

She hadn’t really thought about it before, but sure, it made sense. He was from Rhode Island, why would he write about the south?

Please, call me Emily. And, congratulations on breaking through. I’m sure the story’s a masterpiece. I can’t wait to read it.

Oh, I’ve not written a single word, yet. He laughed, leaving her utterly confused.

I’m sorry, I misunderstood. You’re looking for a piece of art, not a book cover then?

She felt so stupid. Of course, he would never want or need her art for his books. His publisher probably had access to professional artists who cranked out covers that caught every eye in the bookstore.

I’m looking for inspiration. I can’t seem to think of anything to write about that hasn’t already been done. Being a famous, best-selling novelist is a bit of a curse. Don’t misunderstand me; I’m not complaining. I’m rich, I have a mass of die-hard fans, but this allows me to write complete garbage and sell a million copies. I don’t want to get away with that. I’m getting too old for ego stroking.

Oh, no. I don’t think— She tried to interrupt, to assure him that wasn’t true, although it was—some of his books would never have made the best-seller list if his name wasn’t attached.

He laughed. It’s okay. I’m sure you’ve painted some stinkers as well. It’s all part of the job, isn’t it? Do something enough times, and your bound to fuck it up once or twice. But my point is, when you are famous, when you are beloved by your fans, you are also equally hated and scrutinized. The critics who panned you long ago, will continue to look for the chink in your armor every time. So, if I write a Southern Gothic, it must be something no one has done before, you see? It must be a new twist on the trope.

Emily pushed her notebook and pen away. There was no need to take any notes on a non-existent book. I see. I do. I’m just not exactly sure how I can help you with this? I want to, I’d be honored to, in fact.

I’ve traveled to a few southern cities recently: Wilmington, Charleston, Savannah. I’ve done the historical tours, the cemetery tours, and a few, quite ridiculous if you ask me, ghost tours, yet nothing sparked my imagination. That’s what I want from you. I want to see the south through your eyes. I want you to paint me a story.

Of what?

"That is the question, isn’t it? I don’t know. But you do. You’ll know and when you find it, you’ll paint it, and then send it to me. He paused. I will pay you for your time, your art, no matter what. However, if you inspire my next piece—design a cover that writes my book, I will split the proceeds with you, fifty-fifty."

What? That’s crazy. I don’t even know what…I mean, I’ve never done anything like this.

When does an artist get a chance to create freely anymore? To be commissioned to just follow your instincts? That’s all I am asking of you, Emily. Are you interested?

It was a lot of pressure, a lot of possibility, plus, the opportunity for a huge break too. She had to do it, had to take a chance.

I am definitely interested. What are you thinking for a timeline?

Don’t you hate it when you have a deadline? When we start pulling the left brain into our right brain’s domain? I’ve been a writer now for forty years, and have yet to write my great Southern Gothic, so I can continue to wait. All I ask is that you keep me updated from time to time. Let me know when you’ve found your subject—don’t tell me what it is, though—just when you’ve found it, when you begin to work on it, and then when you’ve completed it. Does that sound reasonable?

Wow, yes. Yes, it does. This is such a huge compliment. I’m just honored that you think so highly of my work. I’ve been a fan since I was a kid, Mr. Yancy.

Emily, call me Coop. No more of that Mr. Yancy nonsense. We’re co-creators, you and I. Partners, now. I’ll have my assistant send you my contact information. Call me anytime, as I prefer it to texting. I’m just too old for all that tap-tap-tapping on a tiny screen.

Sure, Coop. I’ll start immediately. I mean, I’ll start looking for the right thing, that spark. I know what you mean. I’ll find it for you. Thank you again for the opportunity.

That was four months ago. Four months of complete artist’s block. She’d finished up her other commissions, posted a notice saying she was not currently open to new ones, and set out to find Cooper Yancy’s muse. She’d taken a million photos—statues at Bonaventure, Forsyth Park’s fountain, and even the tree in Wright Square where, as legend had it, a young woman was hanged just after giving birth to her son. It was a horror story with this big, beautiful tree at its center, yet, it didn’t evoke the feeling she wanted. All those perfect, postcard-worthy photos, but none of them made her want to pick up her paintbrush.

This house, though.

She was fully aware as she walked its perimeter, snapping pics, that a house was probably the most clichéd subject matter for a horror novel ever. But this place was different. Nothing about it seemed evil or possessed, but that unsettled feeling Coop mentioned—of eyes behind curtains watching—she felt that. It wasn’t frightening exactly, more that the house was its own entity. No judgement emanated from it; just good old southern hospitality that people who are not from the south identified. But it wasn’t welcoming her. Like many southern ladies, the aura of warmth was just a façade—a mother hen whose chick nested safely within its wing, but who, at the same time, wouldn’t hesitate to flog you if you got too close. This house was the southern gothic Coop described.

This is exactly what he wants.

It wasn’t even an old dilapidated house. Well, not 1800s anyway. Probably early 1900’s, which she realized with horror was over a century ago. Funny how your definition of old changes as you age. A brick-red Victorian, with an almost rounded front, elongated rectangular shape as expected from a Victorian, but the double entry doors were off to the left side of a convex front porch and a single door sat on the opposite side. This was unusual enough to give the visitor a pause, perhaps question if they were even welcome.

Door number one or door number two?

Emily hated those types of dilemmas. It wasn’t even the idea of choosing between two unknowns, it was just that once you chose, you might never find out what was behind the other door, providing a true mystery that would drive her mad.

The longer she looked at the place, the more it looked like a hen. Even the red paint added to the illusion. It was only missing its wings and a comb.

I’d put a weather vane up there. Maybe a couple balconies off the second floor and bring stairs down the side to a wrap-around porch. Give her wings to protect her family and their secrets. As she said it out loud, she could see it.

This house said think carefully about coming inside. Once you do, you belong to me.

She needed her sketchbook.

Passing the For Sale sign on the way to the car, it occurred to her, that maybe hearing a little about the house and its past might give her more to play with in the painting. She called the number and was shocked when someone picked up on the second ring.

Giebler Realty, a young, friendly male voice announced.

Oh, hi. I didn’t expect anyone to answer. I was all prepared to leave a message, she said, gathering her wits and rethinking what she actually wanted.

Well, you got me! I’m Jacob one of the realtors here. Can I help you with something?

I think so. I’m actually at one of your houses right now. I saw the sign and stopped. It’s at the end of Wixom Street, I just don’t know the number, I’m sorry.

Oh, the Nobel Leeds place?

I don’t know, it’s a red Victorian.

Yeah, yeah, that’s the Leeds house. It’s the only one we have on Wixom. You’re there right now?

Yes, I’m sorry, I was just driving by and it caught my eye. A sharp stab of pain, quick but intense ran through her lower belly. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying out.

If you have the time, I can be there in five minutes to show it to you?

She’d really only planned to ask some questions about it, but just then, another shock ran through her and all she wanted was to get off the phone. Yeah, sure. I’ll be here for a bit longer.

Great, be right there. He hung up and Emily doubled over.

What the hell? She didn’t feel like she had to pee, so a UTI seemed out of the question. She’d heard about bladder spasms but didn’t those things happen to older women? I’m only thirty-eight, for God sakes. She squatted in the yard and waited for the pain to ease. Squatting seemed to help. When she could stand again, she grabbed her sketchbook and pencils from the car, returned to the center of the yard, bent back down into the relief position. Laying the tablet on her knees, she did some quick sketches, adding a porch that originated off the balconies on each side of the second floor. There, now it looked right. It looked alive.

The weather vane, she decided, would be a black cat, stretched out, back arched. The curves added to the idea of a hen’s comb and she smiled at the childish, yet menacing theme she’d created. Oh, it really was so exciting. Finally, she had it. Well, she didn’t exactly have it. That would come when she started painting, but the feeling was there. The one that said stop now, you’ve found it. This is the right choice. She’d relied on that voice for every decision she’d ever made.

When you know, you know.

The pain was gone, so probably indeed just some spasm of the bladder. Maybe the beginning of a UTI. She made a mental note to pick up some cranberry juice on the way home. Her mother had sworn by it. As a child, she’d hated the bitter taste and would often keep her symptoms to herself until it was far too late for cranberry juice to help. As an adult, it had the added sweetness of nostalgia. What she wouldn’t give to hear her mother’s voice recommending it.

She stood up and brushed the wrinkles out of her paint-spotted clothes. The slouchy overalls weren’t going to give the realtor much hope anyway, but wrinkly ones might keep him from putting any effort in at all, and she needed his narrative. If he got quiet or acted indifferent, she’d just pick a room and gush about how much Miles would love to convert it to a home office. Miles, the software engineer, CEO of the company he built from the ground up, her hardworking and loving husband whose six-figure salary allowed her to pursue her dreams as an artist. It wouldn’t be hard to gush. She was proud of him, and she loved him like crazy.

Thoughts of Miles came with a side of guilt. It was sneaky enough pretending she was interested in the place just to get some gossip that might help her with this project. It was really nagging at her that she had never mentioned Cooper Yancy’s phone call to Miles at all. She wanted to, because the idea of it was thrilling and the possibilities for her career were endless. It was just that…Miles never failed. He was brilliant and driven. If he set his sights on something, it happened. Miles made it happen. She loved that about him, envied it. Emily was talented. She knew that. She worked hard too, but breaking into the creative world was a whole lot harder than succeeding in software development.

The plan, initially, was to go out, find the inspiration for Coop’s cover, do some quick sketches, maybe paint a couple, and send them to him. Once he responded positively and the official contract was sent, then she would tell Miles about it. They would go out for dinner and drinks to celebrate. But then a