October 31, 1929

Hannah Powell wrapped her shawl more tightly about her, rubbing her shoulders as she stared into the blackness beyond the windowpane.  A sudden bolt of lightning startled her, lighting up the trees outside and making the raindrops on the window glitter like sun on broken glass.  There was no sign of the figure she both hoped and dreaded to see.

“Mommy, where’s Daddy?” inquired the voice of Hannah’s six year old son, James.  She turned to him, abandoning the window.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” she replied.  “I’m sure he will be home soon.”  She looked at her eldest daughter, Rebecca, who returned her gaze worriedly.  At fifteen, Rebecca was old enough to share her mother’s conflicting emotions about her father’s return, old enough to see the ways in which her father had changed.

Robert Powell had always been a gentle, quiet man, with never a harsh word for anyone.  He’d fought hard to earn the money to get his family the beautiful house and land that they lived on now, but he had never once harmed others in any way to do so.

But now . . . now, Hannah barely recognized the man she’d married.  He was sullen half of the time, angry and meanspirited the other half.  The change had been slow, and, looking back, Hannah could not identify when exactly it started happening.  Two months?  Three?  When had she begun to lose the loving man who had filled her life with joy, the man who had given her four beautiful children?

Hannah walked over to the crib where her youngest, Mary, slept.  Robert had barely touched their two-year-old in the past few weeks, and whenever she cried, it enraged him.  He’d completely lost patience with all his children.  It tore Hannah apart to see how they were suffering.  Mary was too young to understand any of it, only knowing that her daddy’s yelling frightened her.  James didn’t understand either.  He would only look up tearfully into his mother’s eyes and ask why Daddy was always so mad now.  Rebecca was handling it better.  She was a strong girl, mature for her age.  But her father’s personality change had transformed her from the open, happy girl she’d been to a quiet, withdrawn child.

But the one who had suffered the most was Nicholas.  At ten years old, Nicholas idolized his father.  He’d always said that he was going to be just like his dad when he grew up.  But all that had changed.  He spent most of his time away from home now, taking refuge with his friends.  And, when he was home, he stayed in his bedroom, as if hoping that, if he stayed in there long enough, things would magically change and he’d come downstairs to a family that was like it used to be.  That’s where he was now, having gone up there right after supper, which they’d had without Robert.

Hannah laid a hand over her cheek.  The bruise was almost gone now, but the shock that her husband has struck her remained.  Never in their seventeen years of marriage had he ever laid one finger against her, yet a week ago, the blow he’d dealt her had knocked her to the floor.  And the reason for him hitting her had been so trivial.  She’d failed to get dinner on the table by the time he came home.

Hannah’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud bang as the front door swung open and crashed against the wall.  She turned to see her husband standing in the doorway, his clothes dripping with water, his face as thunderous as the sky above.

“Robert, you’re soaked to the skin.  Come in and dry off before you catch a chill,” Hannah said, approaching him and laying a hand on his arm.  He shook her hand off.

“What would you care if I did get sick?” Robert snapped.  He came in and slammed the door shut.

Tears stung Hannah’s eyes.  “How can you say that?  You know I love you.”

“Do you?  Or do you just love the things I give you?  The pretty house, the nice clothes.  Well, you’re not going to have those things for much longer.  I got fired today.  They kicked me out.”

“Oh, honey.  I’m so sorry.  I’m sure that Jacob will reconsider.  You’ve been working for him for fifteen years.  Perhaps I can go over and talk to him tomorrow.”

Robert sneered.  “Talk to him.  Oh yeah, I bet you’re going to talk to him.  Don’t think I don’t know what’s been going on behind my back between you and him.  I’m not blind.”

The color leached from Hannah’s face when she realized what her husband was accusing her of.  “I have never been unfaithful to you,” she said with a shaking voice.  “How could you accuse me of such a thing?  And in front of the children!”

Robert looked at his offspring with disdain.  Rebecca had grabbed James and Mary and was huddled in the corner with them, fearful that the arguing would turn into physical violence again.

“They should know that their mother is a tramp,” Robert spat out.

Hannah burst into tears.  “How can you do this to us?  You’re tearing our family apart!  What is wrong with you?!”

“Wrong with me?  Nothing’s wrong with me.  I’m finally seeing the truth!  My life has been a lie for years.  You’ve only been using me to get what you want.  Everybody’s been using me!  And I’ve had enough of it!”

Up in his room, Nicholas heard his father’s raised voice.  He covered his ears, trying to block out the sound, but as the yelling and screaming got louder, his hands could no longer hide the noise.  Crawling from his bed, Nicholas crept to the door and peeked out.  He then went to the head of the staircase, remaining as quiet as could be.  Down below, he saw his parents.  His father was screaming with rage, his face red and twisted with hatred.  Suddenly, the man’s fist struck out, connecting with Nicholas’s mother’s face.  She fell to the floor with a cry of pain, weeping.  Robert grabbed her hair and pulled her up, striking her again, this time causing blood to flow from her lips.

Nicholas pressed his fists against his mouth, muffling his cries as his father hit his mother twice more.  Tears burned their way down his cheeks.  This wasn’t his daddy!  His daddy wouldn’t do this!  He couldn’t!  He couldn’t!

Rebecca, terrified for her mother, scrambled to her feet and tried to pull her father away.  A fist came around and slammed into her cheek, throwing her against the coffee table.  Hannah cried her daughter’s name, her scream mingling with those of her two youngest children.  As Robert approached Rebecca to hit her again, Hannah heaved herself off the floor and dove for the poker near the fireplace.  But before she could lift it, a larger hand snatched it away from her.  Looking up into her husband’s eyes, she saw the gleam of madness there.

At the top of the stairs, Nicholas stared in horror as his father raised the poker.  His mother’s cry of terror sent Nicholas running back down the hall to his room.  He locked the door and hid under his bed, the sound of screams tearing into his mind.  Then came an awful silence.  The silence went on and on as Nicholas lay curled into a tight little ball.  Then he heard something, the sound of footsteps on the stairs.  A moment later, there came the rattling of the doorknob.  Nicholas muffled his cry of fear as he heard his father banging on the door.  Then the door crashed inward.  He heard heavy breathing, the thump of footsteps getting closer.  There was a pause.  Afraid to move, afraid to even breathe, Nicholas closed his eyes, wishing for his father to go away.

Suddenly, the quilt was yanked away.  A bloody hand grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out from under the bed.  Nicholas screamed.  Then there was searing pain, and darkness closed over him.
 

CHAPTER ONE

October 27, 1999

Rollie Tyler looked up at the old house with glee.  “It’s perfect,” he said to his companion.

Angie looked at her partner.  “It’s a rat trap,” she responded.

“Yeah, but that’s what we want.  This is going to be our first movie together as producers, and I want everything to be perfect.”

Angie smiled.  Producers.  It was strange thinking of herself and Rollie in that capacity.  It was even stranger to think about how all this had transpired.  Nine months ago, they had been working on a sci-fi movie.  The basic plot of the movie had been imaginative, exciting, and intriguing, but the production was cursed with a scriptwriter who didn’t know how to handle the material, a director who didn’t give a damn, and a producer who was too inexperienced to get the money needed for better effects.  For some reason, Rollie had sensed that, with the right treatment and a big enough budget, the movie could be a hit.

Following a huge argument with the producer, the director quit.  Enraged, the producer sped off in his car and promptly got into an accident, landing himself in the hospital.  With both the director and the producer out of the picture, it looked as if the film was doomed.  But Rollie, not wanting to give up on it, contacted some friends.  The first person he called was a writer friend named Nona Quinn.  The script was faxed to her.  One day later, a revised script was faxed back, one that captured all the potential Rollie had imagined.  The Aussie’s second call was to Brad Haskell, an award-winning director, who, after listening to Rollie describe the plot of the threatened movie, was interested enough to take a look at the script.  Rollie faxed him the new one, and he immediately saw what Rollie had.  He agreed to come onboard.  Rollie then set out to get the money needed, which turned out not to be as difficult as he’d feared once potential backers found out who the new director and scriptwriter were.

So, the movie was filmed, with Rollie unofficially remaining in the capacity of producer.  Five months later, it was released--and became a big hit, grossing even more than Rollie had hoped for.  All at once, both Tyler FX and Rollie himself were in demand.  Producers wanted Tyler FX to do their effects, and people with script ideas wanted Rollie to be the producer, which is what had led them to this place and time.  A particular script had caught Rollie’s attention.  It was the story of a family who moves into an old, historic house, hoping to restore it, only to find out that the previous tenants, who had died forty years ago, never moved out.  But, unlike the usual horror ghost story, this one had some surprising twists in the plot that Rollie believed would catch the audience by surprise and have them leaving the theaters with smiles on their faces.

Agreeing to produce the movie, Rollie had sent a location scout out to find the perfect location for the shoot, deciding that he wanted to use a real house rather than a set.  Of all the ones the scout had gone to, this one was the most promising.

“Hey, Ange.  Look at that,” Rollie said.  Angie’s gaze followed his finger.  It was a garden.  Curious, the two F/X artists when to investigate.  Surrounded by a low stone wall, the garden was filled with shrubs and plants that would be alive with flowers in the spring.  A few trees, their leaves the red and gold of autumn, rose here and there.  A narrow cobblestone path wound through the garden.  A few yards away, a whitewashed bench sat beneath an oak.  Nearby, a large pond filled with koi and water lilies sparkled in the afternoon sun.

“It’s beautiful,” Angie said.  “Someone’s been tending it.  I wonder why the garden has been taken such good care of, but the house is falling apart.”

“I don’t know.  We’ll have to ask Mister Parker when he gets here.”

“Shouldn’t he be here by now?” Angie asked.  Even as she uttered the question, they heard a car approaching.  Returning to the house, they watched an old Studebaker chug its way up the hill and stop beside their rental car.  A man in his mid to late sixties got out and approached them.

“Mister Tyler?  I’m Fred Parker.  We talked on the phone.”

Rollie shook the man’s hand.  “This is my partner, Angie Ramirez.”

Fred nodded at her.  “Ma’am.”  He turned to the house.  “So, what do you think of her?”

“It looks like no one’s lived here in a long time,” Angie commented.  “Are you the owner?”

“No, ma’am.  I’m more like what you’d call a trustee.  It’s kind of a complicated situation.”

“But you do have the authority to let us film here, don’t you?” Rollie asked, concerned.

“Oh, for sure.  Nobody’s gonna object to it, except maybe the ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” both Rollie and Angie said, Angie with interest, Rollie with skepticism.

“Yeah.  Didn’t you know about them?  I mentioned it to that guy who was here a couple of weeks ago, taking pictures.  Heck, I figured that’s why you wanted to film here.  Can’t get much spookier than a real haunted house.”

“No, he didn’t say anything about it,” Rollie told him, not really surprised that the location scout had failed to pass on the information.

“Whose ghost haunts the house?” Angie asked, her eyes glowing with excitement.  Rollie just rolled his eyes.

“Not one ghost, ma’am, ghosts, as in plural.  It’s the family that lived here before.”  Fred grinned, obviously enjoying the chance to tell the story to someone new.

“Shall we go inside?” Rollie suggested, trying to curb his impatience at the topic of conversation.

“Sure thing.”  Fred pulled out a key, went up the steps, and unlocked the door.  It swung open on rusty hinges, squeaking like all good haunted house doors should.  Rollie stepped inside, looking around.  Dust was heavy on the floor and on the sheets that covered the furniture.  A multitude of cobwebs adorned the place.  It was colder in the house than it was outside, which was strange since the afternoon sun should have warmed the place.  Rollie shivered and started looking about.

“So, what’s the story of this place and the ghosts?” Angie asked.

“Well, that’s quite a tragedy,” Fred replied.  “It happened almost exactly seventy years ago, on All Hallows Eve.  I wasn't born yet when this happened, but I heard the whole story years later.  This nice family by the name of Powell lived here.  A husband and wife and their four children.  By all accounts, Robert Powell was a good man, worked hard to provide for his family, never got into trouble.  He had a very good job, made good money, and some wise investments on his part put enough money in the bank that they wouldn’t have to worry about paying the bills for a long time to come.  All and all, he had a pretty good life.  But, for some reason, that all changed.  He changed, turned mean.  And nobody knew why.  One day, he got into a fight with his boss and got fired.  That night, he went home and murdered his family, beat them to death with a poker.  Then he blew his own brains out with a pistol.”

“My God,” Angie said, horrified.  “What a terrible story.  So, it’s the ghosts of the murdered family that haunt this place?” Angie asked, her eyes scanning everything, as if looking for specters.

“And Mister Powell himself, or at least that’s what people believe.”

“So, the place has just been sitting empty since then?” Rollie asked.

Fred nodded.  “My father was the family lawyer and the executor of the will.  He became a sort of trustee for the estate, making sure that the taxes were paid from the money in the Powells’ bank account, which held quite a sizable sum.  I followed in Pop’s footsteps and became a lawyer too, joined him in his practice.  After he passed on, I took over as the trustee of this place.”

“But, if the family was all killed, why wasn’t the place sold?”

“It was being held in trust for a relative, but the person never claimed it.  I’ll remain as trustee until that person dies or until the money to pay the taxes runs out, whichever comes first.  Then it will be sold, though I doubt anyone will want the house.  However, the property it sits on has value, so the structure will probably be torn down.”

Rollie nodded and walked toward the fireplace.  As he came to the hearth, a sudden chill passed through him, a feeling of disquiet.

“That’s where they found Mrs. Powell, right where you’re standing,” Fred announced.

Rollie looked down at the floor at his feet, and a sudden need to not be there hit him.  He quickly moved away from the spot.

“Rebecca, the oldest child, died there.”  Fred pointed at the floor in front of the sheet-covered sofa.  “The two youngest were killed over there in the corner, the poor little tykes.  The eldest boy, Nicholas, was found in his bedroom upstairs.”

Another chill coursed through Rollie’s body.  He started rubbing his arms, trying to warm himself.  He looked over at Angie and Fred, who were both in shirt sleeves and didn’t appear to be feeling any discomfort.

‘Why am I the only one who’s cold?’ he wondered to himself.  ‘It’s bloody freezing in here.’

“So, what started the rumors of ghosts?” Angie asked Fred.

“Oh, the usual,” the man replied.  “Strange noises, people claiming they saw lights bobbing around in the house, stuff like that.”

“Let’s see what it looks like upstairs,” Rollie said, feeling strangely on edge.  Not waiting for the others, he started up the stairs.  They followed a few feet behind him.

At the top of the staircase was a hallway going in both directions.  Rollie found his eyes drawn to the third door down on the left.

“Which one was Nicholas found in?” Angie asked.

“That one,” Rollie said, pointing at the door, his eyes never leaving it.

“You’re right.  That’s the one,” Fred confirmed in surprise.  “How did you know?”

“Just a . . . a guess,” the Aussie replied.  He slowly approached the door, pausing a moment before opening it.  As he stepped into the room, his eyes immediately went to the bed.  It was unusual, sitting much higher off the floor that an ordinary bed.  Storage drawers were built into it at the foot, and on the left side, there was a small pull-out step, apparently so that a young child could get into the bed.

But it was not the uniqueness of the bed that had captured Rollie’s attention.  It was something else entirely, something very unsettling, a feeling that he could not describe.  He went up to the bed, staring down at it.  Hearing a faint sound, he turned to look at Angie.

“Did you say something?”

“No, didn’t say a word,” she replied.  She looked at him closely.  “Rol, are you okay?  You look a bit pale.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”  He moved past her and Fred and left the room.  He glanced in the rest of the rooms on that end of the hall, then started looking in the rooms off the hallway to the right of the stairs.  At the final door on the left, he abruptly stopped.  He stood frozen in front of it, assailed by a terrible feeling of wrongness.

“That’s the master bedroom,” Fred said as he and Angie came up behind Rollie.  “It’s the room that Mister Powell killed himself in.”

When Rollie made no move to open the door, Angie slipped by him and reached for the doorknob.

“Angie, don’t,” Rollie warned.

His partner looked up at him.  “Why not?”

“I. . . .”  Rollie’s voice trailed off helplessly.  He shook his head.  “Nothing.  Go on in.”

Angie looked at him a moment longer in puzzlement, then opened the door.  She and Fred went into the room.

“It was right there that Robert Powell took his life,” the old man said, pointing at a vanity in the corner.  “If you look closely, you can still see some bloodstains in the wood.  They managed to get the blood off the floors, but some of it soaked into the wood of the vanity and couldn’t be removed.”

Angie went over and examined the desk closely.  “Oh, yeah.  I see it.  Hey, Rol.  Come take a look at this.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” the Aussie said.  He had yet to step into the room, hovering instead on the threshold.  He just could not get himself to take that final step.  The more he stood there, the stronger the feeling of wrongness got.  Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Ange, I . . . I don’t feel very well.  I’m going outside for some air.”  Not waiting for her response, he quickly went downstairs and out the front door.  As soon as he was outside, he felt fine.  Rollie turned his face up to the sun and closed his eyes, taking deep, cleansing breaths.  After a moment, he felt a hand on his arm.

“Rollie, are you all right?” Angie asked in concern.

The Aussie looked down at her and gave her a smile.  “Yeah.  I just needed some fresh air.  I feel better now.”

Angie reached up and felt his forehead.  “You don’t seem to have a fever, but maybe you’re coming down with something.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

She looked at the house.  “So, what do you think?  It’s certainly got the right look and feel to it.”

Rollie followed her gaze.  “I don’t know.  Maybe it would be better to just build a set.  It would be pretty cramped filming in some of those rooms.  A set would be easier.”

“But also more expensive,” Angie pointed out.  “That’s one of the reasons why we went looking for a place like this, to save the cost of building a set.”  She looked at him closely.  “What’s really bothering you, Rol?  You’ve been on edge since we went in the house.”

“I don’t know.  I just don’t like the feel of the place.  It’s as cold as Antarctica in there, for one thing.”

“Cold?  Rollie, it had to be at least seventy-five in there, if not higher, and what do you mean you don’t like the feel of the place?”  A faint smirk curved Angie’s lips.  “Are you nervous about the claim that the place is haunted?”

Rollie frowned at her.  “Angie, you know very well that I don’t believe in stuff like that.  As my mum used to tell me, there’s no such things as ghosts.”

“You need to open your mind to the supernatural, Rollie.  There’s plenty of evidence that ghosts exist.”

“Not one piece of that so-called evidence is proof, Ange.  Until I see a ghost with my own eyes or science proves beyond a doubt that they exist, I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Well, if we film here, maybe you’ll get to see that ghost.”  Angie smiled mischievously.  “Then you can hear me tell you ‘I told you so’ for the rest of your life.”

Rollie gave her a sarcastic smile.  “Yeah, well, keep waiting, Angie.  Just don’t hold your breath.  I wouldn’t want you to die of asphyxiation.”

“Rol, if I had held my breath while waiting for you to come to your senses about anything, I’d have asphyxiated a long, long time ago.”

“Ha ha ha.  Very funny.  I might remind you that you were wrong when you thought that place we filmed House of Horrors in was cursed.  All those things that went wrong had a very non-supernatural explanation.”

“Just because a human being was responsible for the accidents doesn’t mean that the place wasn’t cursed,” Angie pointed out smugly.

Rollie shook his head.  “And you call me pig-headed.”

Fred walked up to them.  “You feeling better?” he asked Rollie.

“Yeah, I’m fine now.  Thanks.”

The man looked at the house.  “So, what do you think?”

Rollie and Angie looked at each other, a silent conversation going on between them.  They turned back to Fred.  “It’ll work fine,” the Aussie said, though he really didn’t want to.  “There are some papers that need to be signed and some other stuff to discuss, one of those being how much you’re willing to lease the property to us for.”

“We can talk about all that stuff back at my place.  My wife, Cecilia, will be delighted to have some company.  She will, of course, insist that you stay for supper.  She’s quite the cook, my Cissy is.”

A few hours later, the papers had been signed, and Rollie was patting a full belly.  “That was delicious, Mrs. Parker.”

“Please, Rollie, call me Cecilia,” the woman insisted.  “Only little children call me Mrs. Parker.  Besides, if you are going to be filming your movie here, we’ll probably see a lot of each other.”  She gave a small shudder.  “Frankly, I don’t know how you can be considering filming in that house.  I wouldn’t set foot in the place.  I did once when I was a child.  Never again.”

“What happened?” Angie asked, leaning forward with interest.

“I could feel the air of death there.  It was so strong it made my skin crawl.”

“Did you see anything?”

“You mean like a ghost?  No, dear.  I didn’t see anything like that.  Just knowing what happened there and the feelings I got were enough to frighten me away.  Fred here always laughs when I tell him to be extra careful every time he goes to the house.”  She smiled fondly at her husband.

“So, you’ve never seen a ghost either?” Angie asked Fred.

“Afraid not,” the man confirmed.  “And I’ve been in that house dozens of times since I was a kid.  I even spent the night there once on a dare.  Other than the usual sounds an old house makes, I didn’t hear a thing.”

Rollie looked at the disappointment on his partner’s face.  “Cheer up, Ange.  Maybe the ghosts were just shy.  They might decide to come out and play when we start filming,” he said teasingly.

Angie scowled at him.  Then a wicked grin spread across her face. “Or maybe if we spend the night there, they’ll show up.”  She saw a flicker of what looked like nervousness in Rollie’s eyes, but it disappeared quickly.

“I’m not spending a night in that dusty, drafty place, not when there are perfectly good motels in town,” Rollie said emphatically.

“Aw, where’s your sense of adventure, Rol?” Angie teased.

“I left it at home.”  He turned back to Fred, who was watching them in amusement.  “We were curious about the garden.  It looks like someone’s been taking care of it.”

“That would be me,” the man admitted.  “My mother was the one who began tending it after the Powells died.  She knew Hannah Powell.  They were friends.  She told me that Hannah loved the garden.  The children loved it too.  They’d spend many a day there, playing and having a good time.  After what happened, my mother just couldn’t bear to let the garden die.  She began taking care of it in memory of Hannah and the children.  Over the years, Mom took me along and passed on her love of gardening to me.  After she passed away, I took over taking care of it.  You might think me silly, but it’s like that garden is a little bit of goodness in a place that saw so much badness.”

“I don’t think that’s silly at all,” Angie said.  “I’d love to see it in the spring.”

“It’s very beautiful,” Cecilia said.  “I’ve gone with Fred a few times when he went to tend it, though I won’t go near the house.”

“We’ll be filming in the spring, Ange, so you’ll be able to see it then,” Rollie told his partner.  “We should write the garden into the script.  It would look great on film.”

“Yeah, it would.”

The F/X artists chatted with the Parkers a while longer, then said goodnight.  They went to a motel that the couple had recommended as being the best one in town.  Once they were settled in their rooms, they sat together on Rollie’s bed, resting their backs on the headrest.  Rollie had a blueprint of the house spread out before them and was going over it.

“Rol?”

“Hmm?”

“When we were in the house, what exactly did you feel?”

Rollie glanced at his partner, then returned his eyes to the blueprint.  “I’d rather not talk about it.  It was just my imagination.”

“Come on, Rollie.  Humor me.”

Rollie looked at her again and sighed.  He folded up the blueprint and set it on the night stand.  “It’s hard to describe.  Like I said, I felt cold.  When we were in the living room and Nicholas’s bedroom, there was this sensation of . . . uneasiness, sort of like you get when you have a feeling that something’s not right but don’t know what it is.”

“What about the master bedroom?  I noticed that you didn’t go in.”

Rollie looked down at the bedspread, plucking at it with his fingers.  “It felt . . . wrong in there.”  He shrugged.  “I don’t have any other word for it.”

“Evil?” Angie prompted gently.

The Aussie shook his head.  “No.”

“I wonder why I didn’t feel those things.”

Rollie shrugged.  “Like I said, it was just my overactive imagination at work.  It was nothing.”

“I’m not so sure.  Remember what Cecilia said?”

“Angie, she was just a kid when she went in the house.  As hard as I know you find it to believe, children have even wilder imaginations than I do.”

Angie grinned.  “You’re right, I do find that hard to believe.”

“Okay, that’s the last straw!” Rollie exclaimed.  He grabbed a pillow and started beating Angie over the head with it.  Squealing, Angie snatched up the other pillow and began hitting him back.  Laughing, the partners continued the pillow fight, the old house forgotten.