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PROLOGUE

The house on Dauphine

"Moht Sheer exhaustion froed in at the house on Dauphine Street Sheer exhaustion had finally allowed her to drift off to sleep The word, the whisper, was so she had conjured in her ain

Waking, not opening her eyes, she listened to as real The sound ofof applause that followed their jazz numbers The deep, sad heartbeat of the saxophone The distant noise of the es that took tourists around the historic French Quarter Sohter

She breathed in the s on the house Beneath it--drifting in from the open French doors that led to the courtyard of the beautiful hoainst the rear wall They’d finally gotten their ho hint of strange days gone by

Some said that it was haunted by those days, by that history, certainly not always so pleasant This house had been, after all, owned by Madden C Newton, the killer who had terrorized roup carriages rolled by with tales of ghosts and ghastly visions seen by previous owners But neither she nor David believed in ghosts, and the house had been a steal Now, of course, she longed with her whole heart to believe in ghosts If they existed, she hosts were not real

The house was a house Brick, wood, rown up on the "other" side of town; they had drea such a house They had, however, never dreamed that they would live in it alone

Yes, she kneas real, and asn’t She was learning to live without the painkillers that had gotten her through the first iven her several strange visions, but none of thehostly

"Mommy"

But she heard the word, and she heard it clearly She opened her eyes, and a scream froze in her throat

A little boy stood there A little boy just about Jacob’s age, seven He was dressed in Victorian-era breeches, a little vest and frock coat, knickers and boots

And an ax blade cut into his skull, the shaft protruding from it A trail of blood seeped down the sides of his face

"Mommy, it hurts It hurts so badly Helpeyes

She so desperately wanted to scream She had seen her son in dreams, but this wasn’t her son She knew the stories about the house, knew about the murders that had taken place here just after the Civil War…

Yes, she knew, but at the worst of tie and horrible visions

He wasn’t real

Sounds emitted from her at last Not screams Just sounds Sounds of terror, like the nonsense chatter of an infant She wanted to scream

"Mommy, please Mommy, I need you"

It wasn’t Jacob, and it wasn’t Jacob’s voice And Jacob had been killed in a car accident sixover three lanes on I-10 late at night

Jacob had died at the hospital, in her arms He had been buried at Lafayette Cemetery, dressed in his baseball unifor her son’s voice

Just his words

Mommy, it hurts It hurts so badly Help me, Mommy

Jacob’s words, those he had spoken when she had held hi had taken his sweet, young life

This was not Jacob

No

She closed her eyes, unable to scream She prayed that David would come home, Senator David Holloway Her husband, handsome, even, lucid, rational, wonderful, ever there for her in their shared grief David could hold her, and she would find strength He was due home Dusk had come Dusk, and yet, there had still been pink-and-yellow streaks reht upon the dust motes that had danced in the rooe of a o away He wasn’t real He was the result of the local lore about the house, that was all

"Mommy, please, I need you Please, just hold one away He was standing there, anguished eyes on her, reproach and confusion in thenore him, stare at him with such horror in her own expression

"Mommy?"

"You’re not…not there," she whispered

"Mommy, don’t leave me! I’m scared I’m so scared Take my hand, hold it, please, I’m so scared!" he said

And then, the little boy reached out She recoiled inwardly, sheets of icy fear sweeping through her with the rage of a storm And then…

She felt the little hand That little hand, reaching for hers It arers squeezed hers She squeezed back