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  BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR

  Comes a Horseman

  Germ

  Deadfall

  DREAMHOUSE KINGS SERIES

  1 House of Dark Shadows

  2 Watcher in the Woods

  house of

  dark

  shadows

  BOOK ONE OF

  DREAM HOUSE KINGS

  ROBERT LIPARULO

  © 2008 by Robert Liparulo

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Page design by Mandi Cofer

  Map design by Doug Cordes

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Liparulo, Robert.

  House of dark shadows / Robert Liparulo.

  p. cm. — (Dream house Kings ; bk. 1)

  Summary: When fifteen-year-old Xander and his family move into an old, abandoned house in the middle of a dense forest outside of a small California town, they discover that not only are some of the rooms portals into other places, but that malevolent forces are at work.

  ISBN 978-1-59554-494-1 (hardcover)

  [1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Dwellings—Fiction. 3. Family life—California—Fiction. 4. California—Fiction. 5. Horror stories.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.L6636Ho 2008

  [Fic]—dc22 2008004620

  Printed in the United States of America

  08 09 10 11 QW 6 5 4 3 2 1

  TO MY SON ANTHONY ,

  whose enthusiastic and energetic spirit

  makes our home as adventurous as

  (but eternally brighter than)

  the house in this story.

  “A house of which one knows every room isn’t worth living in.”

  - GIUSEPPE TOMASI DI LAMPEDUSA

  Contents

  prologue

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty - one

  chapter twenty - two

  chapter twenty - three

  chapter twenty - four

  chapter twenty - five

  chapter twenty - six

  chapter twenty - seven

  chapter twenty - eight

  chapter twenty - nine

  chapter thirty

  chapter thirty - one

  chapter thirty - two

  chapter thirty - three

  chapter thirty - four

  chapter thirty - five

  chapter thirty - six

  chapter thirty - seven

  chapter thirty - eight

  chapter thirty - nine

  chapter forty

  Reading Group Guide

  PROLOGUE

  THIRTY YEARS AGO

  The walls of the house absorbed the woman’s screams, until they felt to her as muffled and pointless as yelling underwater. Still, her lungs kept pushing out cries for help. Her attacker carried her over his shoulder. The stench of his sweat filled her nostrils. He paid no heed to her frantic writhing, or the pounding of her fists on his back, or even her fingernails, which dug furrows into his flesh. He simply lumbered, as steadily as a freight train, through the corridors of the big house.

  She knew where they were heading but not where she would end up. In this house nothing was normal, nothing as it appeared. So while she knew in advance the turns her attacker would take, which hallways and doors he would traverse, their destination was as unknowable as a faraway galaxy. And that meant her taking would be untraceable. She would be unreachable to searchers. To would-be rescuers. To her family—and that realization terrified her more than being grabbed out of her bed. More than the flashes of imagined cruelty she would suffer away from the protection of the people who loved her. More than death.

  But then she saw something more terrifying: her children, scrambling to catch up, to help. Their eyes were wide, streaming. They stumbled up the narrow staircase behind her attacker, seeming far below, rising to meet her. The thought of them following her into the chasm of her fate was more than she could stand.

  “Go back,” she said, but by this time her throat was raw, her voice weak.

  The man reached the landing and turned into another corridor.

  Temporarily out of sight, her son yelled, “Mom!” His seven-year-old voice was almost lost in the shrillness of his panic. He appeared on the landing. His socked feet slipped on the hardwood floor, and he went down. Behind him, his little sister stopped. She was frightened and confused, too young to do anything more than follow her brother. He clambered up and started to run again.

  A hand gripped his shoulder, jarring him back.

  The boy’s father had something in his fist: the lamp from his nightstand! He passed the boy in the hallway. His bare feet gave him traction.

  Thank God, she thought.

  He reached her in seconds. With the lamp raised over his head, he grabbed her wrist. He pulled, tried to anchor himself to the floor, to the carpeted runner now covering the wood planks. But the brute under her walked on, tugging him with them. The man yanked on her arm. Pain flared in her shoulder. He might as well have tried pulling her from a car as it sped past.

  She caught a glimpse of the bizarrely shaped light fixtures on the corridor walls—mostly carved faces with glowing eyes. The bulbs flickered in time with her racing heart. She could not remember any of the lights doing that before. It was as though the electrical current running through the wires was responding to a disruption in the way things were supposed to be, a glitch in reality.

  “Henry,” she said, pleading, hopeful.

  His grip tightened as he stumbled along behind them. He brought the lamp’s heavy base down on her assailant. If the man carrying her flinched, she did not feel it. If he grunted or yelled out, she did not hear it.

  What he did was stop. He spun around so quickly, the woman’s husband lost his grip on her. And now facing the other direction, she lost sight of him. Being suddenly denied her husband’s visage felt like getting the wind knocked out of her. She realized he was face-to-face with the man who’d taken her, and that felt like watching him step off a cliff.

  “Nooo!” she screamed, her voice finding some volume.

  “Henry!”

  His hand gripped her ankle, then broke free. The man under her moved in a violent dance, jostling her wildly. He spun again and her head struck the wall.

  The lights went out comple
tely . . . but no, not the lights . . . her consciousness. It came back to her slowly, like the warmth of fire on a blustery day.

  She tasted blood. She’d bitten her tongue. She opened her eyes. Henry was crumpled on the floor, receding as she was carried away. The children stood over him, touching him, calling him. Her son’s eyes found hers again. Determination hardened his jaw, pushed away the fear . . . at least a measure of it. He stepped over his father’s legs, coming to her rescue.

  Henry raised his head, weary, stunned. He reached for the boy, but missed.

  Over the huffing breath of the man, the soft patter of her son’s feet reached her ears. How she’d loved that sound, knowing it was bringing him to her. Now she wanted it to carry him away away from this danger. Her husband called to him in a croaking, strained voice. The boy kept coming.

  She spread her arms. Her left hand clutched at open air, but the right one touched a wall. She clawed at it. Her nails snagged the wallpaper. One nail peeled back from her finger and snapped off.

  Her assailant turned again, into a room— one of the small antechambers, like a mud room before the real room. He strode straight toward the next threshold.

  Her son reached the first door, catching it as it was closing. “Mom!” Panic etched old-man lines into his young face. His eyes appeared as wide as his mouth. He banged his shoulder on the jamb, trying to hurry in.

  “Stay!” she said. She showed him her palms in a “stop” gesture, hoping he would understand, hoping he would obey. She took in his face, as a diver takes in a deep breath before plunging into the depths. He was fully in the antechamber now, reaching for her with both arms, but her captor had already opened the second door and was stepping through. The door was swinging shut behind him.

  The light they were stepping into was bright. It swept around her, through the opening, and made pinpoints of the boy’s irises. His blue eyes dazzled. His cheeks glistened with tears. He wore his favorite pajamas—little R2-D2s and C-3P0s all over them, threadbare and too small for him.

  “I—” she started, meaning to say she loved him, but the brute bounded downward, driving his shoulder into her stomach. Air rushed from her, unformed by vocal cords, tongue, lips.

  Just air.

  “Moooom!” her son screamed. Full of despair. Reaching.

  Almost to the door. “Mo—”

  The door closed, separating her from her family forever.

  CHAPTER

  one

  SATURDAY, 4:55 P.M.

  “Nothing but trees,” the bear said in Xander’s voice. It repeated itself: “Nothing but trees.”

  Xander King turned away from the car window and stared into the smiling furry face, with its shiny half-bead eyes and stitched-on nose. “I mean it, Toria,” he said. “Get that thing out of my face. And turn it off.”

  His sister’s hands moved quickly over the teddy bear’s paws, all the while keeping it suspended three inches in front of Xander. The bear repeated, “I mean it, Toria. Get that—”

  At fifteen years old, Xander was too old to be messing around with little-kid toys. He seized the bear, squeezing the paw that silenced it.

  “Mom!” Toria yelled. “Make him give Wuzzy back!” She grabbed for it.

  Xander turned away from her, tucking Wuzzy between his body and the car door. Outside his window, nothing but trees—as he had said and Wuzzy had echoed. It reminded him of a movie, as almost everything did. This time it was The Edge, about a bear intent on eating Anthony Hopkins. An opening shot of the wilderness where it was filmed showed miles and miles of lush forest. Nothing but trees.

  A month ago his dad had announced that he had accepted a position as principal of a school six hundred miles away, and the whole King family had to move from the only home Xander had ever known. They were going to a place he had never even heard of: Pinedale, almost straight north from their home in Pasadena. Still in California, but barely. Pine-dale. The name itself said “hick,” “small,” and “If you don’t die here, you’ll wish you had.” Of course, he had screamed, begged, sulked, and threatened to run away. But in the end here he was, wedged in the back seat with his nine-year-old sister and twelve-year-old brother.

  The longer they drove, the thicker the woods grew, and the more miserable he became. It was bad enough leaving his friends, his school—everything!—but to be leaving them for Hicksville, in the middle of nowhere, was a stake through his heart.

  “Mom!” Toria yelled again, reaching for the bear.

  Xander squeezed closer to the door, away from her. He must have put pressure on the bear in the wrong place: it began chanting in Toria’s whiny voice: “Mom! Mom! Mom!”

  He frantically squeezed Wuzzy’s paws, but could not make it stop.

  “Mom! Mom! Mom!”

  The controls in the bear’s arms weren’t working. Frustrated by its continuous one-word poking at his brain—and a little concerned he had broken it and would have to buy her a new one—he looked to his sister for help.

  She wasn’t grabbing for it anymore. Just grinning. One of those see-what-happens-when-you-mess-with-me smiles.

  “Mom! Mom! Mom!”

  Xander was about to show her what happened when you messed with him—the possibilities ranged from a display of his superior vocal volume to ripping Wuzzy’s arms right off— when the absurdity of it struck him. He cracked up.

  “I mean it,” he laughed. “This thing is driving me crazy.” He shook the bear at her. It continued yelling for their mother.

  His brother, David, who was sitting on the other side of Toria and who had been doing a good job of staying out of the fight, started laughing too. He mimicked the bear, who was mimicking their sister: “Mom! Mom! Mom!”

  Mrs. King shifted around in the front passenger seat. She was smiling, but her eyes were curious.

  “Xander broke Wuzzy!” Toria whined. “He won’t turn off.” She pulled the bear out of Xander’s hands.

  The furry beast stopped talking: “Mo—” Then, blessed silence.

  Toria looked from brother to brother, and they laughed again.

  Xander shrugged. “I guess he just doesn’t like me.”

  “He only likes me,” Toria said, hugging it.

  “Oh brother,” David said. He went back to the PSP game that had kept him occupied most of the drive.

  Mom raised her eyebrows at Xander and said, “Be nice.”

  Xander rolled his eyes. He adjusted his shoulders and wiggled his behind, nudging Toria. “It’s too cramped back here. It may be an SU V, but it isn’t big enough for us anymore.”

  “Don’t start that,” his father warned from behind the wheel. He angled the rearview mirror to see his son.

  “What?” Xander said, acting innocent.

  “I did the same thing with my father,” Dad said. “The car’s too small . . . it uses too much gas . . . it’s too run down . . .”

  Xander smiled. “Well, it is.”

  “And if we get a new car, what should we do with this one?”

  “Well . . .” Xander said. “You know. It’d be a safe car for me.” A ten-year-old Toyota 4Runner wasn’t his idea of cool wheels, but it was transportation.

  Dad nodded. “Getting you a car is something we can talk about, okay? Let’s see how you do.”

  “I have my driver’s permit. You know I’m a good driver.”

  “He is,” Toria chimed in.

  David added, “And then he can drive us to school.”

  “I didn’t mean just the driving,” Dad said. He paused, catching Xander’s eyes in the mirror. “I mean with all of this, the move and everything.”

  Xander stared out the window again. He mumbled, “Guess I’ll never get a car, then.”

  “Xander?” Dad said. “I didn’t hear that.”

  “Nothing.”

  “He said he’ll never get a car,” Toria said.

  Silence. David’s thumbs clicked furiously over the PSP buttons. Xander was aware of his mom watching him. If he looked, her eyes wo
uld be all sad-like, and she would be frowning in sympathy for him. He thought maybe his dad was looking too, but only for an opportunity to explain himself again. Xander didn’t want to hear it. Nothing his old man said would make this okay, would make ripping him out of his world less awful than it was.

  “Dad, is the school’s soccer team good? Did they place?” David asked. Xander knew his brother wasn’t happy about the move either, but jumping right into the sport he was so obsessed about went a long way toward making the change something he could handle. Maybe Xander was like that three years ago, just rolling with the punches. He couldn’t remember. But now he had things in his life David didn’t: friends who truly mattered, ones he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with. Little kids didn’t think that way. Friends could come and go, and they adjusted. True, Xander had known his current friends for years, but they hadn’t become like blood until the last year or so.

  That got him thinking about Danielle. He pulled his mobile phone from his shirt pocket and checked it. No text messages from her. No calls. She hadn’t replied to the last text he’d sent. He keyed in another: “Forget me already? JK.”

  But he wasn’t Just Kidding. He knew the score: out of sight, out of mind. She had said all the right things, like We’ll talk on the phone all the time; You come down and see me and I’ll come up to see you, okay? and I’ll wait for you.

  Yeah, sure you will, he thought. Even during the past week, he’d sensed a coldness in her, an emotional distancing. When he’d told his best friend, Dean had shrugged. Trying to sound world-wise, he’d said, “Forget her, dude. She’s hot. She’s gotta move on. You too. Not like you’re married, right?” Dean had never liked Danielle.

  Xander tried to convince himself she was just another friend he was forced to leave behind. But there was a dif- ferent kind of ache in his chest when he thought about her. A heavy weight in his stomach.

  Stop it! he told himself. He flipped his phone closed.

  On his mental list of the reasons to hate the move to Pine-dale, he moved on to the one titled “career.” He had just started making short films with his buddies and was pretty sure it was something he would eventually do for a living. They weren’t much, just short skits he and his friends acted out. He and Dean wrote the scripts, did the filming, used computer software to edit an hour of video into five-minute films, and laid music over them. They had six already on You-Tube—with an average rating of four and a half stars and a boatload of praise. Xander had dreams of getting a short film into the festival circuit, which, of course, would lead to offers to do music videos and commercials, then on to feature movies starring the next Russell Crowe and Jim Carrey, and probably an Oscar. Pasadena was right next to Hollywood, a twenty-minute drive. You couldn’t ask for a better place to live if you were the next Steven Spielberg. What on earth would he find to film in Pinedale? Trees, he thought glumly, watching them fly past his window.