Nightingale House

About the Author

STEVE FRECH lives in Los Angeles. In addition to writing, he produces and hosts the Random Awesomeness Podcast, an improv-comedy quiz show that has been performed at Upright Citizens Brigade, The Improv, iO West, and Nerdist.

Also by Steve Frech

Dark Hollows

Praise for Steve Frech

‘I absolutely LOVED this book … An unputdownable page turner of a read’

‘This book just pulls you right in … I couldn’t put it down!’

‘One of the best thrillers I’ve read this year’

‘So gripping I just could not stop reading’

‘Like riding a rollercoaster … Should be on everyone’s reading list’

‘I burned through this’

‘I was hooked from page one’

Nightingale House

STEVE FRECH

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Steve Frech 2020

Steve Frech asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008372187

Version: 2020-06-02

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Steve Frech

Praise for Steve Frech

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

Thank you, Deborah.

Nightingale House was not born with secrets, but they were made here.

They were sealed into the walls and buried beneath the floorboards.

Most of us don’t know what happened in the rooms we live in before we arrived. We never hear of the tragedies that occurred in the room where we sleep or the unspeakable acts that took place years ago in the basement.

And while the secrets of most houses are eventually forgotten, Nightingale House won’t allow that.

Its secrets remain, hiding in the shadows at the top of the stairs, in the whispers at the end of the hall, and in the sound of a little girl crying on the other side of a door to a room that’s empty.

They are still here, waiting …

1

With one hand, I reach up and press my fingers to my chest, feeling the ring that’s hanging from my neck, under my shirt. With my other hand, I reach out to my eight-year-old daughter, Caitlyn, who is standing by my side. Gusts of wind kick and swirl around us.

“Ready?” I ask.

She takes a deep breath and grasps my hand. “Ready.”

The Queen Anne-styled Nightingale House, sitting on the shore of Willow Lake, stands before us.

“Let’s do it,” I say.

We begin slowly walking up the stone path. The gables of the house, with its Turret Room, loom above as we approach. The wind does its best to knock us off course, but we eventually reach the wrap-around porch step up to the heavy, oak door.

I fish the key out of my pocket and offer it to Caitlyn.

“Care to do the honors?”

She stares up at me with those big, blue eyes. She looks so much like Nicole it hurts. I know Caitlyn is missing her mother right now just as much as I am.

“Okay.”

She takes the key and attempts to slide it into the lock, but her hands are shaking.

“You want some help?” I ask.

“No,” she stubbornly sighs.

I smile. She’s so much like Nicole.

She finally gets the key into the lock.

“There. See? I did it,” she says, giving it a twist. She pushes down on the handle and leans against the door. The hinges sweetly groan as it swings open.

We step inside out of the wind and are greeted by the smell of polish from the gleaming hardwood floors. To the left is the living room. The sofa and coffee table are surrounded by unpacked boxes. Directly in front of us are the stairs to the second floor. The door to our right leads to the study.

No.

I forgot.

We were going to call it my “Writing Room”. It’s where I’m going to write the sequel to In the Shadows of Justice.

*

A couple years ago, I was a struggling writer, working as a substitute teacher, trying desperately to support a wife and child. We were living in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment in Portsmouth, New Hampshire with this dream that one day, my little stories would become best-sellers. So far, all I had to show for it were two books that hadn’t gone anywhere. I felt like this third one, a political thriller, was my last shot.

Nicole and I had a routine; I would get up at four in the morning and start writing. Nicole would get up at six and get Caitlyn ready for school. Then, over a cup of coffee, Nicole and I would sit at our thrift-store-purchased kitchen table and I’d read to her what I had written. I loved it. I knew that if by some miracle, my political thriller became a best-seller, this would always be my favorite part; just me and Nicole, sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes widening as the story unfolded. She was my best critic, cheerleader, and editor. I’ll never forget the day we were sitting at the kitchen table, rain beating against the window, and I read the words ‘the end’. I looked up from the page and she had tears in her eyes. Nicole took my face in her hands, kissed me, and said, “This is it.”

We got an agent, there was a bidding war, and we were off to the races. And I keep saying ‘we’ because I mean ‘we’. No Nicole? No book.

Fourteen months later, after a year of editing, tweaking, and finally, publication day, came ‘the call’.

The book had been out for two months and sales were strong. The reviews were great. My publisher had already offered a two-book extension to my contract along with a handsome advance. Nicole and I tried not to talk about it too much, out of fear that we would jinx it.

Then, one morning while we were getting Caitlyn ready for school, my agent, Lana Gifton, called.

“Have you seen the New York Times best-seller list this morning?” she asked.

It took me a second or two, but I gradually grasped her meaning.

“… no way.”

“I really think you should,” she said, and hung up.

I flew from my chair and raced for the computer. I pulled it up on the browser because, of course, I had it bookmarked.

My heart stopped.

“Nicole!” I yelled.

She ran over and stood behind me.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

I pointed at the screen.

8. In the Shadows of Justice – Daniel Price

“Oh my God!” she screamed.

I leaped up and we held each other as we both started crying.

“Mom? Dad? What’s wrong?” Caitlyn asked from the doorway.

I ran over and gave her a fierce hug.

“Oomph …”

“Pumpkin, how would you like not to go to school today?”

She eyed me suspiciously. “What would we do?”

“Whatever you want.”

We spent the rest of the day bowling, going to the movies, and eating ice cream.

That night, after Caitlyn passed out in her bed from exhaustion, Nicole and I went to our room and made love more passionately than we had in years. It was a celebration of everything we had worked for.

Afterwards, we lay side by side, sweating, and in total bliss.

“Hey, Shakespeare?” she whispered. It was her favorite pet name for me.

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s time we start looking for some new digs.”

“Way ahead of you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yep. What were you thinking?”

She playfully bit her lip. “Hmm … anything?”

“Well, we may have to skip the helipad and twenty-car garage, but other than that, name it.”

“I want to live on the water. Doesn’t have to be the ocean but maybe a lake.”

“Done.” I nodded.

She laughed. “I like this little fantasy.”

I took her hand. “It’s not a fantasy anymore.”

I think that was the first time we both realized that it was finally happening. No more dreaming to take our minds off our desperate situation. No more trying to hide how broke we were from Caitlyn.

“I want to live in an old house,” Nicole said, before quickly adding, “Not ancient, but something with character.”

“Perfect.”

“What do you want?”

“Me?”

She nodded.

“I want round two.”

She laughed as I pulled her to me.

*

It took Nicole all of thirty-six hours to find the Nightingale House.

I was in love from the moment she showed me the pictures online and told me the house had a name. It was also within our price range, only an hour away in the town of Kingsbrook, Maine, and we had four hours until Caitlyn would be home from school.

“Let’s go!” she said, grabbing my wrist.

The excitement on the drive up Highway 16 was too much for conversation. The house. The town. It was all too perfect.

We exited at Kingsbrook/Willow Lake and drove down Main Street, which was lined with stately homes, all of them at least a hundred years old. The town square was rimmed with coffeeshops, antique stores, and cafés.

The directions took us into the outlying forests. It was autumn and the trees were splashes of red, orange, and yellow. One last turn and Willow Lake came into view. The road, which ran parallel to the shore, was dotted with houses, the last one being the Nightingale House.

The pictures hadn’t done it justice. They couldn’t have. To see the porch, the gables, and the Turret Room looking out over the lake on a computer screen was one thing, but to be standing in front of it was something different, entirely.

Walking up the stone path, Nicole appeared to be in some sort of trance. A realtor with a spindly frame and glasses that required him to constantly push them up the bridge of his nose greeted us on the porch.

“Mr. and Mrs. Price?” he asked.

“That’s us,” I replied, since Nicole was incapable of speech.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Mark Stelowski.”

I shook it and he made a grand, sweeping gesture towards the house.

“Well, here she is. Built in 1893 by—”

“Uh, Mr … uh …?” I interrupted.

“Stelowski.”

“Stelowski, great. I’m going to need you to do me a favor.”

“Uh … of course.”

“I’m gonna need you to sit this one out.”

He blinked. “Oh … um … sure, okay.”

“Thank you.”

Nicole and I stepped inside.

It was my turn to be speechless but she suddenly came out of her trance.

She glanced into the room on our right, which contained a large bookcase built into the wall. “That’s your study.” She was about to go into the living room but stopped. “No! Correction. That’s your Writing Room.”

“Love it,” I replied.

She quickly resumed her path into the living room. “Couch, recliner, television,” she said, pointing around the room.

“Awesome.”

I followed her into the dining room. A large window offered a stunning view of the lake. A wooden pier jutted out into the water.

“We’re eating dinner here, every night,” she said.

“I’ll cook!” I offered.

She grimaced. “Eh … we’ll see.”

We moved into the kitchen. A back door led to a deck and the backyard. While the house had kept its old charm, the kitchen had all the modern conveniences with updated appliances and an island counter. There was a small alcove with a window overlooking the lake.

“Coffee, right there, every morning,” I said.

“While you read to me,” she added.

Nicole went over to a small wooden door and opened it.

“Pantry?” I asked.

“… No.”

She went through and I heard her footsteps descend creaky wooden stairs. I crossed the kitchen and followed her into the darkness. I kept my hand against the cool stone wall to my right for balance. Once we reached the bottom of the stairs, Nicole went to the middle of the room and pulled the chain of a small, bare lightbulb that was barely visible in the darkness, hanging from the ceiling. The lightbulb had to be decades old and weakly glowed, barely illuminating the space.

“And … the basement …” she said.

“Yeah,” I weakly offered.

There wasn’t much to say beyond that. Wooden shelves rested against the walls and planked floors.

“Upstairs?” I asked.

“Upstairs,” Nicole confirmed and snapped off the light.

We bounded back up the steps and hurried through the house like children having a race.

“Almost done!” I called out through the open front door to the realtor as we passed. He had to think that we were crazy as we charged up the stairs to the second floor.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched out before us. To the right was the Turret Room. The windows offered an almost panoramic view of the lake. The ceiling vaulted to a point and a closet was near the door.

“Caitlyn’s room?” I asked.

“I don’t know. You think it might be too much of a change for her?”

I shrugged. “We’ll ask her.”

“We’re gonna spoil that kid.”

“Damn right, we are.”

We went into the blue guestroom across the hall from the Turret Room. I stood behind Nicole in the doorway.

“Guestroom?”

“Until we give Caitlyn a sibling,” Nicole replied.

I wrapped my arm around her waist, playfully growled, and nibbled her neck.

She laughed and spun away from me. “We’re not done yet!”

We went down the hall to the master suite.

I opened the door and we both gasped. The walls were paneled in rich, rose-stained wood. A fireplace was nestled into the far wall and a door in the corner led to the bathroom.

“Our bedroom would have a fireplace?” Nicole whispered.

“Our bedroom would have a fireplace.”

We walked back downstairs in a daze. It didn’t seem possible that this house could be ours. We stopped in the living room and faced one another.

“Do you want to live here?” I asked.

“I know it sounds weird but, I feel like I’m supposed to be here … Do you want to live here?”

I nodded.

We kissed and held one another with our foreheads pressed together.

“Nicole … we’re home.”

We kissed one more time and then I called towards the front door.

“Mr. Kowalski?”

“It’s ‘Stelowski’,” Nicole corrected me with a giggle.

“Sir!” I yelled, playing it safe.

The realtor stepped inside and stopped at the image of Nicole and I holding one another in the living room.

“So, um … do you have any—”

“We’ll take it,” Nicole said.

*

Two months later, once the papers had been signed, we brought Caitlyn to the Nightingale House.

Nicole was still unsure if Caitlyn would go for the Turret Room, but I never doubted it for a second. She walked through the bedroom door and fell in love. We had a hard time pulling her away from the windows as she looked out over the lake. Her bedroom in Portsmouth didn’t have a closet, so she even viewed that as a luxury. She ran into the middle of the room, stared up at the ceiling overhead, and began spinning around.

Then we showed her the blue guestroom and the master suite. She dutifully paid attention but I could tell her heart was still in the Turret Room. We went back down the hall and stopped in between the doors to the Turret Room and blue guestroom.

“Are we really going to live here?” Caitlyn asked.

“Yep,” Nicole said. “And you can have your pick. You can have the blue room or the other—”

Caitlyn dashed into the Turret Room.

“This one! This one! I want this one!” she cried as Nicole and I watched from the doorway.

“Why this one?” I asked.

“Because I’ll be like a princess in a castle!”

It was so damn cute, I almost had to sit down.

Afterwards, we drove back into Kingsbrook and had milkshakes at a place called ‘Murphy’s’. Well, Caitlyn and I had milkshakes. Nicole had hot chocolate. Murphy’s was like a soda shop out of the 1920s. The namesake was the owner’s black lab, who was sleeping in a bed on the floor by the register. The place was packed but we were lucky enough to grab a booth. Caitlyn watched people passing outside the window and began making up stories for them.

“That’s Mr. Teffelbottom. He’s a scientist that does experiments in his basement,” she said. “And there’s Mrs. Longshanks. People say she’s a witch.”

Nicole and I exchanged a glance. This had been a little bit of an issue with Caitlyn. She liked to tell stories. Most people would have said she had a problem with lying, but since she was our kid, we preferred to call them stories. She also tended to tell them when she was overexcited. We viewed it as mostly harmless. If pressed, she would usually admit that she was just making stuff up. Still, there had been problems at school. After the amazing day we had, neither one of us felt like correcting her. Instead, we tried to steer her back to conversations about the new house.

After our milkshakes and hot chocolate, we got back in the car for the drive back to Portsmouth. No one was anxious to return to the apartment.

We were halfway there when we pulled up to a red light.

“When we move in, can we play hide-and-seek?” Caitlyn asked. “At Sarah’s birthday party last year, we turned off all the lights in her house and played hide-and-seek.”

“You bet,” I said.

Caitlyn beamed.

Nicole twisted herself to look at Caitlyn in the back seat.

“A princess in a castle, huh?”

“Yep.”

Nicole gave me a wink. “Maybe we should get you a princess bed for your room.”

I watched in the rearview mirror as Caitlyn’s eyes widened.

The light turned green.

I pulled forward and smiled at Nicole.

Our eyes met.

That’s when I saw the blinding headlights in the window over her shoulder.

There was a sickening crunch and the sensation of every bone in my body flying apart.

Then, nothing.

*

Caitlyn lets go of my hand and I follow her as she walks through the living room and into the dining room.

When she stops, I can see the angry red scar on the back of her neck.

Her shoulders sag.

I feel it. I can feel Nicole’s absence starting to overwhelm Caitlyn. It’s starting to overwhelm me, too. It’s been overwhelming me for months but I have to be strong for Caitlyn. I can never let her see me like that.

“Hey, you know what?” I ask.

She turns to me. “What?”

“I think there’s something in your room.”

She cocks her head. “What is it?”

I playfully shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Then, how do you know th—”

“Pumpkin, you should go see your room.”

She gives me one more quizzical look and then starts slowly walking back to the stairs as I follow. The closer she gets, the faster she goes. By the time I reach the stairs, she’s reached the top and turns into her room. I take my time catching up.

Halfway up, I hear her squeal with delight from her bedroom.

I reach the top of the stairs. All the doors in the hallway are open. A steady, rhythmic sound emanates from Caitlyn’s room.

I round the corner into her room and find her bouncing on her new, four-poster canopy bed.

“My princess bed!” she happily sings.

“Hey! You’re gonna break it!” I warn her but not too sternly.

She falls onto her back, laughing hysterically.

“All right, enough of that, you little monster.” I point to the cardboard boxes in the corner. Each one has “Caitlyn” written in black marker on the side. “Start unpacking. Set up your room however you want. If you need me, I’ll be down the hall, okay?”

She nods.

I go to leave, but hear her hop off the bed and run towards me. I turn just in time as she throws her arms around me in the strongest hug her arms can manage.

“Thank you, Dad.”

I return her hug. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you, too.”

We hold each other, both missing Nicole.

I kiss the top of her head. “Okay. Get to work.”

She goes to the boxes as I turn and leave. I hear her ripping the tape to unpack as I walk down the hall to the master bedro—

Huh.

This door was open a moment ago.

There has to be a draft, somewhere. I can hear the wind battering the house.

Oh well.

I open the door and go inside.

April 7th, 1900

I love it. I simply love this journal.

I’ve never kept a journal, but I will try to do so, especially because of who gave it to me, but more on that in a little while.

The party was fine but I’m much too shy for public gatherings. Besides, while it was my seventeenth birthday, the party wasn’t really for me. It was Father’s way of “introducing” us to Kingsbrook before we open the pharmacy. I know Father is excited, but he’s been excited for every other business he’s put his hand to, like the grocer’s or the launderer, and they’ve all been disasters. This time, though, I heard him promise my stepmother, Carol, that it would be a success.

The party was held at the house we’re renting in town. We can’t afford to buy a house, but Father wanted us to appear successful because it will give people more confidence in the pharmacy. Father also wanted the party to be as elegant as possible but since we don’t have the means to buy a house, we certainly don’t have the money to hire caterers or planners. Everything fell to Carol and she was stretched to the limit. I felt horribly for her and tried to help as much as I could, but Father insisted that I was to be the centerpiece of the party.