The Crying House: An absolutely nail-biting mystery and suspense thriller (Detective Casey White Book 4) Read online

  THE CRYING HOUSE

  AN ABSOLUTELY NAIL-BITING MYSTERY AND SUSPENSE THRILLER

  B.R. SPANGLER

  BOOKS BY B.R. SPANGLER

  Detective Casey White Series

  Where Lost Girls Go

  The Innocent Girls

  Saltwater Graves

  The Crying House

  The Memory Bones

  The Lighthouse Girls

  Taken Before Dawn

  The Outer Banks Crime Thriller Series

  Deadly Tide

  The Affair with Murder Psychological Thriller Series

  1. Killing Katie

  2. Painful Truths

  3. Grave Mistakes

  A Cozy Mystery

  An Order of Coffee and Tears

  Caustic, a Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller Series

  1. Fallen

  2. Endure

  3. Deceit

  4. Reveal

  A Paranormal Supernatural Thriller

  Superman’s Cape

  AVAILABLE IN AUDIO

  Detective Casey White Series

  Where Lost Girls Go (Available in the UK and the US)

  The Innocent Girls (Available in the UK and the US)

  Saltwater Graves (Available in the UK and the US)

  The Crying House (Available in the UK and the US)

  The Memory Bones (Available in the UK and the US)

  The Lighthouse Girls (Available in the UK and the US)

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  The Memory Bones

  Hear More from B.R. Spangler

  Books by B.R. Spangler

  A Letter from B.R. Spangler

  Where Lost Girls Go

  The Innocent Girls

  Saltwater Graves

  The Lighthouse Girls

  Taken Before Dawn

  Acknowledgements

  *

  To my friends and family for their love, support, and patience.

  PROLOGUE

  THIRTY YEARS AGO

  He heard the front door thump close with a sharp blow that rattled the walls. His ears filled with the shuffle of her work shoes against the linoleum as she entered the kitchen. Then came the smell of grease, carried on her clothes and hands and her hair, picked up from the diner where she waited tables. Frozen, his tiny heart pounded, its pace hastening to keep up as panic gripped his little body. Mommy was home.

  The liquor cabinet was next. She opened it, a bottle and glass clanking, accompanied by a low grumble about the piss-poor tips and the stinking fishermen who gave her pennies for the plates she served. Her mood was bad, adding to his terror. He heard her drinking. Heard the subtle moan when she finished the first, and then heard her tip the bottle against the drinking glass for another.

  He searched his bed, examining the corners, seeing that the sheets were tight. He inspected the blankets next, making sure he folded them exactly as she’d showed him. Maybe he’d go to bed. If she thought he was sleeping, she’d leave him alone. But his bedroom window was bright with daylight. He got up onto his toes, his being able to see over the sill since he’d turned seven. There was fire gliding across the bay, the sun still setting. His bedtime wouldn’t come until he could see the first stars.

  Going to bed early never stopped her before. The last time he tried it, he hadn’t been able to see for days; the salt she put in his eyes causing them to burn. He’d rubbed them hard, but that only made it worse. Much worse.

  “Why are there dishes in the sink!” Her hollering bounced up the stairwell and down the hall, her shrill voice piercing his ears.

  The kitchen, he thought with frantic alarm. The sink. He’d forgotten about the plate he’d used for his sandwich.

  “Get down here!” she yelled, slapping the dish against the sides of the sink. There was only the one, but she’d made sure to make it sound like there were dozens. “Now!”

  Jump, he thought wildly. I could jump from my window. If he was hurt, maybe then she’d leave him alone. If he was dead, she’d have to leave him alone.

  His feet moved toward his bedroom door, her voice exerting a power over him he couldn’t understand. She could make him move. She could make him come to her. And make him kneel as if there was magic in her voice. He thought of the television show. The one with the snake in the basket and the man wearing the orange turban. He only had a flute, but with it he could charm the snake, control it. That was magic. Maybe that’s what his mother could do.

  “Coming,” he heard himself answer, a sting in his eyes, an ache riddling his body while he tried not to shake. He was already crying from the fright and could barely manage the words. “I’m coming, Mommy.”

  He heard the closet door open then. He heard the burlap sack being dragged across the kitchen floor. It was the rock salt, and it dried his tears in an instant. He stopped and dared to touch his knees, feeling the papery bumps beneath his pants, the scabs from before—the cuts still healing. He hoped they wouldn’t open this time. It hurt the most when the scabs cracked and peeled from his skin. The salt hurt something awful.

  Another moan. Another tip of the vodka bottle, its stout neck touching the top of her glass as though a ritual of hers. She might add some orange juice now. She usually did that. “Hurry!” He heard the tick of rock salt hitting the floor—his mother setting the stage for him. “If you don’t hurry, I’m going to add an hour.”

  Every part of him told him to hide, to go into his room and disappear. But he hurried for her, the panic growing like wildfire, his little feet racing.

  “I’m here, Mommy,” he answered and entered the kitchen, salt crunching beneath his shoes.

  She eyed the floor, the milky white and gray stones between them.

  “Well,” she demanded, and drank her juice.

  He said nothing more and rolled the bottom of his pants until his knees showed, the creases and scabs becoming itchy when the air hit them. He stood still a moment, hesitant to lower himself. There was nothing to lean on; she’d never allow it. With no easy way to do it, he whimpered as he inched closer, lowering himself to kneel onto the rock salt. It must’ve been magic. A dark and ugly magic. He was in her control, and he did as she commanded. He was the snake in the basket. He grimaced and cried silently to himself as his mother watched. When he da
red to look at her, he saw the satisfaction crawl onto her face.

  “Good. You stay like that. Cleanse your soul.”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  ONE

  TWENTY-ONE MONTHS AGO

  Tina Sommers had never felt so cold, a misty cloud in her breath, ice needling her fingertips, and her toes felt like wooden stubs. A harsh gust lashed at her bare neck, locks of golden hair flailing about her head as she tugged on one of her tattered sneakers. There were holes in the top and on the sides of them, the miles of frozen ground behind her proving too much for the worn canvas. She clutched her jacket, the joints in her fingers aching as she tightened the flimsy fabric around her front and tried to hide inside it. Another wave of wintery air struck as icy slush spilled off a passing truck, pelting her from head to toe. When it was gone, her shadow returned to the snow-covered ground, the streetlights casting an orange glow over the roadside and turning her alabaster skin the same color. It was the last place in the world she thought she’d be this evening.

  She gazed at the distance ahead, her insides squeezing. Her jacket fell open, the zipper torn, her throat closing around a sob as a tear stood on her cheek, its stinging cold in an instant. Tina cursed herself for not being better prepared, for not having planned. But there was no time to plan, no time for any of it. He’d touched her again, and that was enough. Anger stirred, her body tensing. She should have seen it coming. The way he was looking at her differently. His gaze wandering inappropriately. Tina shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold January air. It was from disgust.

  “I’m done with this place,” she said, her teeth chattering hard enough to make her jaw ache. Her sights were set on Virginia Beach where her father lived. Nothing would stop her. Domed lights lined the highway, each of them one-hundred and twenty-two steps from the other. She knew the next one was another forty steps. Tina hoisted her backpack up onto her shoulders, wishing she’d filled it with more than a couple of changes of clothes, and added a few dollars to her pockets. She’d make it work, though, the nearest road sign offering a respite, a place for her to get warm before she continued.

  She wiped her eyes, reading, “Rest Stop Next Right Five Miles.”

  Her heart sank. Five miles might as well have been one hundred. From her pockets, she uncovered her hand, the freezing air slicing her fingers. She made a fist and held out her thumb and practiced hitching it over her shoulder like she’d seen hitchhikers do in the movies and on television.

  A car drove by, brake lights flashing, her heart walloping with the promise of getting off her feet, of sitting in a warm seat. Cloudy puffs of car exhaust spewed from the tail pipe, the noxious fumes sticking in the back of her throat, the idea of hitching rides feeling suddenly wrong.

  When the passenger window lowered and a woman’s dark brown eyes showed in the mirror, Tina saw a person appear in the rear seat, a gloomy shadow, the sight of it frightening her and changing her mind. She waved at the car, recalling a story about a woman and man luring young girls into their vehicle, and then feeding them drugs before trafficking them for sex. Tina waved her hand and backed away.

  “Suit yourself!” the woman yelled, the passenger window gliding up as the tires peeled a layer of ash-colored slush.

  Alone again, Tina tucked her hand into her pocket, a shiver holding her hostage. She shrugged her shoulders forward, taking the first of the steps that’d lead her to the rest stop. “Suit yourself,” she said with teary sarcasm, the regret laboring in the cold, making her rethink her status. Was it more dangerous to stay outside or dare the safety of a stranger’s car?

  It was at least three miles before another car slowed, a truck this time, the height of it eclipsing the sedans and coupes which had been the popular fare traveling this stretch of road. The truck slowed until it was crawling, its tires crunching, the slush freezing as the night grew long and the temperatures fell. By now, Tina worried she wouldn’t survive. Her fingers and toes were riddled with pins and needles. They’d find her half frozen to death, a picture of her on the morning news, legs and arms wrapped in gauzy bandaging, the headlines reading snow-covered teenager in critical condition—amputations unavoidable. She glanced at her hands, the tips of her fingers having turned oddly white, even in the orange cast by the streetlights.

  “Looking for a lift?” a man asked from inside the truck’s cab.

  She said nothing, the window above her head and too far for her to see. “Wha—”, she tried saying, her lips and cheeks stuck in place. Desperation played in her head, the warnings of being cautious easing.

  “I said, you looking for a lift?” the driver asked again, the top of his bald head showing through the window’s opening. She saw him then, his face round, cheeks plump, a heavy white beard that gave him a festive, holiday look. The man’s eyes were a warm hazel color and recessed beneath bushy eyebrows. Tina didn’t feel a threat like she did with the other car but remained careful. From the cab, a touch of heat reached her. The cozy smell of food came with it, her stomach growling. She glanced at the driver and then to her tattered sneakers, cringing at the thought of the miles remaining to the rest stop. Tina said nothing, her mother’s voice sounding alarms in her head about strangers—the words spoken a million times since she was old enough to understand them. But the cold.

  The man must have sensed her reluctance, his continuing, “It’s okay. I’m one of the good ones.”

  “I’m headed to Virginia Beach,” she said, her mouth stuck. She pegged her foot behind one leg, her toes absent. She contemplated the offer, inching closer to the truck’s radiating heat. “Would you be heading in that direction?”

  “The Outer Banks,” he answered, leaning close enough to peer down. His gaze drifted from her head to her feet and fixed on her shoes. “Listen, the temperature is dropping fast. It’s only going to get colder and too dangerous to be out here, let alone walking. I can take you part of the way.”

  “Could we stop at the rest stop?” she asked, struggling to lift her arm and point down the road. “I think it’s about two miles ahead.” Anticipating heat, Tina moved toward the cab.

  The driver agreed, his saying, “Sure, the rest stop it is. I gotta hit the head anyway.”

  The truck’s passenger door opened, warm air gushing and wrapping around her like a warm blanket. The driver’s hand appeared, pale fingers dancing in the dark, offering to help her. Tina’s feet clumsily found the places to step as she climbed inside of the cab. When she was in the seat, she stayed still a moment and let the warm air from the vents wash over her. The cab’s console was different than expected, the dash looking like a video game with computer panels perched beneath the windshield and behind the largest steering wheel she’d ever seen.

  “You want to get the door?”

  “Yeah, certainly,” she answered, catching herself staring. When Tina closed the door, she was out of the cold but shook nonetheless.

  “You’ll warm soon,” he said, shifting gears, the truck bucking as it went from first into second and then to third.

  Her eyes closed, the harsh ache riddling her body fading, she drifted cozily into the path of hot air pouring from the vents, warming her head and face and feet. “That feels good.”

  “Another minute and you’ll forget all about the cold,” he said, turning knobs to the right and cranking the thermostat.

  Tina’s stomach let out a growl and she braced her middle, the sound embarrassing. The driver heard it. Tina tried covering it up with small talk. “How long before we get there?”

  “Well, it’s more than two miles. It’s at least four by my count,” he answered, working the shifter, his knee bouncing on the clutch pedal. “Chicken soup?”

  “What’s that?” Tina asked, realizing she’d only walked another mile. She looked outside, falling snow flying sideways and ticking against the window’s glass. There was a foot of it plowed and piled against the side of the road. She wouldn’t have made it. Not four more miles. Not even one. Her stomach growled again, the pit of i
t empty and gnawing her. “Soup?”

  “The red thermos next to the console. The big one,” he offered, Tina following his hand, his finger pointing to it without his eyes leaving the road. “Do you see it?”

  “I got it. Are you sure?” she asked, the outside of the canister warm to the touch. Tina held it between her hands. “I don’t want to put you out.”

  “Nah. Go for it. I can grab a burger at the rest stop,” he said. He turned and eyed her a moment, looking up and down. Jokingly, he patted his gut, a noticeable paunch between the seatbelt straps. “You look like you can use it a heck more than me.”

  “Thank you,” she said. And without hesitation, Tina unscrewed the thermos cap, steam rising onto her face; the smell of chicken soup bringing warm memories of a family she had once, long ago: her mother and father who liked to cook together on Sunday afternoons while she and her little brother played on the floor in front of the television set. The broth was still hot, the taste salty, her hunger overwhelming as she drank a mouthful and felt it warm in her chest as noodles slid down her throat.