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AUTHOR OF NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER FIREPROOF
Mike Dellosso’s brilliant light shines into the dark places of the human heart and illuminates our most terrible fears.
—ERIN HEALY
AUTHOR OF NEVER LET YOU GO
AND COAUTHOR WITH TED DEKKER OF KISS AND BURN
Taut, tense, and frightening. A high-speed ride that will keep you guessing until the end.
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AUTHOR OF DEMON: A MEMOIR
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Mike Dellosso, an astonishing new voice in supernatural thrillers, cements his right to be grouped with the likes of King and Peretti.
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THESUSPENSEZONE.COM
Mike Dellosso has once again brought us an engaging thriller full of gut-wrenching suspense and strong spiritual truth.
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DARKNESS FOLLOWS by Mike Dellosso
Published by Realms
Charisma Media/Charisma House Book Group
600 Rinehart Road
Lake Mary, Florida 32746
www.charismahouse.com
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
The characters portrayed in this book are fictitious unless they are historical figures explicitly named. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual people, whether living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by Justin Evans
Design Director: Bill Johnson
Copyright © 2011 by Mike Dellosso
All rights reserved
Visit the author’s website at www.MikeDellosso.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
Dellosso, Mike.
Darkness follows / Mike Dellosso. – 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-61638-274-2
1. Fathers and daughters–Fiction. 2. Assassins–Fiction. 3. Political fiction. 4.
Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PS3604.E446D365 2011
813’.6–dc22
2010051708
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61638-434-0
First Edition
11 12 13 14 15 — 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
For my four girls—
Laura, the creative one
Abigail, the analytical one
Caroline, the courageous one
Elizabeth, an unexpected blessing
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Foreword
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Note to the Reader
Acknowledgments
AS ALWAYS, WITH EVERY BOOK THERE ARE PLENTY OF THANKS to go around, too much for just a few pages, actually. But I’m limited by space, so I must make do with mentioning a few who played major roles in seeing this latest book come to life.
Jen, my wife, my rock, my cheerleader. She doesn’t have to do anything but just be there to inspire me. So much of the love in my stories grows from the love we share.
My girls, all four of them. Your daddy loves you more than you know, but your Daddy in heaven loves you perfectly. Cling to His love. Let it inspire you and carry you through every trial and valley.
My parents. Their support never grows old. Thanks for never giving up on me.
Phil Dellosso, my uncle and purveyor of Civil War knowledge. Much of Samuel Whiting’s journal entries are his creation. His experience with the entries was the event that gave birth to the story idea.
Officer Joe Henry offered advice, knowledge, and wisdom concerning all things police related. If I got anything wrong or if anything is inaccurate, it’s my fault not his. Believe me, this guy knows his stuff.
Scott Sadler answered questions about life “inside the beltway” and inside a senator’s office. I needed someone like him, and he was a willing victim.
My agent, Les Stobbe. Thanks for sticking with me, believing in me, and championing my ideas.
Eric Wilson, who took a scalpel to my story and made it better than I thought it could be. Brother, your wisdom and advice are always coveted and never taken for granted.
My editors at Strang, Debbie Marrie and Deb Moss, knowledgeable, sweet, and supportive. I’m glad you’re on my side. This is our book.
The rest of the fine people at Strang who work diligently to bring these books to the reader. Your work is worth more praise than you receive and has more of an impact than you think.
My readers. Without you all this would be an exercise in self-appreciation … or maybe self-flagellation. Anyway, just know I am your fan. I appreciate you.
My God. I can’t believe how much You love me in spite of myself and all my failures. Thank You for blessing me. Expand my horizons. Keep me from evil.
Foreword
I’M TOLD NO ONE REALLY READS THESE FOREWORDS, THAT they’re wasted space, wasted words. I’m told only self-aggrandizing authors write them, thinking the general public actually cares what we have to say about anything. I can assure you, there’s not
hing self-aggrandizing about me. If anything, the pendulum of my self-image tends to swing the other way into the territory of self-deprecation. Also, I don’t believe in wasted space or words. So since this is my story, I suppose I have the prerogative to write a foreword if I wish to. I’m sure some will read it, if for no other reason than to satisfy their compulsion to read a book cover to cover and nothing less. So here goes …
I can’t believe it, but it happened again.
Here’s how it went down. During the editing phase of my novel Scream, a story about the brevity of life and the certainty of death, I was diagnosed with colon cancer—an appropriate battle to wage after writing a book about such a topic. Then during the editing phase of my next novel, Darlington Woods, a tale of monsters and fear and our struggle to conquer both, my youngest daughter was diagnosed with idiopathic juvenile arthritis—again, a difficult but appropriate bedfellow for my story. Juvenile arthritis is a monster with its own brand of attitude. So this time around I wondered what, if anything, it would be and questioned how much more our family could take.
Well, yes, it happened again. This story, Darkness Follows, is a love story. No, it’s not a bodice buster. There are no long-haired hunks with clean-shaven chests, no damsels in distress with flowing hair. You won’t find any longing eyes or lingering touches here. So, men, relax. It’s a story of the love between a father and his little girl. I have three of them, so I know a bit about the bond between daddy and daughter, the unconditional love that tethers them. So during the editing phase of this book something unexpected, surprising, glorious, and fearsome happened. We found out my wife was pregnant with our fourth—and yes, it’s another girl.
Now, knowing what I know of my next book, I must admit I’m a bit leery of what’s going to happen during that all-important editing phase. Maybe nothing, maybe something. What could be worse than cancer or juvenile arthritis? I can think of a few things. What could be better than a surprise baby? Not much. Time will tell, but it does beg me to ask the question: Do you think my publisher will go for skipping the editing phase altogether? No, I didn’t think so either.
—MIKE DELLOSSO
www.mikedellosso.com
Prologue
Gettysburg, 1863
CAPTAIN SAMUEL WHITING REMOVED HIS GLOVES AND SAT ON the cot in his tent. It had been a long, grueling day of battle, and his clothes were soaked through with sweat. He’d lost more men, good men, family men. Men who would never return home to their wives. Boys who would never again cross the thresholds of their parents’ homes.
He leaned forward, removed his boots, and stretched his legs. The air in the tent was still and muggy. At least outside there was a light breeze to carry away the stench of the wounded. In here, the smells hung in the air like a haze. Beyond the canvas walls the sounds of soldiers—heroes—in the throes of agony wandered through the camp like the souls of dead men looking for rest. But there was no rest in a place like this.
A single oil lamp sat on the floor, casting an orange glow about the tent’s interior. Samuel turned the knob on the lamp, giving more wick to the flame. The light brightened and the shadows darkened. From a writing box he removed a leather-bound journal, the one his mother had given him before he left to join Mr. Lincoln’s army. At the time he thought he was doing the right thing, thought he was fighting for a noble cause.
Now he thought differently. There was nothing noble about this war, nothing honorable about the way it was being fought nor the reasons for which it was being waged.
After dipping the tip of his quill into an inkwell, he put the tip to the paper and began to write. The words flowed from his hand, though they were not born of him but of something else, something dark and sinister, something to which he had finally given himself.
In the corner of the tent a shadow moved. He saw it from the corner of his eye. It was a shadow cast not by the oil lamp’s flame but by some other source, a source Samuel did not fully understand but felt.
The shadow glided along the canvas, following the angles of the tent, and came to a stop beside the cot. There it seemed to lurk, to hover, as if curious to see what was being written on the pages of the journal. A chill blew over Samuel, penetrated his clothes and flesh, and settled into his bones.
The shadow began to throb in rhythm with Samuel’s beating heart. His quill moved across the paper more rapidly now, the point carving words—vitriol—at an alarming pace. His heart rate quickened and, with it, the pulsations of the shadow.
At once a strong wind ruffled the canvas and brought with it a low howl that sounded more like a moan. It did not originate from outside the tent, from wounded and homesick boys, but rather from within, from the shadow. The wind circled the tent’s interior, stirred the pages of the journal, Samuel’s hair, his clothes, and finally, as if in one final great sigh, extinguished the light of the lamp.
Captain Samuel Whiting was engulfed by darkness.
One
Present day
SAM TRAVIS AWOKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, COLD AND terrified.
The dream had come again. His brother. The shot.
You did what you had to do, son.
He sat up in bed and wiped the sweat from his brow.
Next to him Molly stirred, grunted, and found his arm with her hand. “You OK, babe?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna go get some water.”
“You sure?”
He found her forehead in the darkness and kissed it. “Yeah.”
The house was as still and noiseless as a crypt. Sam made his way down the hall to Eva’s room, floorboards popping under his feet. He cracked the door and peeked in. The Tinker Bell night-light cast a soft purple hue over the room, giving it a moonlit glow. Odd-shaped shadows blotted the ceiling, like dark clouds against a darker sky. Eva was curled into a tight ball, head off the pillow, blankets at her feet.
Sam opened the door all the way, tiptoed to the bed, and pulled the covers to his daughter’s shoulders. She didn’t stir even the slightest. For a few hushed moments he stood and listened to her low rhythmic breathing.
The past six months had been hard on them all, but Eva had handled them surprisingly well. She was just a kid, barely seven, yet displayed the maturity of someone much older. Sam had never known that her faith, much like her mother’s, was so strong. His, on the other hand …
He left the door open a few inches. Farther down the hall he entered the bathroom, where another night-light, this one a blue flower, reflected off the porcelain tub, toilet, and sink. He splashed water from the faucet on his face. Remnants of the dream lingered and stuttered like bad cell phone reception. Just images now, faces, twisted and warped.
After toweling off, he studied himself in the mirror. In the muted light the scar running above his ear didn’t look so bad. His hair was growing back and covered most of it. Oddly, the new crop was coming in gray.
From downstairs a voice called Sam’s name. A chill tightened the arc of his scar.
He heard it again.
“Sammy.”
It was neither haunting nor unnatural, but familiar, conversational. It was the voice of his brother. Tommy. He’d heard it a thousand times in his youth, a hundred ghostly times since the accident that had turned his own brain to mush. The doctor called them auditory hallucinations.
Sam exited the bathroom and stood at the top of the staircase. Dim light from the second floor spilled down the stairs into the foyer below, and the empty space looked like a strange planet, distant and odd. Who knew what bizarre creatures inhabited that land and what malicious intentions they harbored?
He heard that same voice—Tommy’s—calling to him. “Sammy.”
Sam shivered at the sound of his name.
A dull ache had taken to the length of the scar.
Descending the stairs, Sam felt something dark, ominous, present in the house with him. He stopped and listened. He could almost hear it breathing, and with each breath, each exhalation, he heard his own name, now just a whispe
r.
He started down the stairs again, taking one at a time, holding the railing and trying to find the quiet places on the steps.
From the bottom of the stairway he looked at the front door, half expecting it to fly open and reveal Tommy standing there, with half his head...
You did what you had to do, son.
He looked left into the dining room, then right into the living room. The voice was coming from the kitchen. Turning a one-eighty, he headed that way down the hall.
At the doorway Sam stopped and listened again. Now he heard nothing. No breathing, no whispers, no Tommy. The kitchen held the aroma of the evening’s meal—fettuccine Alfredo—like a remote memory.
“Tommy?” His own voice sounded too loud and strangely hollow.
He had no idea why he said his brother’s name since he expected no reply. Tommy had been dead for—what?—twenty-one years. Thoughts of his death came to Sam’s mind, images from the dream. And not just his death but how he’d died.
You did what you had to do, son.
From off in the distance Sam heard a cannon blast. Living in Gettysburg, near the battlefields, the sound was common during the month of July when the reenactments were going on. But not in the middle of the night. Not in November. Another blast echoed across the fields, then the percussion of rifle shots followed by a volley of more cannons.
Sam walked back down the hall and opened the front door. He saw only darkness beyond the light of the porch lamp, but the sounds were unmistakable. Guns crackled in rapid succession, cannons boomed, men hollered and screamed, horses whinnied and roared. The sounds of battle were all around him. He expected Eva and Molly to stir from their sleep and come tripping down the stairs at any moment, but that didn’t happen. The house was as still and quiet as ever.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Sam stepped out onto the porch. Three rotting jack-o’-lanterns grinned at him like a gaggle of toothless geezers. The air was cold and damp, the grass wet with dew. Nervously he felt the bandage on his index finger. He’d slipped while carving one of the pumpkins and gouged his finger with the knife. Molly had thought he should get stitches, but he refused. It was still tender, throbbing slightly, healing up well enough on its own. Here, outside, the loamy smell of dead wet leaves surrounded him. Beyond the glow of the porch lamp, the outside world was black and lonely. The sky was moonless.