Prologue, 2022
A box truck with Massachusetts plates trundled down a winding country road lined with scarred pines and exhaust-blackened snowbanks. Morning mist blanketed the desolate hillscape in a grey haze, as if a disdainful God had blown a lungful of cigarette smoke on it, unhappy with His work. Frost heaves in the blacktop jostled medical equipment in the back of the truck and sent hot coffee splashing on the man in the passenger seat.
Visibly upset, Brian turned to Dave. “For fuck’s sake, easy on the gas. This road hasn’t been paved since fuckin’ Taft was president.”
“Taft?” Dave asked Brian, reaching into a netted cargo pocket for a wad of unused fast-food napkins.
“Big motherfucker. Once got stuck in a White House bathtub.”
“Sounds like he could have used a senior-friendly walk-in tub courtesy of his paaaaaaals at MedCaaaaaaare.” Dave sang the name of their employer to the tune of their famously obnoxious radio ad.
“How many stops do we have today? Never seen our truck this full before.”
“Easy day!” Dave grabbed a clipboard from the center console and placed a calloused finger under the lone New Hampshire delivery address. “It’s all going to one stop. If we play our cards right, we’ll be crushing brewskis by noonskies.”
“All this shit for just one stop? Christ, it’s like half a hospital back there.”
“Yeah, some sick dude is being transferred across the country from the UCLA cancer center to his own house. Says he’d rather die there than in hospice. Visiting nurse is gonna stop by a few times a day to check in, but other than that, he’s just there all by his lonesome.”
“Jesus. That’s awful.”
“Oh, it gets even better,” Dave said, relishing in Brian’s discomfort. “Word is the creepy old place is haunted.”
“Get the fuck out of here. How would you even know that?”
“I asked my Uncle Google. News articles popped up when I mapped the address before we hit the road. Mr. and Mrs. St. Lawrence had nine kids. Fuckin’ Catholics, right?”
Brian nodded.
“Yep. Don’t see it too much anymore, but back in the day they were like bunny rabbits. Hell, I’m Catholic and my family reunions could pack Gillette Stadium. I don’t even know all my cousins’ names. Too many of ‘em.”
“Anyway,” Dave continued, “I guess seven of ‘em died in the house over the years. Nothing suspicious. Diseases. Accidents. Shit like that, but always inside the house.”
Excerpt continues after cover reveal.
Brian pulled his phone out to verify Dave’s claims, but found there was no service in the smoky rural sprawl.
“Mom and dad croaked in there, too. Old age stuff, but still. Nine people died in that house. Last two surviving St. Lawrence kids had the good sense to motor the fuck out of there in the late 70s. Place has been empty ever since. Now it’s the area’s spooky attraction. Kids dare each other to walk up the St. Lawrence House driveway and ring the doorbell and shit. I’m no crystal-hugging tarot jockey but come on. Something’s gotta be up with that place.”
“So, this guy, one of the two Catholic puppy mill survivors, wants to go back into the haunted house so he can be number ten? That is beyond fucked up, Dave.”
A silence fell between the two MedCare delivery men as they reached an intersection and turned left; lumpy asphalt giving way to a dirt country lane.
“I mean, you kind of have to respect it, right? His entire family, save for one sister, died in there. Maybe he just wants to go out like they did. Takes a metric fuck ton of balls to do that.”
Brian nodded solemnly. “Let’s just get this delivery over with as quickly as possible. The boonies give me the creeps.”
“Sounds like a plan. I hate New Hampshire.”
“Me too. This whole fucking state is haunted, as far as I’m concerned.”
As if the state itself was responding to the slander, the truck’s wheels hit another frost heave in the old road, launching Brian’s cup completely out of his hand. It exploded on the floor mat, sending an arc of sticky, over-sugared coffee all over his brand-new Chippewa boots.
“For fuck’s sake, Dave!”
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