The House Always Wins

By Laura-Leigh Celeste

Jonathan McAllister's grisly family history has made him a legendary story-teller at parties. And perhaps it was the sight of those enthralled audiences hanging on to his every word that motivated him to immortalize those stories in what was sure to be a New York Times bestseller.
Convinced that he needs to be there in person in order to properly tell his tale, he journeys halfway around the world to visit the supposedly cursed farmhouse in which the gruesome murders took place, to walk in the footsteps of his ancestors.
But what he uncovers will turn his entire life upside-down.

EXCERPT

With no recollection of how he had gotten there, he found himself standing in the front yard a moment later, squinting at the antique fountain through the fading light of dusk. A cumbersome structure, it boasted a massive concrete bowl spanning some twenty-odd feet in diameter and almost three feet in depth, with pipes and valves leading down to a centrally-located nozzle which spouted the water almost five feet into the air.
It looks more like a little swimming pool than a fountain, his mind noted absently while his feet drew him closer. I bet you anything the kids used to swim in it, he wagered with himself around a silent chuckle as he reached the edge and peered down into the bowl.
The gentle ripples that danced along the surface of the water seemed to be calling to him, whispering his name in their quiet murmur. Entranced by them, he leaned over and plunged his fingertips into the shallow pool, and the scream that started in the back of his throat froze.
Suspended within a wintry vacuum, his body rigid with fear, he watched on in mute terror as a thick mist began rolling off the surface of the pool, its gray tentacles stretching, elongating, reaching ever outward until he was surrounded by a dense fog.

***WARNING***

This book contains themes which may be triggering for some, including the topic of familicide. Please continue only if you feel comfortable doing so.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Purple Orchid Publishing Ltd.
• Release date: Jan 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005929954

Laura-Leigh Celeste

Laura-Leigh has been a fan of horror stories since she first watched Ghostbusters at the age of five. As a teenager, she would sneak home the Stephen King novels she borrowed from friends to read under cover of night after everyone else had already gone to bed, and she knew even back then that someday she too would write stories about the things that go bump in the night.Of course, sometimes the most terrifying thing imaginable is the iniquity that lies within the human heart. Thus, all of her stories have one foot in the supernatural and the other in reality, exploring the darkness without as well as the evil that lies within.However, not all of them end in a bloodbath – some actually have a happy ending.

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Cover Images courtesy Freekpik.com

*** WARNING ***

This story contains

graphic themes and events

which are not intended for

younger audiences.

Parental guidance

is suggested for

persons under 18.

Some adults may also find

certain elements triggering,

so please only continue

if you feel comfortable doing so.

This story is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places and

incidents are either products of

the author's imagination or used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to

actual events, locales or persons,

living or dead, is entirely

coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication

can be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means,

electronic or mechanical, without

permission in writing from the author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 1

Jonathan McAllister was a gambling man. You could bet your life on that.

He loved the risk. He craved the adrenaline rush which the thrill of uncertainty sent coursing through his veins. And he reveled in the intoxicating high that accompanied each new win.

His willingness to stake everything on a probability was the primary reason he had been so fortunate in business. Three hundred and fifty-seven million dollars’ worth of fortunate, to be exact. It was also the reason he was embarking upon his third marriage to the lovely Brittany McAllister nee Joseph, a leggy brunette who had fallen in love with his bank account first and its signatory sometime thereafter.

He might be a risk-taker, but he was no fool; he harbored no illusions regarding his twenty-three-year-old bride’s decision to marry someone more than twice her age. He knew that he wasn’t much to behold with his average stature and average build, and his salt-and-pepper curls which maintained a permanent tousle despite his best efforts; so he was well aware of what had first attracted his wife’s interest. But he had been smitten with the aspiring model from the moment he first caught sight of her at one of his cocktail parties, so he was happy to play the role of ‘sugar daddy’ in order to have the beauty at his side, and in his bed.

However, despite his rather middling physique, the casual observer would in fact consider him quite an attractive man. His cobalt eyes forever carried the gleam of an excited child on Christmas morning, and told the tale of the extraordinary life he had led throughout the years – the sky-diving escapades and the deep-sea diving expeditions, the race cars he had owned and driven in competitions, and every other crazy exploit at which he had tried his hand in his lifelong quest for the next electric buzz.

Still, it had come as a shock to all who knew him when he announced his intention to abandon it all for an unspecified period of time in order to journey to the Isle of Skye to visit his ancestral home, especially considering it had been a mere three months since he had taken that leap into wedded bliss. His reason for doing so was also beyond their comprehension, despite the unwavering certainty which permeated his tone as he informed them that ‘the project’, as he had taken to calling his trip, was going to make him a household name.

He’s going to live in some haunted castle that his great-great-great-grandfather or somebody built, and write a book about all the little ghosties living there, his blushing bride informed her three giggling girlfriends as they lounged poolside sipping their vodka martinis.

Seated on the chaise lounge beside her, Jonathan hid a smile behind his newspaper as Thomas, his longtime butler and friend, brought out another round of drinks for the ladies.

She was right, for the most part.

It was not a castle. It was a mere farmhouse. And he was not going there to write a book. He was going there to pen a New York Times bestseller.

The farmhouse which was his intended destination sat on a fifty-acre sprawl of ranch situated somewhere on the outskirts of Kilmarie in the Strathaird peninsula, and had been in his family for well over a century. Completed in 1889, its original owner was rumored to have excused himself from the presence of his sanity once its construction was finished, and Callum McAllister had hacked his wife and their seven children to death with a machete before proceeding to relieve himself of life via the business end of a shotgun.

Since then, the property had changed ownership on a regular basis, passing from one family member to the next. But, for those brave enough, or perhaps foolhardy enough, to assume residency at the farmhouse, their fates had all seemed inextricably bound to its owner’s.

In the spring of 1917, Callum’s nephew, Boyd, had settled his family there. All had seemed well for a time, their contentment helping to dispel the rumors that the property was either haunted or cursed; and the family had created an abundance of loving memories there until the fall of 1918 when Boyd lined them off against the barn wall like prisoners of war condemned to go before a firing squad. Four shots had brought an end to the happiness, and the fifth had traveled through Boyd’s chin to splatter his brain across the floor of the barn.

In 1959, after changing ownership twice more, the house had fallen to Richard McAllister. Eager to create a luxurious country dwelling for his family, he had immediately set about the task of expanding and renovating the farmhouse, hoping that the addition of his personal stamp would also help to expel the ill repute which surrounded his inheritance. By the summer of 1960, the house had been readied, and it was with an overflowing sense of pride that he had taken his wife and daughter to their new home. He had returned one evening not long thereafter to find them in the front yard, kneeling at the newly-installed fountain as if in prayer, both face-down in the water. His despair had been so great upon making that horrific discovery that he had sought refuge from it at the end of a length of rope which he