Salem's Lot Marsten House Novels & Stories

Harren pulled my suitcase from the trunk and nodded toward the house. “This way.” I followed him up the wide stone steps without speaking. The heavy front doors opened before we reached them, one of the guards stepping aside as we entered. The inside of the mansion looked exactly the same as I remembered. Dark polished floors. High ceilings. Too quiet. The place always felt less like a home and more like a very expensive cage. I had barely stepped into the foyer when a familiar voice called out. “Jaxen?” Martha appeared from the hallway, wiping her hands on a small towel as she walked toward me. The moment she saw me clearly, her face softened into a warm smile.

"Please, PLEASE don't tell me this is the house you said you're paying five hundred golden coins for every year?" "Have you seen your own shop?" Marl fired back immediately, rolling his eyes so hard they nearly fell out of his head. He went over to a specific spot near the door, got down on his knees, and started digging in the dirt with his bare hands. After a few seconds, he pulled out an old, rusty key that looked like it might crumble into dust at any moment. He used it to unlock the front door and they both rushed inside immediately. The entire place was just one big room. That was it. One room that held a bed that looked like it might collapse if you breathed on it too hard, and a sing

They’re big and glossy and look like speed on four legs. The rest of the drive must be a good three or four hundred yards long and aims directly for the house. I’d pictured some sort of Queen Anne style place, with sharply pitched roofs and gingerbread cut-outs. Blackmarsh House is nothing like that. It’s older, for a start, a sprawling Tudor manor with a long black-and-white front between brick wings. There’s stone steps leading up to an oversized front door, dark wood with black iron hinges and studs. Rows of windows stare down at us. Their small leaded panes look like hundreds of watchful eyes.