Eventide

The darkness is coming . . .

The old house near Hode’s Hill, Pennsylvania is a place for Madison Hewitt to start over—to put the trauma of her husband’s murder, and her subsequent breakdown, behind her. She isn’t bothered by a burial plot on the property, or the mysterious, sealed cistern in the basement. Not at first. Even the presence of cold spots and strange odors could be fabrications of her still troubled mind. But how to explain her slashed tires, or the ominous messages that grow ever more threatening?

Convinced the answer lies in the past, Madison delves into the history of the home’s original owners, only to discover the origin of a powerful evil. An entity that may be connected to a series of gruesome attacks that have left police baffled. No matter where she turns—past or present—terror lingers just a step away, spurred on by a twisted obsession that can only be satisfied through death . . .

Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

Books by Mae Clair

Weathering Rock

Twelfth Sun

Myth and Magic

The Point Pleasant Series

A Thousand Yesteryears (Book 1)

A Cold Tomorrow (Book 2)

A Desolate Hour (Book 3)

The Hode’s Hill Novels

Cusp of Night (Book 1)

End of Day (Book 2)

Eventide (Book 3)

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Eventide

The Hode’s Hill Novels

Mae Clair

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

Contents

Books by Mae Clair

Eventide

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

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

A THOUSAND YESTERYEARS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Acknowledgment

Meet the Author

Copyright

To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

119 West 40th Street

New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2019 by Mae Clair

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

First Electronic Edition: December 2019

eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0729-2

eISBN-10: 1-5161-0729-2

First Print Edition: December 2019

ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0732-2

ISBN-10: 1-5161-0732-2

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

For Bob,

My brother, My brother

Chapter 1

May 15, 1878

Hollande Moore twisted the doorknob with her good hand. The room was locked from the inside, the same as all the others she’d tried in the long hallway. Behind her, Sylvia plodded down the corridor, the iron fireplace poker held lax at her side, droplets of her son’s blood glistening on her face. No rush in her step.

Dear God, how had it come to this?

Hollande sagged against the door, pain from her shattered wrist spiking to her head. Dizziness was a luxury she couldn’t afford. A blast of vertigo weakened her knees and made the floor heave beneath her. Perspiration beaded her brow in fat, cold droplets. Gummy with sweat, her palm stuck to the glass knob.

Pat-tap. Pat-tap.

Sylvia’s footsteps echoed softly, a harbinger of doom.

Hollande staggered away, every movement sending a fresh jolt of pain through her butchered wrist. At the end of corridor, the door to Darrin’s study gaped wide—the single room consistently locked throughout her brief tenure. No matter. Anywhere she could hide was welcome. She slipped inside, then slammed the door. When she gripped the knob, it came apart in her hand.

No! Please, no! Someone had battered it repeatedly, making the lock useless.

Tears blurred her vision. Had Sylvia planned this killing spree? What would Nathaniel think if he could see the depths of depravity his mother had succumbed to?

She spun, her gaze raking the room. There had to be something she could use as a weapon.

In mockery, the fireplace stood cold and black, both the poker and ash shovel missing. Cobwebs sprouted from lampshades and glommed into corners. Dust lay thick and undisturbed on a cherry desk. Across the room, the balcony doors yawned open to the night.

She rummaged through the desk, shoving aside papers and correspondence emblazoned with Stewart Quarry at the top. In a left-hand drawer, she located a letter opener. The blade was blunt, but with enough force, it might do the same damage as a knife.

The steady tramp of Sylvia’s footsteps drew nearer.

Hollande backed toward the balcony, the makeshift weapon clutched in her good hand. Even if she managed to clamber over the railing, the drop to the veranda was too great, the unyielding surface sure to break bone. Darrin was proof of that. Her best chance was to stand and fight.

Pat-tap. Pat-tap.

So close now.

Sweat trickled down her neck. Her heart beat faster and mushroomed into her throat.

Sylvia flung the door wide. She paused on the threshold, hair sweat-matted to her temples, eyes stygian in the sallow mask of her face. Her fingers twitched on the iron poker.

Hollande forced herself to block the image of Nathaniel—his skull crushed, blood pooling on the floor beneath him. Please, Sylvia. It doesn’t have to end this way. I can help you.

I don’t need help. Her voice was dispassionate, tainted by the cancer of madness. You never should have come here. I can’t change the past, but I can make certain this house becomes your tomb. With a grunt, she lurched forward, swinging the rod like a club. A violent displacement of air fanned over Hollande’s face.

She hurled herself onto the balcony—

—a step from death on the unforgiving stones below.

* * * *

Present Day

Madison Hewitt stood on the balcony and breathed the air wafting from Yarrow Creek. The heady scent of leafy green plants twined with the sweetness of Spanish bluebells and catmint, warmed by the heat of a late spring day. Elsewhere in Hode’s Hill, people took advantage of the long Memorial Day weekend by mowing lawns, opening backyard pools, or gearing up for three days of family cookouts. She’d chosen the stretch to move.

"This one is marked bedroom. Her sister Jillian breezed through the doorway carting a cardboard box. She plopped it on the bed, then paused to swipe a strand of hair from her brow. That’s the last of them. Roth left to take the truck back to the rental company."

Thanks.

Jillian joined her on the balcony. I love the view.

It was one of the many things that attracted Madison to the house. A lot of people would have been bothered by the isolation, tucked outside of town on a dead-end road. She found it relaxing.

I noticed there aren’t any streetlights, and the nearest house is over a mile away. Jillian worried her bottom lip between her teeth. It’s going to get dark at night.

I’m a big girl. All healed. Madison tried to keep the edge from her voice. I can take care of myself.

Jillian flushed. You don’t have to say that.

Yes, I do. The stigma of being mentally broken wasn’t easily set aside. Sooner or later, I have to start over.

You have started over. You’re working again.

Real estate’s only part of it. Madison brushed past her, angling for the bed. Her career had enabled her to learn about the property the moment it came on the market. In search of something small and inexpensive, she’d met one of those goals. The house was far larger than she needed, but the price had been too good to overlook. The previous owner passed away in a nursing home, her only relative a distant cousin who lived out of state. Anxious to divest of the house quickly, the cousin had been willing to negotiate on most of the furnishings.

The place is kind of creepy. Jillian scuffed her arms. Did you see the burial plot in the back?

It’s only three graves. Madison dug a pale green sheet from the box. A lot of people had backyard cemeteries in the eighteen hundreds. She fanned the cover over the bed.

Jillian caught a corner on the other side. I still think it’s creepy.

Why? We’re used to tending graves. What about Gabriel?

That’s different. Our ancestors were tasked with that obligation centuries before we were born.

A person dies three times. Madison tucked a fitted edge around the mattress while reciting a piece of folklore their mother taught them. Once when he dies. Once when he’s buried. And once when there’s no one left to remember him. The Final Death. She reached for the flat sheet. I’ll make sure the people in those graves are never forgotten. The same way she carried on the tradition for Gabriel Vane long after his tragic death in 1799.

Grave-tending is a serious responsibility. Jillian smoothed the sheet over the bed, the compressed line of her mouth telegraphing tension. You should leave them alone.

Maybe I want the responsibility. I’m sure the woman who lived here before me did the same.

You don’t know that. Besides, sometimes it’s best for the departed to embrace Final Death. You don’t know anything about those people or the lives they lived.

I know their names. Darrin and Sylvia Stewart. I think they must have been husband and wife. Their son is buried there, too. In some strange way, the wind-pitted stones had spoken to her. You were worried about me being by myself out here, but I’m not.

Now you’re being ridiculous.

Says the woman in love with a practicing medium. Madison quirked a smile.

Dante only experiments.

Maybe, but when he gets back from his art exhibit, I’d love to get his impression of the house. Madison tossed her a pillowcase. I’ve never seen him read a folk memory.

Sometimes there aren’t any to be found. And sometimes folk memories are better left alone. I have an uneasy feeling about this place.

No, you have an uneasy feeling about me living by myself after four and a half years under someone’s nose.

True.

Madison huffed out a breath. Roth asked me to move in with him. Her boyfriend was cut from the same cloth as her sister.

What? Jillian shot her a startled glance. I didn’t know you’d grown that serious.

We haven’t. At least, I haven’t. I told him I needed a break.

You’ve been together six months. And it’s been over four years since Boyd was killed.

Boyd has nothing to do with it. I need time to myself. She didn’t want to dwell on how supportive Roth had been—was still being—by giving her the space she needed. He’d said the L-word, and the prospect terrified her. She was stupid for bringing up the subject when her emotions were in a quagmire. Not something you wanted to broadcast when your younger sister possessed empathic abilities. Let’s finish and grab lunch. She reached for the bedspread. I picked up some chicken salad and fruit.

Afterward, they tackled more boxes. By the time evening settled, Jillian’s dog, Blizzard—who alternately stayed clear of the mess or trailed room to room—was ready for an overdue dinner. Madison hugged her sister goodbye, watched as Jillian got the husky settled in the backseat of her Accord, then pointed the car down the narrow lane, headed for Hode’s Hill. Madison waved from the driveway.

There would be fireworks over the Chinkwe River tonight, something Jillian could catch from the stoop of her brownstone. She’d invited Madison and a few mutual friends to join her, but Madison preferred to spend the first night in her new home without distractions.

She strolled around the side where an expansive stone veranda overlooked Yarrow Creek. The second-floor balcony ran the length of the house. From what she’d been able to deduce, the upper section had once been two bedrooms. Somewhere in the past, the smaller chamber had been converted into a bath, creating one large master suite. By contrast, the rest of the house had seen little, if any, remodeling. Peeling wallpaper, hardwood floors in need of refinishing, and old kitchen cabinets with lopsided shelves were just a few of the problems she’d inherited. The master suite with its rambling balcony and view of the creek had sold her.

That and the graves.

Madison followed a trail past the veranda and up an embankment to the rear of the property. The small graveyard—nothing more than a patch surrounded by a knee-high wall of limestone blocks—had been situated above flood levels in the event the creek should rise. Grass grew high and spiky at the edges, reminding her to invest in a weed trimmer. In the center, three tall slabs dotted with lichen stood as testament to another century.

Based on the dates, Darrin had died first, passing in 1865. Sylvia, and their adult son, Nathaniel, thirteen years later. Something tragic must have happened for mother and son to pass on the same day. A fire or accident, perhaps even illness. She could imagine Nathaniel trying to save his mother, or Sylvia succumbing to a fatal ailment while glued to the bedside of her dying son. She might never know the truth, but she would care for the graves as if they belonged to her ancestors.

Madison breathed deeply, savoring the quiet. Already, the air grew heavy with the heady mustiness that blooms around water at dusk. She loved the smell. Relished the fickle skip of breeze wafting from the creek. A few bats flitted between trees. Further away, a mourning dove cooed from somewhere among the branches.

As much as she enjoyed being outside, there was still unpacking to do. Maybe later, she’d relax on the balcony with a glass of wine and watch night settle. Alcohol didn’t mix well with meds, but she’d been off her pills long enough. She deserved the treat.

Warmed by the thought, she headed toward the house. The sight of a dead squirrel sprawled by the front door crushed her sense of tranquility.

Damn. The animal must have been injured, crawled up on the porch, and died. It was an odd place for a wild creature to seek shelter in the waning moments of life, but the area was infested with small rodents. The poor thing had probably tussled with a fox or a raccoon. She peered closer but didn’t see a mark on it. As unpleasant as the task was, she’d have to dispose of it. Part of living so far from town meant dealing with the occasional critter in her yard or home.

Inside, she located a trash bag and a pair of plastic gloves. When it came time to put the carcass in the sack, she averted her eyes. The little body hung limp in her hand, faintly warm through the thin layer of her gloves. She bundled the bag shut and glanced to the rickety floorboards, praying she wouldn’t discover blood.

A chill prickled her spine.

The squirrel’s body and tail had concealed a single word stenciled in capital letters on the doormat. One that might have been inviting under other circumstances, but now seemed sinister.

WELCOME

Madison glanced over her shoulder, the swiftly falling night abruptly unsettling. She sprinted across the driveway to the detached garage, then dumped the bag in a trash can. Of course, no one was watching her, but it was hard to squash old fears.

How many women survived seeing their husband butchered with a knife? How many people knew what it felt like to be murdered?

Chapter 2

March 20, 1878

It’s a good position. Edgar used his knife to slice a piece of pot roast.

Hollande gave no outward sign of distress, her gaze trained on her brother rather than his pregnant wife. She’d known all along this day was coming. A companion to Sylvia Stewart? Thank heavens her voice didn’t tremble.

You’ll like the family, and the fit couldn’t be better. You possess a gentleness when looking after others that Carolyn can vouch for with her bouts of morning sickness and vapors. And I remember how you tended to Phillip when he was ill.

Hollande flinched involuntarily at the mention of her departed fiancé, but Edgar failed to notice. He forked a chunk of potato into his mouth, the glow from the gas-lit chandelier gleaming off the high dome of his forehead with a sheen that reminded her of sweat.

That was an illusion, of course. Her brother would have no qualms about ousting her from the house their parents once owned, no more than he had in selling it. Mama and Papa would have expected Edgar to provide for her, and in his own distorted way he was—by securing a position for her that included a room and meals.

She shifted her attention to the claret wallpaper festooned with intricate swirls of gold. Her mother had loved the dining room with its deep tray ceiling and pendant chandelier. Each holiday the table brimmed with platters of fruits and nuts, soft cheeses, and a fat turkey or glazed ham. Drinks sparkled in crystal glasses on the cherry sideboard, waiting for friends or family to claim them. Such laughter and joy.

As a child, she’d scampered barefoot across the hardwood floor on Christmas Eve, a frilly white nightdress swirling around her ankles. It was usually Papa who scooped her into his arms, laughing as he carried her up to bed. Christmas morning, Mama would dish up bread steaks, Swiss eggs, and jugs of sweet milk. Because it was a holiday, there would be smoked salmon and a bowl of spiced apples or candied potatoes.

So much had changed now that her parents were gone. Her meals with Edgar were polite, even somber. She’d once hoped the mood would change when he wed Carolyn, but Hollande’s sister-in-law was every bit as reserved as the man she’d married.

I spoke to Nathaniel—one of the brothers—at length. Edgar’s knife scraped across the blue-and-white dinner plate as he made short work of his wife’s pot roast. There are two of them. Twins. Tristan wasn’t there, but I met the mother, Sylvia. Upstanding woman, though somewhat frail. She’s taken a sickly turn, according to Nathaniel, and remains isolated most days. He used the meat to sop up gravy, then forked the dripping lump into his mouth. His jaw worked as he diced up turnips and carrots. She’s lonely for company. Understandable, given the size of the estate. You’ve seen the place out by Yarrow Creek.

A rambling home at the end of a lane. Remote. Few people went out that way. Hollande set her fork down, heart thumping against her ribs. She had only herself to blame for her predicament, twenty-eight and unwed, dependent on an older brother. That may have been fine when it was just the two of them, but his marriage to Carolyn changed the dynamics of the household. As upset as she was, she couldn’t fault her sister-in-law for wanting to move closer to her parents, especially now with a baby on the way.

When the house is settled, I’ll see that you receive a share, of course. Having finished with his meal, Edgar pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair. Mother and Father would want to know you’ve been properly cared for.

Hollande dabbed a napkin against her lips. It seemed her fate was sealed. She felt light-headed, but it may have been the gas lighting leeching oxygen from the air. It wouldn’t be the first time.

When do you plan to begin advertising the property?

Edgar added cream to a cup of tea at his elbow. I’ve already met with an estate agent. He’s begun looking for a prospective buyer.

So soon?

We thought it best. Carolyn ventured her first words since Edgar’s mention of the Stewarts. She fiddled with her napkin, lacing it between her fingers. Red spots bloomed on her pale cheeks as she averted her gaze.

It wasn’t her house to sell, but Edgar would have discussed options with her. Hollande had become excess baggage in her brother’s marriage. He was ready to move on, grow his family, but not until he’d secured accommodations for his unwed sister. If only Phillip hadn’t died, they would surely be married by now and started on a family of their own. Since her fiancé’s death, she hadn’t the heart to look at another man.

No matter. Fate was fate. She could stay and dawdle, but arguing wouldn’t change her brother’s mind.

When did you tell Mr. Stewart I would be available to start?

Edgar shifted. For the first time that evening, he appeared uncomfortable. I, uh... His gaze skittered to his wife before he refocused on Hollande. The timing is up to you, of course, but Caro and I felt—

I see. She cut off his squirming. The sooner the better.

Hollande, you needn’t leave until the house is sold. Carolyn reached across the table to grip her fingers, her gaze a simpering match for her voice. We just thought you might like to get settled as soon as possible. It will surely be difficult seeing your parents’ home sold.

You needn’t worry about me. Hollande pulled her hand away. Briskly. Edgar, you may inform Mr. Stewart I will be available by week’s end. That will give me ample time to have items in order. She preferred to remain no longer than necessary where she wasn’t welcome.

You’ll adjust. Edgar sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. It’s for the best.

Of course. If only Phillip was at her side. If only her parents hadn’t met their end in a carriage accident. She stood, appetite gone.

If only.

Hollande set her napkin on the table. She walked stiffly to the door, the sound of some long-ago Christmas Eve echoing faintly in her ears.

* * * *

Present Day

Madison spent her second day in the house sorting boxes, moving furniture, and tossing things she didn’t need. The previous owner left behind a number of odds and ends, including a hodgepodge of old tools, rusted paint cans, and plastic bins in the basement. It was dirty work rummaging through it all, and she felt grimy by the time she walked upstairs for a bottle of water.

A quick check of the time told her it was nearing two o’clock. After a short break, she tied her hair in a ponytail, ready to tackle the project fresh. Before she could head downstairs, the chime of the doorbell drew her to the foyer. She peered through a leaded-glass window to spy Roth McGrath on the front porch.

Surprised, Madison opened the door. Hi. What are you doing here?

Not exactly the greeting I was hoping for. He flashed a smile that sank a dimple into his cheek. Would you believe I was in the area?

I’m at the end of a dead-end road.

Okay, I lied. I wanted to see how you were doing. Can I come in?

She stepped aside to make room for him to enter. It’s only been one day, Roth.

I know, but it’s an isolated property. He looked around the foyer as if taking stock of the house, his gaze sweeping past the staircase to the drawing room. He’d helped her move, securing the rental truck and doing the heavy lifting. Everything go okay last night?

Fine. She avoided mentioning the dead squirrel. I was exhausted by the end of the day. Thanks for your help with the move.

No problem. I guess you still have a lot to do.

That’s an understatement. I’m working in the basement right now.

Need some help?

Madison hesitated. They’d agreed to take a short break from each other, but that didn’t mean their friendship had to end. She cared for Roth a great deal. She just wasn’t ready to live with him.

Sure. There’s a lot of junk down there I want to toss.

You sort, I’ll toss.

They worked together for the next few hours, pushing unwanted items to the side, bagging and hauling smaller ones to the rear yard for trash. Roth kept her entertained talking about the antics of his students. As a middle school math teacher, with the year winding to a close, classes were mostly fun and games.

Madison originally met him through Tessa Camden, Jillian’s next-door neighbor and a mutual friend. Six months ago, as a favor, she’d driven Tessa’s son to school on a rainy Monday, ending up with a flat tire in the parking lot. Roth helped her out, and their relationship escalated from there.

I think I’m ready to call it quits for the day. Madison swiped sweaty hair from her brow. Or at least get out of this basement. The place was dank and dingy even with several pull-chain lightbulbs overhead. Rough stone walls and an uneven floor made the dreary space unsuited for anything other than storage. By the looks of the metal shelving units and boxes of old Ball jars, the previous owner had done a lot of canning. A set of squat steps on the right led to storm doors that opened to the rear yard.