Underwood. It’s an energy manifestation. You are Peter Underwood.”
Pete grimaced. “But I’m not. I will buy that he and I seem to be connected, but I’m not this kid who had a fling with his tutor and got beat up by his dad. I’m Pete Eason, of Blackwater. My parents may have raised their voices to me on occasion, but that’s about it. They live in a house three streets over from me, and I still see them on Sundays for dinner. I’m not Peter Underwood. Not even by half.”
But Mike was looking intently at Pete now. “Carl Underwood beat his son?”
Pete shrugged. “In the memories I saw, he did. Or, I saw the after-effects at any rate. Carl was a real bastard. He was nasty to everyone and everything.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Mike insisted. “Carl was locked away most of the time. He was so ill he could hardly rise. I told you, he was borderline psychotic. Half the time he didn’t know his son was there, according to the reports.”
Pete felt cold dread rising inside him. “But that’s not what I saw. I had this—I dunno, it was like a movie of the past. I saw the dad running around, having his way with God and anybody. I think he murdered two of the slaves. I couldn’t look, so I’m not sure. And he always had the son in a locked room. When he came out, he was bruised and dejected.”
“That’s not possible,” Mike said, looking uneasy too.
Around them, the walls began to heave and groan.
No, they whispered. No. The shutters on the windows banged open and shut, and a cold wind tried to suck them into the gaping hole in the wall. No. Leave. Leave me alone. I don’t want you here anymore, Peter Eason. I don’t want you either, Mikey. I don’t want either of you to come ever again.
Pete ran his eyes over the ceiling, widening his stance and gripping Mike tighter as he braced himself against the wind. “We need to get out of this room.”
“But where will we go?” Mike asked, clinging to him. “What if the stairs disappear as we go down them? How can we get out still alive?”
Pete said nothing, because he knew the walls were listening. He took a firm hold of Mike’s hand and led him back toward the door. He had been half-afraid it would be locked, but it opened up before he could even touch it. “Come on,” he said to Mike and led him into the darkness of the hall, letting memory guide him.
He could not see, but he could feel the gashes in the walls. They were deep and numerous, and they were bleeding. And when the house realized where Pete was heading, the walls began to scream.
“Where are we going?” Mike shouted over the din.
“Your room,” Pete shouted back.
No! the walls shrieked, but once again, when Pete neared the door, it swung open for him. Still clutching tight to Mike, Pete led them both inside.
The door slammed shut behind them, and there was silence.
The room was dark, but slivers of dull daylight cut through the curtains, revealing a small room with a narrow bed, a desk, and a washbasin and stand. The room felt close and musty, but it also felt… clean. Whatever presence had been in the rest of the house, it was not in this room.
Bad things happened here. Pete wished he knew what the hell they had been.
“What the fuck is going on here?” he asked. “Why do you see one room and I see another? Why do I look down at myself sometimes and see the wrong clothes? Why can walls move and doors vanish? Why can walls bleed?”
“It’s energy.” Mike’s eyes were moving around the room. “That’s all anything ever is. This is energy that belongs with a person. With you as a person. Somehow you left this part of you behind when you were Peter Underwood, and now it’s trapped.”
“So I’m supposed to absorb it?” Pete asked.
Mike nodded. “Or release it.”
But to where? Pete ran his eyes carefully over the walls. There were no wounds here. In
Pete grimaced. “But I’m not. I will buy that he and I seem to be connected, but I’m not this kid who had a fling with his tutor and got beat up by his dad. I’m Pete Eason, of Blackwater. My parents may have raised their voices to me on occasion, but that’s about it. They live in a house three streets over from me, and I still see them on Sundays for dinner. I’m not Peter Underwood. Not even by half.”
But Mike was looking intently at Pete now. “Carl Underwood beat his son?”
Pete shrugged. “In the memories I saw, he did. Or, I saw the after-effects at any rate. Carl was a real bastard. He was nasty to everyone and everything.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Mike insisted. “Carl was locked away most of the time. He was so ill he could hardly rise. I told you, he was borderline psychotic. Half the time he didn’t know his son was there, according to the reports.”
Pete felt cold dread rising inside him. “But that’s not what I saw. I had this—I dunno, it was like a movie of the past. I saw the dad running around, having his way with God and anybody. I think he murdered two of the slaves. I couldn’t look, so I’m not sure. And he always had the son in a locked room. When he came out, he was bruised and dejected.”
“That’s not possible,” Mike said, looking uneasy too.
Around them, the walls began to heave and groan.
No, they whispered. No. The shutters on the windows banged open and shut, and a cold wind tried to suck them into the gaping hole in the wall. No. Leave. Leave me alone. I don’t want you here anymore, Peter Eason. I don’t want you either, Mikey. I don’t want either of you to come ever again.
Pete ran his eyes over the ceiling, widening his stance and gripping Mike tighter as he braced himself against the wind. “We need to get out of this room.”
“But where will we go?” Mike asked, clinging to him. “What if the stairs disappear as we go down them? How can we get out still alive?”
Pete said nothing, because he knew the walls were listening. He took a firm hold of Mike’s hand and led him back toward the door. He had been half-afraid it would be locked, but it opened up before he could even touch it. “Come on,” he said to Mike and led him into the darkness of the hall, letting memory guide him.
He could not see, but he could feel the gashes in the walls. They were deep and numerous, and they were bleeding. And when the house realized where Pete was heading, the walls began to scream.
“Where are we going?” Mike shouted over the din.
“Your room,” Pete shouted back.
No! the walls shrieked, but once again, when Pete neared the door, it swung open for him. Still clutching tight to Mike, Pete led them both inside.
The door slammed shut behind them, and there was silence.
The room was dark, but slivers of dull daylight cut through the curtains, revealing a small room with a narrow bed, a desk, and a washbasin and stand. The room felt close and musty, but it also felt… clean. Whatever presence had been in the rest of the house, it was not in this room.
Bad things happened here. Pete wished he knew what the hell they had been.
“What the fuck is going on here?” he asked. “Why do you see one room and I see another? Why do I look down at myself sometimes and see the wrong clothes? Why can walls move and doors vanish? Why can walls bleed?”
“It’s energy.” Mike’s eyes were moving around the room. “That’s all anything ever is. This is energy that belongs with a person. With you as a person. Somehow you left this part of you behind when you were Peter Underwood, and now it’s trapped.”
“So I’m supposed to absorb it?” Pete asked.
Mike nodded. “Or release it.”
But to where? Pete ran his eyes carefully over the walls. There were no wounds here. In
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