Free The Voice of the Night by Dean Koontz Page B

empty blackness where stones had been pitched through. In spite of its shabby condition, however, the Kingman place did not have the air of a ruin; it did not give rise to sadness in the hearts of those who looked upon it, as did many once-noble but now decrepit buildings; somehow it seemed vital, alive... even frighteningly alive. If a house could be said to have a human attitude, an emotional aspect, then this house was angry, very angry. Furious.
    They parked their bicycles by the front gate. It was a big rusted iron grill with a sunburst design in the center.
    “Some place, huh?” Roy said.
    “Yeah.”
    “Let’s go.”
    “Inside?”
    “Sure.”
    “We don’t have a flashlight.”
    “Well, at least let’s go up on the porch.”
    “Why?” Colin asked shakily. ,
    “We can look in the windows.”
    Roy walked through the open gate and started up the broken flagstone walk, through the tangled weeds, toward the house.
    Colin followed him for a few steps, then stopped and said, “Wait. Roy, wait a sec.”
    Roy turned back. “What is it?”
    “You been here before?”
    “Of course.”
    “You been inside?”
    “Once.”
    “Did you see any ghosts?”
    “Nah. I don’t believe in ‘em.”
    “But you said people see things here.”
    “Other people. Not me.”
    “You said it was haunted.”
    “I told you other people said it was haunted. I think they’re full of shit. But I knew you’d enjoy the place, what with you being such a big horror-movie fan and everything.”
    Roy began to walk along the path again.
    After several more steps, Colin said, “Wait.”
    Roy looked back and grinned. “Scared?”
    “No.”
    “Ha!”
    “I just have some questions.”
    “So hurry up and ask them.”
    “You said a lot of people were killed here.”
    “Seven,” Roy said. “Six murders, one suicide.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    During the past twenty years, the very real tragedy of the Kingman murders had evolved into a highly embellished tale, a grisly Santa Leona legend, recalled most often at Halloween, composed of myth and truth, perhaps more of the former than the latter, depending on who was telling it. But the basic facts of the case were simple, and Roy stuck close to them when he told the story.
    The Kingmans had been wealthy. Robert Kingman was the only child of Judith and Big Jim Kingman; but Robert’s mother died of massive hemorrhaging while delivering him. Big Jim was even then a rich man, and he grew continually richer over the years. He made millions from California real estate, farming, oil, and water rights. He was a tall, barrel-chested man, as was his son, and Big Jim liked to boast that there was no one west of the Mississippi who could eat more steak, drink more whiskey, or make more money than he could. Shortly before Robert’s twenty-second birthday, he inherited the entire estate when Big Jim, having drunk too much whiskey, choked to death on a large, inadequately chewed chunk of filet mignon. He lost that eating contest to a man who had yet to make a million dollars in plumbing supplies, but who could at least boast of having lived through the feast. Robert had not developed his father’s competitive attitude toward food and beverage, but he had acquired the old man’s business sense, and although he was quite young, he made even more money with the funds that had been left to him.
    When he was twenty-five, Robert married a woman named Alana Lee, built the Victorian house on Hawk Hill, just for her, and began fathering a new generation of Kingmans. Alana was not from a wealthy family, but she was said to be the most beautiful girl in the county, with the sweetest temper in the state. The children came fast, five of them in eight years—three boys and two girls. Theirs was the most respected family in town, envied, but also liked and admired. The Kingmans were churchgoers, friendly, graced with the common touch in spite of their high station, charitable, involved in their community.