Wicked Dead
Lurker By Stefan Petrucha and Thomas Pendleton
THOMAS PENDLETON dedicates this book to JCP and all the
STEFAN PETRUCHA dedicates this book to the dead—Martin, Felicia, Amelia, Michael, Frank, Mary, Joseph L., and the many others he does not know. He hopes you’ve all got a great game going somewhere.
PROLOGUE
At the end of a long field of dead grass otherwise surrounded by forest, the six-story Georgian mansion jutted up on the horizon. Huge and vacant, glass gone from most windows, it seemed held up by the pregnant clouds that swirled in the darkening sky. Its rotted front doors, tall and wide enough for an SUV to pass through, were bracketed by flattened columns. Atop these sat a triangular cornice, the letters on its lowest beam still reading Lockwood Orphanage—a name that had seemingly outlived its purpose, for now the house appeared as abandoned as its former occupants.
When evening approached and the rain began, when the winds yowled and the thunder boomed, the dark inside the gutted rooms became a great and wonderful thing. Deeper than the storm, deeper than the growing night, it covered everything completely: moldering furniture, rotted toys and schoolbooks, the history, the decay, even the bits of nature that had creeped in over the years.
But no dark is perfect. A small circle of yellow light stuck out on the enormous stairs in the main hall like a speck on a blank sheet of paper. It moved down, a single step at a single time, slowly at first, then faster and faster, as if once confident it was alone, it felt a need for speed.
“As long as you insist on holding the lamp, Mary, could you at least slow down for the rest of us?” Daphne whispered as she caught up with the light. Her voice was soft, straining to be gentle, but it was still more a command than a request. She was a tall girl, severe, with sharp, short brown hair and a pointed nose. She wore what looked like striped men’s pajamas. On someone else, they might have looked clownish, but somehow they only added to her air of authority.
Mary turned and answered, “All right.” As she did, the gold ringlets of the petite girl’s hair picked up the light from the old oil lamp she held, giving her pale white face a curved, irregular frame.
But Mary didn’t slow enough, so Daphne put a hand out to stop her completely. Now the lamp swung slightly, illuminating Mary’s long, flowing nightdress, parts of which were nearly transparent, revealing a bit of shoulder and some slight cleavage. With Mary motionless, two more girls emerged from the black, and all four figures huddled quietly together on the stairs, their whispers muffled by the storm.
“Do you have to always bring that stupid lantern? The oil smells like fish. Can’t we at least find a flashlight? It isn’t the Middle Ages anymore, you know.”
This from Anne, who seemed to be the same age as Mary but couldn’t have been more different. Even the long black T-shirt she wore for pajamas seemed defiant and annoyed in the way it refused to just slip into shadow.
“It’s hardly stupid,” Mary objected. “I like the soft light it casts, and besides, it’s a tradition. If you don’t like it, hold your nose.”
The objection at least temporarily squelched, the foursome proceeded down the stairs, footsteps as quiet as their breath. It wasn’t until they hit the final step that a distant wooden creak made them pause again, this time all at once.
“What was that?” said Shirley, poking her head up above her slumped shoulders. The mousy redhead’s eyes darted this way and that, searching the gloom.
“Just the rats, “Daphne answered. She said this quickly, as if to beat out Anne, who looked about to say something hurtful.
With that, the four reached the floor. Staying close to one another, they drifted across a cavernous space, maneuvering around tattered furniture and wide dangerous gaps in the wooden floor. By and by they reached the rough center of the great room.
Mary set the lamp on the dust-frosted planks, then walked toward one of the few windows that wasn’t broken or boarded up. Leaning into the tall old glass, resting her forehead on its coolness, she peered up through black trees to the anxious gray clouds.
“What are you doing?” Shirley asked, shaking the sleeve of her long, high-necked wool nightgown for better biting access to a pinky nail. “Should you be doing that? Shouldn’t we get started?”
“Shh. It’s all right,” Mary said. “The storm is loud and we’re safe. Listen. You can hear the thicker drops crashing through the leaves, thudding into the dirt like insect meteorites.”
Anne rolled her eyes. “Wow. Freak much? Can’t you just call rain, rain?”
Mary flashed her a glance. “No,” she answered. “Because then it would just be rain.”
She turned back to the window and continued listening, out of spite, it seemed.
“I love the thunder,” Mary said wistfully. “I love to watch the lightning play among the clouds in the heavens, and dart in jagged figures upon the piny hills.”
Anne plopped down on an ancient couch and crossed her arms across her chest. “Whenever you’re ready, Emily Dickinson.”
“What’s the hurry, Anne? Are you writing a book?” Shirley said, poking her head up. Tickled by her comment, she sat on the floor and started biting the nail of her right thumb, working it back and forth as she nibbled.
“‘Are you writing a book?’” Anne shot back, mocking the whiny voice. “What exactly does that mean, anyway? Or is it just one of those things you like to say?”
“Let her alone,” Daphne said, breaking her recent silence and striding fully into the lamplight. It revealed a bit
