The Murder House by James Patterson

Author:James Patterson [Patterson, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Thriller, Mystery, Suspense
ISBN: 9780316410984
Publisher: Cornerstone Digital
Published: 2015-09-26T16:00:00+00:00

56

I HOLD my breath and push open the front door. When I walk in, I immediately feel a weight pressing down on me, my movements slowing, an impossible wave of heat spreading through me.

Fight through it. You have work to do. So do it!

I stagger forward, feeling disoriented, light-headed, as if drugged.

So, so hot, like a fireplace inside my chest.

The dramatic Old Testament frescoes on the ceiling. The gold-framed portraits of men in formal eighteenth-century dress, mocking me.

Feeling my oxygen depleting, taking shallow breaths and keeping my chin up, my wits about me, as the childish cackling and taunting echo through my ears.

Please, don’t make me go there Please, don’t do this

I wanna go home

The anteroom angling sideways, the lighting in front of me spotty, but I’m not turning back, there’s got to be something here and I’m going to find it— Into the foyer, the staircase to the second floor before me, a parlor of some kind to my right, antique furniture and custom molding and chandeliers, an ornate fireplace. I turn toward the parlor but can’t move toward it, as if a gravitational pull is drawing me in the opposite direction, and suddenly I’m staggering to my left instead, nearly losing my balance— The dining room. Elaborate carvings on the walls, tall windows with fancy trim, a chandelier hanging over a pentagonal oak table with high-backed chairs. I reach for one of the chairs and grip it as if holding on for my life.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper, the childish taunts still banging between my ears, drowning out even my own voice. I need to be here, but I can’t be here.

I push myself off the chair and start across the dining room, headed toward what must be the kitchen, my nerves scattered about, my vision unfocused, oxygen coming as if I’m taking breaths through a straw.

I draw my sidearm, for no reason that makes sense.

Get out of here

Stay and investigate

My legs finally give out, and I fall to my knees as if in prayer.

Let me go

Don’t make me do this

Someone please help me

Let me out of here

I put my hand on the windowsill for support, push myself up with my free hand, my Glock held forward with the other hand, trembling.

Then I look down.

On the windowsill, jagged letters carved into the wood.

DP + AC

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