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“So many rooms,” she said. “Perhaps we need to christen all of them.”

I willingly followed her up the steps, the chandelier suddenly forgotten. All I cared about was my wife, my daughter, and the wonderful new life we would have inside that house.

I had no idea what Baneberry Hall really had in store for us. How, despite our best efforts, its history would eventually threaten to smother us. How twenty days inside its walls would become a waking nightmare.

Had we known any of that, we would have turned around, left Baneberry Hall, and never come back.

Three

It’s almost dark when I bring my truck to a rattling stop in front of the wrought-iron gate. The sky has the same purple-black hue as a bruise. On the other side of the gate, I can faintly make out the rise of the gravel road as it begins its climb through the woods. Atop the hill, barely visible through the trees, is a patch of dark roof and a sliver of glass reflecting the wan light of the rising moon.

Baneberry Hall.

The house of horrors itself.

My father’s warning echoes through my thoughts.

It’s not safe there. Not for you.

I chase it away with a call to Allie, announcing that I’ve made it safe and sound.

“How does the place look?” she says.

“I don’t know. I still haven’t unlocked the gate.”

Allie hesitates a beat before replying. “It’s okay to have second thoughts.”

“I know.”

“And it’s not too late to change your mind.”

I know that, too. I could turn around, head back to Boston, and accept my mother’s offer to buy Baneberry Hall sight unseen. I could try to be okay with never knowing the real reason we left that long-ago July night. I could pretend my parents haven’t lied to me for most of my life and that those lies haven’t become part of who I am.

But I can’t.

It’s useless to even try.

“You know I need to do this,” I say.

“I know you think you need to do it,” Allie replies. “But it’s not going to be easy.”

The plan is for me to spend the summer getting Baneberry Hall in shape to be sold, hopefully for a profit. It won’t be a complete renovation. Certainly not as extensive as what Allie and I do on a regular basis. I think of it as a major freshening up. New paint and wallpaper. Polishing the hardwood and laying down fresh tile. Restore what’s usable, and replace what’s not. The most ambitious I’ll get is in the rooms that really sell a house. Bathrooms. Kitchen. Master suite.

“You make it sound like I’ve never fixed up an old house before.”

This prompts a sigh from Allie. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

She’s referring to the other part of my plan—searching for snippets of truth that might be hiding in every nook and cranny. It’s the main reason she’s not joining me for the renovation. This time, as they say in the movies, it’s personal.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell her.

“Says the woman who still hasn’t gotten out of her truck,” Allie replies, stating a fact I can’t deny. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? And not fabric-swatches-and-truck-full-of-equipment ready. Emotionally ready.”

“I think so.” It’s as honest an answer as I can give.

“What if the truth you’re looking for isn’t there?”

“Every house has a story,” I say.

“And Baneberry Hall already has one,” Allie replies.

“Which was written by my father. I had no absolutely no say in it, yet it affects me to this very day. And I need to at least try to learn the real one while I still have the chance.”

“Are you sure you don’t need me there?” Allie says gently. “If not for moral support, then just for the fact that old houses can be tricky. I’d feel better knowing you had some help.”

“I’ll call if I need any advice,” I say.

“No,” Allie says. “You’ll call or text at least once a day. Otherwise I’ll think you died in an epic table-saw accident.”

When the call is over, I get out of the truck and approach the gate, which dwarfs me by at least five feet. It’s the kind of gate you’re more likely to see at a mental hospital or prison. Something designed not to keep people out but to keep them in. I find the key for the lock, insert it, and twist. It unlocks with a metallic clank.

Almost immediately, a man’s voice—as gruff as it is unexpected—rises in the darkness behind me.

“If you’re looking for trouble, you just found it. Now back away from that gate.”

I spin around, my hands raised like a burglar caught mid-job. “I’m sorry. I used to live here.”

The truck’s headlights, aimed at the center of the gate to help me see better, now end up blinding me. I scan the darkness behind the truck until the source of the voice steps into the light. He’s tall and solid—a cool drink of water poured into jeans and a black T-shirt. Although he could pass for younger, I peg him to be just north of forty, especially when he steps closer and I can see the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin.

“You’re Ewan Holt’s girl?” he says.

A prickle of irritation forms on the back of my neck. I might be Ewan Holt’s daughter, but I’m no one’s girl. I let it slide only because this man seems to have known my father.

“Yes. Maggie.”

The man strides toward me, his hand extended. Up close, he’s very good-looking. Definitely fortyish, but compact and muscular in a way that makes me think he does manual labor for a living. I work with similar guys all the time. Taut forearms with prominent veins that crest bulging biceps. Beneath his T-shirt is a broad chest and an enviably narrow waist.

“I’m the caretaker,” he says, confirming my first impression. “Name’s Dane. Dane Hibbets.”

My father mentioned a Hibbets in the Book. Walt. Not Dane.

“Hibbs’s boy ?”

“His grandson, actually,” Dane says, either not picking up on my word choice or deciding to ignore it. “Walt died a few years back. I kind of stepped in and took over. Which means I should probably stop standing here and help you with this gate.”

He pushes past to help me in prying it open, him pulling one side and me pushing the other.

“By the way, I was real sorry to hear about your dad’s passing,” he says. “Others in this town might have unkind things to say about him. His book is none too popular in these parts. None too popular at all. But he was a good man, and I remind folks of that on a regular basis. ‘Few people would have kept on paying us,’ I tell them. ‘Especially twenty-five years after leaving the place.’”

A hiccup of surprise rises in my chest. “My father was still paying you?”

“He sure was. First my grandfather, then me. Oh, and Mrs. Ditmer. I mow the grass, do some landscaping, pop in once a week to make sure nothing’s wrong with the house. Elsa—that’s Mrs. Ditmer—came in every month to do a good cleaning. Her daughter does it now that Elsa’s infirm, to put it kindly.”

“She’s ill?”

“Only in the head.” Dane uses an index finger to tap his temple. “Alzheimer’s. The poor woman. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. But your father kept us all on and always made sure to check in on me whenever he was here.”

Another surprise. One that makes me release my half of the gate, letting it swing shut again. “My father came here?”

“He did.”

“A lot?”

“Not often, no,” Dane says. “Just once a year.”

I remain completely still, aware of the cocked-headed stare Dane is giving me but unable to do anything about it. Shock has left me motionless.

My father came back here once a year.

Despite vowing never to return.

Despite begging me on his deathbed to do the same.