Return to Daemon Hall- Evil Roots Read online

  Unique words have untold power.

  I once uttered smitten and claimed my life partner.

  JoAnn, I’m still smitten.

  Television Transcript: The Stedman Perspective

  Guests: Ian Tremblin, Wade Reilly (show aired July 1)

  Page 2

  STEDMAN:

  I find it hard to believe that any parents in their right mind would allow their children to spend a night with you as part of this so-called contest.

  TREMBLIN:

  Bill, I can understand your concern. This time, however, things will be infinitely safer, simply from the standpoint of locale. There will be no haunted house, no lack of electricity or communication, and other adults—my staff—will be present.

  STEDMAN:

  So what’s the payoff?

  TREMBLIN:

  As with the first contest, the winner will have his or her own book, edited by me, published as part of my Macabre Master series.

  STEDMAN:

  I’m talking about your payoff, Mr. Tremblin. What do you get out of this?

  TREMBLIN:

  I get to promote literacy. I get to interact with my readership, and I’ll have the honor of assisting a budding author, just as I did with Mr. Reilly here.

  STEDMAN:

  Really? Some say your payoff is free media coverage. News in the aftermath of your first contest drastically increased your book sales.

  TREMBLIN:

  My motives are not that opportunistic.

  STEDMAN:

  So you say. Let’s turn our attention to the winner of your first contest, Wade Reilly. Wade, you’ve written a book that will soon be released. Supposedly it details terrible things that happened to you in Daemon Hall, yet you’re attending again, and your parents are allowing that. Why?

  REILLY:

  They’ve gotten to know Mr. Tremblin over the past year. They know what happened wasn’t his fault. He’s helping with my writing career, and they trust him.

  STEDMAN:

  Hmmm. Wade, besides a different locale, aren’t there other changes for this second contest?

  REILLY:

  Um, yeah, that’s true, Mr. Stedman. As a previous winner, I’ll act as a guest judge.

  STEDMAN:

  Interesting. If you didn’t have a book coming out, would you still partake in this?

  REILLY:

  I think so, yes.

  STEDMAN:

  Under what circumstances would you not participate?

  REILLY:

  There’s no way I’d do it if the contest were to take place in Daemon Hall again.

  STEDMAN:

  Not even to promote your book, Daemon Hall?

  REILLY:

  Mr. Stedman, let me state for the record that the only way I’d return to that place is if I could somehow destroy it.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  News

  Magazine

  Television Transcript

  Prologue

  To Flee the City of Shadows

  The Entering

  A Promise for Bones

  The Go-To Guy

  A Patchwork Quilt

  Epilogue

  What reviewers said about Daemon Hall

  Copyright

  Prologue

  We enter the house pretending it’s no big deal, but I know their hearts are pounding a metalcore drum solo, just like mine. My friend Demarius is tall and skinny with dreads hanging to his shoulders. Kara, the youngest, has black hair and an olive complexion. Chris is a football player with the muscles to prove it. I’m the guy who went crazy and got so scared that my hair turned completely white. We came together because of how much we like to write, so much so that we all entered Ian Tremblin’s short story contest and spent the night here.

  Terrible things happened.

  There are hours of daylight left, yet the windows are black like it’s a moonless midnight. We’d have been unable to see if someone hadn’t left a lantern on the marble floor at the base of the staircase.

  Demarius puts his five-gallon gas can on the floor and picks up the lantern. “Do you think she left the lantern for us?”

  “Who else?” I say. “It was sitting where she died.” Chelsea, like the rest of us, came for the contest. I found her body. Her neck had been broken.

  Chris and I put our gas cans down and look around the entrance hall. We stand on the marble floor between the front doors and the grand staircase. We’re in Daemon Hall, and it’s been exactly a year since that horrible night. I’ve been many different people since then. There’s the Wade who was in the mental institution writing the book, then the healed Wade who was ready to get on with life. The author emerged as I did interviews about my upcoming book. I’ve also been a vengeful Wade these past few months, plotting with my friends to destroy this place. Now I’m the coward, wishing I hadn’t come.

  Pressure builds as we hear a noise like rusty hinges on a gargantuan door. The low rumbling rolls through the house, and it’s hard to draw a breath. I can’t think or reason. I have anxiety attacks, and they scare me, but this generates fear infinitely worse. There’s a second of clarity when I see the others are terrified, too. The sound redoubles, and we panic, running in different directions. When the deafening noise stops, I’m in a dark room cowering in a corner. Where is everyone? It comes again. I squeeze my eyes shut, then sense being watched. I look to the door and see two figures. They’re hazy and erratic, like flickering images from a damaged reel of movie film.

  “Go away!” I cry. “Leave me alone!”

  They waver and vanish. Were they ghosts? The Daemons? Maybe others who came and, like Chelsea, couldn’t leave.

  The sound dies as a dim glow at the open door catches my attention. Have the ghosts returned? It grows brighter until someone stands there holding the lantern.

  “Demarius?” I gasp.

  “Wade, there you are. I haven’t found anyone else.”

  It begins. The sound. Invisible bands constrict around my chest.

  Demarius looks at me with concern. “Wade?”

  “The noise,” I manage to say, shrinking back into the corner.

  “Ignore it.”

  “What? How?” As it gets louder, I feel more compressed.

  “Pretend it’s just background noise, like nearby traffic or something.”

  I start to yell that there’s no way, but then I see that he’s unaffected. I force myself up.

  “That’s it,” Demarius reassures me. “It’s just the house messing with us—ignore it and it won’t bother you.”

  The cacophony is still there, but the fear lessens.

  “Yeah, right. It’s just noise.” Somehow, saying it makes it so and I stand. “Let’s find”—it takes a moment to center my thoughts—“Kara and Chris.”

  We have an idea where one or both of them might be; of all the rooms in the house, there is one that probably feels safest because of familiarity. We discover them hiding behind the desk in the suite that we had used that night one year before. They’re scared and hold each other so they won’t face the terror alone. We talk them through the process of ignoring the noise, and their fear eases enough that they can function.

  “Where’s the gas?” I ask.

  Chris shakes his head, and Kara looks lost.

  Demarius says, “I remember putting down my gas can and picking up the lantern.”

  Chris rubs his chin. “Yeah, we put them all down in the entrance hall.”

  Kara’s voice shakes. “Then it started. The sound.”

  “We nearly blew it,” Chris says with disgust. “Just because of a stupid noise. Come on, let’s finish what we came he
re to do.”

  Walking two abreast through the warren of hallways, we turn into a corridor that was not here last year. Where other hallways had once been, there are now walls. The architecture is dizzyingly altered, yet we make it to the great staircase and descend to the first floor and find the four gas cans. We each pick one up, except for Kara, who struggles with the weight.

  Chris places the lantern on the floor. “I’ll take it. You get ready with these.” He passes her a book of matches and picks up her can.

  Demarius sloshes gas onto the floor.

  “Demarius, don’t be an idiot. The floor’s marble. Go over there and soak the walls, the furniture, too.” Chris points past the stairs to the right. “Wade, get by the door.”

  Chris and Kara go to the left of the staircase and step into a hallway that resembles a black throat. I splash the wall, several chairs, a settee, a table: everything that isn’t stone. Five gallons goes a long way. The fumes make my eyes water as I wait by the lantern. Demarius finishes and drops his can. Chris and Kara emerge from the murky corridor. He has one can left and splashes the wall, moves farther, and splashes more. He comes to a closed set of double doors and douses them. Kara steps away; last year something grabbed her and pulled her through those doors. She’s never told anyone what happened during the hours she was missing. She hurries past and stops, watching Chris. He empties the second can and nods at Kara. She pulls a match from the matchbook. Movement catches my eye, and I see the double doors open.

  “Kara!”

  She turns and sees the hungry darkness beyond the gaping doors. What appears to be a black tree limb emerges. It has no more substance than shadow, yet it moves like a tentacle and whips around her waist, pulling her toward the room. I expect her to scream, but she concentrates on the matches and pulls one over the flint. It ignites. At the threshold she struggles to keep away from the room and what waits within. Kara touches the lit match to the rest of the matchbook, and when it flares, she tosses it against the gas-soaked wall, where it erupts in flame. She’s yanked through the doorway, and the twin doors slam.

  Flames race along that wall and ignite the doors.

  I turn to see Demarius striking a match. “Not yet!” I yell, but he touches off the gas he spilled, which in turn ignites where I’d splashed mine.

  Daemon Hall lights up in dancing hues of red, yellow, and orange. Chris and I rush to the flaming doors.

  Demarius arrives a moment later. “Let’s go!”

  The flames have spread, and smoke is filling the entrance hall.

  I shout, “Something grabbed Kara!”

  Demarius looks shocked and points to the burning double doors. “Again?”

  The sense of déjà vu is sickening. “Again.”

  “Not this time,” Chris growls. He backs away and drops into a football stance. A grim determination grows on his face, and he launches himself at the fiery doors. He lowers his shoulder and smashes through, sending one flying from its hinges to crash into the middle of the room. Flames give light to Kara’s struggle within a shadowy mass. She frees her right arm and reaches for us. Chris grabs her hand and pulls.

  The thickening smoke makes me cough. A little factoid that I’d learned in school comes to me: The majority of deaths in fires are due to smoke inhalation. That’s just great.

  Chris is pulled along with Kara to another open door. “Help me,” he grunts.

  Demarius starts after them, but I grab his arm. “Wait.”

  How can we fight something that is basically insubstantial darkness? With the opposite of dark. I rush to the burning door on the floor. I pick up one heavy end even though flames lick at my hands. Demarius understands and picks up the other side.

  “Now!” I shout.

  We heave the flaming door through the dark mass behind Kara. The shadow disappears where flames touch it. Chris yanks Kara free, and we run from the room.

  The thick smoke blinds us, and the heat is excruciating.

  “Which way to the front door?” I yell between fits of hacking.

  Nobody answers.

  Someone takes my wrist; I can’t see who.

  “Grab each other!” I shout, and reach my other hand behind me. Someone grasps it—Chris, I judge by the strong grip.

  Things detonate in the fire with cracking explosions. The blaze sounds like roaring surf. Whoever has taken the lead pulls us through a maze of smoke and flames. It’s hard to keep up; my legs feel like lead, and my lungs are tortured by smoke. I try, I really try to make it, but my knees collapse. In a semiconscious state, I barely feel pain as I roll down stone steps. My body comes to rest on hard-packed dirt and weeds. I made it out.

  Coughing and hacking, we crawl from the flaming structure. Breathing fresh air is painful, yet I suck it in. We all made it, covered in soot and ash. The fire quickly spreads, and all three stories are ablaze. Flames shoot from windows, black smoke churns into the afternoon air. The outer stone walls withstand the combustion, but inside it’s an inferno.

  Chris grabs me under the arms and hauls me to my feet. “I can’t believe you found the door,” he says, pausing to cough. “I was lost in that smoke.”

  Staring at the fire, I say, “Wasn’t me. It was Demarius or Kara.”

  “No, Kara had my other hand.”

  “And I was behind Kara,” Demarius says from the ground.

  I turn to them. “Who led us out?”

  Over the fire’s roar we hear a prolonged squeak and turn. The distant front gate opens, and a figure passes through, leaving the grounds.

  “Who is it?” Kara asks, still wheezing.

  The figure stops and looks back at us.

  “Chelsea,” Chris whispers.

  She turns away—and is no longer there.

  Subj: Ian Tremblin’s writing contest

  Date: 11/25 12:03:47 AM Eastern Standard Time

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Received from internet: click here for more information

  My dear Ms. Broadwater,

  I would like to congratulate you on becoming a finalist in my writing contest. This is quite an honor, as there will be only three finalists competing to win the grand prize: a publishing deal. There will be a small gathering at my estate, Tremblin’s Lair, during the Christmas break. On December 20 we will begin the competition, which will continue the following night, December 21. On the morning of the next day, the judges and I will select a winner. Afterward, everyone will return home in time to celebrate the holidays with their families. Reply via e-mail as to whether or not you can join us.

  Attached and awaiting download are all the legal documents that you and your parents need to sign and return posthaste. Please make clear to your parents, as I make clear to you, that this is the second contest I have held of this nature. As I am sure you are aware, the first resulted in the unfortunate death of one of the finalists. Be assured that this contest will be conducted in a safe environment. Still, it will be understandable if you or your parents are reluctant to take advantage of this opportunity.

  If you do accept this invitation, there is something you must do: write a new story that will be used in the judging of the contest. I provide the title, and you pen the tale. The title of your work is “The Entering.”

  Good luck and get writing.

  Best regards,

  Ian Tremblin

  My book had been out since September, and Ian Tremblin arranged a signing at a New York City bookstore prior to my judging his contest. He told me I’d sit at a table, meet a few readers, and sign their copies of Daemon Hall. It sounded easy enough. But Ian Tremblin couldn’t make it, and his editor, Ms. Sparks, announced that I would also do a reading. I’m not shy, but this was my first trip to New York, and she wanted me to get in front of a bunch of strangers and read from my book. What if they didn’t like it? What if they started yawning? What if they laughed?

  They pu
t me in a smallish room lined with full bookshelves. Book posters covered the walls. A podium stood at one end of the room in front of thirty folding chairs.

  “That’s all?”

  “Hey, only J. K. Rowling gets the auditoriums.” Ms. Sparks misunderstood and didn’t know I was relieved.

  The chairs were filled when it came time to start. Most were kids my age or younger. There were some cute girls, and I thought, Wow, they came to see me. Several wore only black. From the mail I’d received, I knew that Chelsea had developed a goth following; she was a hero in their eyes, but then, I felt the same. I read a selection from near the end of the book about the secret candle. When it got to the part where I discovered Chelsea’s body, I choked up. I made a mental note that if I did any more readings, I’d pick one of the short stories instead. I was led to a small table and signed books. Most of the people in line asked why Ian Tremblin wasn’t there, which knocked my ego back in place.

  “Wow! Your hair really is white,” one of the cute girls commented.

  Some say it’s an old wives’ tale that terror can turn a person’s hair white. I’m proof that it’s true.

  Afterward, a man in a black suit introduced himself as Anthony, Ian Tremblin’s driver. He’d take me the two and a half hours to Pennbrook and Tremblin’s Lair. The dry December day was cold, so Anthony cranked up the heater in the big luxury car. The leather seats were as soft as a bed, and I soon fell asleep. When I woke, we were driving through downtown Pennbrook, which sat in a valley, high hills on all sides. There were two- and three-story buildings lining both sides of the streets, mostly merchants and offices. If there’d been snow it would have looked like a quaint village on a Christmas card. A few people were out, bundled up and moving quickly. Anthony made a right and we drove through a section of Victorian homes that perched on small hills.

  “Which one is Mr. Tremblin’s?” I asked with a yawn.

  Anthony glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “It’ll be a few more minutes.”