August 4, 1997
Cody Fortune glanced up from the laptop computer his mom had given him for his tenth birthday, turning his head just in time to see the three shooting stars arching over their car as it rolled over the narrow, deserted roads of Maine, heading for the coast and their new home.
“Wow,” he whispered, craning his neck for a better look. Of all the things he’d seen on this trip from Minnesota, this was the most incredible. Three at once. It had to be an anomaly.
“Did you see that, Mom?”
“What?”
“Three shooting stars, right in a row!”
She smiled at him, only taking her eyes from the road for a second. “So, why don’t you make a wish? Or are you too skeptical for that?”
Cody Fortune was far too intelligent to believe in any such thing as wishing on stars. But he knew his mom didn’t like him taking life too seriously, and some touch of whimsy moved him to close his eyes and whisper the things that had been on his mind the most lately. “I wish I had a dad,” he said softly. “And a little brother, because it gets so darn boring being an only child. We’d have great times together. And I wish…” He licked his lips, opened his eyes and stared up at the sky. His eyes watered just a little bit, but he blinked them dry again. “I wish for my mom to be happy. Really happy. ’Cause I know she isn’t. I can’t remember when she was.”
He lowered his head, and his mother’s soft hand stroked his hair. “Of course I’m happy, Cody. I have you, and a new house in a small town, just like I’ve always wanted. What more could I need?”
Cody smirked. He knew better, of course, but he’d never get her to admit her life was less than perfect. “You realize I’ve just wished on three hunks of burned-out rock, don’t you?”
“It was still generous of you to use up a whole wish on me.”
He shrugged and turned to the laptop again. It wasn’t so bad that he’d lapsed into childish fantasies for a second there. It was like his mom was always saying, he was still a kid, even if he did have the brain of a full-grown nuclear physicist.
“So, have you thought about what I told you?” he asked, and saw her brows rise.
“About what, Cody?”
Cody sighed. When he spent the weekend with his grandparents, he’d stumbled on something he knew must be important, but his mother, as usual, couldn’t care less about the family business. “What I overheard when Grandpa took me to work with him last week. Don’t you remember? That witch Monica was there, and—”
“Cody, that isn’t very nice.”
“So? Neither is Monica. Anyway, she was being really nasty to Aunt Tracey. Said she knew some secret, and she’d tell if Tracey and her boyfriend, what’s his name—? Wayne. Yeah, that’s it. Monica said she wanted them to go away, or she’d tell some secret.”
Jane shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Cody. We all know Monica’s been wanting to get her hands on the business. She probably sees Aunt Tracey as one more competitor for it.”
“Yeah, but Aunt Tracey only just found out she was a Fortune.”
“If she’s a Fortune, Cody, she can handle empty threats from Monica Malone.” She sent him a sideways glance. “This is just one more example of why I want no part of the family business, pal. All the scratching and clawing and fighting to hold on to it.” She gazed out the window at the rugged coastline as they passed it. “It’s going to be so much better here.”
Cody sighed. It was no use talking to his mother about business. She just didn’t care. He stared at the dark ocean, and the whitecapped waves crashing to the shore, and then he thought maybe she was right. It was kind of pretty here. “So how much longer till we get there?”
“I think… I think this is— Oh, my, Cody, this is the place. Look at it!”
Cody looked up at the house their headlights illuminated as the car turned into the gravel drive. “Looks like something out of a Stephen King novel.”
“Isn’t it great?”
He grimaced at his mother’s enthusiasm as she brought the car to a halt and killed the engine.
“I thought you liked Stephen King novels,” she said.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to live in one.”
She smiled at him. Then he turned his gaze to the house once again, and froze. From the corner of his eye, he’d seen some kind of flash in an upstairs window. Like…lightning or something. His mom was already opening her door, but he put a hand on her arm, stopping her. “I think…somebody’s in there.”
“What?” She frowned and looked where he pointed. “I don’t see anything.”
“Maybe it was just a reflection.” But he didn’t think so. He folded up the laptop and pulled his penlight from his pocket. He never went far without it—not that it would make a very good weapon, but at least he’d be able to see whatever horrible creature sneaked up on him. “Better let me go in first, Mom, just in case.”
She ruffled his hair, which he hated. “My hero,” she said, but he could tell she wasn’t one bit nervous about going into that big, empty, dark house. She must be nuts.
Headlights spilled through the rear windshield, and Cody turned to see a second vehicle bounding over the gravel drive. A police car. He bit his lip before he could say, “Thank God!” Though he was still a bit nervous. In Stephen King novels, the small-town sheriffs of Maine never failed to be good guys, but they usually got killed off pretty early on, leaving the innocent mother—and her son, who knew all along something wasn’t quite right, but who couldn’t get anyone to listen—to fend for themselves.
Sure enough, a reed-thin man in a gray uniform with a shiny badge, stepped out of the car, and came over just as Mom stepped out of theirs.
“Quigly O’Donnell, ma’am. You must be Ms. Fortune. You’re right on time.” He had the same accent as the old man who’d lived across the street from the main characters in Pet Semetary. Cody shivered.
“Call me Jane,” his mom said, and shook the sheriff’s hand. “And this is my son, Cody.”
Cody nodded, but didn’t shake. He was too busy watching the house. “I thought I saw something up there,” he said, pointing, hoping the sheriff would go against character and check it out, hoping the guy would survive the experience.
“Ayuh, I wouldn’t worry about that, son. Probably just the ghost.”
“Ghost?”
“Some say the ghost of Zachariah Bolton still rattles around the old place. Not that I’d give it much credence, mind you. It’s just a tale the old folks like to tell now and again. Gives ’em something to talk about over checkers, it does.”
“Checkers,” Cody said, raising a brow. “Gee, Mom, thanks for bringing me to such a cultural mecca.”
“Mind your manners, Cody. Sheriff O’Donnell, if you brought the key along, I’ll—”
“Got it right here,” he said, and the last word sounded like “hee-ya.” Mom would call that accent charming and say it was local “flavor.” Cody found it irritating as all get-out. The sheriff held up a big old key on a brass ring. Like a jail-cell key from an old western. Or the key to the dungeons in a horror flick. Cody felt the tone slipping from King to Poe. This was not a good sign. “I’ll help you with your things, if you like. Power’s been turned on, and everything should be ready for you.”
“That was kind of you, Sheriff.”
“Yeah,” Cody put in. “I’m glad to know we’ve got pow-uh.”
His mom’s elbow dug