A House in the Woods 2: The Devil's Due

By M.A. McNease and Mark McNease

A House in the Woods 2: The Devil's Due picks up where A House in the Woods left off. Laurel Calloway is still in the mysterious town of Strickland, New Jersey, where nothing is as it appears to be. Two years have gone by, and they've been good to the Calloways. Laurel and her husband Jeremy have a new house, and a new family with baby Isabel about to celebrate her first birthday. Everything seems perfect, until Laurel begins to have dreams. Bad dreams. Something tells her these dreams could really be memories. But of what? Of whom, and of when?

 

Did she really run over a woman in the road at night? Had they once had a dog? Why are these things trying so hard to surface, swimming slowly up from her subconscious? The more she begins to tell the people around her about these dreams, the more convinced she is that they're part of it, and that these nightmares aren't really dreams at all. Page after page, the pace escalates as Laurel begins to learn the truth and plot her escape. But will she succeed? The Devil is in the details.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MadeMark Publishing
• Release date: Nov 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223222170

Book preview

Table of 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

Epilogue

A note from Mark

PART I

Dream a Little Dream

PROLOGUE /

OVER AND OVER

SHE WOKE UP SWEATING AGAIN, despite the cool October air forcing its way through the bedroom window screens, blowing the curtains aside as it chilled the room. The recurring dream varied only in small details: Laurel driving down a dark country road, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly it hurt, so tightly her fingers were white and her knuckles pressed against her skin. Where was she going? Why was she going there? And why so fast? The dream never provided answers. And because she’d had this dream a dozen times now, she knew what came next. Still, it shocked her—coming upon the woman in the road. Half-naked, filthy, as if she’d arisen from the ground or a grave, outstretched arms pleading for Laurel to stop. But she didn’t stop ... not this time. What does that mean? she would ask herself after waking up terrified. Had there been a time before, a time when she’d slammed on the breaks to help this desperate woman? It made no sense. In this dream—this repetitive, frightening dream—she kept going, that’s all she knew. The ghostly figure, begging for help on a road lit only by a partial moon, stepped in front of the car. Laurel saw her face in the headlights. She recognized the woman. And then she ran her over.

ONE

THE DREAMS BEGAN JUST AFTER Isabel turned nine months old. Laurel had never had nightmares before, at least nothing like these. She’d had bad dreams, certainly. Anyone who remembers their dreams from night to night has a few frightening ones now and then. But these were more than that. These were terrifying, and she had awoken from them as if they were not dreams at all but some kind of altered state, some place in which she’d found herself while wandering her unconscious.

Equally unsettling as the dreams was her choice not to tell Jeremy about them. It was a decision she’d made instinctively, and that she had justified by telling herself it would only upset her husband. They were just dreams, after all. But something about keeping it from him nagged at her. She knew, though she could not say why or define anything about the experience as yet, that she had also withheld it from him as a way to protect herself. And her child. And the life she’d been so happily living the past two years. She was a successful author working on her third book. The first one, This Side of the Bridge, had painted what one critic had called a meticulously detailed portrait of life in a small Michigan town. The same reviewer had gone on to compare her writing to a fine painting or an exquisite meal with its own course for each chapter. The book chronicled the lives of a small cast of characters who tackled everyday hardships, overcoming some of them and succumbing to others, in two instances fatally. A stunning achievement. Those three words, written for all to see in the Boston Herald, had been among the most impactful of her life, second only to Jeremy telling her he loved her and asking her, Please marry me. Having had no intention of writing a sequel, that’s exactly what she’d done, and it had been met with even more success. Movie rights to the first book had been purchased, allowing them to build the house they now lived in, the house that royalties built, as Jeremy called it. She’d decided to tell a completely different story for the third novel, about a couple leaving their life in New York City for the slower pace of a river town in the Delaware Valley—she’d always mined her own experiences for what had so far been literary gold—and she expected to submit the first draft to her literary agent within the month. Everything was perfect. Baby Isabel had completed the perfection when she’d arrived. All had gone so well, amazingly well, ever since they’d left Manhattan for a life in rural New Jersey. First to the small house in the woods they’d adored—selling it reluctantly to another young couple hoping to start a life in the countryside—and then to the house they’d had built to their specifications. Not so large it attracted attention, but clearly the home of people with some measure of wealth. Between Jeremy’s income from his corporate management position in Philadelphia, and Laurel’s rights and royalties, they were more successful than they could have imagined when they were living in an East Village studio.

Then the dreams began, so incongruous to her life, so opposed to the reality she’d been living, that she couldn’t see them as anything but an aberration. Maybe she was too happy, she’d told herself, and this was her subconscious mind’s way of balancing things out. Why upset Jeremy with this? Why introduce this darkness into his life, too? So she had chosen not to. She had told no one about the dreams, even as she’d begun to write them down in a journal. Even as she’d begun to recognize things in the dreams, familiar parts of herself and her life, or a life she’d lived ... or a life she’d dreamt. It was all so confusing, and when she woke up this morning she was determined to put it behind her.

Are you okay?

Jeremy was sitting on the edge of the bed. He’d gained some weight—success and the money it gave them had that effect, as well as his settling into fatherhood. He was also somewhat of a stress eater, and his work promotion had put him under increasing strain. He was a manager now, and he was expected to surpass expectations that had already been high.

Laurel looked at him and felt a familiar surge of love. At thirty-two he still had a handsome boyishness, complimented by a loopy grin that could make her melt, and beautiful brown eyes that invited her in for a swim. For her part, she’d returned to her pre-pregnancy weight and looked pretty much the way she had the day they’d gone on their first date. Her hair was short now, and she’d taken to wearing very little makeup in their country life. But other than the inevitable signs of aging, she could pass for the same woman who’d marched to a platform in cap and gown to get her degree with Jeremy watching from the line.

They’d met in college back in Chicago, then moved to New York City for Jeremy to pursue acting, a pursuit that had not had the results he’d hoped for. Then they’d moved to the country, away from the noise and the crowds and the casting rejections, for Laurel to write in solitude and Jeremy to find another career, a real career, as his mother-in-law saw it. He’d gotten involved with a theater in Philadelphia and had been on the verge of a breakthrough, complete with a high-profile agent, when he’d realized he wasn’t suited for the requirements of the profession—too much time away from home, too much of his life spent in pursuit of the next acting job. So he’d finally let it go and focused on his position at Philly Star Properties, a decision that had paid handsomely as he’d worked his way up in the property management firm. Things had gone right for the first time in years, and now they were happily married, happily parenting, happily everything.

So why the dreams, Laurel?

I’m fine, she said, shaking it off. I just get lost sometimes thinking about it all.

He reached out and put his hand on hers.

What is ‘it all’?

"You know, the book, your job, the baby, the house."

Are you unhappy with any of it?

No! she said. "That’s not what I meant. It’s just so much ... goodness."

And you think something bad’s going to happen.

Maybe that was it. Maybe that’s why she was having the dreams. She felt guilty for all these wonderful things. What had she done to deserve them, really? She’d written a book people liked! Then she’d written another, and another.

And you made a deal for it, Laurel.

Excuse me? she said, looking at Jeremy.

What? he replied. I said maybe you think something bad is going to happen.

That’s not what I heard. That’s not what you said.

She felt lightheaded. Who had made a deal? For what? With whom?

She smiled at him, gently pulling her hand away.

You’re right, Babe. I’m just superstitious. We have an amazing life, and an amazing child. I’m just expecting the other shoe to drop.

He cocked his head slightly, looking at her.

And what was the first shoe?

She thought about it a moment. He was right. Nothing had gone wrong. Nothing was going to go wrong. Everyone had dreams, and some of them were unpleasant.

Let’s have breakfast, Laurel said, sliding off the bed. I’ll make a frittata.

I can’t resist that, said Jeremy, getting up and pulling on a T-shirt he’d left on the floor. You take care of the food, I’ll take care of Isabel.

As if on cue, the baby began to cry. To the Calloways, the cry of their only child was not disturbing in any way. It was like music from the heavens, if heaven were full of irritable babies.

They both left the room, Laurel heading one way, Jeremy the other, as another glorious Saturday began.

TWO

STRICKLAND, NEW JERSEY, WAS THE KIND of small town most people drove through without realizing they’d done it. It took all of a minute to get from one end to the other, and it wasn’t uncommon for people to realize they’d just passed a community where people lived when they saw it in their rearview mirror.

Settled in 1836 by an enterprising riverboat operator named Benjamin Strickland, the town sat a stone’s throw from the Delaware River, on the other side of which you could see Pennsylvania.

There was no bridge in Strickland when people began settling there, making travel across state lines difficult. It was a passage made by boat in those days, and the enterprising Benjamin used a barge he owned to ferry people from one side of the river to the other. His reward for helping travelers continue on their journey, and at least a few criminals escape the law, was having the place named after him.

Benjamin Street, also named after Strickland’s founder, was exactly two blocks long. On one side it had Bertie’s Bar, where an elderly Bertie herself still wiped beer from the counter, with a warning to the person who’d spilled it never to do it again. There was Luther’s General Store, a hub of activity and connection for the townspeople, and a gas station where one bored teen or another filled the tanks of locals and lost travelers. On the other side of the street was a liquor store for those who did their drinking at home, a florist whose survival depended on deaths and weddings, and the River Run Diner with seating for twelve. A small satellite office of Powers and Gatlin Real Estate and a farmers market completed all the business you’d find in Strickland, and for everyone who lived there it was enough.

Strickland wasn’t the kind of place Laurel and Jeremy ever imagined themselves settling in, especially after years in New York City, but if escaping the urban life was what they’d wanted—and it had been—this was as far away from it as they could get while still having running water and an indoor toilet.

The first house they’d bought, a small rural dwelling Laurel affectionately called the house in the woods, had served its purpose for the first year they’d lived in the area. Several miles from Strickland, the house had been cozy but not appropriate for a growing family, even if they’d only grown by one. Once Laurel had the money from her books and the sale of the rights to them, and Jeremy had focused on his corporate career, they’d had their dream home built, then sold their house to another young couple.

The decision had become final when Laurel discovered she was pregnant. Having a child had been both a source of anticipation and a source of conflict for them over the course of their relationship and marriage. Early on, neither considered themselves ready to raise a child, and Laurel sometimes questioned if she really wanted to. Pressure from their parents, especially from their mothers, had been applied