House Of Blood Part 1

HOUSE OF.

BLOOD.

BRYAN SMITH.

This book is dedicated to the memory of Lonnie L. Smith, who should be here to see this dream come true.

I love you, Dad.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

The author would like to thank the following people: My mother, Cherie Smith, who along with my father steered me through some dark times. For this, I will always be grateful. My wife Rachael, for believing in me and seeing me through many ups and downs. Brian Keene, the patron saint of up-and-coming horror writers. James Newman, for timely advice. Undaunted Press editor Cullen Bunn. My longtime friends Keith Ashley, Brent Wilhoite, and Paul Minturn. My brothers Jeff Smith and Eric Smith and their families. The whole Shocklines gang. The brewers of Guinness Extra Stout. And of course, editor Don D'Auria.

Being the rock *n' roll fanboy I am, I'd be remiss not to thank these guys for making music that's kept me marginally sane throughout the years: The Replacements, Hanoi Rocks, Guns N' Roses, Backyard Babies, Zodiac Mindwarp, Iggy, and the Ramones.

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Later they would all agree they should have stayed on that dark stretch of Tennessee highway. One or two of those left alive at that point would remark on how useless it is to want to change something that cannot be changed-the kind of insight normally available only to people forced by circ.u.mstance to move beyond the self-centered world of their own psyches and see things as they really are. They would also experience the bitter realization that such knowledge is often earned the hard way.

But all that was in the future.

Right now the travelers were still on the interstate, five weary young people returning from a vacation that hadn't gone quite as well as planned. Squeezed into a Honda Accord, they were engaged in the age-old ritual of returning vacationers everywhere-general bickering and the exchange of petty insults.

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Chad Robbins shifted uncomfortably in the backseat. "What a lovely f.u.c.king idea this was." He breathed a put upon sigh. "Remind me, who thought it would be fun to relive those not-so-long-ago halcyon days of our college years?"

"You did, Chad. Among others."

"f.u.c.k you, Dream," Chad said. "I had to be convinced. For months I listened to earnest pleas from all of you. You especially. You f.u.c.kers brainwashed me."

Alicia Jackson snorted. "Bulls.h.i.t."

Dream Weaver, the Accord's owner and driver, glanced to her right, where a red-eyed and out-of-patience Alicia was ensconced in the shotgun seat. "Alicia, please."

Too late.

Alicia's seat belt seemed to snap away of its own accord as she whirled around, leaned through the gap between the front seats, and said, "n.o.body brainwashed you, a.s.shole. You wanna know who came up with this idea? I did. That's right, and I didn't manipulate you or cajole you in any way. You got asked maybe twice to go along with us, and that was only out of misguided courtesy. You're only here because Dream took pity on you. Like always. Jesus Christ, you're still the little outcast geek she kept the seniors from beating up in high school." Her lips curled into a sneer that radiated contempt. "Some things never change, right? You didn't know how to be gracious then, either."

Dream gripped the steering wheel hard and prayed for an end to the fighting. She had never dealt well with extreme displays of anger among her friends, and she was trying hard not to cry. Crying would be bad. Because once the tears began to flow, she would have to pull over

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and cry until she could cry no more, a process she suspected would take a very long time. Of course, she would only be delaying the inevitable if she managed to stem the floodgates.

The trip to Key West had come to an abrupt and premature end. Things hadn't gone well almost from the beginning, when tempers soared over the inability of certain people to adhere to the previously agreed upon departure time-and the situation only deteriorated from there. Due to a desire to re-create that wistfully remembered spirit of collegiate camaraderie, they'd traveled together, taking just two cars. The second car, a VW Beetle, was still in Key West. The Beetle belonged to Dan Bishop, Dream's boyfriend.

Ex-boyfriend now.

Who was probably still in room 206 of the Paradise Inn. On the sixth day of their stay, Dream had returned early from a shopping excursion with Alicia and Karen Hidecki. When she'd opened the door to room 206, she'd caught Dan in what could only be described as a compromising position. That is, it compromised certain illusions of fidelity and monogamy. The revelation also compromised the a.s.sumption her lover of six months was exclusively heteros.e.xual.

One can easily imagine the ensuing brouhaha.

Shocked and heartbroken, Dream spent the evening being consoled by her girlfriends, who a.s.sured her over and over that Dan was a heartless fiend unworthy of her tears. They left in a rush the next morning, hurriedly cramming strewn clothes and tourist booty into bags and suitcases. Before they departed, Dream happened to glance at Dan's Beetle-which was parked several s.p.a.ces down from the

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Accord-and was startled by what she saw. Every one of its windows had been smashed in. Bits of safety gla.s.s glittered on the faded asphalt like pebbles on a beach.

And then they were gone, grimly embarking on a journey home Dream was determined to make in one day's time. They had been on the road now nearly fourteen hours, with some 120 miles still remaining between them and Nashville, home to all of them. They were in the high country of East Tennessee now, just outside Chattanooga, and the going was excruciatingly slow. The road was shrouded by tall trees on both sides and sloped precipitously, curving wildly through the mountainous region like the pencil squiggles of a young child. Their ears popped due to the elevation, and they would occasionally see where roadside ramps had been carved from the earth for runaway trucks. It was a dangerous route even in daylight, so Dream grudgingly adhered to the posted low speed limits. She thought she might not be so careful if she was traveling alone.

Perhaps she would even be a little reckless.

But she wasn't alone. There were four other people with her, three of whom were her oldest friends. The fourth was Shane Wallace, Karen Hidecki's boyfriend. Shane and Karen were in the backseat with Chad. Karen sagged unconscious between them, her head lolling on Shane's shoulder, a cowboy hat tipped down over her slack features.

Shane, who was normally good-humored in the traditional manner of a former BMOC, was as cranky as any of them. "Stop arguing, you a.s.sholes. You're giving me a headache."

"Shut up, Shane," Alicia said, directing an angry glance

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at him before refocusing her attention on Chad Robbins. "You're a sniveling little s.h.i.t, Chad. How dare you attack a sweetheart like Dream."

"How dare I?" A small smile touched the corners of Chad's mouth. "Maybe I'm tired of being her charity case, hmm?" He laughed. "Or could it be I'm tired of the pa.s.sive-aggressive games she plays in our so-called friendship? Maybe I've just come to loathe the ever-present hint of condescension in her little girly voice." Another laugh. "Oh, there could be all sorts of reasons I'd lash out at such a ... sweetheart."

Dream wiped away a single tear as it spilled down her cheek. "Alicia!" Her voice was strangled with grief. "If you love me ... please stop this."

Relief swept over her as she heard Alicia release a deep sigh. She allowed herself to hope the worst of it was over. Alicia Jackson had a temper like no one else Dream knew. She was like Jekyll and Hyde. Alicia was a sophisticated black woman who could dazzle you with her wit and intelligence. A person could have the most enlightening conversations with Alicia about science and G.o.d and the nature of the universe. But you didn't want to offend her, because she would not hesitate to use that same intellect as a weapon. She was completely without fear of confrontation. But she was also sensitive enough to know when it was time to back off.

Like now.

She showed Chad one more sneer, investing it with all the considerable disdain she could muster, and returned to her seat. "You're not even worth crushing under my heel, c.o.c.kroach."

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Chad chuckled. "Oooh, now you're just turning me on."

Alicia looked at Dream and made the universal sign for gagging-a finger pointed into a wide-open mouth. Dream mustered a small smile, but she was unable to control the trembling that caused the expression to twist into a grimace. She had been unprepared for the psychological wallop of Chad's hateful words. She heard them again in her mind, marveled at the intensity of feeling behind them, and wondered how it was sweet Chad Robbins could have masked that degree of resentment for so long. Which begged the question-just how long had he felt this way about her?

All along, said a quietly insinuating voice that issued from somewhere deep inside her. He's hated you from the very beginning.

Dream believed this was the voice of paranoia, but she did feel some uncertainty. Her first memories of Chad were of a sweet kid who somehow managed to be at once gawky and serenely at ease with himself. He was just another geek wandering the hallways of Smyrna High School, one of so many, and he likely would never have entered her social circle had happenstance not caused her to be in the vicinity of an impending beating he'd been about to receive at the hands of several large football players.

What a ditz she'd been in those days. Although wildly popular and possessed of the kind of head-turning blond beauty that might have landed her on the covers of fashion magazines had she grown up in a major metropolitan center, Dream had somehow turned out to be that rarity of rarities among popular, good-looking kids-a kind soul. A

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therapist had once attributed her selflessness and altruism to the absurd moniker her parents had burdened her with at birth, which made as much sense as anything else. A girl named Dream certainly didn't want to be anybody's nightmare. Of course, that didn't explain why Chad had become so important to her almost from the beginning. He wasn't the first gawky kid she saved from a beating, nor was he the last, but he was the only one she'd truly taken under her wing.

There'd been a sort of sweetness about him back then, and she was a sucker for sweet, shy boys, but there was something else about him that fascinated her, something less tangible than a pleasant disposition. She thought it had something to do with the way he looked her right in the eye when speaking or listening to her. He was never nervous around her, and he didn't try to impress her by performing feats of astonishing stupidity the way so many other boys did. Maybe it was just that he was the first person of the male persuasion to treat her like a real person instead of an object. It was also of no little significance that he didn't make fun of her unusual name. h.e.l.l, there'd just been a sense of ingrained decency about him, and she'd responded to that.

... maybe I'm tired of being her charity case ...

She eventually decided the reason for his apparent lack of physical interest in her was a simple matter of orientation. She wasn't a sn.o.b about her looks, but she was intelligent enough-and self-aware enough-to know she was extremely attractive by just about any standard. Nearly every male she encountered let her know this in some way, either by openly ogling her or-in the case of older men-glancing

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at certain parts of her anatomy in a surrept.i.tious way. Since Chad didn't do these things-and since he was never in the company of a girl other than herself or her friends-he had to be h.o.m.os.e.xual. It was this ill-informed conclusion that brought about one of the most awkward moments of their friendship, that weekend after high school graduation when she'd set him up on a blind date with another boy.

There was just one problem.

Chad was straight.

He didn't date girls until well into their freshman year at college, and when he did begin dating, the girls he went out with were shy, bookish types. Dream experienced an odd sense of rejection. She obsessed over his lack of interest in her. Oh, she'd never been really attracted to him, not physically, but she was mystified by the notion of a heteros.e.xual boy who didn't want her. Thinking these things made her feel shallow, but she couldn't help it. A lifetime as a s.e.x object left a girl with certain expectations. Ten years had gone by and she still didn't understand it. She experienced moments of deep depression during which it was all she could think about. She would lock herself in her apartment, drink wine, and cry over the only boy who had never tried to f.u.c.k her. Who, she would admit to herself when the wine bottle was nearly empty, was the only boy she really wanted.

Which was just insane.

Yes, perhaps insanity, or something very close to it, did play a role. That would help explain the only half-serious suicide attempt of two years ago she had never told him about. At least Alicia had kept her mouth shut about that tonight, thank G.o.d. She hadn't really wanted to die-not

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then-but the attempt landed her in the emergency room and left her with a legacy of scars. She normally concealed these with bracelets, but there were nights when she would lie alone in bed and stare at the little white lines on her left wrist and remember how it felt to part her own flesh with a blade.

Never again, she usually thought in those moments.

But now she wasn't so sure.

There was a sudden hiccup from the backseat.

Dream glanced at the rearview mirror and saw Karen Hidecki stir from her vodka-induced slumber. Karen was a third-generation Asian-American who looked a bit like Lucy Liu. She pushed back the cowboy hat, squinted, and looked around at her companions. "Are we home yet?"

Chad snorted. "No, you f.u.c.king lush. We're still a gazillion miles away."

Karen's head wobbled as she directed a gla.s.sy-eyed glare at Chad. "Don't talk to me like that, Chad. Not unless you want your a.s.s kicked."

Chad, who was slightly built and no match for the athletic Karen Hidecki, nonetheless said, "Kick away, vodka girl. I'm not afraid of you." He grinned. "You're about twelve steps away from being able to effectively aim your foot at my a.s.s, anyway."