Chapter 1

A/N: To introduce readers to the story as it is going in canon when the point-of-divergence occurs, I have included about Chapter 8, 9 and 10, straight from the book. It's something I generally try to avoid, but I needed to depict these canon scenes anyway. I had to manually retype every word of those chapters, so there was nonetheless real effort involved. The story begins on July 2nd, 1980.

They got back to Santa Leona at ten forty-five and stopped at a service station on Broadway. The place was closed for the night; the only light was in the soft-drink machine. Roy fished in his pocket for change. "What do you want? I'm buying."

"I have some money," Colin said.

"You bought supper."

"Well… okay. I'll have a grape."

They were silent for a while, chugging their drinks.

Finally Roy said, "This is a great night, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"You having fun?"

"Sure."

"I'm having one hell of a good time, and you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because you're here," Roy said.

"Yeah," Colin said, heavy on self-deprecation, "I'm always the life of the party."

"I mean it," Roy said. "A guy couldn't ask for a better friend than you."

This time, the cause of Colin's blush was as much pride as embarrassment.

"In fact," Roy said, "you're the only friend I have, and the only friend I need."

"You've got hundreds of friends."

"They're just acquaintances. There's a big difference between friends and acquaintances. Until you moved to town, I'd been a long time between friends."

Colin didn't know if Roy was telling the truth or making fun of him. He had no experience by which to judge, for no one else had ever talked to him as Roy had just done.

Roy put down his half-finished bottle of cola and took a penknife out of his pocket. "I think it's time for this."

"For what?"

"Standing in the soft light from the soda machine, Roy opened the knife, put the sharp pint against the meaty part of his palm, and pressed hard enough to draw blood: a single thick drop like a crimson pearl. He squeezed the tiny wound until more blood oozed from it and trickled down his hand.

Colin was aghast. "Why'd you do that?"

"Hold out your hand."

"Are you crazy?"

"We'll do it just like the Indians."

"Do what?"

"We'll be blood brothers."

"We're already friends."

"Being blood brothers is a whole lot better."

"Oh yeah? Why?"

"When our blood has mingled, we'll be like one person. In the future, any friends I make will automatically become your friends. And your friends will be mine. We'll always stand together, never apart. The enemies of one will be enemies of the other, so we'll be twice as strong and twice as smart as anyone else. We'll never fight alone. It'll be you and me against the whole damned world. And the world better look out."

"All of that because of a bloody handshake?" Colin asked.

"The important thing is what the handshake symbolizes. It stands for friendship and love and trust."

Colin was unable to take his eyes from the scarlet thread that crossed Roy's palm and wrist.

"Give me your hand," Roy said.

Colin was excited about being blood brothers with Roy, but he was also squeamish. "That knife doesn't look clean."

"It is."

"You can get blood poisoning from a dirty cut."

"If there was any chance of that, would I have cut myself first?"

Colin hesitated.

"For Christ's sake," Roy said, "the whole won't be any bigger than a pinprick. Now give me your hand."

Reluctantly Colin held out his right hand, palm up. He was trembling. Roy grasped him firmly and put the point of the blade to his skin. "It'll just sting for a second," Roy assured him.

Colin didn't dare speak for fear his voice would quaver badly.

The pain was sudden, sharp, but not long-lasting. Colin bit his lip, determined not to cry out.

Roy folded the knife and put it away.

With shaking fingers Colin pressed the wound until it was bleeding freely.

Roy slipped his bloody hand into Colin's. His grip was firm. Colin squeezed back with all his strength. Their wet flesh made a barely audible squishing sound as they shook hands.

They stood in front of the deserted service station, in cool night air scented with gasoline, breathing each other's breath, feeling strong and special and wild.

"My brother," Roy said.

"My brother."

"Forever," Roy said.

"Forever."

Colin concentrated hard on the pinprick in his hand, trying to sense that moment when Roy's blood first began to creep into his own veins.

XX

After the impromptu ceremony, Roy wiped his sticky hand on his jeans and picked up his unfinished Pepsi.

"What do you want to do next?"

"It's after eleven," Colin said.

"An hour from now, do you turn into a pumpkin?"

"I'd better go home."

"It's early."

"If my mother gets back and I'm not there, she'll worry.

"From what you've told me, she doesn't sound like the kind of mother who'd worry about a kid too much."

"I don't want to get into trouble."

"I thought she went to dinner with this Thornberg guy."

"That was around nine o'clock," Colin said. "She might be getting home soon."

"Boy, are you naïve."

Colin looked at him warily. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"She won't be home for hours."

"How do you know?"

"About now," Roy said, "they've had dinner and brandy, and old Thornberg's just getting her into bed at his place."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Colin said uneasily. But he remembered how his mother had looked when she'd gone out: fresh, crisp and beautiful in a clinging, low-cut dress.

Roy leered at him, winked. "You think your mother's a virgin?"

"Of course not."

"So did she suddenly become a nun or something?"

"Jeez."

"Face it, good buddy, your mother screws around like everyone else."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I'd sure as hell like to screw her."

"Stop it!"

"Touchy, touchy."

"Are we blood brothers or not?" Colin asked.

Roy swallowed the last of his soft drink. "What's that got to do with it."

"If you're my blood brother, you've got to show some respect for my mother, just as if she were your mother."

"Roy put his empty bottle in the rack beside the soda machine. He cleared his throat and spat on the pavement. "Hell, I don't even respect my own mother. The bitch. She's a real bitch. And why should I treat your old lady like she's some sort of goddess when you don't even have any respect for her?"

"Who says I don't?"

"I say you don't."

"You think you can read minds or something?"

"Didn't you tell me that your old lady always spent more time with her girlfriends than she did with you? Was she ever around when you needed her?"

"Everyone has friends," Colin said weakly.

"Did you have friends before you met me?"

Colin shrugged. "I've always had my hobbies."

"And didn't you tell me that when she was married to your old man, she left him once a month-"

"Not that often."

"-just walked out for a few days at a time, even for a week or more?"

"That was because he beat her," Colin said.

"Did she take you with her when she left?"

Colin finished his grape soda.

"Did she take you with her?" Roy asked again.

"Not usually."

"She left you there with him."

"He's my father, after all."

"He sounds dangerous to me," Roy said.

"He never touched me. Just her."

"But he might have hurt you."

"But he didn't."

"She couldn't know for sure what he'd do when she left you with him."

"It worked out okay. That's all that matters."

"And now all her time's taken up with this art gallery," Roy said. "She works every day and most evenings."

"She's building a future for herself and me."

Roy made a sour face. "Is that her excuse? Is that what she tells you?"

"It's true, I guess."

"How touching. Building a future. Poor, hard-working Weezy Jacobs. It breaks my heart, Colin. It really does. Shit. More nights than not, she's out with someone like Thornberg-"

"That's business."

"-and she still doesn't have time for you."

"So what?"

"So you should stop worrying about getting home," Roy said. "Nobody gives a damn if you're home or not. Nobody cares. So let's have some fun."

Colin put his empty bottle in the rack. "What'll we do?"

"Let's see… I know. The Kingman place. You'll like the Kingman place. You been there yet?"

"What's the Kingman place?" Colin asked.

"It's one of the oldest houses in town."

"I'm not much interested in landmarks."

"It's that big house at the end of Hawk Drive."

"The spooky old place on top of the hill?"

"Yeah. Nobody's lived there for twenty years."

"What's so interesting about an abandoned house?"

Roy leaned close and cackled like a fiend, twisted his face grotesquely, rolled his eyes, and whispered dramatically: "It's haunted!"

"What's the joke?"

"No joke. They say it's haunted."

"Who says?"

"Everyone." Roy rolled his eyes again and tried to imitate Boris Karloff. "People have seen exceedingly strange things at the Kingman place."

"Such as?"

"Not now," Roy said, dropping the Karloff voice. "I'll tell you all about that when we get there."

As Roy lifted his bicycle away from the wall, Colin said, "Wait a minute. I think you're serious. You mean this house is really haunted?"

"I guess it depends on whether or not you believe in that sort of thing."

"People have seen ghosts there?"

"People say they've seen and heard all kinds of crazy things at that house ever since the Kingman family died up there."

"Died?"

"They were killed."

"The whole family?"

"All seven of them."

"When was this?"

"Twenty years ago."

"Who did it?"

"The father."

"Mr. Kingman?"

"He went crazy one night and chopped up everyone while they were sleeping."

Colin swallowed hard. "Chopped them up?"

"With an axe."

Axes again! Colin thought. For a moment his stomach seemed to be not a part of him but a separate entity alive within him, for it slipped and slid and twisted wetly back and forth, as if trying to crawl out of him.

"I'll tell you all about it when we get there," Roy said. "Come on."

"Wait a minute," Colin said nervously, stalling for time. "My glasses are dirty."

He took off his glasses, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and carefully polished the thick lenses. He could still see Roy fairly well, but everything farther than five feet was blurry.

"Hurry up, Colin."

"Maybe we should wait for tomorrow."

"Is it going to take you that long to clean your goddamned glasses?"

"I mean, in daylight we'll be able to see more of the Kingman place."

"Seems to me like it's more fun to look at a haunted house at night."

"But you can't see much at night."

Roy regarded him silently for a few seconds. Then: "Are you scared?"

"Of what?"

"Ghosts."

"Of course not."

"Sounds like it."

"Well… it does seem kind of foolish to go poking around a place like that in the dark, in the dead of night, you know."

"No. I don't know."

"I'm not talking about ghosts. I mean, one of us is bound to get hurt if we mess around in an old broke-down house in the middle of the night."

"You are scared."

"Like hell."

"Prove you're not."

"Why should I prove anything?"

"Want your blood brother to think you're a coward?"

Colin was silent. He fidgeted.

"Come on!" Roy said.

Roy mounted his bike and pedaled out of the deserted service station, heading north on Broadway. He did not look back. Colin stood at the soda machine. Alone. He didn't like being alone. Especially at night.

Roy was a block away and still moving.

"Damn!" Colin said. He shouted, "Wait for me," and clambered onto his bicycle.

XX

They walked the bikes up the last steep block toward the dilapidated house that crouched above them. With each step, Colin's trepidation grew. It sure looks haunted, he thought.

The Kingman place was well within the Santa Leona city limits, yet it was separated from the rest of the town, as if everyone were afraid to build nearby. It stood on top of a hill and held dominion over five or six acres. At least half of that land had once been well-tended, formal gardens, but long ago it had gone badly to seed. The north leg of Hawk Drive dead-ended in a wide turnaround in front of the Kingman property; and the lampposts did not go all the way to the end of the street, so that the old mansion and its weed-choked grounds were shrouded in blackest shadows, highlighted only by the moon.

On the lower two thirds of the hill, on both sides of the road, modern California-style ranch houses hung precariously to the slopes, waiting with amazing patience for a mudslide or the next shock wave from the San Andreas Fault. Only the Kingman place occupied the upper third of the hill, and it appeared to be waiting for something far more terrifying, something a great deal more malevolent than an earthquake.

The house faced the center of town, which lay below it, and the sea, which was not visible at night, except as a negative in the vast expanse of lightlessness. The house was a huge, rambling wreck, ersatz Victorian, with too many fancy chimneys and too many gables, and with twice as much gingerbread around the eaves and windows and railing as true Victorian demanded. Storms had ripped shingles from the roof. Some of the ornate trim was broken, and in a few spots it had fallen down altogether. Where shutters still survived, they often hung at a slant, by a single mounting. The white paint had been weathered away. The boards were silver-gray, bleached by the sun and the constant sea wind, waterstained. The front-porch steps sagged, and there were gaps in the railing. Half of the windows were haphazardly boarded shut, but the others were without protection, thus shattered; moonlight revealed jagged shards of glass like transparent teeth biting at the empty blackness where stones had been pitched through.

In spite of its shabby condition, however, the Kingman place did not have the air of a ruin; it did not give rise to sadness in the hearts of those who looked upon it, as did many once-noble but now decrepit buildings; somehow it seemed vital, alive… even frighteningly alive. If a house could be said to have a human attitude, an emotional aspect, then this house was angry, very angry. Furious.

They parked their bicycles by the front gate. It was a big rusted iron grill with a sunburst design in the center.

"Some place, huh?" Roy said.

"Yeah."

"Let's go."

"Inside?"

"Sure."

"We don't have a flashlight."

"Well, at least let's go up on the porch."

"Why?" Colin asked shakily.

"We can look in the windows."

Roy walked through the open gate and started up the broken flagstone walk, through the tangled weeds, and toward the house. Colin followed him for a few steps, then stopped and said, "Wait, Roy, wait a sec."

Roy turned back. "What is it?"

"You been here before?"

"Of course."

"You been inside?"

"Once."

"Did you see any ghosts?"

"Nah. I don't believe in 'em."

"But you said people see things here."

"Other people. Not me."

"You said it was haunted."

"I told you other people said it was haunted. I think they're full of shit. But I knew you'd enjoy the place, what with you being such a big horror-movie fan and everything."

Roy began to walk along the path again.

After several more steps, Colin said, "Wait."

Roy looked back and grinned. "Scared?"

"No."

"Ha!"

"I just have some questions."

"So hurry up and ask them."

"You said a lot of people were killed here."

"Seven," Roy said. "Six murders, one suicide."

"Tell me about it."

During the past twenty years, the very real tragedy of the Kingman murders had evolved into a highly embellished tale, a grisly Santa Leona legend, recalled most often at Halloween, composed of myth and truth, but perhaps more of the former than the latter, depending on who was telling it. But the basic facts of the case were simple, and Roy tuck close to them when he told the story.

The Kingmans had been wealthy. Robert Kingman was the only child of Judith and Big Jim Kingman; but Robert's mother had died of massive hemorrhaging while delivering him. Big Jim was even then a rich man, and he grew continually richer over the years. He made millions from California real estate, farming, oil, and water rights. He was a tall, barrel-chested man, as was his son, and Big Jim liked to boast there was no one west of the Mississippi who could eat more stake, drink more whiskey, or make more money than he could.

Shortly before Robert's twenty-second birthday, he inherited the entire estate when Big Jim, having drunk too much whiskey, choked to death on a large, inadequately chewed chunk of filet mignon. He lost that eating contest to a man who had yet to make a million dollars in plumbing supplies, but who could at least boast of having lived through the feast. Robert had not developed his father's competitive attitude toward food and beverage, but he had acquired the old man's business sense, and although he was quite young, he made even more money with the funds that had been left to him.

When he was twenty-five, Robert married a woman named Alana Lee, built the Victorian house on Hawk Hill, just for her, and began fathering a new generation of Kingmans. Alana was not from a wealthy family, but she was said to be the most beautiful girl in the county, with the sweetest temper in the state. The children came fast, five of them in eight years- three boys and two girls. Theirs was the most respected family in town, envied, but also liked and admired. The Kingmans were churchgoers, friendly, graced with the common touch in spite of their high station, charitable, involved in the community. Robert obviously loved Alana, and everyone could see that she adored him; and the children returned the affection their parents lavished upon them.

On a night in August, a few days before the Kingman's twelfth wedding anniversary, Robert secretly ground up two dozen sleeping tablets that a physician had prescribed for Alana's periodic insomnia, and sprinkled the powder in drink and food that his family shared for a bedtime snack, as well as in various items consumed by the live-in maid, cook, and butler. He neither ate nor drank anything that he had contaminated. When his wife, children and servants were soundly asleep, he went out to the garage and fetched an ax that was used to chop wood for the mansion's nine fireplaces.

He spared the maid, cook, and butler, but no one else.

He killed Alana first, then his two young daughters, then his three sons. Every member of the family was dispatched in the same hideously brutal, gory fashion: with two sharp and powerful blows of the ax blade, one vertical and one horizontal, either on the back or on the chest, depending on the position in which each was sleeping when attacked. That done, Robert visited his victims a second time and crudely decapitated them.

He carried their dripping heads downstairs and lined them up on the long mantel above the fireplace in the drawing room. It was a shockingly gruesome tableau: six lifeless, blood-splashed faces observing him as if they were a jury or judges in the court of Hell. With his beloved dead watching him, Robert Kingman wrote a brief note who those would find him and his maniacal handwork the following morning: "My father always said that I entered the world in a river of blood, my dying mother's blood. And now I will shortly leave on another such river." When he had written that curious good-bye, he loaded a .38-caliber Colt revolver, put the barrel in his mouth, turned toward the death-shocked faces of his family, and blew his brains out.

As Roy finished the story, Colin grew cold all the way to his bones. He hugged himself and shivered violently.

"The cook was the first to wake up," Roy said. "She found blood all over the hallway and stairs, followed the trail to the drawing room, and saw the heads on the mantel. She ran out of the house, down the hill, screaming at the top of her lungs. Went almost a mile before anyone stopped her. They say she nearly lost her mind over it."

The night seemed to be darker than it had been when Roy had begun the story. The moon appeared to be smaller, farther away than it had been earlier. On a distant highway a big truck shifted gears and accelerated. It sounded like the cry of a prehistoric animal.

Colin's mouth was as dry as ashes. He worked up enough saliva to speak, but his voice was thin. "For God's sake, why? Why did he kill them?"

Roy shrugged. "No reason."

"There had to be a reason."

"If there was, nobody ever figured it out."

"Maybe he made some bad investments and lost all of his money."

"Nah. He left a fortune."

"Maybe his wife was going to leave him."

"All of her friends said she was very happy with her marriage."

A dog barking.

A train whistling.

Wind whispering in the trees.

The stealthy movement of unseen things.

The night was speaking all around him.

"A brain tumor," Colin said.

"A lot of people thought the same thing."

"I'll bet that's it. I'll bet Kingman had a brain tumor, something like that, something that made him act crazy."

"At the time it was the most popular theory. But the autopsy didn't turn up any signs of a brain disease."

Colin frowned. "You seem to have filed away every single fact about the case."

"I know it almost as well as if it had happened to me."

"But how do you know what the autopsy uncovered?"

"I read about it."

"Where?"

"The library has all the back issues of the Santa Leona News Register on microfilm," Roy said.

"You researched the case?"

"Yeah. It's exactly the kind of thing that interests me. Remember? Death. I'm fascinated by death. As soon as I heard the Kingman story, I wanted to know more. A whole lot more. I wanted to know every last bit and piece of it. You understand? I mean, wouldn't it have been terrific to be in the house on that night, the night it happened, just sort of observing, just hiding in a corner, on that night, hiding and watching him do it, watching him do it to all of them and then to himself? Think of it! Blood everywhere. You've never seen so much goddamned blood in your life! Blood on the walls, soaked and clotted in the bedclothes, slick puddles of blood on the floor, blood on the stairs, and blood splashed over the furniture… And those six heads on the mantel! Jesus, what a popper! What a terrific popper!

"You're being weird again," Colin said.

"Would you like to have been there?"

"No thanks. And neither would you."

"I sure as hell would!"

"If you saw all that blood, you'd puke."

"Not me."

"You're just trying to gross me out."

"Wrong again."

Roy started toward the house.

"Wait a minute," Colin said.

Roy didn't turn his back this time. He climbed the sagging steps and walked onto the porch. Rather than stand alone, Colin joined him.

"Tell me about the ghosts."

"Some nights there are strange lights in the house. And people who live farther down the hill say that sometimes they can hear the Kingman children screaming in terror and crying for help."

"They hear the dead kids?"

"Moaning and carrying on something fierce."

Colin suddenly realized he had his back to one of the broken first-floor windows. He shifted away from it.

Roy continued somberly: "Some people say they've seen spirits that glow in the dark, crazy things, headless children who come out on this porch and run back and forth as if they're being chased by someone… or something."

"Wow!"

Roy laughed. "What they've probably seen is a bunch of kids trying to hoax everybody."

"Maybe not."

"What else?"

"Maybe they've seen just what they say they have."

"You really do believe in ghosts."

"I keep an open mind," Colin said.

"Yeah? Well, you better be more careful about what kind of junk falls into it, or you'll wind up with an open sewer."

"Aren't you clever."

"Everyone says so."

"And modest."

"Everyone says that, too."

"Jeez."

Roy went to the shattered window and peered inside.

"What do you see?" Colin asked.

"Come look."

Colin moved beside him and stared into the house.

A stale, extremely unpleasant odor wafted through the broken window.

"It's the drawing room," Roy said.

"I can't see anything."

"It's the room where he lined up their heads on the mantel."

"What mantel? It's pitch dark in there."

"In a couple of minutes our eyes will adjust."

In the drawing room something moved. There was a soft rustling, a sudden clatter, and the sound of something rushing toward the window. Colin leaped back. He stumbled over his own feet and fell with a crash.

Roy looked at him and burst out laughing.

"Roy, there's something in there!"

"Rats."

"Huh?"

"Just rats."

"The house has rats?"

"Of course it does, a rotten old place like this. Or maybe we heard a stray cat. Probably both- a stray cat chasing a rat. One thing I guarantee- it wasn't any ghoul or ghost. Will you relax, for God's sake?"

Roy faced the window again, leaned into it, head cocked, listening, watching.

Having sustained much greater injury to his pride than to his flesh, Colin got up quickly and nimbly, but he didn't return to the window. He stood at the rickety railing and looked west toward town, then south along Hawk Drive. After a while he said, "Why haven't they torn this place down? Why haven't they built new houses up here? This must be valuable land."

Without looking away from the window, Roy said, "The entire Kingman fortune, including the land, went to the state."

"Why?"

"There were no living relatives on either side of the family, nobody to inherit."

"What's the state going to do with the place?"

"In twenty years they've managed to do absolutely zilch, nothing at all, big zero," Roy said. "For a while there was talk of selling the land and the house at public auction. Then they said they were going to make a pocket park out of it. You still hear the park rumor every once in a while, but nothing ever gets done. Now will you please shut up for a minute? I think my eyes are finally beginning to adjust. I have to concentrate on this."

"Why? What's so important in there?"

"I'm trying to see the mantel."

"You've been here before," Colin said. "You've already seen it."

"I'm trying to pretend it's that night. The night Kingman went berserk. I'm trying to imagine what it must have been like. The sound of the ax… I can almost hear it… whooooosh-chunk, whooooosh-chunk…. and maybe a couple of short screams… his footsteps coming down the stairs… heavy footsteps… the blood… all that blood…" Roy's voice gradually trailed away as if he had mesmerized himself.

Colin walked to the far end of the porch. The boards squeaked underfoot. He leaned against the shaking railing and craned his neck so that he could look around the side of the house. He could only see the overgrown garden in shades of gray and black and moonlight-silver: knee-high grass; shaggy hedges; orange and lemon trees pulled to the ground by the weight of their own untrimmed boughs; sprawling rose bushes, some with pale flowers, white or yellow, that looked like puffs of smoke in the darkness; and a hundred other plants that were woven into a single, tangled entity by the loom of the night.

He had the feeling something was watching him from the depths of the garden. Something less than human.

Don't be childish, he thought. There's nothing out there. This isn't a horror movie. This is life.

He tried to stand his ground, but the possibility that he was being observed became a certainty, at least in his own mind. He knew that if he stood there much longer, he would surely be seized by a creature with huge claws and dragged into the dense shrubbery, there to be gnawed upon at the beast's leisure. He turned away from the garden and went back to Roy.

"You ready to go?" Colin asked.

"I can see the whole room."

"In the dark?"

"I can see a lot of it."

"Yeah?"

"I can see the mantel."

"Yeah?"

"Where he lined up the heads."

As if he were drawn by a magnet stronger than his will, Colin stepped up beside Roy and bent forward and peered into the Kingman house. It was extremely dark in there, but he could see a bit more than he had seen a while ago: strange shapes, perhaps piles of broken furniture and other rubble; shadows that seemed to be moving, but, of course, were not; and the white-marble mantel above the enormous fireplace, the sacrificial alter upon which Robert Kingman had offered up his family.

Suddenly Colin knew that this was a place he must get away from at once, a place he must stay away from forever. He knew it instinctively, on a deep animal level; and as if he were an animal, the hairs rose on the back of his neck and he hissed softly, involuntarily, through bared teeth.

Roy said, "Whooooosh-chunk!"

Then he did something took Colin, in spite of all the things he knew about Roy, completely by surprise. Roy climbed in the open window.

XX

Seeing Roy climb up, over, and quickly vanish into the darkness of the Kingman place's drawing room, Colin felt his unease rapidly turning to panic. "Roy!" he called. "Roy! Come back, man! Roy!"

Roy didn't say anything; Colin could see him in there, a human shape in the midst of all that black. He was moving around in an odd, jerky, excited manner that was not like his normal self at all. Instead of being smooth and fluid, his every movement stylish and cool, Roy was moving in this disjointed way that said he was captivated by something. Something he was seeing, something he was feeling- maybe both. And whatever it was, it left Roy unable to reply to Colin's strained, frightened words.

Colin's desire to get away from this house was stronger now, stronger than ever; he wanted to turn on his heel and go sprinting away into the night, screaming like a banshee, just like the cook had after she'd woken up… and seen what she'd missed while she was asleep. Colin wanted to leave this place very badly, as much as he'd wanted to get away from anywhere in all his life. But he just couldn't leave Roy in this place alone. Of all the abandoned houses to leave someone in by themselves at night, this was the worst pick there could be. If Colin were to ditch Roy and leave him behind… something could happen to his blood brother, his only friend. Something very unpleasant.

Mustering all the courage he had, Colin reluctantly willed himself to go forward. He crawled in through the window and joined Roy in the drawing room.

"Roy!" Colin said again. "Come on, Roy, let's go!"

Roy was standing in front of the white-marble fireplace now. As Colin approached, he turned around, as if noticing Colin for the first time. Even in the darkness of the drawing room, Colin could see the energy lighting up Roy's handsome face. Roy's eyes were wide and he stared at Colin with an intensity that made his normally bright, energetic self look like nothing.

"What's your greatest wish, Colin?" Roy asked. "What's the one thing you want more than anything else?" He spoke quickly, urgently, as if somehow they didn't have much time for this conversation- but it was absolutely necessary that it happen.

Colin was taken aback, and his state of rising panic didn't help. He just stared. "Huh?"

"What would you give anything to have, if you could just have it?" Roy demanded, his eyes wide and alive, the energy coming off him in waves, just about crackling the air around them.

Just then, as Colin was about to do the utterly ridiculous and try dragging the muscular, athletic Roy out of this house with his thin little bookworm arms, a strange feeling came over him. The intensity in Roy's eyes, the urgency in his voice, suddenly began to seep into him. Roy's excitement somehow made a little more sense. In spite of this, Colin didn't want to say it, what his greatest wish was. Roy was just so damn cool, and no matter what mood he was in right now, telling him the truthful answer would just make Roy think he was a dork.

But Colin heard himself starting to speak. Against his mind's will or not, his mouth had decided to tell Roy the truth.

"I want to be like you," Colin began, and then the words came tumbling out. "I don't wanna be skinny, I wanna be a jock! I wish I didn't have these lousy eyes. I wish I looked just like you. I wish girls turned their heads whenever I went by. I want to be fast and strong and cool, Roy. Just like you are."

Colin abruptly ran out of steam and hung his head, face burning with shame, with humiliation at admitting the extent of his hero-worship of his only friend.

But Roy wasn't laughing at him when Colin looked up. He wasn't smirking. In fact, Roy's expression hadn't changed at all. Still lit up with energy like a Christmas tree, his eyes most of all.

"And I want us to be brothers, Colin," Roy said. "Not just symbolic blood brothers, but real, actual brothers." He took a step forward and Colin willed himself not to back away. "This house, Colin, it knows how alike we are. It knows we're in sync! Colin, we can both get what we want!"

Pain exploded in Colin's head in that instant. It whited out his vision, and throughout his body all the signals began shutting down. His knees buckled, and Colin dropped into darkness. His confession moments ago was forgotten. All Colin wanted now was for his death to be quick.

XX

The first thing that Colin felt when he woke up was a sense of surprise; he hadn't expected to at all. Right on the heels of that came another sensation- heat. It's July, dummy, Colin heard his mind saying. Of course it's hot.

But no- that didn't explain it at all. Goddamn, was it hot in here! Colin opened his eyes. He was sprawled out on the wood floor of the drawing room, arms and legs splayed out at weird angles. Close by, Colin saw Roy lying the same way- he'd apparently passed out at the same time Colin had, or else soon after. And past Roy, Colin saw the white marble fireplace, alive and blazing with heat. A roaring fire was going there, throwing out sparks almost every second. Parts of the room were already ablaze.

"Fire," Colin croaked, barely more than a whisper. He cleared his throat, forced himself to say it louder. "Fire! Roy! Fire!"

Roy sat up, blinked and looked around, and then swore violently when the fire swelled momentarily, its heat scorching his skin. Roy saw what was happening and his eyes went wide. "Jesus, it's spreading! Let's go!"

Colin sprang to his feet, glad to find he could control his body now. That bizarre loss of self-control which had made him tell Roy his deepest, most earnest wish, whatever had caused it, was gone now. Colin was himself again. And from the focused, alert look he had on his face, in his eyes, so was Roy. There was no sign of that eerie look of excitement he'd had on earlier.

Both boys sprinted for the window they'd come through without even really looking at it. They recoiled just in time, pulling up short; the window was completely blocked by fire.

"Goddamnit," Roy shouted, "Come on, Colin! We have to run!" He spun around and took off, sprinting for one of the doorways that led deeper into the Kingman house. Colin looked and, without any hesitation, took off after him.

As Colin ran for his life through a once-dark house now bright and blazing with fire, smoke and heat, he was surprised to find he could actually keep up with Roy. His legs were thin; Roy's legs were muscular. His reserves of strength were pathetically shallow; Roy's energy and power were awesome. And yet Colin flew down hallways and around corners right on Roy's heels, never once faltering or falling behind. His eyes, throat, and lungs all protested at the smoke and crap he was breathing in, but even so, Colin did not slow or feel any sign that he was struggling to stay close to Roy as his friend searched for a way out. With no time to stop and think about it, all Colin could come up with was that adrenaline, the kind brought on by heart-pounding terror, could do wonderful things for a person's strength. Even a bookworm like himself.

Speaking of which, Colin wondered if he'd lost his glasses back there. He could see Roy's back clearly enough, but even he was blurred at the edges. Past that he could only see the big stuff- halls and doorways, that sort of thing. No- Colin touched a quick hand to the bridge of his nose and found the familiar touch of the frames of his eyeglasses. Maybe the lenses had been knocked out when he fell, or else his vision was just messed up somehow from whatever had made him pass out in the first place.

As his arms and legs pumped, Colin became aware of something else- his clothes felt awfully tight. How did that make any sense? They'd fit fine when he'd put them on this morning. His blurred vision bothered him the most, though- how on earth had it happened? Had letting himself be lured into this awful place where those terrible things had happened done permanent damage to Colin's sight? Or worse, was he carrying a ghost in his head that was messing up his eyes- a supernatural parasite?

Stop it, Colin told himself sharply. Stop it! Concentrate on getting out of here!

"There!" Roy shouted, as he turned left into a lounge or sitting room, one the fire hadn't touched yet. Most importantly it bordered on the outside wall of the house, meaning it had the one thing Roy and Colin needed most: windows. Roy ran up to the first one, kicking the nailed-on boards off of it in quick succession. He then climbed up on the window sill, perched there a moment, then jumped out. Colin followed, launching himself from the sill with surprising grace and ease, landing right beside Roy in the remains of one of the smaller gardens. This one, thankfully, appeared to have been just a bunch of exotic, decorative grass.

The boys both stayed where they were for a minute, breathing hard, sweating, trying to recover their wits and remember what the hell just happened.

"You all right?" Roy asked finally.

"Something's wrong," Colin confessed. "I can't see very well, Roy."

Silence.

"Roy," Colin said, becoming frightened, "I said I can't see very well."

Still nothing. Getting really scared now, Colin finally gave up and took off his glasses. He was nearsighted, and as crummy as his eyesight was, he could at least see well at a range of two feet without them. He looked over at Roy, and his heart jumped when he saw the expression of complete, amazed bewilderment on Roy's face.

"Colin," Roy started, his voice hoarse; he swallowed and tried again. "Colin, have you looked at yourself?"

In spite of what he'd just been through, Colin couldn't help his reply. "Yeah, all the time, but I've been trying to cut down on it."

Glancing back at and then away from the rapidly burning Kingman house, Roy said, "Colin, let's get to our bikes. We can't stay here."

"Aw, I wanted to roast some marshmallows and make smores."

Roy got up, heading away from the house. Colin followed, glasses still in hand, and was amazed at what he saw. What he saw! He could see incredibly well at distances now- he could make out shapes and objects like he had 20/20 eyes!

And by the way- get to the bikes, Roy had said. Where was his, then? There were two, but Colin's was gone. In its place, left at the exact spot, was another one just like Roy's!

A tidal wave of questions started hitting Colin, and his mouth just opened like a hatch, letting them all out.

"Where's my bike? Where'd that one come from? What- what the heck went on in there?" Colin staggered a little, caught himself. "Couldn't you tell that place was evil? Why'd you go in there, anyhow? And what'd you mean, 'the house can give us what we want'?"

Roy's bike had a small mirror on each of its handlebars, facing rearward to help the rider become aware of approaching cars. With a small display of the kind of strength he wielded, Roy wrenched the left one clean off the handlebar and handed it to Colin.

"Very impressive," Colin said, unable to stop being a professional wiseass. "You know, you should really go out for wrestling, too-"

"Look at yourself," Roy said. It was a command, not a request.

Sighing, Colin held the mirror toward himself and looked towards it impatiently- then stopped.

It wasn't his face looking back at him.

It was Roy's.