Robert Liparulo and his book
House of Dark Shadows Dreamhouse Kings Book #1
Thomas Nelson (May 6, 2008)
About the Author:
Robert Liparulo is an award-winning author of over a thousand published articles and short stories. He is currently a contributing editor for New Man magazine. His work has appeared in Reader’s Digest, Travel & Leisure, Modern Bride, Consumers Digest, Chief Executive, and The Arizona Daily Star, among other publications. In addition, he previously worked as a celebrity journalist, interviewing Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Charlton Heston, and others for magazines such as Rocky Road, Preview, and L.A. Weekly. He has sold or optioned three screenplays.
Robert is an avid scuba diver, swimmer, reader, traveler, and a law enforcement and military enthusiast. He lives in Colorado with his wife and four children.
And Now…The First Chapter:
“A house of which one knows every room isn’t worth living in.â€
â€”Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa
Thirty years ago
The walls of the house absorbed the womanâ€™s screams, until they felt to her as muffled and pointless as yelling underwater. Still, her lungs kept pushing out cries for help. Her attacker carried her over his shoulder. The stench of his sweat filled her nostrils. He paid no heed to her frantic writhing, or the pounding of her fists on his back, or even her fingernails, which dug furrows into his flesh. He simply lumbered, as steadily as a freight train, through the corridors of the big house.
She knew where they were heading, but not where she would end up. In this house, nothing was normal, nothing as it appeared. So while she knew in advance the turns her attacker would take, which hallways and doors he would traverse, their destination was as unknowable as a faraway galaxy. And that meant her taking would be untraceable. She would be unreachable to searchers. To would-be rescuers. To her familyâ€” and that realization terrified her more than being grabbed out of her bed. More than the flashes of imagined cruelty she would suffer away from the protection of the people who loved her. More than death.
But then she saw something more terrifying: her children, scrambling to catch up, to help. Their eyes were wide, streaming. They stumbled up the narrow staircase behind her attacker, seeming far below, rising to meet her. The thought of them following her into the chasm of her fate was more than she could stand.
â€œGo back,â€ she said, but by this time her throat was raw, her voice weak.
The man reached the landing and turned into another corridor.
Temporarily out of sight, her son yelled, â€œMom!â€ His seven-year-old voice was almost lost in the shrillness of his panic. He appeared on the landing. His socked feet slipped on the hardwood floor and he went down. Behind him, his little sister stopped. She was frightened and confused, too young to do anything more than follow her brother. He clambered up and started to run again.
A hand gripped his shoulder, jarring him back.
The boyâ€™s father had something in his fist: the lamp from his nightstand! He past the boy in the hallway. His bare feet gave him traction.
Thank God, she thought.
He reached her in seconds. With the lamp raised over his head, he grabbed her wrist. He pulled, tried to anchor himself to the floor, to the carpeted runner now covering the wood planks. But the brute under her walked on, tugging him with them. The man yanked on her arm. Pain flared in her shoulder. He might as well have tried pulling her from a car as it sped passed.
She caught a glimpse of the bizarrely shaped light fixtures on the corridor wallsâ€”mostly carved faces with glowing eyes. The bulbs flickered in time with her racing heart. She could not remember any of the lights doing that before. It was as though the electrical current running through the wires was responding to a disruption in the way things were supposed to be, a glitch in reality.
â€œHenry,â€ she said, pleading, hopeful.
His grip tightened as he stumbled along behind them. He brought the lampâ€™s heavy base down on her assailant. If the man carrying her flinched, she did not feel it. If he grunted or yelled out, she did not hear it.
What he did was stop. He spun around so quickly, the womanâ€™s husband lost his grip on her. And now facing the other direction, she lost sight of him. Being suddenly denied her husbandâ€™s visage felt like getting the wind knocked out of her. She realized he was face to face with the man whoâ€™d taken her, and that felt like watching him step off a cliff.
â€œNooo!â€ she screamed, her voice finding some volume. â€œHenry!â€
His hand gripped her ankle, then broke free. The man under her moved in a violent dance, jostling her wildly. He spun again and her head struck the wall.
The lights went out completely . . . . but no, not the lights . . . her consciousness. It came back to her slowly, like the warmth of fire on a blistery day.
She tasted blood. Sheâ€™d bitten her tongue. She opened her eyes. Henry was crumpled on the floor, receding as she was carried away. The children stood over him, touching him, calling him. Her sonâ€™s eyes found hers again. Determination hardened his jaw, pushed away the fear . . . at least a measure of it. He stepped over his fatherâ€™s legs, coming to her rescue. Henry raised his head, weary, stunned. He reached for the boy, but missed.
Over the huffing breath of the man, the soft patter of her sonâ€™s feet reached her ears. How sheâ€™d loved that sound, knowing it was bringing him to her. Now she wanted it to carry him away, away from this danger. Her husband called to him in a croaking, strained voice. The boy kept coming.
She spread her arms. Her left hand clutched at open air, but the right one touched a wall. She clawed at it. Her nails snagged the wallpaper. One nail peeled back from her finger and snapped off.
Her assailant turned again, into a roomâ€”one of the small antechambers, like a mud room before the real room. He strode straight toward the next threshold.
Her son reached the first door, catching it as it was closing.
â€œMom!â€ Panic etched old-man lines into his young face. His eyes appeared as wide as his mouth. He banged his shoulder on the jamb, trying to hurry in.
â€œStay!â€ she said. She showed him her palms in a â€œstopâ€ gesture, hoping he would understand, hoping he would obey. She took in his face, as a diver takes in a deep breath before plunging into the depths. He was fully in the antechamber now, reaching for her with both arms, but her captor had already opened the second door and was stepping through. The door was swinging shut behind him.
The light they were stepping into was bright. It swept around her, through the opening, and made pinpoints of the boyâ€™s irises. His blue eyes dazzled. His cheeks glistened with tears. He wore his favorite pajamasâ€”little R2D2s and C3P0s all over them, becoming threadbare and too small for him.
â€œIâ€”â€œ she started, meaning to say she loved him, but the brute bounded downward, driving his shoulder into her stomach. Air rushed from her, unformed by vocal chords, tongue, lips. Just air.
â€œMoooom!â€ her son screamed. Full of despair. Reaching. Almost to the door.
The door closed, separating her from her family forever.
Saturday, 4:55 P.M.
â€œNothing but trees,â€ the bear said in Xanderâ€™s voice. It repeated itself: â€œNothing but trees.â€
Xander King turned away from the car window and stared into the smiling furry face, with its shiny half-bead eyes and stitched-on nose. He said, â€œI mean it, Toria. Get that thing out of my face. And turn it off.â€
His sisterâ€™s hands moved quickly over the teddy bearâ€™s paws, all the while keeping it suspended three inches in front of Xander. The bear said, â€œI mean it, Toria. Get thatâ€”â€
At fifteen years old, Xander was too old to be messing around with little-kid toys. He seized the bear, squeezing the paw that silenced it.
â€œMom!â€ Toria yelled. â€Make him give Wuzzy back!â€ She grabbed for it.
Xander turned away from her, tucking Wuzzy between his body and the car door. Outside his window, nothing but treesâ€”as he had said and Wuzzy had agreed. It reminded him of a movie, as almost everything did. This time, it was The Edge, about a bear intent on eating Anthony Hopkins. An opening shot of the wilderness where it was filmed showed miles and miles of lush forest. Nothing but trees.
A month ago, his dad had announced that he had accepted a position as principal of a school six hundred miles away, and the whole King family had to move from the only home Xander had ever known. It was a place he had never even heard of: Pinedale, almost straight north from their home in Pasadena. Still in California, but barely. Pinedale. The name itself said â€œhick,â€ â€œsmall,â€ and â€œIf you donâ€™t die here, youâ€™ll wish you had.â€ Of course, he had screamed, begged, sulked, and threatened to run away. But in the end here he was, wedged in the back seat with his nine-year-old sister and twelve-year-old brother.
The longer they drove, the thicker the woods grew and the more miserable he became. It was bad enough, leaving his friends, his schoolâ€”everything!â€”but to be leaving them for hicksville, in the middle of nowhere, was a stake through his heart.
â€œMom!â€ Toria yelled again, reaching for the bear.
Xander squeezed closer to the door, away from her. He must have put pressure on the bear in the wrong place: It began chanting in Toriaâ€™s whiny voice: â€œMom! Mom! Mom!â€
He frantically squeezed Wuzzyâ€™s paws, but could not make it stop.
â€œMom! Mom! Mom!â€
The controls in the bearâ€™s arms werenâ€™t working. Frustrated by its continuous one-word poking at his brainâ€”and a little concerned he had broken it and would have to buy her a new oneâ€”he looked to his sister for help.
She wasnâ€™t grabbing for it anymore. Just grinning. One of those see-what-happens-when-you-mess-with-me smiles.
â€œMom! Mom! Mom!â€
Xander was about to show her what happened when you messed with himâ€”the possibilities ranged from a display of his superior vocal volume to ripping Mr. Wuzzyâ€™s arms right offâ€”when the absurdity of it struck him. He cracked up.
â€œI mean it,â€ he laughed. â€œThis thing is driving me crazy.â€ He shook the bear at her. It continued yelling for their mother.
His brother David, who was sitting on the other side of Toria and who had been doing a good job of staying out of the fight, started laughing too. He mimicked the bear, who was mimicking their sister: â€œMom! Mom! Mom!â€
Mrs. King shifted around in the front passenger seat. She was smiling, but her eyes were curious.
â€œXander broke Wuzzy!â€ Toria whined. â€œHe wonâ€™t turn off.â€ She pulled the bear out of Xanderâ€™s hands.
The furry beast stopped talking: â€œMoâ€”â€ Then, blessed silence.
Toria looked from brother to brother and they laugh again.
Xander shrugged. â€œI guess he just doesnâ€™t like me.â€
â€œHe only likes me,â€ Toria said, hugging it.
â€œOh, brother,â€ David said. He went back to the PSP game that had kept him occupied most of the drive.
Mom raised her eyebrows at Xander and said, â€œBe nice.â€
Xander rolled his eyes. He adjusted his shoulders and wiggled his behind, nudging Toria. â€œItâ€™s too cramped back here. It may be an SUV, but it isnâ€™t big enough for us anymore.â€
â€œDonâ€™t start that,â€ his father warned from behind the wheel. He angled the rearview mirror to see his son.
â€œWhat?â€ Xander said, acting innocent.
â€œI did the same thing with my father,â€ Dad said. â€œThe carâ€™s too small . . . it uses too much gas . . . itâ€™s too run down . . . â€
Xander smiled. â€œWell, it is.â€
â€œAnd if we get a new car, what should we do with this one?â€
â€œWell . . . .â€ Xander said. â€œYou know. Itâ€™d be a safe car for me.â€ A ten-year-old Toyota 4Runner wasnâ€™t his idea of cool wheels, but it was transportation.
Dad nodded. â€œGetting you a car is something we can talk about, okay? Letâ€™s see how you do.â€
â€œI have my driverâ€™s permit. You know Iâ€™m a good driver.â€
â€œHe is,â€ Toria chimed in.
David added, â€œAnd then he can drive us to school.â€
â€œI didnâ€™t mean just the driving,â€ Dad said. He paused, catching Xanderâ€™s eyes in the mirror. â€œI mean with all of this, the move and everything.â€
Xander stared out the window again. He mumbled, â€œGuess Iâ€™ll never get a car, then.â€
â€œXander?â€ Dad said. â€œI didnâ€™t hear that.â€
â€œHe said heâ€™ll never get a car,â€ Toria said.
Silence. Davidâ€™s thumbs clicked furiously over the PSP buttons. Xander was aware of his mom watching him. If he looked, her eyes would be all sad-like, and she would be frowning in sympathy for him. He thought maybe his dad was looking too, but only for an opportunity to explain himself again. Xander didnâ€™t want to hear it. Nothing his old man said would make this okay, would make ripping him out of his world less awful than it was.
â€œDad, is the schoolâ€™s soccer team good? Did they place?â€ David asked. Xander knew his brother wasnâ€™t happy about the move either, but jumping right into the sport he was so obsessed about went a long way toward making the change something he could handle. Maybe Xander was like that three years ago, just rolling with the punches. He couldnâ€™t remember. But now he had things in his life David didnâ€™t: friends who truly mattered, ones he thought heâ€™d spend the rest of his life with. Kids didnâ€™t think that way. Friends could come and go and they adjusted. True, Xander had known his current friends for years, but they hadnâ€™t become like blood until the last year or so.
That got him thinking about Danielle. He pulled his mobile phone from his shirt pocket and checked it. No text messages from her. No calls. She hadnâ€™t replied to the last text heâ€™d sent. He keyed in another: â€œForget me already? JK.â€ But he wasnâ€™t Just Kidding. He knew the score: Out of sight, out of mind. She had said all the right things, like Weâ€™ll talk on the phone all the time; You come down and see me and Iâ€™ll come up to see you, okay? and Iâ€™ll wait for you.
Yeah, sure you will, he thought. Even during the past week, heâ€™d sensed a coldness in her, an emotional distancing. When heâ€™d told his best friend, Dean had shrugged. Trying to sound world-wise, heâ€™d said, â€œForget her, dude. Sheâ€™s a hot young babe. Sheâ€™s gotta move on. You too. Not like youâ€™re married, right?â€ Dean had never liked Danielle.
Xander tried to convince himself she was just another friend he was forced to leave behind. But there was a different kind of ache in his chest when he thought about her. A heavy weight in his stomach.
Stop it! he told himself. He flipped his phone closed.
On his mental list of the reasons to hate the move to Pinedale, he moved on to the one titled â€œcareer.â€ He had just started making short films with his buddies, and was pretty sure it was something he would eventually do for a living. They werenâ€™t much, just short skits he and his friends acted out. He and Dean wrote the scripts, did the filming, used computer software to edit an hour of video into five-minute films, and laid music over them. They had six already on YouTubeâ€”with an average rating of four-and-a-half stars and a boatload of praise. Xander had dreams of getting a short film into the festival circuit, which of course would lead to offers to do music videos and commercials, probably an Oscar and onto feature movies starring Russell Crowe and Jim Carrey. Pasadena was right next to Hollywood, a twenty-minute drive. You couldnâ€™t ask for a better place to live if you were the next Steven Spielberg. What in Godâ€™s creation would he find to film in Pinedale? Trees, he thought glumly, watching them fly past his window.
Dad, addressing Davidâ€™s soccer concern, said, â€œWeâ€™ll talk about it later.â€
Mom reached through the seatbacks to shake Xanderâ€™s knee. â€œItâ€™ll work out,â€ she whispered.
â€œWait a minute,â€ David said, understanding Dad-talk as well as Xander did. â€œAre you saying they suckâ€”or that they donâ€™t have a soccer team? You told me they did!â€
â€œI said later, Dae.â€ His nickname came from Toriaâ€™s inability as a toddler to say David. She had also called Xander Xan, but it hadnâ€™t stuck.
David slumped down in his seat.
Xander let the full extent of his misery show on his face for his mother.
She gave his knee a shake, sharing his misery. She was good that way. â€œGive it some time,â€ she whispered. â€œYouâ€™ll make new friends and find new things to do. Wait and see.â€
Check out the author’s site by clicking on his picture and read other Teen FIRST Bloggers’ reviews (there’s a member list on the sidebar of the Teen FIRST Blog – click the logo to go there). And don’t forget all the info on the book’s Amazon page the bookcover will land you there.