Mal felt differently. He didn’t like confronting his fears in therapy, and he knew he’d abhor being purposely frightened. But the thing that bothered him most was being allowed to bring weapons.

What kind of government experiment allows the participants to be armed? What safeguards were in place to prevent someone from getting seriously hurt?

Mal had packed the gun in their check-in luggage, and both he and Deb had taken shooting lessons. But in fright’s grasp, Mal wouldn’t trust himself to hit a bus from a meter away. What if he fired wildly and hurt someone? What if he shot Deb? What kind of insane tests were going to be conducted on them that required firearms?

“Aren’t you hungry?”

He shook his head. Deb took that as an invitation to tear his burger in half and start munching. Mal stared at her, marveling at her resiliency. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her. How proud he was of her. She was two levels away from becoming a black belt. A double amputee, slowly becoming a karate master. Who could have ever guessed all she could accomplish? But instead of gushing his admiration, he thought of that CEO jerk hitting on her, and how she seemed to eat it up.

She’s going to figure out I’m a coward, and leave me.

Mal didn’t think he’d be able to handle that. But he was sure it was coming.

Someone bumped the back of Mal’s chair, and he turned to see a teenager standing next to the table. Chubby, almond-eyed, protruding tongue. Down Syndrome.

“What’s wrong with your hand?” the teen said, pointing at Mal’s prosthesis.

“I lost it. This one is made of rubber.”

“How did you lose it?”

A madman strapped me to a table and cut it off with a scalpel while I begged for him to stop.

“An accident,” Mal said. He looked at Deb, who was staring at the boy with wide eyes. While the teen was probably harmless, he was bringing up old memories. Bad memories.

“Where are your parents?” Mal asked, searching around for the child’s caretaker.

“You’re a freak,” the boy said.

Mal blinked. “What?”

“You’re a freak and you’re going to die.” He looked at Deb. “And so are you, lady.”

Mal began to stand up. “Look, kid—”

But the teenager stepped back and pointed, then began to yell, “FREAKS GONNA DIE! FREAKS GONNA DIE!”

Mal turned to his wife. Her face had lost all color, and she looked ready to throw up.

“FREAKS GONNA DIE!”

Again Mal looked for the boy’s father or mother, but instead he only saw people staring. Not only those in the restaurant, but passersby had also stopped to watch.

“FREAKS GONNA DIE!”

Finally an older woman came rushing over, tugging at the boy’s arm, saying “Calm down, Petey, calm down.” She offered Mal and Deb a quick, soulless I’m sorry, and then managed to pull her son away from their table as he continued to shout.

“FREAKS GONNA DIE!”

The woman tugged the child further into the terminal, until his voice melded in with the rest of the airport noise. In the restaurant, the clinking of silverware on plates resumed, and conversations picked up to levels prior to the interruption.

Mal, his whole body flushed and twitching, turned to his wife.

“You okay, babe?”

Deb’s face pinched, and then she vomited all over the table.

Solidarity, South Carolina

Forenzi

Dr. Emil Forenzi sat on the mattress—the one piece of furniture in his bedroom that wasn’t an antique—and squinted at the Bruno Magli loafers he’d just put on. There was a stain on the toe. He pulled it off and licked his thumb, rubbing off a reddish-brown streak.

Blood.

Forenzi couldn’t remember wearing the shoes in the lab area, and his mind wandered as to elsewhere he might have trod in bodily fluids. His revere was interrupted by a knock on the bedroom door.

“Enter,” he said, dropping the shoe next to the bed.

Sykes came in, holding a sheaf of papers. He silently presented them to Forenzi. It was reports on their guests.

Tom Mankowski, the cop, had just arrived at the airport. Excellent. He would make a sturdy test subject.

The amputees, Mallory and Deborah Dieter, had boarded their plane in Pittsburg. Forenzi had high hopes for them.

Dr. Frank Belgium and Sara Randhurst were due at Butler House any minute. Forenzi’s intel provided an interesting tidbit.

“They’re sharing a cab?” he said to Sykes. “Do they know each other?”

“I have no idea, sir.”

Forenzi glanced at him, caught a glimpse of the man’s sharp dentata.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Sykes?”

“Nothing is personal to me, sir.”

“Do you ever bite your tongue while eating?”

“As much as anyone else.”

Sykes didn’t elaborate. Forenzi flipped through more pages, seeing who else was attending, and frowned at the lack of a dossier on the VanCamps.

“Josh and Fran VanCamp didn’t confirm?”

“No, sir.”

Forenzi clucked his tongue. That was a shame. They would have been ideal.

No matter. This weekend would proceed without them, and it would be a success nonetheless.

“Have you spoken to your team?” he asked Sykes.

“Yes, sir. We’re ready.”

“My team?”

“I checked on them half an hour ago. Proceeding as scheduled.”

“Dinner?”

“Planned for seven, as requested.”

“Will we have those little Swedish meatballs? Those are wonderful.”

“Those are listed on the menu, sir.”

Forenzi nodded. In the hallway, floorboards creaked.

Both Forenzi and Sykes turned to look. No one was there.

“The ghosts are getting anxious,” Forenzi mused.

The paranormal history of Butler House was well-documented, and Forenzi had lost count of the strange phenomenon he’d encountered since coming here. Doors closing by themselves. Sharp drops in temperature. Strange odors. Creepy sounds. Last week, he was awoken from deep sleep, absolutely positive someone had been at the foot of his bed, watching him

“Do you believe in ghosts, Sykes?”

The man shrugged.

“So you aren’t afraid of the supernatural?”

“I’m not afraid of anything, sir.”

“Of course you’re not. Dismissed.”

The man left, closing the door behind him. Not much of a conversationalist, Sykes. But he had other areas of expertise.

Forenzi stood up and looked into the ornate, full-body mirror hanging above the bureau. He laced a tie through his collar and fussed with a half Windsor knot, trying to get it even. As he fought the fabric, he noticed something moving in the lower corner of the mirror.

The dust ruffle of the bed.

Forenzi looked down, behind him, and the rustling stopped.

Mice? Rats?

Something else?

And what happened to my shoe?

Forenzi searched the floor, turning in a full circle, looking for the loafer with the blood stain. He could have sworn he’d dropped it on the floor before Sykes came in.

Under the bed?

The doctor got on his hands and knees, ready to lift up the dust ruffle. But something gave him pause.

Behind the dust ruffle, something was making a sound. A distinct, recognizable sound.

Chewing.

I hear chewing.

A streak of panic flashed through Forenzi, and he crabbed backward, away from the bed. Then he quickly scanned the room for some sort of weapon. His eyes settled on an old, cast iron stove. Atop the bundle of kindling next to it was a fireplace poker.

Forenzi got to his feet and snatched the poker, turning back to the bed. Then he held his breath, listening.

The chewing was now accompanied by a slurping noise.

What the hell is that?

He knelt next to the bed, firmly gripping the poker with his right hand, reaching toward the dust ruffle with his left—

—and hesitated.

Do I really want to know what’s under there?