The long blade of the knife tore through Myra’s breast, and she uttered a grunt as her eyes widened in shock. She felt herself falling backward, and a moment later was sprawled on the kitchen floor. Then Marty’s body crashed down on top of her, and as the full force of his weight struck her, the blade of the knife twisted in her breast and slashed through her heart.
Just before Myra died, she caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure at the top of the stairs.
It was a girl, clad all in black, holding a cat.
But it was not her daughter.
It couldn’t be her daughter.
After all, her daughter was an angel. . . .
Chapter 46
ETH BAKER CAME AROUND THE BEND IN THE ROAD and saw the house that stood at Black Creek Crossing looming against the night sky. Even though there were lights on, the house had a look of terrible foreboding about it, and as he made his way across the lawn, part of him wanted to turn away and go somewhere else.
But there was nowhere else to go.
Not after what had happened in his house.
As he approached the front door, the awful sense of foreboding grew stronger, and he paused at the door, which was standing wide open, and listened.
A silence seemed to emanate from the house, a silence that felt as if it was about to swallow him up. Once again he wanted nothing more than to turn away, to leave whatever was inside the house undiscovered, and again he knew he could not. Steeling himself, he stepped over the threshold into the living room.
The television was still on, but somehow even its droning didn’t dispel the strange sense of silence that imbued the house.
Knowing he didn’t want to see whatever it was that lay beyond the living room, but knowing there was no alternative, he moved deeper into the house.
He found Angel at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the bodies of her parents, who were lying on the floor—her father on top of her mother—in a pool of their own blood. Myra Sullivan’s eyes were open, and as he looked down at her, Seth had the uneasy feeling that she was looking back at him. Turning away, he looked at Angel. “It happened at my house too,” he said softly.
Angel gazed at him, and for a second Seth wasn’t sure she even saw him. A moment later, though, she spoke, her voice hollow:
“I know what we have to do.”
Seth said nothing and when she led him out of the house, he silently followed.
They crossed the lawn to the road, and instead of turning right, toward the trail that would lead them to the cabin hidden in the cliff, Angel turned left.
Once again, Seth followed. . . .
Chapter 47
ATHER MIKE MULRONEY HAD A SENSE THAT SOMEthing was wrong from the moment he awoke the next morning. At first he thought he’d slept late, but both the faintly glowing hands of the clock on his bedstand and the darkness of the room told him that was not so.
It was five o’clock, the time at which he always awoke.
Nor did he feel in any way ill.
Then what was it? Rising from his narrow cot and following the routine of years, he used the small prie-dieu in his bedroom to offer his first prayers of the day. Then, still before the sun had risen, he showered, dressed, and prepared his breakfast of orange juice, two fried eggs, a single slice of wheat toast, and a demitasse of the kind of rich bitter coffee he’d fallen in love with the year he’d spent in Rome, before being ordained into the priesthood by His Holiness himself.
And the feeling that something was wrong stayed with him.
After cleaning up what little mess his breakfast had caused in the kitchen, he moved through the rectory, seeing nothing amiss, but with his feeling of unease growing stronger. Finally, as the blackness outside began to give way to the first faint gray of the coming sunrise, he went to his desk to begin organizing the day. Not that there was much to organize: Tuesday was the closest thing to a day off Father Mulroney had, and this Tuesday nothing at all was on his schedule.
So why was he certain that something was amiss?
His eyes fell on the old book recounting the legends of Roundtree’s past—if they were legends at all—and he remembered the storm that had struck yesterday, exploding out of nowhere to batter the town for nearly three hours, and vanishing as quickly as it had come.
Three hours during which Angel Sullivan had not been in either of the places people had expected her to be.
Her mother had expected to find her at school, where she should have been all day.
Father Mulroney, though, had not expected her to be in school—indeed, he would have been very surprised to find her there. However, he’d been very surprised when she hadn’t been at home either. In fact, one of the reasons he’d insisted on accompanying Myra Sullivan back to her house in the afternoon was his certainty that Angel was there, and he was curious to see what she might be doing. Yet the house had been empty, and finally he brought Myra back to the rectory with him, where she’d worked until after sunset, and refused his offer to take her home.
He let her go—after all, the storm had passed.
Now, picking up the book, he locked it back into its usual desk drawer and returned the key to its place in a small box on the mantel. As he turned away from the mantel he glanced out the window behind his desk. The sun had finally risen above the horizon, and across the street, silhouetted against the morning sun, stood the ancient oak tree.
It was a sight Father Mulroney had witnessed thousands of times before, but one he never tired of. And this morning it was almost perfect. The sun was directly behind the tree, which stood in stark contrast to the pale blue of the cloudless sky, its limbs casting black fingers across the brilliance of the morning, which reached all the way to the rectory.
But this morning it wasn’t only the tree that caught the priest’s attention, for there were two other shapes etched starkly against the pale canvas of the morning sky.
Two shapes that Father Mulroney recognized immediately.
Two shapes that told him exactly what had felt so wrong this morning.
Picking up the telephone, he dialed a number, spoke rapidly for a few seconds, and then left the rectory, hurrying across the street to the cemetery.
The sound of sirens was already wailing through the town by the time Father Mulroney was close enough to the ancient oak to see the faces of Angel Sullivan and Seth Baker.
Their jaws had gone slack and their eyes were open.
Father Mulroney crossed himself and began to pray, but even as he prayed, he couldn’t take his eyes from the terrible visages of the two children who had hanged themselves from the tree in the darkness of the night. . . .
Epilogue
HY CAN’T IT JUST BURN DOWN?
Joni Fletcher wondered how many times she’d asked herself that question during the year that had passed since the night Angel Sullivan and Seth Baker had killed their parents and then hung themselves from the old oak tree in the Congregational cemetery. Nor was she the only person in town who had asked the question; someone had asked it just last night at the town council meeting, suggesting that the town buy the property, donate the building to the Volunteer Fire Department as fuel for a practice fire, then sell off the land after the house was gone. It had fallen to Ed to explain—for at least the hundredth time—that the house couldn’t be burned down, or torn down, or even moved. It was an historical building, and thus protected by law. Unless it caught fire by accident, it would stand until it finally rotted away.
In fact, someone had tried to burn it down at least three times over the last year, and strangely, all three times the fires went out of their own accord. The two in the basement had done little more than leave the smell of smoke in the cellar—and throughout the rest of the house, whenever it rained—and the one in Angel’s room only succeeded in ruining the paint, which Joni and Ed themselves had paid to have replaced. Each time a fire had been set, the police chief and his deputy had gone out to the old house to take a look, and most of the people in town, incl
uding Joni, were sure that the police were more interested in trying to figure out why the fires had burned out than in finding out who had set them. Certainly no one had been charged with the three acts of arson, nor had the chief ever mentioned a suspect.
The bank had slashed the price again, and though Joni had done her best to talk the woman in the passenger seat next to her out of even looking at the house, in the end she’d decided that at least she would be honest about the place. She’d been in the business long enough to know that any other real estate agent—or at least the ones from the surrounding towns, who were also showing the property—would say no more than they were legally obligated to. Now that she was here, though, Joni wasn’t sure she could bring herself to go through with the showing.
“Well, it certainly looks solid enough,” the woman said.
Joni gazed bleakly at the house. “Oh, it’s solid enough, Mrs.—” For the first time in her career, Joni Fletcher completely blanked on her customer’s name, and finally had to glance down at the information sheet she’d filled in only two hours ago. “—Flint,” she finished. Then: “May I call you . . . ?” She left the question open, like a space in a form waiting to be filled in.
“Margie,” the woman said automatically, her eyes still fixed on the house. “If there’s nothing wrong with it, why is it so cheap?”
“Because everyone who lives in it dies,” Joni replied, her voice flat.
Margie Flint turned to stare at her. “Excuse me?” she said, thinking she could not possibly have heard the other woman correctly.
“The last people who lived here were my own sister and her husband and daughter. And I sold them the house myself.” Then, in as much detail as she could bear to recount, she told Margie Flint what had taken place almost exactly a year ago. “They weren’t even in it for two weeks,” she finished, her voice sounding as drained as she felt after repeating the story of how Myra, Marty, and Angel had died. “Which is why I don’t want to sell the house to you. Not to you, or to anybody else.”
“You sound like you think there’s some kind of curse on it,” Margie said, turning away from Joni to gaze once more at the little house that sat far back from the road, almost as if it were trying to disappear into the surrounding forest.
Now Joni’s eyes also shifted back to the old house, which seemed so utterly harmless under the clear blue sky and bright sunlight of the perfect fall day. “I don’t know if it’s a curse, but—” Her words died abruptly as Margie Flint turned back to her.
“Can I see it?” Margie asked, opening the car door before Joni could respond.
“See it?” Joni echoed blankly. After what she’d just told the woman, she still wanted to see the house? “I—I don’t know—” she floundered. “I thought—”
Margie Flint’s demeanor instantly changed, the eager light in her eyes fading into an expression of sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Of course you wouldn’t even want to set foot inside it, would you?” She hesitated, glancing back toward the house once more. “But what if—well, would it be all right if I just went in?” At the stricken look on Joni Fletcher’s face, she spoke again, her words tumbling out. “It’s just that I came all this way, and the price is so low, and I know terrible things happened in it, but—” She fell silent, then shrugged. “I don’t know—it’s just a feeling I have. Can’t I just go in for a minute and take a look? Please?”
Joni’s expression hardened. “We’ve had dozens of people wanting to see it,” she began. “Maybe even hundreds. Frankly, I think it’s morbid the way—”
Margie Flint’s eyes widened in shock as she realized what Joni Fletcher was saying. “Oh, no!” she said. “That’s not it at all. It’s just—I don’t know.” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t want to know any more about what happened in the house, and I don’t want to know where—” She was about to say “where the bodies were found,” but thought better of it. “I just feel like I have to see it,” she said. “We’ve been looking so long, and nothing’s been right, and—” Her voice faltered again as she turned back to gaze at the house. “There’s just something about it,” she said finally.
When she turned back to face Joni, her eyes were practically pleading, and Joni could see that the woman didn’t have so much as a trace of the morbid curiosity that the dozens of other people who had asked to see the house over the last year exhibited.
Reaching into her purse, Joni found the key and handed it to Margie Flint. “I’ll wait here,” she said.
Mrs. Flint got out of Joni’s Volvo, closed the door behind her, and started toward the house. As she drew closer she found herself gazing up at one of the windows on the second floor. Pausing, she wondered what had drawn her attention, but could see nothing that distinguished that window from the other two that looked out over the weed-choked lawn to the road. Yet, though she saw nothing different about the window, she still felt as if she were being drawn to the room behind it.
At the front door, she hesitated. Maybe she shouldn’t go into the house after all—maybe she should just go back to the car, get in, and have Joni Fletcher show her something else.
Even as she entertained the thought, however, she slid the key into the lock, turned it, and opened the front door.
And stepped inside.
Though the room was devoid of furniture, Margie Flint felt none of the emptiness she’d experienced in the other unoccupied houses she’d looked at over the last few months. In the rest of them, she’d shared the feelings of her family—what her daughter had started calling “the empty house creeps.” But this house had none of that, and as she moved through it, Margie could see perfect places for every piece of furniture she and her husband had collected over the years, scrimping to save up the money and restoring the pieces themselves.
And this house—no matter what had happened in it before—was the perfect place not only for their furniture, but for them. She and Alex could do all the restoration work themselves, and by the time they were done, the house would provide the ideal backdrop for everything they had.
Her excitement grew as she mounted the stairs and went through the bathroom and the master bedroom.
Then, at last, she came to the door of the room whose window had caught her attention a few minutes ago. Opening the door, she stepped inside the little bedroom at the front of the house. Like the rest of the house, it was empty of furniture, but it didn’t matter.
In her mind’s eye she already saw how it would look with all of Gina’s things in it. And with some curtains on the windows—
She jumped as something brushed her leg, and she looked down.
A black cat was sitting on the floor, gazing up at her.
“Well, who are you?” Margie asked, bending down to scratch the cat’s ears. As the cat began to purr and rolled over to have its belly rubbed, she saw the single white blaze in the center of its chest. “What a pretty kitty—we’ll have to think of a wonderful name for you.” Margie gave the cat another scratch, then straightened up. “The question is,” she said, smiling down at the cat, who was now weaving back and forth around her legs, rubbing first one side, then the other, “how did you get in here? And how will you like having to share the house?”
The cat mewed softly.
Margie went through the house one more time, but knew she’d already made up her mind. Yet as she started back to the car, she paused to look back at the house once again.
Her eyes came to rest on the window of the small bedroom on the second floor. And for an instant—a moment so brief she wasn’t sure it had happened at all—she thought she saw two faces looking back at her.
A girl and a boy, in their mid-teens.
The images vanished so quickly that Margie assumed she’d imagined them. Squinting in the bright sunlight, she peered once more up at the window.
The cat was looking back at her.
Nothing else—just the cat.
And it was a cat that seemed to like her, and had mewed happily at the s
uggestion that it was going to have to share the house. So that was all she’d seen—not two barely visible faces, but just a cat that was not only completely visible, but very real, and wanted her there as much as she wanted to be there. Her fleeting doubt dispelled, Margie Flint pulled out her checkbook as soon as she was back in the car. “How much earnest money will you need?” she asked.
Joni Fletcher stared at her in disbelief. “You’re not seriously going to—” she began, but Margie Flint didn’t let her finish.
“I am very serious. The house is perfect, and I have no interest whatever in what might have happened here in the past. Just tell me how much the bank wants to hold it until we can get the deal settled.”
“I—I’m sure a thousand dollars will be fine,” she began. “But—”
But Marge Flint was already writing the check, and finally Joni Fletcher started her car and headed back to the office.
“This is so wonderful,” Margie said as they drove back into the heart of the little town a few minutes later. “It’s almost like I’m coming home again!”
Joni Fletcher glanced at her as she pulled into a spot in front of her office. “Are you from around here?”
Margie Flint shook her head. “Not me—I grew up in Colorado. But my father said his family used to live around here.”
“Really?” Joni asked. “What was their name?”
“Wynton,” Margie said. “That was my maiden name. Margaret Wynton.”
Joni Fletcher felt an icy chill close around her soul. The house at Black Creek Crossing, she knew, would never burn.
It would, in fact, be there forever. . . .
About the Author
Black Creek Crossing is John Saul’s thirty-first novel. His first, published in 1977, was Suffer the Children, an immediate million-copy bestseller. His other bestselling novels of suspense include Midnight Voices, The Manhattan Hunt Club, Nightshade, The Right Hand of Evil, The Presence, Black Lightning, Guardian, and The Homing. He is also the author of the New York Times bestselling serial thriller The Blackstone Chronicles, initially published in six installments but now available in one complete volume. Mr. Saul divides his time between Seattle, Washington, and Maui, Hawaii.