Until Death

By London Clarke

In this haunting tale of supernatural suspense, love will be tested, secrets will unravel, and the dead will speak.

 

Hope Hendriks thought she had hit rock bottom when her husband took his own life, leaving her broke and homeless. Hoping for a fresh start, she takes a new job in Tennessee, moving into a run-down rental property in a lake community. Still mourning the loss of a man she seemingly never knew, Hope is confronted by a host of alarming and inexplicable occurrences that suggest her deceased husband may still be with her. 

 

Down on his luck and living with a volatile girlfriend, Reed Sewall finds his new neighbor intriguing. More than once, she's asked him to check the house for home invaders, and although he has no expectations beyond friendship, his attachment to her grows. Even so, she's a grieving widow, and he's a battered boyfriend—not a great recipe for a relationship.

 

As Hope seeks to uncover the mystery of her husband's life and death, the supernatural activity within her home intensifies, and neighbors whisper tales of a family who met tragic ends within its walls. Reed soon finds himself pulled into Hope's perilous quest for answers, and a horrifying force set in motion long ago threatens to pull both down in death's grip.

 

Until Death is a haunting exploration of the ties that bind us even in death and questions whether love can conquer all when faced with unspeakable evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: London Clarke
• Release date: Aug 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798227871381

London Clarke

London Clarke is the author of nine novels, which have repeatedly reached #1 Amazon bestseller status in ghost thriller, horror suspense, and vampire suspense categories. When she's not exploring remote islands, abandoned houses, or Spanish moss-riddled woods, she can be found sitting at her computer, planning her next scary book. Clarke lives in South Carolina with her husband and two Italian greyhounds.

Book preview

1

Hope

2011

When I moved into the house on Netherland Lane, I never expected to be part of the neighborhood. I didn’t want to attend block parties and Christmas cookie exchanges. I especially didn’t want to be one of the welcome wagon stops. What I wanted to do was sleep. All I needed was a bed and a television. I couldn’t afford anything else anyway. Not anymore.

But here I am, standing at the door talking to July Thomason—yes, that really is her name—while she holds out a chocolate pie covered in plastic wrap.

We’ve been waiting so long for someone to move into this house, she says in the accent my cousin tells me is the East Tennessee twang. It’s been empty for over a year now, and we were worried it was just gonna go to rack and ruin, and when Miss Maretta told us she was leasing it to y’all, well, Nod and I were so relieved.

Nod, I find out, is July’s husband.

July is probably in her late forties. She’s a heavy-set woman wearing a similar maxi dress to the one I bought last summer, except hers has a bright blue Chevron pattern, and mine is solid navy. Olivier hated when I wore it. It looks like you’re wearing a sack, he’d say. Then he’d quickly add, The color is perfect for you, but you need a different style.

I think the same thing as I look at July. It’s the wrong style. I’m good at spotting that for other people, spaces, rooms. It was my specialty when Olivier and I flipped houses—I could always pick out what drapes, flooring, and kitchen cabinetry would look right. We used to joke that Olivier was the exterior guy and I was the interior girl. But we were a team.

July rattles away about the neighborhood, pointing out each house she can see from the front porch and telling me who lives where. Meanwhile, I try to decide what clothes would look good on her. Maybe a tailored blouse. Black slacks that flare slightly at the bottom, drawing attention away from her hips. She would look outstanding in black. But judging from her bright pink dangling earrings, she probably doesn’t do dark colors.

These are the kinds of things I distract myself with these days. Observing others. It keeps my mind off myself and the spectacular pain that blooms inside me every hour. Every minute.

July pauses, cocks her head to the side, and I realize I must have missed a question. I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.

I just said Nod and I would love to have you over for dinner one night. Or even drinks if you’d rather. She put up her hand. Oh, wait. Do you drink?

Do I drink? Shit yeah, I drink like a fish these days. But I nod politely. Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am? Where did that come from? My small-town Indiana upbringing must be rearing its old head.

Exhaling, she smiles. Wonderful. Well, I’ll pop by one day next week, and we’ll come up with a date. Nod and I want to know all about you.

My husband killed himself. We’d only been married two years. It’s been six months since it happened. I can’t get over it. That’s all anyone needs to know about me.

But nobody wants to hear all that. Not really. Even my friends and family are tired. They’ve given all they have.

What brought you all the way from California?

I guess she’s starting the get-to-know-you questions now rather than waiting for me to come to dinner. Well, I couldn’t afford to stay in California, and there was no way I was going back to Indiana, where I’m from. So, when my cousin called and said she could get me a job at the imaging clinic where she worked, I moved here and got my Tennessee license.

July squints. Imaging? Then her face relaxes. Oh! Like mammograms and that kind of stuff?

Mammograms, sonograms, CT scans.

She wrinkles her nose. Oh, honey, I had to have one of those CT scans last year when they thought I had a blood clot. She joins her fingers to make a circle. I had to lie inside that doughnut thing.

The gantry.

Yeah, awful. She shudders like a dog shaking off water.

Well, I only do mammograms.

She cuts her hand through the air and her metal bracelets jingle. Anyway, we’re so glad to have you. July taps the plastic wrap on the pie and hands it to me. Here you go, sweetie. You enjoy.

Thank you, July.

I feel totally weird even saying her name. I close the door, turn around, and stare at my tiny living room. Thankfully the place came partially furnished with an old, stained couch—although my landlady assures me it’s been thoroughly cleaned—and a few chairs and a kitchen table set. I brought my own bed, the nightstands, and twenty-five boxes. I couldn’t afford to move any more than that. As it was, the boxes and bed had to bum a ride with a service that simultaneously carried multiple moves. They cut me a deal since the owner knew Olivier.

I pass the boxes and float into the kitchen. Floating is all I seem to do these days. I float here, there. It’s kind of like I’m dead too. Some days it makes me feel better to imagine I am—that Olivier and I might be reunited that way.

The kitchen is nothing like the one Olivier and I shared in Santa Rosa. Our kitchen had picture windows and overlooked a vineyard. It had newly installed stainless-steel appliances, granite countertops, and a tile floor meant to make you feel like you were in Tuscany. This one is a quarter of the size, with laminate countertops and cabinetry from the early 90s. At least it’s been recently repainted, but there are small black squares in the corners under the cabinets and behind the microwave—ant traps. A larger trap—a mouse house—sits outside near the basement window.

I peel my feet away from the blue and white flooring—sticky with some sort of residue—and put July’s pie on the countertop beside the bottle of red wine I’d bought at the store. Thanks, Dad, for the cash you sent me. It’s all I have to tide me over after living with my cousin Deanna for months while waiting for my Tennessee radiology technician license. Unless you count my nearly maxed-out credit card.

Fumbling in my box of kitchen items, I find my corkscrew and hold it, hesitating as I glance down at my cellphone. It’s only 2:00.

But five o’clock somewhere. A cliché, but true. I don’t have anywhere to be. I don’t start work at the clinic until Monday. Who cares if I drink until I pass out? Hopefully, no more neighbors will come over to welcome me.

I uncork the wine and let it breathe, just like Olivier taught me. Then I uncover the pie and put my nose to it. Chocolate. Red wine and chocolate. Olivier always said nothing goes better together. I shovel several spoonfuls of the creamy pie into my mouth. I haven’t eaten since last night at Deanna’s, and that was a frozen lasagna from the grocery. Not that I expected prime rib. Deanna’s a single mom with two kids and a full-time job. And even after being here for three months, she’s still the only person I know in town. Besides July.

I take another bite of the pie. It tastes like heaven. Then I pour nearly half the bottle of wine into one of my extra-large red wine glasses—a wedding present from Olivier’s family overseas. Crystal. Waterford. It seems frivolous to drink out of them now when we used to use them for dinner parties. I saw some everyday-use wine glasses in one of the cabinets. I might need to sell my crystal and some other things to pay off credit card debts. I’ve been living on them for six months.

But now, all I want is to forget.

I take two more mouthfuls of chocolate pie. Then I carry my glass and the bottle into the living room and set them on top of a box. The bag of goodies I bought from the drugstore is on the fake bamboo coffee table—an 80s signature item, no doubt. I turn the plastic bag upside down and dump the contents. Tampons, toothpaste, toothbrush, tape, a bottle of aspirin, and an Exacto blade. All the necessary items for my new living quarters.

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and stare at the screen. Ten missed calls. Two from Mom, one from Dad, four from my best friend Carla, and three from...creditors. I toss the phone onto the floral sofa. I’ll get a slipcover after I get my first paycheck. Cover the coffee stains and cigarette burns. The place faintly smells of smoke.

Our Santa Rosa house smelled like grapes. Sometimes you could even look out the window and see the workers harvesting them.

I put my nose to the glass and inhale, trying to recapture that sensation. The memory quickly fades with a honking car outside and someone screaming obscenities across the street. I go to the window and look out. An old car that looks like it’s been used in swamp races sits in the middle of the road. From the house across the street, a teenage girl comes out waving, smiling. Apparently, the obscenities are for her. She flips her hair and falls into the car, and it speeds away down the road.

The neighborhood is planted on a hill, tiered above the lake. Standing on my front porch I can see past the houses in front of mine to the water below. Water skiers skim across the surface like insects, the buzzing of the boat’s motor announcing their arrival. Children play in the water, their voices echoing as they jump off docks.

All the houses on this street are one-floor ramblers, probably built in the 1960s and 70s. Olivier and I flipped a bunch of these types of homes in California. Most of them we even lived in while we refurbished them. That was a time of adventure—moving from one flip to another to another. That was about a year before we got married though. Once we married, it was the Santa Rosa life for us. Olivier told me we could afford it. I believed him.

I look around the room and exhale a long stream of air.

This place needs a massive refurbishment. It’s freshly painted, but the paint can’t hide the musty carpet, the fogged windows that need to be replaced, the secondhand furniture that needs to be retired. And the bedrooms—the closet doors are straight out of the 70s with those round indentions for handles. I used to have ones like that when I was little. Our house in Indiana had been built in the 70s too. I lean against the door jamb, cross my arms, and expel a long stream of air. It’s like I’ve just picked up an old costume from the thrift store and I’m wearing it—unwashed.

Am I really going to live here? What choice do I have? I can’t live with Deanna and her children—it’s far too crowded. And anyway, I’m now locked into a one-year lease.

But this house feels old and dirty. And suddenly cold. A shiver darts through me. It’s the height of summer. How can it be cold?

I bump up the thermostat and return to my boxes, wishing I’d hooked up the cable before moving here. The house is too quiet. I pick up the Exacto blade from the table, extract it from the package, and find the box I’m looking for. Olivier is written on the side of it. I run the blade across the tape, and the flaps gape like a reopened wound. I pull out his black turtleneck sweater. My favorite. I used to joke that it camouflaged his long gooseneck. I don’t have a gooseneck, he would say, pushing me playfully.

Okay, I’d respond, loving the game. Spaghetti neck. Pipe-cleaner neck.

In fact, I loved Olivier’s skinny neck. I loved that he dressed like a European—since he was one. I loved that he was opinionated and take-charge and sometimes volatile. He made me laugh and cry and hurt and love.

I hold the turtleneck to my nose. His scent is fading, but it’s still there. Citrus and musk and something slightly spicy. I force myself to put it aside and unpack the rest of the things. His books on winetasting. His antique letter openers. His leather briefcase. I set his gold watch on the table. I was able to stash it away with the rest of the mementos, but I may need to sell that. And oh, so many photos. Pictures from the photo booth on the San Francisco boardwalk. Souvenir photos from the Tahoe Queen. The rollercoaster photos from Disneyland.

My phone buzzes, and I go over to the couch, pick it up, and eye the screen. My heart drops.

Olivier.

What? I stare at the name. It’s impossible—I know it is. How can Olivier be calling me? I’ve only called his number hundreds of times over the past six months, only to hear his voicemail pick up on the other end. Even after the service was disconnected and I only got an automated voicemail, I still couldn’t keep myself from dialing the number.

My hand shakes as I answer and put the phone to my ear. Hello?

Hello? It’s a man’s voice, but not Oliver’s. Of course it isn’t.

Hello? I say again.

Yeah, hi, I’ve been getting repeated calls from this number, and I’m trying to find out if someone is calling me by mistake or what.

I feel my face burn. I—I’m sorry, I was trying to reach someone I know at this number.

This is Pat, the man says. I don’t know who you’re trying to reach, but I was recently assigned this phone number.

I swallow hard. I’m sorry. I won’t call again.

Tears flood my eyes as I hang up. Not that listening to his voicemail message is really a connection to Olivier, but it feels like another tie has been forever severed. One by one, they’re all being taken away. Now I just feel embarrassed and pathetic. I throw the phone back onto the couch and turn back to my boxes.

Clunk. I look up. That’s a weird noise. I stare down the hall. It’s a dark hallway. One of the things I hate about this house. The place is so damn dark. Its age defies all open concepts, but the rent is affordable. I only needed a one bedroom, and this place has two.

I return to the box and lift out the last of his clothing items.

Another sound. Like footsteps.

I stand up, brush off my jeans, and stare into the shadows. At the end of the corridor, there’s movement. A woman crosses the hall and walks from one bedroom into the next.

My heart jerks into action. I inhale sharply. Hello? Maybe the landlady came through the back door. But the back door is in the kitchen. I would’ve seen her pass by. And it didn’t look like my landlady, who’s well into her sixties and has short, graying hair. This woman looked younger and had shoulder-length brown hair.

Hello? I call down the hall.

No answer.

I glance over at the boxes. My tennis racket sits in its case against the stack. It’s not much, but it’s something. I rush toward it, grip the handle, and walk down the hall. The floorboards creak underneath worn carpeting.

Thump—like a door opening and closing. But both bedroom doors are wide open. I turn toward the doorway and peer slowly over the threshold. Where is she?

The room is empty. I raise my racket over my shoulder and step into the room. It feels even colder in here than in the rest of the house.

My eyes dart from an old chest of drawers to the closet door, which slides open to reveal an empty space. My heart jolts and my mouth drops open.

The closet door slides shut again. Bang!

I jump back and clutch the racket handle tighter, my mind grappling with what is happening even as the hairs on my arm raise. I stand there frozen, watching as the door opens and closes again. All sorts of strange explanations fly through my head. Electric doors malfunctioning? Is the house on a slant? Electromagnetic waves drawing them together like magnets? What? Finally, the door closes. It doesn’t open again.

My breath catches in my throat, and I move toward it, one hand outstretched, the other ready to deliver a blow with the racket. I hook my fingers in the divot and slowly slide the door back. Inside, the empty closet bears the scars of others’ lives. Pencil scrawl, black scratch marks from too many metal hangers loaded and unloaded. An overhead shelf layered with dust. A latched door cut into the wall hangs open. Probably leads to a crawl space and plumbing access. It smells rancid, too.

I shut the door again, noting how the tiny wheels roll across the track at my feet. I open it again and watch the track above my head. The door seems to operate normally. I close it. But how could it open and close on its own?

I open it again.

The woman stands on the other side. Her skin is gray, her head slightly lowered, but her eyes meet mine with the darkest of stares.

I stagger backward, physical pain rocketing through my chest as a scream rips from my throat. Panic grips me. I don’t even feel like I’m in my own body as I force my legs to move—out of the room, down the hall. I grab the knob of the front door and fly outside, still clutching my racket.

Then I stand on the lawn, panting, holding my stomach as though someone has punched me. I’ve never heard a scream like that leave my body. I crouch down on the lawn and look back at my house, my front door. My body shakes so hard that I sink onto the grass. Who is she? Why is she hiding in the closet? How could she not be there one second and there the next?

I allow my eyes to roam the front of the house, moving from window to window and stopping on the small windows of the back bedroom. I can’t see in, but I’m giving the woman plenty of time to get out. I should call the police. But I can’t—my cell phone is inside. What if she’s gone already? Maybe she went through the back door.

My legs shaking, I push myself to my feet and stalk around the house to the backyard. It’s a wreck. Littered with old toys. It’s like a graveyard of Legos, whiffle balls, and small animal turds. I pick my way through the overgrown grass.

The back door is shut. I approach it, rattle the handle. Locked.

Hey there, neighbor!

Adrenaline pulses through me. I whip around to see a guy with brown, windswept hair standing at the chain link fence.

H-hey. I manage a wave.

He’s super-tall. The chain link barely reaches his stomach.

I saw you were moving in earlier today. He puts a huge hand on his broad chest. I’m Reed.

Hey, I say again. I realize I’m standing several feet away, my arms crossed, trying to hide how badly I’m trembling. I’m Hope.

His smile fades. You okay? You look, um—a little shaken up or something.

The words burst from my lips before I have a chance to feel anything beyond desperation. Would you mind doing me a big favor?

2

Reed

My first thought is that my new neighbor has a whole Jennifer Connelly thing going on—long black hair and blue eyes. Man, I had a thing for that actress about twenty years ago when she was in The Rocketeer .

And then I kind of feel guilty for even thinking about that because this woman looks scared. She’s clutching a tennis racket at her side, but her eyes are wide, and she’s jumpy, distracted.

Almost as soon as I introduce myself, she asks if I’ll come in and look around. She says she saw someone in the closet.

Our backyards butt up to one another, and as I cross my yard into hers, I wonder how she ended up here ’cause no one’s lived in this house in a year. Before that, there was a slew of people over a six-month period. None of them stayed very long. My girlfriend Porsha and I figure the place is haunted. Not that I believe in ghosts or anything, but you know, you start to wonder.

Of course, I want to help the poor woman, so I go over. We walk around the side because the back door is locked—unlike my house, where the back door’s almost always open.

Where’d you move from? I ask, making conversation as we step inside.

California.

I try not to groan. Oh, used to live there myself. I was forced to live there for four years, from fourteen to eighteen, when my dad was stationed at Travis Air Force Base. As soon as I could, I got out of there. Not one good memory from that place. Family problems were my takeaway.

Hope glances at me before peering into the living room. Uh-huh.

Yeah, in Fairfield. Solano County. Dad was Air Force.

Ah. She points toward the hallway.

I only have like a split second to scan the room. Looks like one box has been unpacked. Mostly photographs. Doesn’t seem like she has much. Mostly, I just see a bunch of outdated furniture.

She was down there, she whispers. The last room on the left.

I sense her fear, so I try to be really calm. Okay. I nod and head down the hall, walk into the room, look around. No one there. The room has a funky smell though. I half wonder if a possum died in the attic or something. I pull the closet door open, push my head in. No one there either.

When I turn around, Hope is standing at the door. Can you check the crawl space too?

I glance at the little-kid-size door and laugh. I’m not gonna fit in there. I doubt anyone over five foot five could fit in there. At six foot three, I might be able to fit my chest in there, and that’s all.

Could you just look inside?

I kneel down, flip the rusted latch on the elf-sized door, and open it.

This must be where the thing died. It smells like rotten meat. I cough. Holy sh—cow. I think you got a dead rat in there or something. I pull my cell phone from my pocket, flick on the flashlight, and shine it inside. It’s pretty standard. A lot of plumbing pipes, a lot of dust.

Can you see anything?

I move the light over the slats of the floorboard. Minimal insulation. I tap the wall, wondering if it leads to the outside. No, seems solid. My light catches something at the back. An old shoebox and some wads of paper? No, candy wrappers. Snickers, Milky Way, Mr. GoodBar. Probably some workmen. Or maybe this was a kid’s room, and they hid in the crawl space or something. The old candy probably lured some mice in.

I back-crawl out of the closet, stand up, dust off my hands. No one in there.

She exhales, her eyes still darting around. Okay. Okay, thanks.

I look down at her. She’s a tiny thing. Probably a foot shorter than me. I’m used to looking at Porsha, who’s five-foot-ten. When she wears heels, I barely have to bend my neck at all.

So, is it just you here?

She nods and pulls her hands into the extra-long sleeves of her shirt. She must be burning up. August in East Tennessee isn’t exactly like being on the coast of California—at least, that’s where I imagine her living for some reason—where there’s a breeze and the mornings are cool.

Hey, I can check the rest of the house if you want.

That would be great. The tightness in her face releases a little.

I go from room to room, and it doesn’t take long. I open closets, peek behind doors. I even go in the garage. There’s a basement too—the entrance is through a door in the kitchen. As soon as I start down those stairs, I think maybe this is where the dead thing is. The smell is worse than in the crawl space.

You might want to call some pest control guys, I say. Then I feel like an idiot. Obviously, she can figure that out for herself. I run my hand over the wall studs trying to find the switch. Doesn’t seem to be one. I shine my cell phone light down the steps until it rests on the bulb and string at the bottom. Crap, that sucks. I go down the rest of the stairs. You gotta go all the way down the steps in the dark to get to the light.

Hope stands on the stairs, bending over a little, staring into the room. "I’ll probably never come down