House of Skin (44 page)

Thinking about Paul Carver, Tommy brought the cigarette to his lips, drew hard on it. He grunted, blew out a plume of smoke. Yep…Carver—
Great name for a serial killer
, Timmons had joked—was as dangerous and twisted as a person could get.

Of course, there were other theories, but none of them made much sense. Some said Sam had been in on it from the beginning, that he and Carver were a killing team, that they’d escaped to Mexico and were trolling the beaches for fresh senoritas to screw and slay. Another scenario had Sam as a cannibal. Never mind that Julia Merrow was the only victim found with bite marks, the idea here was that the reason Carver had never been found was that Sam Barlow was the real killer and that Sam had eaten him. Tommy took another drink and almost smiled at the thought of Sam going all Jeffrey Dahmer on that bastard Carver.

Tommy furrowed his brow, moved over to the veranda railing.

If Sam wasn’t one of Carver’s victims, Tommy often wondered, how else could his disappearance be explained? If Sam had decided to jump ship in the middle of it all, how could Tommy reconcile that with what he knew of the man? The Sam he knew stuck things out until the bitter end. Had the events of the summer driven him mad?
 

Regardless, he was gone. It was a blow to the town, a loss to him personally. The man had been like a father to him. He compressed his lips, stared sourly down at the lawn. When Tommy’s parents died a month after Sam disappeared, killed senselessly in their sleep by a house fire, he thought life couldn’t get any worse.

He met her at the funeral.

The tall blonde woman said she knew his mom from his mother’s time as an elementary school teacher. Annabel had been her pupil.

They hit it off right away, Annabel holding him as he wept, her shedding some tears too. She was the first girl who really looked at him, really gave two shits about how he felt. She was the one who’d suggested he use his parents’ insurance money to bid on the old Carver house.

The idea seemed absurd to him when she’d first suggested it. Why would he want to live in the house where the killer had lived? If any place was cursed, he reasoned, it was Watermere. And what if Carver decided on a homecoming? If Tommy saw him again, the guy’d wish he’d never stepped foot in Shadeland. If Tommy didn’t see him coming, however, and if Carver was canny enough to get the drop on Sam…

He won’t bother us
, Annabel had insisted.

Tommy said no way, he wouldn’t bid on Watermere. The place was cursed.

Annabel had laughed at that, the idea of a cursed house.

The look in her eyes, as they sat there in her cramped little studio apartment near the library, told him that possessing Watermere meant possessing her too. He couldn’t say why he felt that way. It just was.

He won the auction and had money to spare for renovations. They spent the spring working on the place, getting it ready for summer.

They married.

When they arrived back from their honeymoon two weeks later Annabel said, “It’s time.”
 

She was right. It was time.

Although he knew the town needed a diversion, something to get its mind off the tragedies of the previous year, he had no idea its need was this great. Nor did he know how brazen some men could be. Not even bothering to do it discreetly, to humor him at least, they watched Annabel like jackals salivating over a new kill. Tommy felt a weird kinship with the men’s wives, feeling as indignant as they did at the way their husbands eyed Annabel.

One, though, was taking it too far. As a matter of fact, here she came…

“Have you seen Doug?” Karen Timmons asked. She’d left her redhead inside.

“I haven’t seen him,” Tommy answered without looking up.

“Oh no?” Karen asked. She smiled a slow, lazy smile. “And what about your

wife? Have you seen her?”

Tommy tensed. “Are you implying something, Karen?” He dared her with his eyes to say more. Sheriff’s wife or not, he’d wipe that fucking smirk off her face.

She returned his stare. “I don’t have to imply anything about that whore.”

His arm was out before he knew it, his fist smashing her front teeth. She went down, holding her mouth. McLaughlin glanced about to see if anyone had witnessed it, but the veranda was deserted.

“How dare you?” she mumbled, but he could tell by the cowed look on her face she’d backed down. For now.

“Go find your redhead,” he said.

Karen Timmons stood and straightened her dress.

“Doug will hear about this.”
 

“Doug’s too busy to care right now. And he’s not with my wife.”

It hit her hard. Karen dabbed at her bloody lip, watched him to see if he was joking.

“Go on,” Tommy said. “He’s upstairs with that waitress from Redman’s if you want him.”

Karen crossed the veranda and passed through the French doors.

Across the yard, Annabel emerged from the forest. Her light blue dress hung low on her chest, her creamy skin luminous. She fixed him with her hypnotic eyes and held him there as she ascended the steps and stood next to him. He handed her his drink.

Working to keep the suspicion out of his voice, he asked, “Out for a late stroll?”

She looked toward the woods. “It’s lovely tonight.”

“The trees or the house?” he asked. “Or the party?”

“All of it,” she said, and he had to wrap her up, kiss her as deeply as he could. Even there with her he felt she might disappear at any moment, that her interest in him would soon flag. She wiggled against him, her perfect body naked beneath her dress. In her heels she was taller than he was. He was dizzy with his need for her, the cleft between her legs achingly close to him.

“I love you,” he said.

She stiffened and pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She cast a glance toward the house. “I saw you talking to Karen Timmons.”

McLaughlin grunted. “She thinks you’ve got eyes for her husband.”

He waited for her to refute it, but she stared into the forest.

“I punched her,” he said.

She nodded.

“Are you mad at me, hitting a woman? It’s not something I usually do.” His voice went lower. “In fact it’s the first time.”

“It was necessary,” she said.

“Necessary.”

“But it won’t last.” Annabel’s voice had gone flat, lifeless.

“It won’t?” he asked. He felt himself getting lost in her voice, as he did more and more often lately.

“Something will have to be done about her.”

Tommy McLaughlin watched his wife, waited for her to laugh.

She didn’t.

After a long time, he began breathing again. His cigarette had burned to a line of ash. He tapped it on the concrete ledge and stared out at the forest.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he said.

And taking his hand, she did.

About the Author

Jonathan Janz grew up between a dark forest and a graveyard. In a way, that explains everything. His debut novel,
The Sorrows
, which FEARnet called “a wickedly fun read,” is available in both ebook and trade paperback editions. His follow-up novel,
House of Skin
, is his second Samhain Horror release. He has also written two novellas (
Old Order
and
Witching Hour Theatre
) and several short stories. His primary interests are his wonderful wife and his three amazing children, and though he realizes that every author’s wife and children are wonderful and amazing, in this case the cliché happens to be true. You can learn more about Jonathan at
www.jonathanjanz.com
, or you can find him on Facebook and as
@jonathanjanz
on Twitter.
 

Look for these titles by Jonathan Janz

Now Available:

The Sorrows

Something is trapped in the castle, and it wants to feed!

The Sorrows

© 2011 Jonathan Janz

The Sorrows, an island off the coast of northern California, and its castle have been uninhabited since a series of gruesome, unexplained murders in 1925. But its owner needs money, so he allows film composers Ben and Eddie and a couple of their female friends to stay a month in Castle Blackwood. Eddie is certain an eerie and reportedly haunted castle is just the setting Ben needs to find musical inspiration for a horror film.
 

But what they find is more horrific than any movie.
 
For something is waiting for them in the castle.
 
A being, once worshipped, now imprisoned, has been trapped for nearly a century.
 
And he’s ready to feed.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Sorrows:

Eddie made sure he got the seat beside Eva. Ben and Claire sat behind them. Granderson flew the helicopter, Chris Blackwood sitting silently at his side.

They’d been in the air twenty minutes when Ben said, “There’s no cell phone coverage on the island?”

“That’s right,” Eddie answered.

“No internet.”

“Nope.”

“How are we going to communicate, carrier pigeons?”

Eddie looked back at him. “I figured you’d be happy Lee couldn’t get ahold of us.”

Ben didn’t answer.

Eddie thought back to when their agent had called with the news—Lee Stanley was ready to make another ghost story and believed the “unique stylings” of Shadeland and Blaze would be just the thing to lend the film the “necessary aura of darkness”.

Then he remembered the phone conversation with Lee last week and felt his throat constrict.

The director asking, “How’s the music for
House of Skin
coming along?”

Eddie grimaced. The title made him think of a dermatologist.

“You still there?” Lee asked.

“Sorry,” Eddie replied. “It’s coming along fine.”

No answer, Lee waiting for him to elaborate.

“Ben’s been writing some things,” Eddie lied. “I’m trying different ways of shaping them.”

“What does that mean?” Lee asked.

Who the hell knew? The truth was, there was nothing to shape, but he’d be damned if he’d tell Lee Stanley that. He could imagine how the news would go over.
Sorry, but Ben hasn’t written a note. As a matter of fact, Mr. Stanley, the last time I mentioned
House of Skin
to him he said for you to take your precious movie and shove it up your ass.

The helicopter began its descent.

For a moment, there was nothing but clouds, but when the blades tore a hole in the swirling, gray mist, Eddie’s mouth opened and his breathing stopped. Larger than Eddie had pictured, the Sorrows was a stunning sight. There was a thin rim of trees ringing the island’s eastern edge, and in the center of the island lay a large clearing that might have been a graveyard. The rest of the Sorrows appeared heavily wooded.

Inland a hundred yards or so, Castle Blackwood seemed the fortified remnant of some long-ago battle. The L-shaped castle was tall and thin, its upper stories populated by multiple turrets and corbels.

Granderson’s voice took on the didactic tone of a history professor. “Robert Blackwood took a trip to Scotland in the summer of 1893. One of the sights that captured his imagination was Craigievar Castle, a sixteenth century—”

“Is that tower separate?” Eva asked. She leaned across Eddie to get a better view and one firm breast rubbed pleasingly against his arm.

“Yes,” Granderson answered. “There’s the main castle commissioned by Robert Blackwood to resemble Craigievar, and the tower—commonly referred to as the keep—which is the lone remnant of the original castle.”

“I don’t like it,” Eva said.

Eddie said, “We’ll only put you there if you misbehave.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, frowning. “It looks likes it’s about to fall.”

“It’ll stand until someone takes it down,” Granderson said. “Robert left the tower intact due to its privacy.”

“Maybe he wanted to remember his father,” Ben suggested.

Granderson grinned unpleasantly. “Robert Blackwood wasn’t the sentimental sort.”

As Eva leaned over him—Christ, she even smelled good, lush and peachy like his favorite Chardonnay—Eddie allowed himself a good look at her. Darker skin than he’d thought, the hair longer. Her eyes a surprising shade of green. His eyes crawled down her slender neck to the low-cut black dress and the perky breasts. Lower, to the smooth brown legs. She crossed them and cleared her throat. Eddie forced himself to look up.

Eva watched him with raised eyebrows.

He gave her a feeble grin.

Ben asked, “What do you think of the Clay incident?”

Eddie looked back and saw he’d been addressing Chris Blackwood. When Eddie turned to see Blackwood’s reaction, he was stunned by the anger in the guy’s face.

Blackwood said, “What do you mean ‘what do I think of it’?”