Prologue

The house was quiet except for the occasional creaks and moans of the floorboards settling into their nightly symphony. It was some form of architectural arthritis with the noises never loud enough to be noticed until the moments before sleep falls, when they were quite deafening. Otherwise, the house was in complete silence. No wind. No whisper.

Joe Richards heard nothing as he sat on the floor with a vacant stare, watching the images on the television laugh and ham it up for the camera. The white digital letters flashed in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, spelling the word MUTE.

Joe’s eyes sank deep into dark blue bags of skin hanging beneath them in a telltale sign that he hadn’t slept in a long time. The dark stubble of his rough morning beard added a necessary contrast to the glow of his pale, white skin. Staring at the bright, vivid colors pouring from the screen, he wondered if he were in Hell. The images flickered on.

Home video had always struck him as a marvel. Through the wonders of technology, he would never have to remember again. All the memories he ever needed were there at his fingertips—everything he needed to know about his life without any of them carrying a connection to Pine Haven, NC or to Grady Perlson. The television sat three feet away from him and rested on a small wooden base. His toes fanned out, stretched, and rested along the bottom edge of the stand.

Arching his back from the coffee table, where it had rested for the past hour, Joe rubbed the deep imprint in his flesh with his right hand. With this task accomplished, he returned his back to its resting spot along the framed glass. Snatching the square bottle from the table, he refilled his glass with the whiskey that served as the source for many of his fights with his wife. His eyes narrowed as he took part of the liquor down with a quick, mighty gulp, while simultaneously hitting the rewind button on the short, fat remote control that rested in his lap.

The images swirled together as they ran backwards from one side of the screen to the other and stopped before fading to black. Joe pressed the small triangle-shaped button on the remote and sighed as his son appeared on the screen. The boy waved his right hand at the camera as he brushed the mop of hair from his eyes with the other. In a sudden burst of energy, he laughed, turned on his heels, and ran into the background with the family’s Black Labrador close on his heels.

Brad and Prescott. Joe and Elaine had given the dog to their son on his third birthday. It had started as one of the cutest puppies Joe had ever seen, but ended up costing them a mess of yard repair and house maintenance. It wasn’t that the dog was bad. They knew that. The problem had been that Prescott would eat anything. Boards, roots, furniture; anything Joe would have to replace. Brad loved the dog too much and Joe’s heart was too soft to get rid of it. Instead he had bittin his lip and dealt with it.

Brad was six or seven when the videotape had been made. The exact year had been blurred by the mixture of the long hours Joe had spent away from his child and the alcohol that now buzzed hard in his brain. As Brad lost his footing on the hill that he was running on, he toppled over onto his side. Lying on the ground, he laughed and clutched the large dog to his chest as its tongue lapped his face. The screen grew darker, the scene faded, and Brad and Prescott were replaced by the image of Joe’s wife.

The scene that appeared on the screen was their seventh wedding anniversary. He could tell by the new diamond necklace that fell against her chest with each slow twirl that she made in front of the camera. It had been paid for with the sweat and blood that had been his book. The first royalty check had arrived just in time for him to buy it. She had really loved it and he had often caught her in their bedroom, staring at it and trying it on while she tested a variety of hairstyles to match it.

She looked beautiful in the slinky red dress. Her long, auburn hair cascaded over the curve of her shoulders and brushed her upper back as she twirled in a circle for the camera. He had memorized every part of her; the full, pouting lips, those deep, blue eyes, and her soft, milky skin with its texture reminding him of silk with the color of a deserted beach in the height of summer. He always thought her thin, but never too thin. If ever asked, he could only describe her as perfect.

A faint smile touched Joe’s lips as Elaine gave a long curtsy to the camera, then burst into her usual light-hearted fits of laughter. She attempted to cover her mouth with one gloved hand, but realized it was useless, winked through the screen, and made her way out of the camera’s eye. Elaine, his matching piece in the greater puzzle of life. Joe reached down and pressed the pause button on the remote before dropping his hand to the floor.

The short, light clicks of Prescott’s paws on the kitchen floor broke Joe’s attention from its fixed stare on his wife’s smile. He glanced up to see the dog step into the living room with his jowls drooping low as he searched out his bed for the night.

The dog emitted a wide, noisy yawn and plopped his body onto the gray, carpeted floor. Joe smiled as his eyes drifted back to the screen and his beautiful wife’s piercing eyes. With a stiff grunt, he downed the rest of the whiskey and closed his eyes.

A soft hum rumbled in his ears as the alcohol rushed through his blood. Bringing the glass to his temple, Joe squeezed his eyelids together. Opening them again, he focused his attention on Elaine’s face. Looking at his hands, he felt a heavy wave of bitter emotion crash with a hard current against his body. It rushed over his mind with a cold, numbing force as the slow, eerie melody returned to his thoughts. It was a song he could have swore he left in the prison in Pine Haven. A song that forced him to remember what he tried so hard to forget. His head dropped like a rock into his hands and without a moment’s pause or restraint, Joe Richards wept.

Dear George,

Well now, how should I begin? With the voices? I’m sure the story goes back further than that. Probably back before either of us were ideas in our parent’s minds. Maybe even before time itself. The voices were what I kept after all my sessions with Grady. They were his gift to me. Why? I’m still forced to ask that question, even after the lesson you taught me. Why was I the one to carry on this legacy? I can hardly remember anymore. Most of my memories and rational thoughts left with the storm.

That damned storm. It might have been a bearable summer if not for the rain and misery that swept with the wind into your small, peaceful town. I often feel that the storm still rages on, but has moved to some other place. Possibly Creek Hollow, Louisiana or the remnants of the Anabutu village that has now turned to ash somewhere deep in Africa’s jungles. The thing that stirs me from sleep night after night is the unshakable feeling that it’s on its way here to Washington, D.C.. I have the eerie notion that it follows me and will follow me until I’m some worm colony’s buffet table six feet underground.

I never thought I would see the South again after my father died. I guess it was my mistake in trying to stay away. It wasn’t that I hated the South. I can remember countless nights, lying in the soft, damp grass for hours on end with the stars in their full glory pouring out over miles and miles. It was peace to be far from the blinding lights that accompany the larger cities. It was just me and my stars.

That’s all gone now. I did go back to the South. I went back to save somebody I had never met. I went back to show myself that I could do anything. I went back to save myself and to possibly even save my own soul. That all vanished the first time I looked into Grady Perlson’s eyes. My God, the pain and torment that lingered there—it was like looking into the very pits of Hell. That’s what his mind had become, hadn’t it? His own personal Hell…