“Oh, we’re not staying in Charleston. We’re going to Solidarity.”

“Not… Butler House?” The clerk’s voice had gone up an octave.

Mal didn’t answer, and Deb knew why. When they’d called to confirm their attendance, the recording said informing others about the experiment would disqualify them.

“What’s Butler House?” Mal asked, obviously playing dumb.

“It’s… it’s the most evil place on earth. Whatever you do, stay away from that house, Mr. Deiter. And may God go with you.”

The clerk did a quick about-face and rushed past Deb and Moni, in a sudden and unwarranted hurry. Deb watched the man as he passed, and the expression on his face was pure fear.

He looked like he’d just seen a ghost.

Tom

The private driveway leading up to Butler House wasn’t paved, and Tom almost missed the turn because the entrance was overgrown with brush. Only a sign reading 683 AUBURN ROAD, hanging on a wooden post mostly obscured by vines, gave any indication there was a road there.

“We’re about to get bumpy,” he told Frank and Sara as he pulled the car off the paved street and onto a dirt trail.

Bumpy was an understatement. Ten yards into the woods, Tom realized he should have rented something with all-wheel drive. First they hit a ditch that made their undercarriage scrape against the ground, then the car almost got stuck on a mound of dirt, Tom having to gun the engine before the tires gained traction.

The pair in the back seemed to be enjoying themselves, the rough terrain giving them an excuse to bump into each other. During the car ride, Tom had ascertained they’d just met, but they seemed to be hitting it off very well. The Dutch courage he smelled on their breath might have been one of the reasons for that, but Tom also felt strangely comfortable with the duo. Tom remembered meeting Joan, and at the same time he’d also met two guys named Abe and Bert. Tom still spoke with Bert regularly, and he and Bert visited Abe in the hospital six months ago. Abe, a used car salesmen, had sold a clunker to a man who was unhappy with his purchase, and even unhappier with Abe’s refund policy. The guy had expressed his displeasure by chasing Abe around the car lot with a baseball bat and ultimately breaking his leg.

When he’d met Bert, Abe, and to some extent, Joan, there had been a familiarity there that was unusual. Akin to going to a high school reunion and seeing people you hadn’t seen in twenty years. But he hadn’t met Abe, Bert, or Joan before, just like he hadn’t met Frank and Sara. Yet Tom felt immediately comfortable around them. Like they were destined to be friends.

It might have had to do with shared experiences. Like Tom, both Frank and Sara had apparently lived through something awful. So even though they each came from different walks of life—a homicide cop, a counselor for wayward teens, and a molecular biologist—they were still birds of a feather.

Tom drove through the thicket, which then opened up into marshland, acres of cattails in all directions. The mild wind blowing made them sway, like waves rolling across a brown and green sea. The effect was weirdly hypnotic, made even more so because some of the cattail spikes—thick tubes on the top of each stalk that resembled cigars—had begun to seed, turning them into white tufts. Like dandelions, the white seeds floated on the breeze, giving the appearance of a snow flurry. It made Tom feel eerie, and somehow alone. Even the duo in back, who’d spent a majority of the car ride gabbing, went silent at the spectacle.

“This is… creepy,” Sara finally said.

“I don’t believe in a netherworld,” Belgium said. “But if one exists, this is how I picture it.”

They drove more than a kilometer through the undulating plants, and then things got creepier when Butler House came into view.

It seemed to rise up out of the cattails, looking both incongruous to its surroundings, and also as if it had been there since time began. Gray, sprawling, and decrepit, it might have once been regal, but now appeared way past its prime. Even from the distance, Tom could sense its decay. The roof seemed to slump in the center. The walls looked slightly crooked. The entire house appeared to lean to the left, ready to collapse during the next big storm. Which, judging by the ominous gray clouds overhead, could be any minute.

When they got within a hundred meters of the house, Tom saw a small guard station, no bigger than a porta-potty, and a steel gate barring the path. As Tom approached, a man in a suit and tie came out of the tiny building and held up his hand to stop them. He wore sunglasses, even though it was overcast, and Tom saw a glimpse of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

Tom stopped next to him and rolled down the window. He immediately wrinkled his nose. The air stank of sour, like carnations going bad.

“IDs,” the guard said.

Everyone fished out their driver’s licenses, and when Tom collected all three he passed them over. The guard gave each a cursory glance, and handed them back. Then he returned to his little booth and the gate swung open.

“Talkative fellow,” Belgium said.

“Even money he’s former military,” Tom told him.

“How do you know?” Sara asked.

“He had a bearing about him. A stillness, but alert at the same time. A lot of cops have that, too.”

“How do you know he wasn’t a cop?”

“Cops ask questions. Soldiers follow orders.”

Tom continued on to the house, which seemed to grow in size faster than they approached. By the time they parked on the grass near the front door, Butler House blocked more than half the sky. It wasn’t particularly bright out to begin with, but in the house’s shadow it felt dark as night.

“Well well well,” Belgium said. “It’s even uglier up close.”

Tom agreed. They could now see the broken shutters, the peeling paint, the cracked masonry. Thorny weeds jutted out of the ground next to the crumbling foundation. One of the chimneys had several bricks missing.

“Looks like someone picked up the house and dropped it,” Sara said after they exited the vehicle.

Tom couldn’t help but remember the Butler House website, and all of the atrocities committed here. Augustus Torble’s words popped into his mind.

That house feels evil. It exudes it, like a bog steams on cool nights.

Tom had dismissed the words as lunacy. But standing in front of the house, it didn’t feel a part of his world. Almost as if, at any moment, it would sprout hundreds of black, oily tentacles and devour them all.

He did not want to go inside.

“You look like I feel, Tom,” Belgium said. “I don’t see how any good can come from us going in in in there.”

The front double doors, arched and barred with wrought iron fleur de lis, opened outward. The trio immediately took a step backward, and Tom’s hand went to his chest, seeking the shoulder holster and gun that weren’t there, still packed in his bag.

Standing in the doorway, flanked by two military men in gray suits, was Dr. Emil Forenzi. Tom recognized him from online pictures. He was a wisp of a man, tufts of white hair over his ears that looked a lot like cattail seeds, back beginning to bend with age. His suit was blue poplin, tailored, his necktie tan. His smile was broad and looked genuine.

“Welcome to Butler House. I’m so pleased to see you all. Three of our guests have already arrived, and we’re expecting three more. Detective Mankowski, if you’d be so kind as to give my men your keys, they’ll park the car and take your bags to your rooms.

Tom handed over the rental car automatic starter, then took Forenzi’s outstretched hand. It was delicate and boney, like a fledgling bird.

“I am Dr. Forenzi. It’s a pleasure, Detective. I’ve followed your exploits closely. You’re a remarkable man, on so many levels.”

Then the doctor turned to Sara. “Greetings, Ms. Randhurst.” He clasped her hand in both of his. “I’ve read about your extraordinary bravery. It is an honor to meet you in person. And Dr. Belgium…” Another handshake with Frank. “I’m so eager to talk to you. Apologies for the… crude… way you were beckoned here. Come in, come in, meet the others.”