Page 20 of Shadow Scorching

Orik and Carson would eat when they were ready. Carson kept a stash of frozen Hot Pockets in the freezer, and Orik brought a carefully cultivated boxed lunch every day, filled with Norwegian specialties his mother-in-law had put together. Most of the time, his food smelled better than most of the food the rest of us ate, except when he brought lutefisk.

Orik joined us and heated his lunch in the microwave. The chowder was reasonably good, the toast finished off the lunch, and, by one PM, we were on our way over to Michael’s house.

The snow was still coming down, thoughlightly. I drove, navigating the streets with caution. While the temperature remained below freezing, the friction of tires on the roads had melted some of the snow, creating slushy conditions. I took it slowly, making certain not to speed. Several spinouts on the side of the roadways provided examples of what impatience on a snowy Seattle street wrought, and I didn’t want to be one of them.

As I parked in front of Michael’s house, the first thing I noticed was that it was showing its age. Weathered, the two-story house had an attic, but no basement. While it wasn’t Victorian in style, it mirrored some of the stylistic elements.

But rather than charming, its nature was foreboding, as though an invisible cloud had settled down around the walls. I could smell the scent of death and decay here, though the others didn’t seem to notice anything.

The house was at the top of an elevated lot, with twelve narrow, stone stairs leading up to the front lawn. The steps hadn’t been shoveled yet and had an accumulation of about five inches of snow on them. At the top of the steps stood a rusty gate, attached to a chain link fence that surrounded the lot.

I opened the gate, wincing at the scraping sound it made. The hinges needed oil. Better yet, the yard needed an entire new fence. I gave the current one another two or three years before it collapsed.

Within the enclosed lot, several trees towered over the house. A weeping willow in the front yard sprawled like only willows can, the long boughs blowing gently in the breeze. Snow had crusted over some of the tops of the boughs, but as the windwhipped through them, the snow cascaded down, dropping in clumps on the blanketed yard.

Instead of making the house feel fresh and cozy, the snowfall made it seem more ominous. As I glanced up at the top windows in what I assumed was the attic, lights flickered on and off. I doubted that was Michael’s doing, and squinted, trying to pinpoint anything behind the curtains, but I couldn’t see well enough from where I stood.

“Let’s go,” I said, heading up to the porch. The timbers of the porch squeaked, but the boards seemed secure. As we gathered by the door, I rang the bell. A moment later, Michael answered.

He yawned. Medium height, his eyes were so bloodshot you could barely see the green, and his wheat-colored hair hadn’t seen a brush in several days. He leaned against the door.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, standing back so we could enter.

As I stepped through the door, into a long hall, I could feel the house reverberating. Some houses have a heartbeat, and some have a sentience. This house knew we were here, and whatever lived within its walls wasn’t happy.

“How are you doing? You look rough,” I said.

Michael shrugged. “I feel rough. I got about an hour of sleep last night. Noises and things moving around kept me awake most of the night. I can’t tell you how many times I was drifting off to sleep when some big crash or boom would shake me out of it. I’d get up and look around but couldn’t find anything, and go back to bed.”

“Are you sleeping in your bedroom?” I asked.

“No, I’m crashing on the sofa in the living room. It used to be a parlor and a sitting room, but whoever owned the house before we bought it converted them into one large living area.” He led us into the living room, to the right.

The house reminded me of many built during this time. There seemed to be a style around the early 1900s where the hall led to the kitchen in back, with rooms on both sides of the corridor, as well as a staircase. But in this house, while the door opened into the hallway, the door to the living room had been removed, as well as part of the wall to create a large living space. I was surprised that the kitchen hadn’t been included in the renovation—to open up most of the downstairs—but then thought maybe the load-bearing walls were too expensive to remove.

Sophia stopped the moment she entered the door. She glanced from side to side. “Not good. Not good at all.”

“What do you feel?” I asked her.

“Give me a moment. I’m trying to process everything.”

Orik kept a close eye on her as Dante and I entered the main living room. Another door on to the far right led into a different room. The sofa bed was open, and tangled blankets draped over it. An upright piano sat against one wall, and scattered bric-a-brak covered the end tables and a few of the bookshelves. The family obviously liked to read—there were more bookshelves than I expected and most of them were filled with books. A game table sat to one side, with several boardgames on it. Another table, against a back wall next to a window overlooking the side yard, held crafting supplies. The room was cluttered in a cozy, lived-in way.

To the naked eye, everything looked normal, but then I noticed the broken vase next to an end table, and a jigsaw puzzle that had been flipped upside down on the floor.

“Where did the activity begin?” I asked.

“It’s hard to tell. At first it started in the living room, as I told you, but now it’s spread to every part of the house.” Michael sat down on the edge of the sofa bed. “I’m ready to slap a for-sale sign on the lawn and leave, except that we sank every spare dime into this place and there’s nowhere to go.”

“I’m sorry,” Dante said.

At that moment, Sophia and Orik entered the room. Sophia’s expression was a mixture of bewilderment and concern.

“Well, why don’t you show us the rest of the house?” I said.

“Yes, please,” Sophia echoed.

We followed him out into the hall and toward the kitchen. The moment we entered the room, it was obvious that whatever was haunting this place didn’t want us here. A large chef’s knife flew off the counter, aiming for Sophia. Orik pulled her out of the way as she let out a short shriek.

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