The Second Horror

Prologue

The ghost of Cally Frasier peered out of an attic window. A shadow floating in shadows, she stared down at the front yard and watched as the new family started to move into the house.

My house, Cally thought.

99 Fear Street.

The house where I lived. And where I died.

You will be sorry, Cally’s ghost murmured bitterly. I promise you will be sorry.

No one heard Cally’s bitter promise. That didn’t matter.

She would make it come true.

Watching the new family, a teenage boy and his parents, Cally thought of her own family.

Gone. Vanished.

They abandoned me here, Cally thought without sadness. Her anger didn’t allow for sadness.

The evil drove them away.

As she had every day since they’d left, Cally thought about the house, the house that had become her tomb.

The house was built over thirty years ago, she knew. Built on cursed land.

The first owners never moved in. The man who built the house brought his family to see it, and left them alone for five minutes.

Five minutes.

When he returned, his wife and children were dead. Their heads ripped from their bodies.

He hanged himself one month later.

Here. In this house.

For thirty years, no one would live here.

Then my family moved in—and became victims of the evil.

My little brother James. And his puppy. Lost forever. Lost somewhere in the walls of this house.

My father, blinded by a thick cloud of evil.

My mother and Kody. Kody, my twin sister.

All driven away by the evil.

But I’m still here, the ghost of Cally thought. The evil would not let me go.

The evil is inside me.

I feel it running through me, night and day.

Cally tossed back her head and let out an angry wail of frustration. Then she returned to the window.

The strangers were invading.

A big van was parked in the driveway. Movers carried carton after carton into the empty house.

The husband and wife stood watching with their arms around each other. Then they opened the trunk of their car and began to unload cartons—oddly shaped boxes marked FRAGILE.

Their teenage son stood nearby, holding a black and white cat. The boy was tall and good-looking.

When she was alive, Cally might have liked him. She might have thought he was cute.

But now she was dead. And he was alive.

They couldn’t even be friends.

Could they?

The shadow of Cally slipped and slid among the house’s dark shadows. She glared down at the new family.

Come in, she urged them silently.

Come in. I’m waiting for you here.

I’m ready to welcome you to 99 Fear Street. I have a welcome I don’t think you will forget.

Chapter 1

"Hey—be careful with those boxes!" Mr. McCloy shouted.

Brandt McCloy watched his father chase after one of the movers, who had four large cardboard boxes piled in his arms. The top box teetered, and Mr. McCloy caught it as it fell.

Those are priceless tribal masks, Mr. McCloy scolded the mover. They’re very old!

Sorry about that, the mover replied, hurrying inside. Brandt thought he didn’t sound sorry at all.

Brandt stroked Ezra, his black and white cat, and sighed. Dad and his masks, he murmured to Ezra. He probably thinks if one breaks, it means seven years bad luck.

Ezra purred in reply.

Brandt stared wistfully at the family’s new house.

A new beginning, he thought. A whole new life.

The house stood two and a half stories tall. Its gray shingles were chipped and stained. The old trees surrounding the house cast it in deep shadow.

It might have been nice once, Brandt thought, noticing two window shutters hanging from their hinges. But it sure needs help now.

Five steps led to a small, sagging front porch. The front door was surrounded by cracked stained-glass windows that badly needed to be replaced.

The house is so run-down, Brandt thought. But his parents thought they’d be comfortable there.

Brandt hoped so.

He was darkly handsome, with wavy black hair hanging loose, framing his face and flashing brown eyes. He wore faded jeans and a shirt made from colorful handwoven cloth.

A small leather pouch hung on a leather string around his neck. This he never took off.

Brandt turned as Mr. McCloy stormed out of the house, scowling. Mrs. McCloy trailed after him.

There are rats in there! he cried angrily. In the basement!

Rats, Brandt thought unhappily, petting Ezra. That’s all we need.

No problem, Dad, he said. There’s got to be an exterminator in town.

I checked this house completely before I bought it, Mr. McCloy fumed. There was no sign of rats in the basement two months ago.

You must have missed them somehow, John, Mrs. McCloy said. It’s not the end of the world.

I’m calling that real estate agent and demanding that he get over here and do something about this. What was his name again? Lurie?

Lurie? A man’s voice interrupted. It seemed to come from nowhere. Did I hear the name Lurie?

Brandt and his parents turned toward the voice.

A young man stood on the sidewalk, smiling at them. His hair was straight and black, and he had a black mustache. He wore gray denim overalls and carried a tool kit.

Don’t mean to interrupt, the man said. I just happened to overhear—

Do you know him? Mr. McCloy asked. Do you know Mr. Lurie?

I’ve heard of him, the man answered. The people who used to live here . . . I heard them mention the name.

He held out a long-fingered hand. Mr. McCloy shook it.

The man introduced himself as Glen Hankers. I do odd jobs, handiwork, that sort of thing.

Great, Brandt’s father said. I’m John McCloy. This is my wife, Barbara, and my son, Brandt. You know anything about rats, Mr. Hankers?

Hankers nodded. Pest control is my specialty. Why don’t I take a look?

Mr. McCloy gratefully led Mr. Hankers inside.

Brandt glanced at the movers, who were still hauling boxes into the house. Will you take Ezra for a while? he asked his mother. He held the cat out to her. I think the movers could use some help.

Mrs. McCloy frowned. I wish you wouldn’t, Brandt. You’ve got to be careful. Your condition—

Brandt sighed. His mother was always worrying about him. No problem. Nothing too heavy, he said, impatiently pressing the cat into her arms. Don’t worry so much.

Mrs. McCloy’s frown deepened, but she took the cat. Brandt rubbed the small scar on his left cheek. Then he made his way to the moving van and carried a small carton of books into the house.

After two or three trips, he heard his father calling to him from the living room. Hey, Brandt. I could use some help in here.

Brandt set a box of books on the floor of the hall and walked into the living room.

Mr. Hankers says he can get rid of the rats in no time, Mr. McCloy said. I guess I overreacted a bit.

Brandt’s father sat on the living room floor among a dozen cardboard boxes, carefully unwrapping his tribal relics. One by one, he peeled away the newspaper wrappers to reveal ancient spears and delicately carved, boldly painted masks, most of them twisted into frightened or cruel expressions.

Next he pulled out reed pipes that had been used for blowing darts. The darts were made of silver and honed to razor-sharp points.

"I want to get these things up on the wall before we do