House

 An old, empty house hides a deadly secret for Tom Jurgen and Rachel.

House, Part One

I was tailing Andy Jeffords down a lonely road somewhere west of Wheaton. Tall dark trees drooped over the road from the right, their branches swaying in the afternoon breeze, leaves dropping across the pavement. On the left, acres of flat empty land stretched toward the horizon, looking like it had been stripped by locusts years ago. The road in front of me was straight and lonely, and I had to stay far back so Jeffords wouldn’t spot me in his black Lexus. 

            Houses were sparse. A dog trotted down the road after Jeffords for a few hundred yards, then turned and headed back to a one-story house with a pickup parked in front, ignoring my Prius as I drove past him. 

            Jeffords was supposed to be playing golf. That’s what he’d been telling his wife, Ashley Jeffords. He’d been playing with the same handful of friends for years, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Except that recently he’d started taking off to “play golf” almost every day, leaving his home for hours. And Judith Maples had asked Ashley in the grocery store last week why Andy had stopped playing with her husband lately. “Ed hasn’t seen him in two weeks,” Ashley told me over the phone when she hired me. “So I asked around, and none of them have played with him. But he still says he’s going golfing with the guys. I don’t know what’s going on. I mean, maybe I think I do . . .”

            They lived in Lombard, west of Chicago, close to Wheaton. Jeffords was a tax lawyer, semi-retired, who worked from their home. So it was easy enough for me to position myself down the street on Thursday afternoon and then follow him down route 64 until he turned off and made his way to the road we were on now, Scout Road, heading north. Without a golf course in sight.

            Finally Jeffords’ Lexus slowed, and the right-hand blinker came on. I pressed my brake gently as he turned and disappeared into the trees.

            I slowed and took a quick look up the path he’d taken. About 20 yards in sat an old house. At a brief glimpse, it looked abandoned and empty, with tall wild grass in front, empty windows, a sagging porch roof, and a fallen chimney.

            Then I turned my eyes back to the road. A hundred yards down, I managed a three-point turn and parked, facing the house from the other side of the road.

            Through the trees and a pair of mini-binoculars, I could see the front and side of the house. A shard of glass dangled from the top of one window; another had been boarded up. The steps up to the porch had rotted, and the front door hung half open on what was left of its top hinge. The roof had lost most of its shingles. Thick weeds and high grass surrounded the house like a defensive wall.

            No sign of Jeffords. Was he inside? What the hell for? This didn’t seem like the place for a lover’s tryst. I took a few pictures, and used the GPS on my phone to get the exact location. Then I sat waiting some more.

            A motorcycle roared past without stopping. Another dog wandered through the trees, stopping to dig into the dirt or sniff at the roots. Birds circled the sky.

            After 20 minutes, Jeffords emerged from the house. Dressed in slacks and a denim jacket, he seemed wobbly, and almost tripped stepping down off the porch. He sat in his car for a few minutes before starting up, and then he backed onto the road and started back the way he’d come.

            I really wanted to check out the house. Ghosts? Dead bodies? Treasure? But he could still be on the way to a tryst, as unlikely as that felt. I owed it to my client to stay with him.

            But he just went back home. We arrived at his house an hour later. I watched him pull into the garage. Puzzled—and hungry, it was close to dinnertime—I sighed and headed down the street for home.

 

Back home in Chicago I grabbed a beer, kissed my girlfriend Rachel, sat down at my computer, and started writing an email to my client. “What’s for dinner?”

            It was Rachel’s night to cook. “Baked Mac and cheese. How was the case?”

            I paused to look over my shoulder at her. Rachel has short red hair and hazelnut eyes, and long legs in skinny jeans. Also, she’s psychic. “Weird. No sex, just a broken-down house in the middle of nowhere. Unless he has some kind of a fetish.”

            “Nothing wrong with a fetish.” She winked at me.

            “I’m a fan.” I finished my email, sipped my beer, and started clicking through my other emails.

            My phone buzzed five minutes later. My client. “I don’t get it,” Ashley Jeffords said. “What would he be doing in some old house? Was there anyone else there?”

            “Is it safe for you to talk?” 

            “Yeah, He’s checking his email back in his office. I don’t get it.”

            I’d sent her the photos I’d taken. “Nothing familiar? I didn’t see any sign of other people. No cars, nothing moving inside, no one outside.”

            “I’ve never seen that place before in my life.” She groaned. “What now?”

            “I’ll check into the property tomorrow,” I told her. “Maybe there’s some connection that’s not obvious.”

            “All right, let me know—oops, he’s coming. Hi, Andy, no it’s just—” She hung up.

            I finished up my emails while Rachel made dinner. “No using this tomorrow night when it’s your turn to cook,” she said as I set the table. 

            “Freeze it. I’ve got a curry recipe I want to try out.” I sat down, Rachel served, and we ate.

            She picked at her food. Rachel’s not usually a chatterbox, but she’s rarely silent, even when she’s working or watching TV. “You’re quiet,” I said.

            “What do you want to talk about? Monkeypox? Saudi Arabia? Climate change? Real Housewives?”

            “Anything but that.” I sipped some water. “Anything wrong? Mad at me?”

            “Always.” Rachel looked at me across the table, and I braced myself, wondering what I’d done now. Then she just shook her head and sighed. “I’m just bored.”

            “With macaroni and cheese? You made it.”

            She glared at me. “With you. Pack your bags. Get out. Just do the dishes first.”

            She was joking. I hoped. “Okay, not mac and cheese. What’s wrong? I didn’t do the laundry right again?”

            Rachel put her fork down. “My job.” She’s a graphic designer. Freelance. “It’s just—one more website, one more conference brochure, another online newsletter—every once in a while there’s something different, but I don’t do porn sites anymore, so—” She shrugged. “I’m thinking about going back to school.”

            “Studying what?”

            She picked up her fork again. “I was thinking psychology.”

            “You’re always saying I need my head examined. Dissected, for that matter.”

            She snorted. “Yeah, I’m going to do my thesis on you.”

            I ate some mac. “You’re a good listener, you notice things, you’re smart—and there’s the whole psychic thing. Unless that would be cheating.”

            She cocked her head. “Maybe. It’s just—all the weird stuff we run into, you know? It might give me a different insight.”

            The weird stuff we run into—vampires, demons, monsters, giant killer chickens (Rachel never lets me forget that one), a flesh-eating monster at a nudist colony, and sometimes worse, if you can imagine that. Yeah, that could give a shrink a unique perspective. “People possessed by demons. And vamps. I know some who could use a good therapist.”

            “That would be a niche.” She sipped some water. “So what do you think?”

            “You don’t need my permission. Do it.”

            “I’m not asking your permission, jerk. Just . . .” She speared some macaroni. “It’s expensive. Plus, in college I always thought people taking psychology really just wanted to solve their own problems before the final exam.”

            “Yeah. I kept hoping that one course I took would help me get over my Oedipus complex in a semester. No luck.”

            She kicked me under the table. “I just—I guess neither of us are exactly normal, are we?”

            I’ve seen a psychiatrist for stress and depression. Sometimes I take medication for it. And, oh yeah, there’s that one time I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills. Rachel found me in time.

            Rachel? I don’t know everything about her past. She keeps things tight, and she doesn’t trust people easily. Some of her friends are witches and pagans. But I’ve come to depend on her. And not just for her psychic skills. She keeps me from doing stupid things—or at least she forces me to think them through.

            “Do it,” I said again. “We’ll figure out the money.”

            “I already looked at a couple of schools. I can do it part-time, at least first.” Then she smiled. “Thanks.”

            “For what? I’m for whatever you want to do. Except bondage. I keep forgetting the safe word.”

            “You love it.” She kicked me under the table again. Gently this time. “You still have to do the dishes.”

            I rolled my eyes. “Fine.”

House, Part Two

The next morning I did some research on the Scout Road house Jeffords had visited. What I found was—disturbing. 

So I got another cup of coffee and put off the call for half an hour. I was finally calling her as Rachel walked into our office with her Supergirl mug. I waved to her as Ashley answered. “I, uh, checked out the history on that house,” I told her. “Is it safe to talk?”

            “Yeah, he’s still asleep. He drank a lot last night.” She sighed. “What did you find out?”

            “The house was, well—the site of a murder eight years ago.”

            She gasped. “Oh my God. What happened?”

            It got worse. “A man killed his wife, three children, and then hung himself.”

            “What—” For a moment she sounded like she was fighting the urge to vomit. “Jesus Christ. What would my husband be doing there?”

            “The man’s name was Arthur Jason Vantek. Does that ring any bells?”

            “Arthur—no. I’ve never heard of him before. I don’t understand. Why would Andy be out there?”

            I had no answer to that question. Yet. “I was thinking I could go out and take a look inside the house. I didn’t have a chance yesterday.”

            “Y-yeah. Okay.” She cleared her throat. “What do you think is out there?”

            “I have no idea. Maybe there’ll be something that makes sense, but maybe not. I won’t know until I look.”

“Okay. Do that. Let me know what you find out.” She hung up.

I swung around to Rachel. “You want to go check out an old house with multiple murders?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” I hadn’t put the call on speaker, but she’d heard my side of the conversation. “Road trip to a murder house? I’m in.” 

I grinned. “Give me a few minutes. Maybe pack a few snacks while I finish up some emails.”

“What am I, your snack girl? Just for that, no Chex Mix.” She headed to the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later we were in the Prius, driving back out to the hinterlands. Rachel looked up psych degrees on her phone—the big ones, like Northwestern and the University of Illinois, but also some mid-sized places. I listened as she searched. “Yeah, my friend Brenda went to this place, she lives in San Diego now. Ooh, this other place has karaoke nights . . .”

I listened, watching the road, offering supportive grunts every now and then. On the one hand, I was definitely worried about the money. We weren’t living in poverty, but freelance work like ours is precarious. You can’t always count on a steady stream of clients to pay the cable bill. 

But Rachel and I have been through a lot together, good times and tough stretches. Sex, arguments, bad TV shows, sex, vegetarian dinner disasters, and more sex. She yelled at me, punched me, told me I was being an idiot—which I frequently am—but she’d always had my back when I needed it. 

I hoped I wouldn’t need it today. But with my luck, I wouldn’t have bet on it.

“We’re getting close.” I slowed the Prius, watching the side of the road. I spotted the pickup. The dog I’d seen yesterday was sleeping next to its rear tires. 

Rachel put her phone away. “Okay, chief. What are we looking for once we get there?”

“I hope we’ll recognize it when we see it.” I saw the house up ahead, slowed, and turned onto what was left of the driveway. 

Weeds sprouted up through the gravel that crunched under my tires. Grass and more weeds grew knee-high around us. The house was the same—fallen chimney, empty windows, roof mostly bare of shingles, porch steps precarious. 

We got out. I pulled flashlights from the trunk. It echoed in the still, silent air when I slammed it down. 

Rachel took a flashlight and looked at the house. “Looks homey. A real fixer-upper.”

I took the lead. “Let’s check it out.”

“I love when you get all commanding and stuff.” She punched my arm and followed me up to the porch.

We managed to mount the steps without falling through any rotted wood. I pushed cautiously on the door, still dangling from its upper hinge, and bent my head to duck inside.

            I scanned the front room, darting my flashlight through dense shadows and dusty spiderwebs. The air smelled stale and moldy, even with the windows mostly clear of glass and a faint breeze drifting through. The floor creaked with my first few steps.

            A couch sat in front of a brick fireplace, its fabric ripped and covered with foul-looking stains. A small table lay on its side, one leg missing, the others gnawed and twisted. Some of the floorboards were broken, exposing darkness from the ground below. 

The couch rustled, and two rats scampered out and into the darkness. 

            “Yikes,” Rachel said behind me, but she wasn’t scared. “Pets included.”

            “Yeah.” I poked the flashlight through a doorway—the kitchen, once, now wrecked. A cracked sink with no faucet, a boarded up window, cabinets without doors, a few shards of broken plates and bowls strewn across the shelves that hadn’t been ripped out. A long-abandoned bird’s nest sat on the top of an ancient, doorless refrigerator next to a back door that had been boarded and nailed shut.

I turned back to Rachel. “Anything?”

She was standing in the middle of the front room, arms at her sides, eyes closed. She nodded slowly, cocking her head as if hearing something faint and far away. 

Then she opened her eyes and took a step back, her legs shaky. “It was bad. What happened here.”

“Are you okay?” 

Rachel shuddered, and looked over her shoulder at the door, as if she wanted to flee if the path was clear. But she took a deep breath and steadied her feet. “I’m fine.”

“You felt the murders?”

“It’s more than that.” She turned in a circle, staring into the darkness with her flashlight off. “It’s still here.”

“Still—here?”

“Whatever made him do it.”

I flicked my flashlight up at the ceiling, then down at the hardwood floor. “Where?”

She shrugged. “Everywhere.”

Great. I turned from the kitchen and pointed my flashlight down a hallway. “Let’s see.”

Rachel followed me through the hallway, past a large empty room that might have been home to a dining room for family dinners years ago. Now only piles of plaster from the ceiling dotted the floor, along with deposits of rat droppings and clumps of dried grass and leaves. A skeleton that looked like a squirrel lay next to one wall, half underneath a torn shred of faded wallpaper.

Just beyond the dining room a narrow staircase pointed up. I climbed slowly, testing each step before putting any weight on it. The railing had broken off long ago. Rachel stepped softly behind me, as if listening for ghosts inside the walls.

The second floor had three bedrooms. One of them held a mattress that had been slashed and scorched with fire. More rats skittered away when I flicked the light over it. The second bedroom was bare, the wall gouged and dented in a dozen places and spattered with spray paint and other fluids—possibly blood—that I didn’t want to examine closely.

The third bedroom was twice as large as the other two. A rusted metal bed frame leaned against one wall. Light from the cracked window created strange, awkward shadows across the walls. A frayed rope dangled from one of the rafters in the ceiling.

Someone had painted a circle in the center of the floor with white paint, faded and cracked now. Some of the floorboards had been yanked up and tossed away, but the circle remained, almost perfect in its shape. 

I took a step forward. Rachel grabbed my arm. “Don’t.”

I looked down at the floor. Maybe she was right. I stepped back. “Is it here? Whatever it is?”

“It’s a focal point, I think.” She backed away. “I don’t like it.”

I looked at her, then back at the circle again. What the hell—I stepped toward it.

“Don’t!” She grabbed both my arms and pulled me back.

“All right, all right!” I shook my arms free. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Right.” She turned to the door, shining her light back toward the staircase.

I started to follow her. Then I looked back. I really should check that out, I thought, and walked back into the bedroom.

“Tom!” Rachel wrapped her arms around me. I dropped my flashlight and lost my balance as she hauled me back, and we both hit the hard floor. “Damn it!” Rachel yelped.

I rolled over, away from her, my head swimming. Where the hell were we? Oh, yeah. The house. Andy Jeffords. The murders.

I turned my head. My flashlight lay on the floor, shining on the circle. I got to my knees—

“I swear I will hit you over the head!” Rachel raised her flashlight, ready to swing.

Something flared inside my brain. Pain, fear, like an oncoming migraine severe enough to kill me. But also the strong impulse to stand up, pace forward, and step inside the circle. 

Something wanted me in there. 

I let Rachel pull me to the stairs. We stumbled down, a little too fast for safety. On the ground floor I leaned against the wall, fighting the urge to throw up. The throbbing inside my skull was fading, though, and after a moment I straightened up. “Thanks.” 

“Jerk.” She punched my shoulder. “It was trying to get you.”

“Yeah.” I rubbed my temples. “I kept thinking I should back off, and then I kept thinking no, I should take a closer look, I should step inside the circle—” I looked at her. “Oh, God, did it do anything to you?”

“I could feel it, but I was further back.” She rubbed my arm. “You okay?”

“Fine.” I sighed. “I wonder what it wants with Jeffords.”

“I wonder how we’re going to explain this to his wife.”

I suddenly needed coffee. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

I stopped at the house with the pickup truck on the way back up the road. The dog jumped up and growled as I opened the door. Rachel stayed inside.

            After a moment a woman stepped through the doorway of the small house. In her sixties, tall and broad as a bear, she wore denim overalls and a white T-shirt, her feet bare. With a hard, flat face, she looked us over suspiciously as the dog ran to her, barking loud. “Hello? Down, Roscoe. Who are you?”

            I stayed near the car. “My name’s Tom Jurgen.”

“Mimi. Mimi Taylor. This’s Roscoe.” She nudged the dog with her bare foot.

“I was wondering about that old house down the road?”

            Her eyes narrowed skeptically. “You wanna buy it?”

            I shook my head. “Just curious. We went inside—that’s my girlfriend, Rachel, in the car—” Rachel waved. “Just got a strange vibe from the place.”

            She laughed. “Yeah. Guy killed his family down there. Some nights you can hear them screaming. Or maybe it’s just owls. Roscoe won’t go near the place, will you, boy?” She reached down to scratch him behind one ear. “It’s creepy.”

            “Ever see anyone else going inside?”

            She crossed her arms. “Week ago I saw a car parked in front. I was getting groceries.”

            “Black Lexus?”

            She squinted, thinking. “I don’t know cars. But this one was red. Small. Just off the road. I didn’t see anybody.”

            “What day?”

            The woman sighed, growing bored. “I think—no, it was Tuesday. I always do shopping on Tuesdays. My husband works part-time in town, so I go over on his day off. Tuesday.” She looked down at Roscoe. “He’s at work right now. Roscoe keeps me company.”

            It sounded like a veiled threat, although Roscoe didn’t look very menacing. Still, I’d learned more than I expected. “Thanks.” I gave her my card, with a $20 bill folded around it. “For groceries. Can you give me a call if you see the car again?”

Surprised, she stuffed the bill in a back pocket. “I suppose. Don’t know if I ever will.”

“That’s fine. Have a good day.”

She nodded. “Drive safe.”

            On the road again I asked Rachel, “Did you get that?”

            “Red car, yeah. Kind of interesting.” She was on her phone again, checking out colleges. “Cute dog.”

            “I want to make a stop at the local police station. Do you need to get back?”

            “Huh?” She looked up. “Oh. Whatever. Do you think I should go to in-person classes or do everything on Zoom?

‘           “At least some in-person. You need personal contact.”

            “Yeah. I’ve been remote so long I forget what interacting with other people is like. Just you.”

            “And I’m not exactly normal.”

            “You got that right.” But she patted my knee. “Sexy, though.”

            I grinned. 

            At the police station in Wheaton I talked to a desk clerk, and after waiting 15 minutes a uniformed detective carrying a laptop came out and motioned me into a conference room. Rachel put her phone away while I introduced us.

            Detective Kiley was young, heavy shouldered like a linebacker, and wore wire-rimmed glasses over piercing blue eyes. “What can do for you, Mr., uh, Jurgen, is it?”

            “Tom Jurgen. And my associate, Rachel Dunn.” I dropped my card on the desk. “We’re curious about a family murder-suicide on Scout Road eight years ago.”

            “Vantek.” Kiley opened his laptop and started tapping keys. “I remember the case.Let me draw it up here . . . Why are you interested in it?”

            I try to tell cops the truth—if not always the full truth. “My client asked me to tail her husband. Yesterday he drove out to the house, looked around, and left. I’m trying to figure out what he was looking for.”

            “Huh.” He glanced at Rachel. She smiled at him. He quickly went back to his laptop. “Not sure how I can help you. The father, Arthur Vantek, shot his children and stabbed his wife to death, then hung himself in his bedroom. I didn’t see the crime scene myself, but the photos are—well, I can’t show them to you anyway, but you probably don’t want to see them. Right?” The question was for Rachel.

            She cocked her head. “You might be surprised.”

            “That’s okay,” I said. Sometimes Rachel can pick up things from photos, but I didn’t want to see them unless I had to. “There was a white circle in the floor of the bedroom. Any idea who drew it?”

            Kiley blinked at me. “You went inside?”

            “There wasn’t any crime scene tape. After 10 years.”

            He blinked. After a look at his screen he said, “Yeah, I can see it. Let me—” He scrolled around. “There was no note. No sign of any struggle. The knife was on the floor next to his wife, the handgun was in the daughter’s room. Looks like he did the two boys first, then her, then his wife. Nailed the rope into the rafters and jumped off the bed.” He looked up to check on Rachel, but she was perfectly calm. Thanks to me, she’s heard and seen worse. Lots worse.

            “That’s pretty much all I can tell you.” He looked at me. “Anything else?”

            “Is there anything in the house that someone would be looking for?” Jeffords, and whoever owned the red car.

            Kiley blinked again. “Like what? Buried drug cash?”

            “Maybe.”

            He checked his screen again. “Vantek had a couple arrests. Drunk and disorderly. Public urination. Marijuana possession, twice. Nothing that suggests he’d have a stash of money hidden away.”

            “Maybe something else.” I remembered the pull of the white circle, and Rachel yanking me back.

            “Like what?”

            “I don’t know.” I looked at Rachel. “Anything else?”

            “What about his wife?” She leaned forward. “What was her name? The kids?”

            “Oh.” Like me, he’d focused on the man. “The wife—Evey Vantek. Kids, Simon and Bobby, 12 and 10, daughter Teresa, eight.”

            “What’s her maiden name?” I asked.

            “Let me run a check—Okay, Coulter. Evelyn Coulter. Born in Gary, Indiana. A couple of shoplifting arrests, before getting married. One public drunkenness citation after that. Nothing else.”

            I made some notes—I still carry a notebook with me instead of relying on my phone—and stood up. “Thanks for your time.”

            He held the door for us. “Good luck with—whatever you’re looking for.”

            “Thanks.” We headed out to the car.

House, Part Three

Back home we ate sandwiches at our desks while we caught up on work. I wrote up a report and sent it to my client. Rachel worked on a website redesign for her client. She was in a good mood, despite our encounter with whatever force had tried to possess me at the house. Maybe having a plan for the future was what she needed. Maybe I could use one, too.

            I started looking up Evey Coulter. Which reminded me—”By the way, thanks for asking about the wife. I would have forgotten it.”

            She snorted without looking at me. “Men.”

            My phone buzzed a few minutes later. Ashley Jeffords. “Thanks. Uh, what was the part about the white circle trying to pull you in?” 

Yeah, I’d described that, For better or worse, I make a point of including everything in my reports, however crazy it sounds.

            “I know it sounds odd. It was just a feeling. I do tend to run into, well, unusual phenomena sometimes.”

            She sounded like she was starting to regret picking my name up off the internet.“Unusual like—what?”

            I hesitated. “Well, ghosts. Demonic possession. I saw Bigfoot once.” I didn’t want to mention the giant killer chickens.

            “Oh.” I could almost hear her thinking she’d picked the wrong P.I.

            “Do you want me to keep checking into it?” She had every right to let me go, now that she knew her husband wasn’t having an affair. And that I might be crazy.

            She hesitated. “Yeah, I think so. Even if he’s not banging some other woman, I want to know what’s going on.”

            I nodded. “Very good. I’ll be in touch.”

            “How’s the client?” Rachel asked from her side of the office.

            I turned back to my computer. “Still wants me on the case. She’s a little confused about my sanity, though.”

            She smirked. “Join the club.”

            I started on a quest to find out more about Vantek and his wife. Maybe they had some connection to Andy Jeffords? 

            I started with Vantek. Like Kiley had told me, he’d been arrested several times, pled guilty to a few counts to get probation or short sentences, and gotten some cases dismissed on others. He’d been delinquent on his property taxes twice. His parents were dead, but I found a sister living in Elgin. I decided not to call her. Yet. 

            He’d grown up near Wheaton, gotten a community college degree, worked as a trucker for a few years, then married Evey Coulter and settled down and taken a job at a small local manufacturing plant in Glen Ellyn. The plant had closed down some 10 years ago—two years before the murders—and it looked as if he didn’t work after that. 

            I got most of that from newspaper articles after the murders. The rest came from different sites I use for employee background checks. There wasn’t as much to find about Evey Vantek, nee Coulter. Full name, Evelina. Born in Gary, like Kiley had said. Went to nursing school and worked at a local hospital, but quit shortly after getting married and moving to Illinois with her husband. She’d worked part-time in and around Wheaton up until her second child was born. Nine years later, she’d been murdered.

            Local and even some national news outlets covered the murders, but without a long trial or a live villain to crucify, the shock faded and the story disappeared in a week, replaced by a new tragedy. Circle of life. And death.

            Her mother was still alive, still in Gary. Again, I had no desire to call.

            I searched for anything that might be related, hoping for more to work with, some clue about what kind of demon or supernatural force might have triggered the killings. First locally, then farther across the country. The problem was there were too many similar tragedies—parents killing spouses, children, neighbors, and strangers for no reason. Maybe some were demonic, but more likely most of them they were all the work of non-possessed people who, for some reason or another, just snapped. Drugs, mental health problems—yeah, most people don’t become mass murderers no matter what problems they struggle with. But evil just seems to consume people, wherever it comes from.

            Depressed, I went on to other work. I was out of leads to run down for now, and I wasn’t sure this was even worth my time or Ashley Jeffords’ money. I spent the afternoon on background checks and phone calls for different cases.

            It was my turn to make dinner. After homemade cheese ravioli with grilled vegetables—What? I can cook—we lounged in the living room. Rachel wanted to watch Stranger Things, but it reminded me too much of my life, so I dived into a biography of Napoleon I’d found on the laundry room bookshelf.

            The Stranger Things kids were doing some kind of experiment when my phone buzzed. Rachel jabbed me with her elbow. “Shush!” I dropped my book and checked my phone.

            Unknown number. Probably a telemarketing scam. But I’m a detective. I like to live dangerously. I went into the office and shut the door. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Tom Jurgen. This—this’s Mimi. Mimi Turner. You were out at my house today?”

            “Yes, Ms. Turner. What’s going on?” She sounded drunk. 

            “I shaw—saw that red car again. At the house.”

            I sat down. “When?”

            “‘Bout 20 minutes ago. I was comin’ back from town.” Not driving, I hoped. “I got the license plate. I got a picture.”

            Sober enough for that, at least. “So how do we do this? PayPal? Venmo? I don’t do crypto.”

            We agreed on $50. I made the payment, and three minutes later I had the photo. The plate number was clear. “Thank you.”

            “Stop by anytime. Yeah, here, Roscoe, good boy!” She hung up, possibly without realizing it. 

            Now what? It would take more than an hour to get out to the house. If the car was gone, I’d be wasting my Friday night. If the car was there—what would I do? I didn’t want to go back inside that house. Not alone. Not at night. 

            So I sighed, turned to my computer, and went to work.

License plate numbers aren’t public information, but I have some resources that most people don’t have—not entirely legal, but safe enough for my purposes. In a few minutes I had a name and address: Edwin Tanner, Merrillville, Indiana. The car was a Chevy Malibu, three years old. Merrillville is a little south of Gary, where Evey Coulter Vantek had grown up. 

I couldn’t find an obvious connection between them, so I sent an email to Ashley Jeffords and then headed to the kitchen for a beer. I sat back down next to Rachel reading until her episode ended.

“Wow,” she said, staring at the credits. Then she paused the TV and looked at me. “So what was that?”

I told her about the car. “Did you find any connection?” she asked.

“I didn’t look that hard. I will tomorrow. It’s Friday. You watching another episode?” I picked up my book.

“Just one. GIve me a minute.” She stood up and went into the bedroom. 

I read for five minutes until she returned, in a red silk bathrobe and a short, sheer black nightgown that showed off her legs nicely.

I looked her over as she sat down next to me and shoved my book away. “Just one.” She kissed me.

I chuckled and put an arm around her. “Whatever you say.”

 

The next morning we, uh, slept late. After breakfast we went grocery shopping. I was fixing crackers and cheese for a snack when my phone buzzed. Ashley Jeffords.

            “He’s playing golf,” she told me. “I mean, really playing golf, I checked.” She laughed. “Anyway, That name doesn’t ring any bells—Edwin Tanner? But the car—I looked it up online, the model, in red. I’m sure I’ve seen one around the neighborhood. Maybe it’s a different car, I know. That’s all I can think of.”

            I looked over at Rachel, putting vegetables in the fridge, wearing her shorts, and stifled a groan at what I was about to suggest. “I could come out and drive around looking for it.”

            After a second she sighed, to my relief. “I don’t think it’s worth it. I mean, I could do that too. I’m not really sure what to do, except maybe burn that house down. I don’t mean that. I’m just worried about Andy. It was one thing when I thought he was cheating. Now . . . I don’t know what to think.” She took a deep breath. “You said something about—demonic possession?”

            “Just that I’ve run into that. Among other things. I don’t know if that’s what’s going on, but it does seem as if some, uh, supernatural force is living in that house.”

            “Yeah.” She sighed again. “Okay. Maybe you can do a little more research?”

            “Sure. After lunch.”

            We ate cheese and crackers in front of the TV, watching the baseball game—the Cubs were losing—and then Rachel went to a yoga class, leaving me to work. 

            I spent a long time asking myself questions. Why was Amdy Jeffords being pulled to the house? Did he have any connection to Arthur Vantek or Evey? What made him start visiting it? Who was driving the red car—someone else the house wanted for a victim? What did the house want?

            The house was at the center. I decided to dig into its past.

            Built in 1986 for a family named Evans—Raymond Evans, his wife Roxane, and their daughter. They lived there for 16 years, then sold it to another family who only stayed for two years. After that no one had lived there for more than a couple of years at a time until Vantek moved in. Vacant since the murders, the land and the house it was on were currently held by a local bank. The property was listed on a few real estate sites, but the posts had been up for years, so apparently it wasn’t getting a lot of viewings.

            The bank was closed for the day, but real estate people work weekends, so I called the office that had handled the sale to Vantek. After a few minutes of explaining what I wanted, and a few more minutes on hold, I got connected to a woman named Claire. “Claire Baskin, how can I help you find the house of your dreams?”

            I smiled. “I’m not actually in the market for a house, sorry. I’m interested in the property on Scout Road that you sold to Arthur Vantek.”

            Silence. I thought she’d hung up until she asked, her voice tense, “Are you a reporter?”

            Not anymore. “I’m a private detective. There’s been some unusual activity around the house recently. I’m just wondering if the previous owners ever mentioned anything like that.”

            “What kind of unusual activity?”

            Here we go. “I’ve been in the house. There’s a strange, uh, energy in the place. Especially in the room where Arthur Vantek killed himself.” I wondered if she’d hang up.

            Silence. Then: “I only went inside once. The place was empty. I’m never going back.”

            “What happened?”

            “The family—it was a mother and father and two daughters—started hearing voices. In their sleep. Nightmares. They never told me what they were.” She paused for breath. “They moved out and called me afterward. I went to take a look at it. It was empty, but . . .” Another long pause. “Yeah. There was something in there. I listed it, but I never pushed it. Then Arthur Vantek wanted it, and I was so happy to get rid of it I never—I shouldn’t have—I sold it to him. And then I tried to forget about it.”

            She seemed out of breath, her voice shaking. I waited until she sounded calm again, then asked, “What about the previous owners? The house moved around a lot before them.”

            “I don’t know. I wasn’t selling before then. There’s someone—wait, I don’t know how much I should be telling you about this. I don’t know you at all.”

            “I’m not trying to make any trouble.” I used my most reassuring, calm tone. “I don’t really know what’s going on, but the house seems dangerous somehow. I’m just trying to figure out what makes it so strange.”

            Another long silence. I could hear her drinking something. Then she said, “Try the Historical Center. Ask for Harvey Gaines. I think he’s working today. It’s open till six.” Then Claire hung up.

            Puzzled, but hopeful, I went for a Coke and then came back to the office and looked up the Wheaton Historical Center. It was indeed open until 6 p.m. on Saturday. I called the number and asked for Harvey Gaines.

            After 10 seconds on hold, a raspy voice picked up. “Harvey Gaines.”

            I introduced myself, and dropped Claire’s name. He grunted. “What can I do for you? I work with town records, newspaper preservation, and stuff like that. What are you looking for?”

            “It’s about the house on Scout Road,” I said, and let it hang there.

            Gaines knew what I meant right away. “Yeah. It’s got a bad history.”

            “Why is it still there? You’d think the bank would have torn it down years ago.”

            “There’s a family member on the bank board. He won’t let them. At least that’s what I hear.”

            “Who’s the member?”

            “Elias Tanner. His father was one of the founders there at the bank.”

            Tanner. “Is there an Edwin Tanner? I’ve, uh, run across that name lately.” The owner of the red car.

“Elias’s son. Lives in Chicago.”

“And his family built the house? I thought the family was named Evans.”

            “That’s right. You’ve done some homework, huh? That was Franklin Tanner—Elias’s father—his son in law, Ray Evans, married to his daughter Roxanne. They lived there for a long time, had kids. He was an architect here in town and she taught school, substitute.”

            “What happened to them?”

            “That’s the thing. Nobody knows. They just disappeared one day. Elias hired people to find them, but they never showed up. The house just sat empty, getting run down for years, until the bank leaned on Elias to do something. So he moved everything out and put it on the market.”

            “So what happened to them?” There had to be a reason Claire had sent me to this guy—something she didn’t want to talk about. 

            Gaines hesitated a long time. Just like Claire had. Finally he said, “There were stories, rumors. Parties. Some people said sex parties, orgies. You know, driving by on the road, they saw lights, fires, heard loud music. Other people heard, well, screams. Not sex screams. Screams like—people. Maybe animals.”

            “They never found anything? After the family disappeared?”

            “Not that I heard. But it could have been all covered up. Elias had a lot of influence in those days.”

            “So what do you think it was?”

            “I have no idea. I put it down to Satanic panic. You know? All those stories about covens and witches and child sacrifice and all that, It turned out to be a lot of nothing. Could be they just got sick of the town and moved away without telling anybody. Stuff like that happens.”

            “Yeah.” I just didn’t think it was in this case.

House, Part Four

Rachel came home from yoga, we had a beer together, and started dinner. I told her what I’d learned. “So what are you thinking?” she asked, chopping veggies.

            “Maybe there was something Satanic going on. Maybe they built it on an Indian burial ground. Or maybe a toxic waste dump that drove them crazy. And whatever it is, is still there, pulling people in.”

            “Why Jeffords? Why now?”

            I shook my head. “Good questions.”

            We ate dinner. Rachel had a list of schools to apply to. She’d already started looking into loans and scholarships. “Do you think I’d qualify as a minority because I’m a psychic?”

            “Do what everyone does—say you’re one-sixteenth Cherokee.”

            She kicked me under the table. “I could tell them I’m bi.”

            “I love it when you talk dirty.” She kicked me again.

            After dinner we sat down to watch Stranger Things again. I wasn’t exactly hooked, but Rachel liked it. And the kids were cute.

            I was starting to glance more often at my book, though, hoping Rachel wouldn’t notice, when my phone buzzed. Ashley Jeffords. On a Saturday night. I sighed. This couldn’t be good.

“Client,” I said, starting to stand.

            Rachel paused the show and pulled me back down on the sofa. I answered, “Tom Jurgen speaking. Ms. Jeffords?”

            “Tom?” Her voice quivered. “He’s gone. He came back from golf, we had dinner, he went into his office—and now he’s gone. The car’s gone.”

            Damn it. “He’s at the house. He must be.” I looked at the clock over our TV. “It’ll take me an hour or so to get there. I’ll leave right away.”

            “I’ll come too. I can get there faster.”

            I wanted to argue, but she had a right to know if her husband was safe. “Don’t go in the house. Not until I get there.”

            “Right. All right.” She didn’t sound as if she meant it. Not my problem right now, though. 

Damn it. I stood up. “I have to go out to the house.”

            Rachel turned the TV off and stood up too. “I’m coming.”

            I’d learned not to argue. “Fine.”

            “Let me get some supplies.” She headed for our bedroom. 

            Supplies? Whatever. I picked up my half-empty beer, then set it down. It was going to be a long drive.

 

 

“Drive faster,” Rachel said as we zoomed west on the highway. 

“Got a bad feeling?” I checked my mirrors.

“No, I just want to get home for SNL.” But she looked nervous in the darkness next to me.

I drove as fast as I could. Fortunately the Friday night rush hour traffic had dwindled away, but there were enough cars and cops to make me cautious. There was no point in getting killed on the way to visit a haunted house. 

Scout Road felt like a tunnel into midnight. Streetlights every few miles only made the shadows darker and thicker all around the car. The headlights felt like they were fighting to cut through the darkness. 

Ashley Jeffords was waiting for us. She stood next to her husband’s black car, with her own dark blue Lexus parked right next to it. Maybe they’d gotten a deal. Her headlights were on, pointing at the house. 

I’d only ever talked to her on the phone. In person she was tall, with slender arms in a windbreaker, silvery-blond hair under a cap, and a tight, worried frown on her face. She clutched her arms tensely over her chest as Rachel and I got out. “It’s his car. I looked inside—stuck my head in. I didn’t see anything.”

I closed my door while Rachel reached into the back seat. Staring at the house, I tried to keep my heartbeat steady. 

The house seemed to shiver in the darkness as a cold breeze whispered through the thick weeds and tall dirty grass. No hint of light glowed through the broken door or empty windows. 

“What do we do?” Ashley asked. She glanced at the house, then looked back at me. “I mean—we can’t just stand here all night.”

“No.” I took a deep breath, hoping I looked braver than I felt. “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”

“We, you mean.” Rachel slung a backpack over one shoulder. “Come on, kemo sabe.”

I wished I could convince her to stay outside. But I was more afraid of that argument than whatever was waiting inside the house. I stepped forward, trying to keep my legs from shaking, and stumbled up the rotting wooden steps to the front door.

Rachel stood behind me as I turned my flashlight on. “It’s Saturday  night. You take me on the crappiest dates.”

“And yet you’re still with me.” I scanned the beam across the front room. 

“Maybe a psych degree will solve that.” She turned on her own flashlight.

Nothing new or different from the last time. The couch and table, the bare windows. The kitchen beyond. 

“Any vibes?” I asked.

Rachel closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Just like before. Stronger now. And—” Her body jerked. I grabbed her shoulder.

Her eyes opened. “Upstairs.”

I swallowed, wishing I was home watching Stranger Things instead of living it in real life, and headed toward the hall. 

I aimed my flashlight up but saw nothing at the top of the stairway. I climbed slowly to the top step, took a breath, and turned my beam toward the main bedroom.

 The door was half open. Faint light glowed inside. I could see the form of a man standing in the center of the room.

A candle flickered on the floor, just outside the circle. Inside stood Andy Jeffords, his back to the door, arms at his sides, oblivious to us or anything beyond the circle.

Movement behind us. I turned, startled, but it was Ashley Jeffords, her face sweaty with anxiety. She hadn’t been able to stay behind. I suppose I couldn’t blame her.

“Andy?” She waved an arm. “Andy!”

Jeffords didn’t respond. His body was twitching, jerking, fingers shaking, legs trembling. How long had he been here like this?

She tried to push her way between us into the bedroom, but Rachel clamped a hand over her shoulder. “Wait,” she whispered. “Let us do it.”

“It’s—weird in there,” I said, remembering the strange impulse pulling me toward the circle before. “We’ve got a plan.”

Ashley looked at her husband, then at me. Then she nodded, fighting to stay calm. I knew the feeling.

Rachel dropped her backpack on the floor, unzipped it, and pulled out a coil of rope. Ashley watched, her eyes darting between us and Jeffords, as Rachel tied the rope over one of my shoulders, knotting it under my opposite arm. The knot was strong and tight. I hoped it wouldn’t cut off my circulation or crack a rib.

Then she handed me a pair of handcuffs. Ashley’s eyes got wide. “What are you going to do?”

“In case he doesn’t want to come out on his own,” Rachel said. “Don’t worry, we know how to use them.”

I frowned. Not the time to discuss our personal life. But this wasn’t the time to worry about it either. 

“Go, boy. Fetch” Rachel patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Who, me?” I bit my lower lip, then turned and took a step through the door.

Jeffords didn’t seem to notice me, or anything. The frayed rope still hung from the rafter next to his head, but at least he hadn’t tried to reach for it—or tie a new noose next to it. Holding my breath, I took another step toward the circle on the floor.

There was nothing to worry about, I realized. I just wanted to see what it was like inside. Why wouldn’t Rachel let me see last time? Jeffords was fine. All I had to do was take one more step—

The candle flickered next to my foot. Then everything went black around me. 

It lasted just for an instant. Now, suddenly, I was surrounded by flames, swirling in fury, fire darting out for my skin, roaring in my ears.

The heat burned, growing harsher every second. I couldn’t back away—my feet felt welded to the floor. Laughter whispered in my ears, inside my brain. Sweat rolled down my skin, inside my shirt, down into my boxers. I couldn’t move—

Except I could move. Forward, not back. Forward. I saw Jeffords. He still faced away from me, unaware of my presence. I wanted to join him. He needed me. 

I stepped toward him, my feet heavy as bricks. The flames stung me but didn’t burn my skin. The heat made me feel like I was melting inside. But I took another step. I wanted to be here. I needed to keep going.

I reached out for Jeffords’ shoulder. He turned his head to me, his eyes blank. I remembered that I’d never met him, never looked into his face, never spoken to him. Just followed him after looking at a few pictures. I wondered what he was like, what TV shows he watched, what he did for fun, if he loved his wife . . .

Something tugged at my mind. Jeffords. Andy Jeffords. The circle. Ashley. His wife. My job. Rachel. Rachel—

A flash in my mind cleared my head for just an instant, and I remembered what I was doing here, and what I was supposed to do. I reached out for Jeffords, caught his arm, and dug into my back pocket. What now? I just wanted to stay here. Let the fire consume me. Join with it. Take it inside me. It didn’t hurt. It wanted me. It wanted everyone—

My hands fumbled and shook, but I managed to clip one cuff around Jeffords’ wrist. He didn’t seem to feel it. His face was still empty, as if he wasn’t even aware of me. Maybe it was better that way. We were alone, all alone, just us and the whispering laughter and the flames crackling around our bodies. We could stay here forever. For always.

I clamped the other cuff on my own wrist. Why? Oh, yeah . . .

Something pulled at me. Around my chest. I looked down and saw the rope. Rachel. Why was she trying to get me out of here? I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay. Damn it.

I staggered back and fell, flat on my butt, Jeffords tumbling down next to me, the handcuff digging into my wrist. A fleeting memory surged in my brain, and I grabbed for his arms, holding him tight as the rope dragged us across the floor.

Jeffords tried to fight, but he could only squirm weakly in my arms. I wanted to kick my heels into the floor to stay planted where I was, but the force pulling us was too strong. No, damn it, no! No!

Then the flames were gone.

I blinked and looked up. Rachel was kneeling beside me, her eyes tight, one hand on my shoulder. “Tom? Hello? Anyone home? Tom!”

“Hi.” I tried lifting my head, but a shooting zap of pain in my shoulder changed my mind. “J-Jeffords?”

“He’s right here.” She placed a hand on the top of my head. “How do you feel?”

“You checking me for fever? My shoulder hurts. You pulled too hard.”

“Making sure you’re not possessed.” She kissed my cheek. “It’s all you in there.”

“For better or worse.” I turned my head to see Jeffords lying next to me, his wife cradling his head. “Let’s get out of here. Can he walk?”

“You sure you can?” Rachel helped me up. They’d closed the bedroom door. But I could still feel the force beyond. The whispers lingered in my ears. 

I was wobbly, but very motivated to get away from that door and out of the house. Rachel and Ashley got Jeffords to his feet and helped him down the steps. Outside, Rachel pushed me into the car and jumped behind the wheel.

Ashley leaned against the driver’s door. “Why don’t you come back to our place? We’ve got a guest room. You can spend the night. Or at least until you feel okay.”

“Sounds good.” Rachel started the car. 

I looked at the house as she turned around. With our headlights on it glowed like the embers of a campfire, crumbling but defiant. I bit my lip and refused to reach for my seatbelt to unbuckle myself and leap from the car and race back inside. I closed my eyes and leaned back, breathing hard. 

“You okay?” Rachel’s voice was quiet. Soothing.

“Just get me out of here,” I muttered.

 

Jeffords made it into the house with his wife’s help, but he was only half conscious when she sat him down in the kitchen. Their house had three stories and a kitchen with an island as big as my bed. She brought water for her husband, beer for me and Rachel, and poured herself a glass of wine, then made sandwiches. 

            Jeffords drank the water but didn’t eat. He blinked at me, looked Rachel over, and asked, “Who’s this, Lee?”

            “Tom Jurgen,” I said. “My friend Rachel. How are you feeling?”

            “Why does everyone keep asking me that? I’m fine. Just tired.”

            Ashley rubbed his arm. “Want to go to bed?”

            He nodded. “Yeah. They staying?”

            “They saved your life. Or something.” She helped him stand.

            He stared at me. “Really?”

            “Mostly Rachel.” I patted her arm.

            “And Ashley.” She poked my shoulder, making me wince. “You guys aren’t exactly featherweights.” 

            After getting Jeffords upstairs, Ashley showed us to a bedroom in the basement. “Our kids are all grown, but they visit sometimes. Not enough, but you know about kids.” She pointed to a door. “Bathroom’s there. The sheets and towels are fresh. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.” Then she leaned against the doorway. “And thank you.”

            I smiled. “Thanks for the room.”

            “She was talking to me, I think,” Rachel said. 

            Ashley laughed. “Both of you. Sleep well.”

The sky the next morning was cloudy and gray, threatening rain. Ashley made coffee and toasted some bagels. She looked tired, but relieved. “He slept all night. He’s better now. Taking a shower and—oh hi, Andy!”

            Andy Jeffords walked slowly in sweatpants and a T-shirt, but his eyes were alert and he wasn’t wobbling anymore. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sank down onto a stool to look Rachel and me over, as if trying to remember who we were.

            “You were following me?” he asked me.

            I nodded. “The good news is you weren’t having an affair. The bad news is . . .” I paused. “How much do you remember?”

            Jeffords sipped his coffee. I’d only ever seen him from surveillance distance. This was my first good look at him. Up close, he was a heavyset man with gray hair thinning on the top and curly down the sides of his head. His blue eyes were tired. 

            “Last night?” He rubbed his eyes. “Just—standing there. Voices. Light and fire. I kept thinking—I had to stay there. Forever. I didn’t know why. Something just, uh, wanted me, I guess.”

            He shook his head, clearing it. “Then I was here. Last night, this morning. I don’t know.”

            “What about before?” Ashley asked.  “Before last night.”

            Jeffords looked at her. His eyes lost focus, and for a moment I was afraid that whatever had gotten inside our heads last night was reaching into him again. Then he blinked. “My grandfather died.”

            I looked at Ashley. “Raymond?” she asked Jeffords.

            He nodded. “Just a week or so ago, I think. I got the email. I hadn’t seen him for a long time. He was in assisted living, with dementia. They had to keep him sedated most of the time.” He crossed his arms, head down. “He built that house.”

            Wait a minute—I was getting it now. “Raymond Evans?” 

            “Yeah.” He drank some coffee. “He was always strange. I didn’t see him much, my mom kept me away from him. She said he read weird books, and he was always trying out some kind of experiments that made her scared. A lot of the animals around the place disappeared, she said. Anyway, he disappeared for a long time, popped up somewhere in Wisconsin living in a tent, and eventually they got out into a facility up there.”

            He looked down at his coffee. “I tried not to think about him. Especially after those murders out there, I tried to forget everything about him. Then that email came, and—I started thinking about him again. And the house. I—I wanted to see it. Just once. But I guess I went more than once. I don’t—I don’t really remember.”

            His head drooped and he closed his eyes. His wife moved behind him, rubbing his shoulders silently.

            Jeffords stood up. “I’m going back to bed. I don’t feel great.”

            Ashley followed him upstairs. Rachel and I ate silently, thinking by ourselves. Maybe she was thinking about school. I was trying to work out the connections in my head.

She returned just a few minutes later, confused. “What’s going on?”

Rachel and I looked at each other. I answered, ”As far as I can figure, Andy’s grandfather was the first one to live in the house, with his family. They disappeared, and no one could find them. After that, there were rumors about one of the owners holding wild late night parties that could have been a black mass. Then there were the Vantek murders.”

I took a sip of coffee. “I think Raymond somehow summoned a demon. Or maybe it was already planted there, and it found him. It stayed there after the family left, causing problems for anyone who lived there. Eventually it made Arthur Vantek kill his family. Raymond Evans must have had some connection to it, even after all this time. It drew your husband to the house after Evans died. What it wanted, with your husband and then with me, I don’t know. Maybe—victims. People to kill. Like Vantek. In the meantime, it just wanted to suck people in.” 

I shuddered. “It tried to drag me in too—gave me visions of, well, hell. Literally, hell. I don’t know what would have happened if we’d stayed there.”

Rachel put a hand on my arm. “Glad you’re out.”

“But what now?” Ashley Jeffords looked frantic. “Will he keep going back? Am I going to have to tie him up every night?”

Before I could answer, my phone buzzed. Mimi Turner. Had she seen us last night? “Just a moment—Tom Jurgen speaking.”

“Tom Jurgen? Mimi Turner, out on Scout Road? Just wanted to let you know that there’s smoke up the road, and lots of fire trucks. I think that house is burning down.”

 

The flames were real this time. Dirty gray smoke rose from a gash on the top of the house where the roof had fallen in, and fire danced inside where one wall had crumbled to the earth. The air smelled like burning trash.

            Three trucks were pulled up in front of the house, shooting chemicals across the walls and over the lawn. Firefighters in plastic coats and oxygen masks circled the structure, spraying fire extinguishers at the walls and the foundation, trying to keep the blaze contained. The house was doomed, and they weren’t trying to save it.

            We sat by the side of the road, near the path up to the house, blocked by one of the fire trucks. After a few minutes a firefighter walked over to the car and motioned for me to lower my window.

            “Your property?” He had a hardworn face and stained teeth. He peered into the car, checking out Rachel and glancing into the back seat.

“No, sir,” I said. “Just passing by, saw the fire. Everything okay?”

“Well, keep on going. Everything’s fine.” He stepped back and waved us forward.

I didn’t want him wondering if we’d set the fire. And there was nothing here for us to do anyway. I started the car and headed on.

A half mile down I saw the red car.

It sat on the other side of the road, watching the flames. I hit the brake, veered over, and stopped behind it. “Is that him?” Rachel asked. “What’s-his-name, Edwin something?”

“Let’s find out.” I opened my door.

I tried not to look threatening walking toward the car—slow steps, hands open. The door swung open as I approached, and a man stepped out. He was short, a little pudgy, balding, in jeans and a windbreaker. His face was cautious. “Hello?”

“Edwin Tanner?” I stopped six feet away, Rachel behind me.

He looked us over. “Yeah.”

“Your father built that house down the road.”

Tanner sighed. “That’s right.”

“Did you set the fire?”

He tensed. “What if I did?”

I looked past him at the smoke rising in the cloudy sky. “Then I’d say you did a good thing.”

 

 

“There was always something wrong with Raymond.” Tanner was sitting with us in a coffee shop in the small town west of where the house was burning. “I was just a kid, but I could see it. My dad—he didn’t want Roxy to marry him, but I guess he thought if he gave them a house, someplace to live, not far away but not too close, he could control him.”

            “Wrong how?” Rachel asked, drinking tea for a change.

            “His eyes.” Tanner pointed to his face. “They were—they weren’t quite there. Like he was never looking straight at you, you know? And then Roxy hinted at some things—funny people visiting, weird noises after she went to bed, Ray trying to get her to do things she didn’t like. She finally took the kids and left. Left him alone in that house.”

            “But you knew something was going on there,” I said. “How?”

            “I visited a few times when it was empty.” Tanner looked out the window of the shop as rain started to fall outside. “I could feel—something. I was scared, but I figured it was okay as long as no one was there. Then it sold, and it got sold again, but nobody stayed there long. And then there was Arthur Vantek.” He shuddered. 

            “Did you get an email that Raymond died?” I asked.

            “Yeah. A week or so ago. I hoped it was over. But I went out to take another look, and I could tell it was still there. I was too afraid to go inside. I saw that guy there, and I tried to warn him, but he looked like he didn’t even hear me.”

            Andy Jeffords. “Were you there last night?”

            Tanner hesitated. “Yeah. Was that you? I saw a couple of cars leave. I was too scared to go inside on my own. At night.” He swallowed. “So I went home, and early this morning I took one of the tanks for my propane grill and peeled off all the stickers as best as I could, and opened it up and dumped some gasoline around it, and—threw a book of matches inside. Lighted up. Then I ran, and—whoom.” He chuckled quietly. “It was pretty awesome.”

            “I hope you didn’t sit there waiting for the fire trucks to show up,” Rachel said. “They’re probably checking our license plates out right now. You know, firebugs like to watch their work, or that’s what they say.”

            “Nah, I went home.” He shrugged. “I just drove by a few minutes ago to make sure it was burning good. I was about to leave when you showed up.”

            I figured they’d probably be able to trace the propane tank back to Tanner, but I didn’t say that. I just sipped some coffee.

            “You think that killed it?” He looked out the window again. “Whatever it was?”

            Evil never really dies. I’d learned that long ago. But again, I didn’t want to say that to Tanner either. No sense spooking him more than he was already. “I hope so,” I said, looking out at the rain.

            I paid and we left. In the car I called Ashley Jeffords. Andy was still sleeping, but she told me she’d let him know about the house. “I hope this is the end of it.”

            “Me too.” I hung up and looked at Rachel. “Is it? The end?”

            She shrugged. “Who knows? I’m still hoping for another season of Stranger Things.”

            I laughed. “Here’s hoping.” I started the car to head for home.

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