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  We left town and drove through hills and switchbacks. There were a few smaller homes, then nothing but trees towering on each side. Anthony turned onto a gravel road that led through open iron gates and up a twisting drive. We crested a hill, and I got a good look at Tremblin’s Lair. It resembled the Addams Family mansion. Though mainly gray stone with black wood trim, there were also white highlights and muted reds. The Victorian home was at least fifty feet high. It had several high, flat roofs. Dormer windows stuck out all over the upper stories. I counted six chimneys. Even though it was winter, I could tell the grounds were well maintained. There were lots of skeletal trees, dormant shrubs, and plants. I imagined the summer landscape was full of lush greens and autumn would unveil dazzling colors.

  Anthony stopped at the stone steps leading to the cranberry-colored front door. He got my suitcase from the trunk, handed it to me, and shook my hand. “Have fun, kid.” Then he got back into the car and drove around the side of the house.

  The house was exactly the kind I expected Ian Tremblin to live in. A cold gust blew on the back of my neck. I picked up the suitcase and trotted up the steps. Before I knocked, the front door opened and a largish woman beckoned me inside.

  “Hello. You must be Wade. I’m Mrs. Rathbone, Mr. Tremblin’s housekeeper.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” I shook her hand and, as Mr. Tremblin had once instructed me, observed her in case I needed her description for a future character. She was big-bosomed and sturdy. Her brown hair was touched with gray and collected in a bun. Her face was unlined and pleasant—I imagined that the smile on her lips was pretty much there all the time. She wore a loose green sweater and a white apron.

  I’d expected Tremblin’s Lair to be gloomy, but the foyer and rooms I could see were painted bright colors. Ample afternoon sunshine came through numerous windows. The foyer was festively decorated with antique Christmas decorations, garlands, and a sprig of mistletoe hanging just inside the door. A staircase with a polished wood banister rose and split in two, one set of stairs going to the left and another to the right.

  “I’ll show you to your room.” Mrs. Rathbone led me upstairs, chatting the whole time. “The furnace runs nonstop in the winter, but it’s still cool. Wear a sweater.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  We took the right staircase and ended up in a bright yellow hallway. Black gas lamps, converted to electricity, were mounted high on either wall.

  “That’s a portrait of the man who built the home, Everett Billings. He was a railroad baron and had the house constructed in the eighteen hundreds.”

  We passed a couple of open doors. I peeked in to see pleasantly decorated bedrooms and high beds draped with thick quilts.

  “Breakfast is served at eight, lunch at noon, and dinner at eight. If you get hungry in between, help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I know how teenagers can be.”

  “Thank you.”

  We stopped at a third room, and she pointed me in. “This is yours. Any questions?”

  “Is Tremblin’s Lair haunted?”

  Mrs. Rathbone’s eyes lit up and she laughed, making a dismissive gesture with her hand, then she immediately stopped. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh, considering what happened in Maplewood. No, the only one who haunts these hallways is Mr. Tremblin.”

  I smiled. “I can handle that.”

  “Why don’t you unpack. I think the others are all in the solarium.”

  I put my suitcase on the bed and went downstairs. Passing the dining room and kitchen, I followed a hallway with black-and-white-checked tile to a door. I put my ear to it and heard conversation.

  At first I couldn’t make out any words until a loud voice proclaimed, “It is true.”

  A flash of recognition hit me, and I flung open the door. “Demarius!”

  “Wade!”

  Tall, skinny, and wearing a scuffed suede jacket, Demarius crossed the room, dreadlocks swinging, and pulled me into an embrace. “Good to see you, bro.”

  “You too. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “Mr. Tremblin invited me,” Demarius said. “He asked Chris and Kara, too, but they turned him down flat. I’m going to be a cojudge with you.”

  “So you’re two of the judges I have to bribe?” a smiling girl said. She was about our age, and her shoulder-length hair was honey-brown. Like Demarius, she seemed tall; she wore a red sweatshirt emblazoned with BANFF NATIONAL PARK. “I’m Lucinda Taylor, a contestant.”

  “I’m in the contest, too,” another said. She pushed up from a low sofa, and my heart skipped a beat. “I’m Millie Broadwater.” She wore a white sweater with tight faded jeans. Her body was fit and curvy in all the right places, and she parted her long black hair in the middle. I found myself drawn to serious brown eyes that angled up at the corners. Her nose was straight and small, her lips full. It took a moment for me to realize she had her hand out.

  “Oh, uh, pleased to meet you,” I mumbled, and we shook.

  “Lucinda is from Alberta,” Demarius said. “And, get this, Millie is from Carrolton.”

  “Carrolton? Really?” The last contest was held in Maplewood, where Demarius and I live. Carrolton was a small town less than an hour from there.

  “Yeah. I entered the other contest, too, but didn’t make the cut. This time I plan to win and get published. Speaking of which, how’s it feel to have a book out?”

  “It’s pretty cool. I mean, it’s at bookstores and all. I did a reading earlier today. But you know what? Even with all that, it still hasn’t sunk in.”

  “You’re crazy,” Lucinda exclaimed. “If I were published I’d—” She looked at me a moment. “Oh—sorry. I didn’t mean you were crazy insane. I meant, uh—”

  “It’s okay.” It sucked that everyone knew I’d been institutionalized.

  “Really? Then I’d like to say, wow, your hair is really white.”

  “Yeah, people keep reminding me.” I sat in a deeply cushioned chair and looked around. Windows dominated two walls, stands of plants lined up in front of them. A Christmas tree nearly as high as the ceiling filled the room and was decorated with crystal ornaments, red ribbons, and small white lights.

  Millie returned to her seat. “This is so cool, being in Ian Tremblin’s house.”

  Lucinda piped in, “Yeah, I can’t wait to meet him.”

  We laughed, until the lights went out. A resonant voice spoke in rhyme.

  Be careful who you wish to meet.

  You may find he’s not so sweet.

  The chill you feel will get much colder,

  with his hand upon your shoulder.

  Lucinda yelped.

  A second later a small light flicked on, a flashlight. It was held by the man we were discussing, the man who had terrorized me one night and had then gone on to mentor me. I smiled as he stood tall and shadowy behind Lucinda, hand on her shoulder.

  “Hello, dear,” he said, removing his hand. “You must be Lucinda Taylor.”

  “Mr. Tremblin?” Lucinda was awed. “You scared me.”

  He turned from her, taking a couple of steps and flipping a light switch. “I apologize, but Wade and Demarius will attest that I like an entrance.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Demarius agreed. “How’d you sneak in?”

  “What would Tremblin’s Lair be without a secret passage or two?” He pointed to shelves in one of the corners; they’d swung out to reveal a dark passageway.

  “Awesome,” I said.

  “Ah, Wade. Mrs. Rathbone informed me that you’d arrived.” He walked across the room and we shook hands.

  “I missed you at the signing today.”

  “I didn’t want to distract from what should have been a special day for you.” He leaned close and whispered so that only I could hear, “Well done with the fire. I wish I could have been there to see that despicable place go up in flames.”

  He hadn’t changed much. His gray hair was short, his beard was long, and he peered through wire spectacles. He had on a forest g
reen smoking jacket that looked like something Sherlock Holmes would have worn at his Baker Street apartment.

  He stepped to Millie and took her hand. “I hope you don’t mind my silly antics.”

  “Not at all,” Millie said, smiling.

  The solarium door opened and a kid with a thatch of red hair peeked in.

  Mr. Tremblin motioned him in. “Allow me to introduce our third and final contestant, Matt Matthews from Tempe, Arizona.”

  Matt looked ready to bolt, then put on an expression of superiority. He was about twelve and packing too much excess weight. The waist size on his khaki pants was obviously a greater number than the length, and his plaid button-down shirt had an honest-to-goodness pocket protector. I imagined the cutting nicknames he probably endured: Fat Matt, Mammoth Matt, Freckle Face, Pizza Face, the good old standbys dork and nerd. When he opened his mouth to speak, two more came to mind: Metal Mouth and Brace Face.

  He pointed at Millie and said, “She’s the hot chick.” His finger traveled to Lucinda. “And she’s the sarcastic girl.” He moved on to me. “The returning hero and”—indicating Demarius—“the African-American. Me? I’m the geek. If we follow horror-movie protocol, the first to be killed will either be you,” he said to Demarius, “or me.”

  “Nah.” Demarius crossed his arms. “I broke that stereotype last year.”

  “Besides,” Millie said, smiling, “I’m Native American. I might go first.”

  Matt shook his head. “Nope, hot chick status overrules all others.”

  Mr. Tremblin sternly interrupted, “No one is dying, Mr. Matthews, nor is anyone to be labeled anything other than writer while in my home. Is that understood?”

  Matt looked down. “Sure—whatever.”

  “Mr. Matthews has numerous talents, including an in-depth knowledge of computers. All morning he’s been demonstrating ways to improve my Web site.”

  “Good to meet you, Matt,” Demarius said, and turned to Millie. “You’re an Indian? Which tribe?”

  “Nanticoke.”

  Demarius turned to me wide-eyed and whispered, “Oaskagu.”

  “Oaska-what?” Lucinda asked.

  “Oaskagu,” I repeated. “The Nanticoke name for the land Daemon Hall was built on. It means dark land.”

  “Or black land,” Millie added.

  “I remember,” Lucinda said. “That was in your book.”

  “It was history I’d uncovered while researching Daemon Hall,” Ian Tremblin said. “I told them about it during the initial competition. I should have paid closer attention. I would have known not to conduct it there.”

  Lucinda hiccuped a quick laugh. “It’s funny that you guys are still trying to make it sound like Wade’s book is true.”

  “Really,” Matt agreed.

  Mr. Tremblin rubbed his hands together. “We have dinner reservations in town. I hope everyone has an appetite for fine dining as well as conversation, as we will undoubtedly tackle your disbelief in the evil of Daemon Hall.”

  We changed into nice clothes. Demarius, Matt, and I were the first ones back to the solarium. Tremblin soon joined us. Ten minutes later, Millie walked in and I couldn’t help but stare. She had on a tight violet sundress with stringy straps, which was totally at odds with the weather. To compensate, she carried a heavy down jacket. Her only jewelry was a thin watch on her left wrist. Tan hiking boots were on her feet, and somehow the clunky footwear highlighted her legs, which were downright beautiful. I forced my eyes up and saw her gazing at me, eyebrows raised.

  All of a sudden I feared the ol’ why don’t you take a picture, it’ll last longer comment, so I blurted out, “You look nice.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  Lucinda came in wearing jeans, a fancy blue-checked blouse, and a gray leather jacket. She’d brushed her cheekbones with glitter.

  Demarius and I struggled not to laugh when Matt said, “You have something on your face.”

  She blew her bangs from her eyes and gave Matt a look that said he was one stupid comment away from being tossed into the Hudson River. This was going to be a fun group to hang with.

  We put on jackets, gloves, and hats and stood in front of Tremblin’s Lair puffing faux smoke rings in the frigid air. Ian Tremblin announced that we would eat at Amalfi’s Crest, his favorite restaurant. Anthony pulled up in a large SUV that had a bumper sticker that read Cthulhu for president; why settle for the lesser of two evils?

  Lucinda said, “Never heard of that candidate.”

  Matt, in a snooty, know-it-all fashion, said, “Cthulhu”—he pronounced it KUH-thoo-loo—“is the biggest and most evil of H. P. Lovecraft’s monster gods.”

  Lucinda stared at him.

  “The bumper sticker is a joke. It’s pretty funny if you get it.”

  Lucinda looked at me and said, “He’s obnoxious, but I’m getting fond of the kid.”

  Amalfi’s Crest was a brick building on Main Street. The walls were painted burgundy and were lined with lattices through which plastic grapevines had been woven. Tremblin was greeted by the owner, Antonia, a short, dark-haired woman. We passed through the kitchen, stopping so she could introduce her husband, Richie, who wore a stained apron and worked in a fog of steam. She led us into a cozy dining room with one table that could easily seat ten.

  We removed our winter wear as Mrs. Amalfi bustled about the room lighting candles set in straw-bottomed bottles. She left and came back with drinks and baskets of breadsticks. I like spicy food, so at Ian Tremblin’s suggestion, I ordered seafood fra diavolo, a shrimp and scallop pasta dish with a sauce that has its temperature cranked up with freshly crushed peppers.

  “Pasta scungilli,” Matt ordered with an Italian accent, waving a hand as he said it. It brought a smile to Mrs. Amalfi and made the rest of us crack up. “What?”

  “What’s a scun-GEE-lee?” Demarius mimicked his pronunciation.

  “It’s a conch,” Matt said with a generous portion of know-it-all attitude.

  “A what?” Demarius asked.

  “The meat that comes from a conch shell,” Millie said.

  “Conch, snail, whelk, mollusk, and—most important—delicious!” Matt sat between Lucinda and Demarius. Millie and I ended up next to each other on the other side. Ian Tremblin sat to my right at the head of the table.

  Lucinda elbowed Matt. “Pass the breadsticks, Scungilli.”

  “Matt,” he muttered and held the basket as she took one.

  “I propose a toast,” Ian Tremblin announced, standing and holding up his glass of Chianti. We all stood and did likewise with our drinks. “To our new batch of contestants: Millie, Lucinda, and Scungilli.”

  Matt tried not to grin at what was probably his first nonmalicious nickname.

  “To the new batch.” We laughed and took a drink.

  “And,” Millie said, “to last year’s winner, Wade Reilly.”

  “Hear, hear!” Ian Tremblin echoed.

  Millie toasted me? A stupid grin grew on my face.

  After the salutations, we sat and Demarius asked, “Mr. Tremblin, I’m working on a sea witch story, kind of a Blair Witch in water, and it’s just not scary. Why do some things work and others don’t?”

  “Oh, limitless factors go into what is scary. Much of it has to do with your audience. Serial killers work well because they really exist, and anyone could be a victim. A claustrophobic person would be more terrified of a story about a live burial than someone without a fear of closed-in spaces. Take Wade’s book, for example—”

  “Yeah, that’s terrifying because I was there,” Demarius muttered.

  “Sure you were.” Lucinda nodded mockingly.

  Ian Tremblin put up a hand. “I’m referring to the mention of the eighteenth-century English who settled on the land near Daemon Hall and how all the children vanished in one night. That might be mildly creepy to you whereas, to a parent, it could be downright bloodcurdling. Speaking of scary, how did everyone do with the writing assignment?”

  “
Good,” Millie said. “It was the easiest story I’ve ever written.”

  “Really? Me too,” Matt added. “Even though your title messed me up at first.”

  “Those titles weren’t from me. I just passed them along.”

  “Who came up with them?” Demarius asked.

  “All in good time,” Ian Tremblin said with a smile and a wink.

  “When I got mine, ‘A Patchwork Quilt,’ I wondered how I could make that scary,” Lucinda said. “But for some reason it flowed. I like how demented it turned out.”

  “Hey, Demarius, did you get a title?” I was curious because, even though I was a judge, Ian Tremblin had wanted me to write something.

  “Yeah. ‘The Go-To Guy.’”

  “If Demarius and I are judges, Mr. Tremblin, why do you want stories from us?”

  “There were five titles to work with. When you learn where I got them, you’ll understand. On the other hand, I love a good story and know that you both can provide entertaining tales.” He peeked over his spectacles. “I assigned Wade ‘The Leaving.’ How did it turn out?”

  That was the question I’d hoped to avoid. I’ve never suffered from writer’s block, but when I was working on the story, it was like there was a wall between my brain and the word processor. I spent hours trying but couldn’t think of a thing.

  Everyone, including Millie, looked at me expectantly. Before I could stop myself, I lied. “It’s okay.” I tried to change the course of conversation. “So, Mr. Tremblin, are you working on anything?”

  “I’m always in the middle of something. Right now it’s a novel about a young woman who runs a Web site where people can post videos they take of paranormal experiences. I’m thinking of calling it Boo-Tube.” We laughed, and he continued, “Oh, and I’ve also written a short story for tonight.”

  “All right! Tell it,” Demarius said.

  “I was going to wait until later, but perhaps I can relate it before our food arrives.”

  “Did you get the title from the same place as ours?” Millie asked.

  “No. You see, I’m fascinated with the final story I told Wade in Daemon Hall. I don’t remember anything that far into the night, so the fact that it was a story I told with no memory of doing so intrigues me.”