House, page 1
Praise for Frank Peretti and Ted Dekker’s novels
“Peretti and Dekker’s taut, roller-coaster ride of a thriller will have you tearing through the book at a breakneck pace . . .”
—Parkersburg News review of House
“If you are looking for a book that will keep you up at night and yet offers hope at some point, then House is a must-read for you. My words will never suffice how spectacular this book is, so go out and get this book for yourself. But don’t forget to lock the windows and doors, and whatever you do . . . stay out of the basement.”
—1340mag.com
“Dekker and Peretti hold their cards close to their chests to the very end in this taut mind-blower.”
—Christian Music Planet
“The story builds constantly, leaving readers in a state of continuous tension . . . House is a must-read for anyone who loves a good suspense thriller.”
—Aspiring Retail
“You will not be disappointed with this collaboration.The writing is flawless. The seamless continuity of this novel is testament to the two creative minds behind it and their commitment to a quality story.”
—Novelreviews.blogspot.com regarding House
“Its premise and pacing recall some of the down-and-dirty thrillers of Dean Koontz, and predictable it is not, partly because the authors withhold as much information from us for as long as possible, lending the events in the basement a surreal, nightmarish quality.”
—Bookgasm.com review of House
“. . . Peretti is a bona fide publishing phenomenon.”
—BookPage review of The Visitation
“Dekker delivers his signature exploration of good and evil in the context of a genuine thriller that could further enlarge his already sizable audience.”
—Publishers Weekly review of Showdown
“In the world of Christian fiction, the hottest novels are those by Frank Peretti.”
—Newsweek review of Monster
“Exciting, well-written, and resonant with meaning, Black, Red, and now White have won over both critics and genre readers . . . An epic journey completed with grace.”
—Editors, Barnes and Noble
“. . . plenty of spine-chilling mayhem . . .”
—www.Amazon.com regarding This Present Darkness
“Ted Dekker is clearly one of the most gripping storytellers alive today. He creates plots that keep your heart pounding and palms sweating even after you’ve finished his books.”
—Jeremy Reynalds, Syndicated Columnist
“Not only is Peretti the country’s top-selling Christian fiction author, but he has become, by any standard, one of current fiction’s biggest stars.”
—Chicago Tribune regarding The Visitation
Reading Group Guide Available at
www.thomasnelson.com/readingguides
HOUSE
FRANK
PERETTI
TED
DEKKER
OTHER BOOKS BY
FRANK PERETTI
Monster
Hangman’s Curse (The Veritas Project, Volume 1)
Nightmare Academy (The Veritas Project, Volume 2)
The Visitation
The Oath
This Present Darkness
Piercing the Darkness
Prophet
OTHER BOOKS BY
TED DEKKER
Skin
Saint
Showdown
The Martyr’s Song
Obsessed
Black
Red
White
Three
Blink When Heaven Weeps
Thunder of Heaven
Heaven’s Wager
Coauthored with Bill Bright
Blessed Child
A Man Called Blessed
© 2006 by Frank Peretti and Ted Dekker
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 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 SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.
Scripture paraphrased from The Holy Bible: New International Version® .
© 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Peretti, Frank E.
House / Frank Peretti and Ted Dekker.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-59554-155-0 (HC)
ISBN: 978-1-59554-156-7 (TP)
ISBN: 978-1-59554-342-4 (SE)
ISBN: 978-1-59554-362-2 (MM)
I. Dekker, Ted, 1962– II. Title.
PS3566.E691317H68 2006
813'.54—dc22
Printed in the United States of America
07 08 09 10 11 QW 5 4 3 2 1
The light came into the darkness,
and the darkness did not understand it.
My heart holds all secrets; my heart tells no lies.
Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
PROLOGUE
HE STOOD MOTIONLESS IN THE ENTRYWAY, staring at his own shadow splayed before him like a stain upon the floor. He studied the patina of dust, sampled the stench of mold and rat urine, listened to a beam settling one more fraction of an inch toward the center of the earth.
This room bore so little evidence of the events that had led to the dawn. From this vantage point, it was just one more abandoned house. Interesting.
But the rest of the house told the truth.
Beneath his boots, the floorboards lay shoulder to shoulder like the buried dead, cupped with creeping moisture, edges buckling, obscured by gray dust and fallen flakes of white paint.
Across the foyer, at the base of a wall, the rose-printed wallpaper fluttered. Behind one of the roses, something scratched, pushed, gnawed, and clawed until a black, whiskered nose burst through. With a wad of shredded wallpaper in its jaws, the rat wriggled through the hole, then rested on its haunches and met his eyes. Neither found the other’s presence alarming. The rat skittered along the baseboard and disappeared around a corner.
At the far end of the room, half a tattered curtain rustled and stirred before a broken window. A pitiful attempt at escape. Apart from the broken window, there was no sign that anyone had been here in years.
But when some curious passerby—or the police, should they be so fortunate as to stumble upon this place—wandered farther in, they’d find signs to the contrary in abundance. And those signs would lead them to the mysteries below.
Death lingered in the musty air, even up here. The walls were like shrouds, enfolding every space in exquisite darkness. It had been a perfect arena for a perfect game.
And already Barsidious White was looking forward to the next.
1
5:17 PM
“JACK, YOU’RE GONNA KILL US!”
His mind jerked out of a daydream and back to the lonely Alabama highway in front of the blue Mustang. The speedometer topped eighty. He cleared his mind and relaxed his right foot. “Sorry.”
Stephanie went back to her singing, her voice clear if melancholy, her inflection classic country. “My heart holds all secrets; my heart tells no lies . . .”
That one again. She wrote it, so he never criticized it, but those awful lyrics, especially today—“Jack!”
The speedometer was inching toward eighty again.
“Sorry.” He forced his foot to relax.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter—” Easy now, Jack. No fuel on the fire. “A little tense, okay?”
She smiled at him. “You should try singing.”
His grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Yeah, that’s your answer for everything, isn’t it?”
“Excuse me?”
He sighed. He had to quit taking her bait. “Sorry.” Always apologizing. He looked her way and forced a smile, hoping she would believe it.
She smiled back in a way that said she didn’t.
She was beautiful, enough to capture the next man just as she’d captured him—blonde, youth
He checked the rearview mirror. The highway, which had narrowed to two lanes, curved lazily through late-spring forest and farmland, rose and fell over dips and rises, hiding and revealing, hiding and revealing a single car. It was gaining on them, near enough now for Jack to recognize the light bar atop the roof. He checked his speed. Sixty-five. That should be legal.
The police car kept coming.
“Better slow down.”
“I’m doing the speed limit.”
“You sure?”
“I can read the signs, Steph.”
A few seconds more and the cruiser filled Jack’s mirror as if he were towing it. He could see the cop’s iron-jawed countenance behind the wheel, reflective black sunglasses obscuring the eyes.
Highway patrol.
Jack double-checked the speedometer, then slowed to sixty, hoping the cop wouldn’t rear-end them.
The sedan inched closer.
He was going to rear-end them!
Jack smashed the gas pedal to the floor, and the Mustang shot ahead.
“What are you doing?” Stephanie cried.
“He was gonna hit us!”
The car fell back ten yards. Its red and blue lights flashed to life.
“Oh, great,” she muttered, turning and flopping back against her seat. He could hear the blame in her voice. Always the blame. But you’re the one who walked away, Steph.
The cruiser veered into the oncoming lane and pulled up beside them. The uniformed officer turned his face to Jack. Met his eyes. Or so Jack imagined. Black glasses. No expression. Jack forced his eyes back to the road.
The two cars were side by side, locked in formation at sixty miles an hour.
“What are you doing, Jack? Pull over.”
He would if he could. Jack strained to see an opportunity. The forest, a thick tangle of maple, oak, and birch draped with kudzu, encroached like an advancing wall. “I can’t. There’s no shoulder. I can’t just . . .”
He slowed. There had to be a turnout somewhere. Forty miles per hour. Thirty. The cruiser matched his speed.
Jack saw a break in the foliage, a sliver of a shoulder, just enough room. He began to veer off.
The cruiser surged and left them behind, lights blazing in silence. Fifteen seconds later it was a dot on the road between the towering trees, and then it was gone.
“What was that about?” Jack asked, checking his mirrors, rubbernecking, and easing back onto the highway. He wiped a sweaty palm on his jeans.
“You were speeding.” She fixed her gaze on the highway, fumbled with a map, avoided his eyes.
“He didn’t pull us over. Why was he so close? You see how close he was?”
“That’s Alabama, Jack. You don’t do things their way, they let you know.”
“Yeah, but you don’t ram someone in the tail for speeding.”
She slapped her lap, a release of frustration. “Jack, will you please just get us there, legally, in one piece? Please?”
He chose silence over a comeback and concentrated on the road. Save it for the counseling session, Jack. He wondered what she’d been saving up, what new claims she’d unload tonight.
She shook out her shoulders, put on a smile, and started humming.
You really think it will work, don’t you, Jack? You really think you can save something you just don’t have anymore?
If smiling and singing could bring back those days, he would laugh like a fool and even sing Stephanie’s lyrics, but he was fresh out of illusions. All he had were the memories that stole his mind away even as his eyes remained on the road: her arms about his shoulders and the excitement in her eyes; the inner dawn he felt whenever she entered the room; the secrets they shared with a glance, a smile, a wink; all the things he thought life and love should be—
The accident changed everything.
He imagined himself sitting in the counselor’s office, being honest about his feelings. I’m feeling . . . like I’ve been had all my life. Life is pointless. If there is a God, he’s the devil, and . . . What was that? Oh, you mean Stephanie? No, I’ve lost her too. She’s gone. I mean, she’s here, but she’s checked out . . .
He couldn’t put away the idea that this whole trip was only a formality, another nail in the coffin of their marriage. Steph would sing her way to Montgomery and back and still get the divorce she wanted, go on her merry way.
“Jack, you’re lost.”
I sure am.
“Jack.”
With a start, he returned his attention to driving. The Mustang purred along at sixty-five, gobbling up the highway. The forest was breaking up now, giving way to crude homesteads and stump-filled pastureland.
She was scanning the map, studying all those little red and black lines. Did she say he was lost? Right. She was holding the map, but he was lost.
He caught the sarcasm before it escaped. Hurtful words came so easily these days. “What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you see that highway marker? It said 5.”
He glanced at the mirror, then twisted to see the back of the receding sign. “5?”
She studied the map, tracing a route with her finger. “We’re supposed to be on Highway 82.”
He leaned and tried to read the map. The car swerved. He shot his eyes forward again, corrected the wheel.
“We’re going to be late,” she said.
Not necessarily. “You see Highway 5 on there? Where does it lead?”
She dragged her finger over the map and stopped about three inches out of Montgomery. “Not to Montgomery, unless you have a week to sightsee. How could you possibly have gotten off 82?”
Dare he defend himself ? “I was a little distracted by a cop eating up my bumper.”
She pulled her cell phone out of a cup holder and checked the display clock. “There’s no way we’ll make it.”
Was that hope in her voice? He checked his watch. If they turned around now, maybe—“I canceled a gig to go to this appointment with you.” Stephanie hunched in the seat, arms folded.
There it is again. My fault. She started humming. There it is again.
Red and blue lights flashed up ahead.
“Oh, great,” Stephanie said. “We really don’t need this.”
Jack slowed as they approached the patrol car parked just beyond a turnoff. Orange cones and a sign blocked the road ahead. “Repaving Operation. Highway Closed to Through Traffic,” Jack read. “Well, we have to turn around anyway.” Jack pulled onto the gravel shoulder but had a second thought. “Let’s ask. Maybe there’s a faster way.”
Jack eased the blue Mustang forward, up to the turnoff, and stopped a few feet behind the patrol car. The cruiser’s door swung open and an officer—the officer—stepped out, aviator sunglasses still hiding his eyes.
2
THE PATROLMAN ROLLED HIS HEAD TO CRACK his neck, then kept his face pointed at them as he donned a broad-brimmed smoky-colored hat. He wore a short-sleeved gray shirt, and pants with a black stripe running down the outside of the legs. A breast badge flashed in the late-afternoon sun. His large leather holster hung on his right hip, his baton on his left.
The man touched his hat as if by habit and walked toward them, confident. Cocky. The man’s pants looked a tad tight.
“Good night,” Stephanie said.
Jack rolled the window down. A hot breeze blew into the Mustang, chased by the sound of crickets. The officer’s black leather boots were silent on the pavement.
The patrolman stopped by their window, hand on the butt of his gun. He leaned over and gave them a close-up view of his black lenses. Morton Lawdale, the badge said.
“You mind showing me your license and registration?”
“We—”
“License and registration. Now.”
Jack leaned over to the glove box, dug out the papers, and handed them through the window.
The cop took them with a gloved hand and straightened, scanning them at his leisure. “You mind stepping out of the car?”
Jack wasn’t sure what to make of the request. “Why?”
“Why? Because I want to show you something, how’s that for why?”
“Did I do something wrong?”
