HOUSE OF
BLOOD
BRYAN SMITH
Copyright
All rights reserved.
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 circumstance 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.
Chad Robbins shifted uncomfortably in the backseat. “What a lovely fucking 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.”
“Fuck you, Dream,” Chad said. “I had to be convinced. For months I listened to earnest pleas from all of you. You especially. You fuckers brainwashed me.”
Alicia Jackson snorted. “Bullshit.”
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, “Nobody brainwashed you, asshole. 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 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 assumption her lover of six months was exclusively heterosexual.
One can easily imagine the ensuing brouhaha.
Shocked and heartbroken, Dream spent the evening being consoled by her girlfriends, who assured 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 spaces down from the Accord-and was startled by what she saw. Every one of its windows had been smashed in. Bits of safety glass 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 assholes. You’re giving me a headache.”
“Shut up, Shane,” Alicia said, directing an angry glance at him before refocusing her attention on Chad Robbins. “You’re a sniveling little shit, 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 passive-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
