The Haunted

was there, although it wasn’t as dominant this time. It was being assimilated. He detected no sign of Claire’s dad. He wondered why, and an answer was given to him: because Roger had been killed; he had not committed suicide.

Julian understood now why the entity had revealed itself to him, why it had given him a glimpse into its makeup. It had been trying to lure him, letting him know that if he killed himself and joined with it, he would become top dog, offering him power as an incentive.

Of course, once again, his first instinct was to say no, but …

But he paused, pulling himself away from that cold touch and moving around to the side of the desk. It could have held on to him, could have maintained contact, but it knew the direction in which his thoughts had been heading and gave him space, let him think.

His mind was racing. It was a kamikaze solution that had just occurred to him, a flash of either brilliance or insanity, but he thought that if he could be the one driving the bus, if he could take control of this thing, he could kill it. He could make it commit suicide. He had no idea whether that was even possible or how it would be done, but it was worth taking the chance. He certainly didn’t want to die. He had too much to live for. But this thing had already murdered his father-in-law and attacked his kids. He had to stop it. Besides, Julian remembered the last time he had been presented with this choice. He had been pressured into trying to kill himself, and when he had refused, he’d been attacked unmercifully. This creature wanted him for some unknown reason, but he knew that it would not allow him to escape a second time. If he refused again, it would finish him off.

He was going to die today no matter what.

He was going to die.

Intellectually, James understood what that meant. But emotionally it didn’t really register—which was probably a good thing.

Wind blew out of the fireplace again, and the billowing tentacle approached him, apparently deciding that he’d had enough time to think. He moved away, stepping on papers, stepping on books, stepping on records. It followed him, the color of his desk, the color of his computer, the color of the debris.

He might not be able to kill it, but at the very least he’d be able to prevent it from attacking his family.

I’ll get both of them next time. Megan and James. And your little wifey, too.

That would never happen. He’d make sure of it.

In fact, he could stop it from going after anyone. He could make sure the entity stayed dormant, didn’t touch another person, didn’t haunt another house.

He had no choice. There was no other way to do it, no one else who could do it.

It was worth the sacrifice.

The tentacle touched his arm, colder than ice, and the second it sensed his decision, the house was back to normal. Better than normal. It was if a professional cleaning service had instantly gone over every inch of their home. Everything was in its place, the windows were clear, the wood gleamed, the metal shone. He was no longer in that cockeyed version of his office but was standing in the entryway, looking at an idealized version of their living room. Nothing was coming out of the fireplace, and he sensed no other presence in the house. If he had not known better, he would have thought this was the model home of a model family and there were no such things as ghosts or monsters or things that went bump in the night.

On an impulse, he moved into the living room, peeked out the front window. The grass on the lawn was green; the tree was leafy and shadier than it had ever been.

The yards across the street had been restored as well.

Julian turned around, seeing the spotless dining room and kitchen beyond. Now that he had made his decision, he was reluctant to carry it out. The emotional weight of what he was about to do came crashing down on him, and the only thing he wanted was to see his family. But if he tried to leave, he would be killed. He knew that intuitively and for a fact. Despite the deceptive calm in the eye of this storm, the picture-perfect fiction surrounding him now would be maintained only as long as he cooperated, as long as he did what he said he would do. Any deviation would result in death.

Still, he had a little time, and he went over to the cupboard in the dining room where Claire kept the boxes of photos that she had not had time to put into albums. He pulled out the top box and put it on the table, sorting through the pictures. He saw a photo of Megan when she was five, dressed as Princess Jasmine for Halloween; saw James at three, standing proudly in front of a fort he had built out of couch cushions. There were photos from a visit with Santa, from a trip they’d taken to the Albuquerque Zoo, from various birthday parties. He found one he’d forgotten about: himself and James at the county fair, going down the Super Slide side by side. Julian’s vision blurred as the tears came, and he’d never loved his wife or his children as much as he did at that moment.

He would never get to see Megan and James grow up, he realized, never get to go to their weddings, never get to show them these photos when they were adults, never get to see their children. It was a whole world he was going to miss, a whole life, and he was overwhelmed by a sense of loss so profound that he dropped the picture on the table, refusing to look at any more photos.

It was time, he decided.

He just had to figure out how to do it.

Hanging was out. He was afraid to go that way, and it was probably the rudest, cruelest thing he could do to his family. One of them would have to find his body, and that would be an image that would remain with the person for the rest of his or her life.

Likewise stabbing himself, which he probably wouldn’t even be able to get through.

The old M*A*S*H song was wrong, he thought. Suicide wasn’t painless.

Poison was probably the best. Or an overdose. He went into the kitchen, looking through the cupboard where they kept the medicine and vitamins. There were a couple of leftover prescription bottles from some of the kids’ winter illnesses, but they weren’t a family that kept sleeping pills around or had any heavy-duty medications. Under the sink he found Drano, and in the laundry room was bleach, but both of those would be nasty, and he wasn’t sure whether they would kill him or he would throw them up and find himself in the hospital with a lot of explaining to do.

He returned to the cupboard to check again and found a full bottle of Advil as well as a bottle of the baby aspirin that Claire had him take with his vitamins. Could he overdose on those? He read the Advil warning label: “The risk of heart attack or stroke may increase if you use more than directed.”

Yessss.

It was the voice he’d heard before.

Apparently, he was being watched more closely than he thought.

Julian picked up the Advil bottle, then paused. Was his mind being read? It seemed that way. Which meant that it knew what he was planning to do and wasn’t worried about it. Did that mean his scheme wouldn’t work?

He didn’t dwell on it, thought about something else, the price of gas, the president’s poll numbers, trying to keep his mind clear so he wouldn’t be found out. Briefly, he considered running away, dashing out of the house and hauling ass down the street. But he knew that wouldn’t work. He’d felt the power of that thing. It had grown so strong that it had physically changed the interior of his house. It would kill him before he got out the door this time.

Then it would go after Claire, Megan and James.

He needed to put an end to it once and for all.

Julian got a glass out of the dish rack, filled it with water and opened the Advil bottle. It was almost new. The label said it contained a hundred tablets. He poured several into his hand, washed them down with water. Did it again. And again, and again, until the bottle was empty. Feeling nothing yet, he wandered through the dining room and into the living room.

He thought of leaving a detailed note, being completely clear and unambiguous, because he didn’t want there to be any questions or misunderstandings, didn’t want Claire or the kids to blame themselves. This was going to be tough enough for them without the added burdens of guilt and confusion. There was no time to sit down and write a letter, however. He needed to act quickly before it figured out his plan. That was why he was still trying to shield his thoughts, trying not to think about what he was thinking, trying to concentrate on