Salem's Lot Marsten House Novels & Stories

“Didn’t you say you’re living alone at the Manor?” “Yeah, well, not quite. Remember your first visit? The apparition upstairs?” “Oh, yeah, in the master bedroom.” “Well, that was Ann Marie, wife of Joseph Blotter, the man who built the Manor back in 1870.” “And how could you possibly know who I saw?”

The light still in the sky at a new hour. The specific gift of the returning days. More light. A little more each evening. The garden visible in it. The rosemary with its new growth at the tips. The small pale beginning of what was coming. She thought about all the rooms she had ever occupied. The packhouse room with its eastern window. The infirmary where she had heard the word liability and made the decision. The safe house forty miles west. Maren's blue door. The Council chamber with its worn floors and honest light.

A Victorian terrace two blocks from the park. Four bedrooms. A small back garden. Original fireplaces hidden behind modern plasterwork that Helen believed could be restored. He found himself lingering over the photographs. The third property made him pause. Selwyn Street. Number Eight. Mara lived at the opposite end of the street. Far enough away to have its own life. Close enough that he could walk there in a few minutes. He stared at the address for a moment before setting the phone down. Then he picked it up again. He wasn't going to reject a house simply because Mara lived on the same street.

We limped down the bank to the boathouse. The door was unlocked, hanging on one rusted hinge. Martha kicked it open, her iron bar raised, but the small room was empty. It smelled of old fish, dry cedar, and motor oil. A small cast-iron stove sat in the corner, with a stack of dry oak logs piled beside it. "Get him down," Martha said, rushing to the stove. I helped Dominic lower his body onto an old canvas cot near the wall. He groaned as his bad knee touched the wood, his hand tightening around my wrist like an iron clamp.

“Lorenzo wouldn’t work with Martin. He’s my brother. You don’t know him like I do.” James leaned forward, voice low. “Family or not, everyone has a breaking point.” “I’m not doubting him,” Raphael said firmly. “So whatever you think you’re chasing, drop it.” James leaned back, eyes lingering on Raphael. “I just hope you’re right.” Martin found Martha in the town square a few days later. She was browsing a flower stall, distracted by the scent of lavender. He approached with the same smug smile that used to unsettle her. “Martha,” he greeted smoothly.

Absalom overturned the entire table. “Mr. Terran, there's one more thing. We investigated Miss Marsh’s grandfather's residence and compared it with all of the properties belonging to the Terrans.” Hunter handed a document to Absalom respectfully. Absalom had a gloomy expression as he raised his hand to take the document from Hunter. “Miss Marsh’s grandfather is the globally renowned architect, Peter Rowe. He has only one residence in Nilus City, which is the elegant Villa 8 by Southern Love River. Your mother also owns a villa by Southern Love River, which was located right next to Mr. Rowe’s villa.”

The cousins became great friends, and at the end of Joe’s holiday they all took the boat upstream together for Marshall’s Landing, as the place was still called. From the landing they walked a mile through the woods to see the old house where their parents had been born, paintless now, crumbling and dilapidated. The glass was gone from the windows; there were birds’ nests in all the rooms, and a drove of half-wild hogs had made a burrow under the building. Like most deserted houses in the South, it was reputed by the negroes to be haunted.

He either warmed my heart or caused my head to boil in anger. A deep sigh left my lips as I stared at the horizon. The sea wave was calm today. Martin's mansion was situated on top of a hill. Surrounding this vast extensive place were huge trees and wild plants. The road here wasn't also that wide, one lane was good enough to occupy cars. I bet Martin engineered everything for his safety. He could always escape this place with the helicopter he had parked on one of the rooftops of Casa Al Mare, just in case.

It’s hard to believe people actually live like this. “You’re staring again,” Marta says. “Sorry.” “Get back to work” then she left. That afternoon, I learned something about Hawthorne House. It was odd. It had secrets. And some of them were hidden behind closed doors, or was it all in my mind...

Caleb put his around me as the ferry let them off at the dock in Edgartown, a small village in the southeast corner of Martha’s Vineyard. As we walked down the ramp, I noticed that both Caleb and Rose seemed relieved to be on dry land. Rose peeked her head out, and kept it out, sniffing the air, and taking in the view with great curiosity. I held the flyer up once again and stared. I couldn’t believe our luck. It was an advertisement to explore “Historic Martha’s Vineyard,” and there, towards the end of the list of sites, it read: “The Vincent House. Built 1672.”