A Desolate Hour Read online

  Cover Copy

  Sins of the past could destroy all of their futures . . .

  For generations, Quentin Marsh’s family has seen its share of tragedy, though he remains skeptical that their misfortunes are tied to a centuries-old curse. But to placate his pregnant sister, Quentin makes the pilgrimage to Point Pleasant, West Virginia, hoping to learn more about the brutal murder of a Shawnee chief in the 1700s. Did one of the Marsh ancestors have a hand in killing the chief—the man who cursed the town with his dying breath?

  While historian Sarah Sherman doesn’t believe in curses either, she’s compelled to use her knowledge of Point Pleasant to uncover the long-buried truth. The river town has had its own share of catastrophes, many tied to the legendary Mothman, the winged creature said to haunt the woods. But Quentin’s arrival soon reveals that she may have more of a stake than she realized. It seems that she and Quentin possess eerily similar family heirlooms. And the deeper the two of them dig into the past, the more their search enrages the ancient mystical forces surrounding Point Pleasant. As chaos and destruction start to befall residents, can they beat the clock to break the curse before the Mothman takes his ultimate revenge? . . .

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Books by Mae Clair

  Weathering Rock

  Twelfth Sun

  Myth and Magic

  Point Pleasant Series

  A Thousand Yesteryears

  A Cold Tomorrow

  A Desolate Hour

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  A Desolate Hour

  A Point Pleasant Novel

  Mae Clair

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Copyright

  Lyrical Press books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Mae Clair

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund- raising, and educational or institutional use.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: July 2017

  eISBN-13: 978-1-60183-779-0

  eISBN-10: 1-60183-779-8

  First Print Edition: July 2017

  ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-782-0

  ISBN-10: 1-60183-782-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Cindy Garberich

  Who cheers my accomplishments every bit as enthusiastically as Mom did,

  and who couldn’t wait to meet the Mothman

  Thanks, Sis

  Acknowledgements

  To my editor, Paige Christian, thank you for your hard work in making my version of Point Pleasant shine.

  To Lyrical Underground and Kensington Publishing, I’m delighted to be part of such a professional organization.

  Finally, to my husband, who has been by my side through every step of my writing journey, and who listened patiently to my endless chatter about the Mothman, Cornstalk and UFOs. Thank you for undertaking two trips with me to Point Pleasant and the TNT. There is nothing like firsthand research when penning a novel!

  Prologue

  October 10, 1777

  Point Pleasant area

  Dusk.

  It came early with autumn, the high grass browning sluggishly, the woods ripe with the odor of decay. Pockets of mist coiled awake prelude to the coming night. In the distance, the last ruddy rays of the sun were swallowed by the horizon.

  Leaves and twigs crunched beneath Obadiah Preech’s boots as he threaded his way through the trees oblivious to the bats flitting overhead. Fort Randolph fell away a good mile behind him. He’d waved a greeting to the sentries when he’d passed through the gates, ignoring their warnings about how quickly night fell. After carrying a musket in Lord Dunmore’s War, he had no fear of the physical realm. Only of what lurked within the woods.

  His heartbeat quickened and his palms grew damp with sweat.

  He would kill the demon, but not tonight. Tonight was for weaving incantations to empower the dagger, a blade destined to spill the blood of the Indian chief, Cornstalk. The redskins had summoned the creature through the use of foul magic, thus by black witchery would the abomination die. Willa’s death would be avenged.

  Locating a clear patch of ground, Obadiah used a branch to sketch a crude pentagram on the forest floor. The soil was soft, moist from recent rains, and turned easily beneath the crooked stick. Two earthworms wriggled through the upturned sod, dark as coffin loam.

  A favorable sign when the forest blessed his work.

  He plucked them free, then hunkered to gather leaves and twigs for kindling. When he had enough, he lit a small blaze in the center of the pentagram. A kettle went over the flames. Old and pitted, it had seen better days but would suffice for the task at hand.

  Casting a hasty glance over his shoulder, Obadiah strained to listen. An owl hooted in the distance and a small animal scurried through the underbrush. Safe from prying eyes, he breathed easier.

  It wasn’t discovery he feared so much as failure. Practitioners of the dark arts were shunned, but he would risk that and more to slaughter the demon responsible for his wife’s death.

  Turning back to the cauldron, he dragged a hand across his forehead. The air was sticky and close, unusual for fall. Squatting, he added a handful of herbs to the bubbling kettle. Most of the plants were used in healing, but moldy mushrooms and rotting seeds altered the properties of the brew from light to dark. Grimacing, he dug a bloody mass from the rucksack at his waist. The heart was still warm; the carcass of the stray dog he’d lured with a piece of boiled pork attracting flies and scavengers half a mile behind.

  He chanted as the old woman had taught him, spitting sounds that made his skin crawl. Flushed and dripping with sweat, he lowered the heart into the pot.

  A twig snapped.

  Obadiah spun.

  Jonathan Marsh stood frozen behind him. A young man, barely twenty-two, he’d been gone several days, scouting for signs of Indian unrest to the north. With a single glance, he took in the crudely etched pentagram and the witch’s pot. Blood drained from his face and his eyes widened with horror.

  “Obadiah. What have you done?”

  He’d heard. Surely he’d heard the incantation.

  Obadiah’s heart skipped a beat.

  Jonathan took a faltering step forward. “For the love of Heaven, what evil have you summoned?”

  Obadiah gripped the knife clipped to his belt. He would kill tonight after all.

  Chapter 1

  July 1982

  Point Pleasant, West Virginia

  Do you believe in curses?
<
br />   Quentin Marsh dropped his forehead against the steering wheel, his hands clasped at two and ten o’clock. Why the hell had he said yes? If he’d written Penelope’s ramblings off as crazy, he’d be home in Rhode Island instead of sitting in the parking lot of the Parrish Hotel. His sister had a way of wheedling him into doing almost anything and her pregnancy-induced emotions hadn’t helped.

  Twins in the Marsh family had rarely fared well through the generations. He was proof of that jinx, right down to the ugly scars on his hand. No matter how much physical therapy he did, he’d never regain the dexterity to play concert halls.

  The Marsh curse in action.

  Leaning back in the seat, he listened to the soft patter of rain against the windshield of his Monte Carlo. Twilight had preceded him into Point Pleasant, the bulk of the old hotel standing out starkly against a cloud-swollen sky. Three stories high with a sprawling covered porch and ornate double-door entry, the solid brick building dominated the square of Main Street. Bright blue awnings shaded the windows of the two upper stories, an addition that would look cheerful on a sunny afternoon, but now carried a dismal air with rain dripping from the corners. At least it wasn’t pouring—yet.

  Quentin popped the door, then headed to the trunk for his luggage. Overhead a flash of lightning warned of a coming storm.

  Do you believe in curses?

  Hell, yes.

  The problem was breaking them.

  * * * *

  A distant flash of lightning made Sarah Sherman pause as she packed a stack of papers into the large plastic carton on her desk. Rain drummed on the roof of her rented trailer. Already the wind kicked up, an eerie moan that made her bite down on her bottom lip. Instinctively, she clutched the opaque blue stone suspended from a silver chain around her neck.

  Run from the thunder,

  Run from the rain,

  Lightning can’t hurt you,

  The wind is in vain.

  The rhyme had been her mantra since childhood, a verse she’d clung to ever since the night her parents’ car careened off a slippery road in the TNT. Neither her mother nor father lived to see the sunrise, but her mother’s necklace and the singsong stanza acted as a safety net whenever her fear of storms churned to the surface.

  Shuffling her anxiety aside, she moved the carton to the floor. Most of the contents amounted to old documents and photos, but there were a few random items tucked among the hodgepodge of history that belonged to Shawn Preech. Sarah had found a small Bible with a faded list of family milestones—births, deaths, weddings—and a 1920s hymnal that had once belonged to Gertrude Preech, Shawn’s mother. There was also an oblong wooden case etched with strange symbols. She loathed touching it, but still had to pack it away.

  She’d be glad to get rid of everything, especially the case.

  Suzanne Preech had given her the entire kit-and-caboodle months ago, hiring her to delve into Shawn’s ancestral tree. She’d made a fair amount of headway, her passion for genealogy fueling her research before Suzanne’s marriage recently imploded. Afterward, Suzanne had told her to dispose of the documents as she saw fit. She had no intention of ever speaking to Shawn again unless it was through her lawyer.

  For his part, Shawn was clueless Suzanne had even found the carton in their attic. He’d often bragged his family roots could be traced back to the time of Fort Randolph, but Sarah doubted he had any true knowledge of, or even interest in, his lineage. More likely, the claim was something repeated in his family through generations, a boast that had become gospel.

  The intrusion of the phone startled Sarah from her thoughts. She wasn’t certain if it was the storm or the box with the odd markings that had her on edge.

  Snatching up the receiver, she dropped into a seat behind her desk. “Hello.”

  “Hi, Sarah. It’s Eve.”

  Her oldest friend. “Hello, Mrs. Flynn.” She smiled, glad to focus on something pleasant as the name rolled off her tongue. “Are you still floating on the joy of being a newlywed?”

  A soft chuckle. “Sheer bliss, but Caden’s on patrol tonight.”

  “One of the downsides of being married to a sheriff’s sergeant.” Eve had snagged a wonderful husband in Caden Flynn.

  “Fortunately, I can arrange my shifts at the hotel to match Caden’s for the most part,” Eve said into her ear. “That way we’re off together.”

  “Hmm. A perk of being the owner.” The Parrish Hotel had been in Eve’s family for as long as Sarah could remember. Her friend had returned to Point Pleasant last summer after a fifteen-year absence, taking over the running of the establishment. She’d become a newlywed only last month.

  “Another perk is getting to see the guest registry.” Eve sounded amused.

  Sarah’s brows drew together. She stole a look out the window as the wind kicked higher. No lightning, and she’d yet to hear any thunder. “Why should that matter?”

  “I thought you might be interested in the name of someone scheduled to check in today.” Eve paused, allowing Sarah to absorb the thought before continuing. “A man by the name of Quentin Marsh.”

  “Um…” Sarah tried to think. “Why?”

  Eve laughed. “You don’t remember? Last fall, the sleepover I had. You, me, Katie, wine, and a Ouija board?”

  “Oh.” The light dawned. Katie Lynch was the manager of Eve’s hotel and a good friend. Together, the three of them formed a tight-knit group. “That was such a silly thing. As if a game could really tell me the initials of someone I’d become involved with. Q.M.” She scoffed at the idea.

  “And no one in Point Pleasant we know has those initials.”

  Sarah shook her head. “Eve, it was a Ouija board.”

  “Which you insisted on bringing. Plus, the predictions it made about Katie and Indrid Cold all came true.”

  Sarah fidgeted, not certain she wanted to think about Cold or the strange events that had taken place last fall. She’d only been on the fringe; Katie and Caden’s brother, Ryan Flynn, at the center. And Caden, of course. In her opinion, he was the one around whom everything revolved. “So did the mysterious Q.M. show up?”

  “Not yet. I’m hoping he gets here before the storm kicks in.”

  A distant rumble of thunder.

  “Speaking of storms…” Her grandmother had insisted lightning could travel through phone lines during an electrical storm. The thought only added to her already heightened anxiety.

  “I know. I won’t keep you. I just had to tell you about Quentin. Nice name, huh?”

  “Odd name. Hey, would you mind if I dropped something off at the hotel for safekeeping tomorrow?” She eyed the plastic tub on the floor. “I told Shawn Preech about the stuff Suzanne gave me. He sounded like he couldn’t care less, but I don’t want to hang onto anything that belongs to him. He said he was going to be at the River, so I thought I could leave it for him to pick up.” The River Café was part of the hotel, a regular hangout for locals, and a casual pub/eatery to accommodate the hotel’s guests.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “Great. It’ll save me a trip driving out to his place. I want to wash my hands of it.” Her gaze strayed to the flat oblong case perched on the end of her desk. She wondered if Suzanne even knew it had been buried in the carton.

  “I thought you liked snooping around old documents and building genealogy charts?” Eve’s voice brought Sarah back to the present.

  “I do.” She glanced at the case again. The wood was dark and weathered, infused with the lingering scent of oak. An elaborate faceplate with an old-fashioned lock held the lid secure, but she’d been unable to locate a key in the carton. Part of her was grateful to never know what the box contained, the other part curious. Squiggles and lines resembling hieroglyphs had been carved along the top, offset with the crude etching of a spider. Sometimes when she looked at the case her stomach turned over, a feeling that grew worse when she touched it.

  “I just don’t want Shawn coming
back and saying I have his property.” She tried to explain her reluctance. Thunder grumbled, closer this time.

  “Is it because of Obadiah? You told me you’d discovered something disturbing about him.”

  “Not him.” Obadiah Preech was the first of Shawn’s line to settle in Point Pleasant. Sarah had confirmed he’d taken part in Lord Dunmore’s War of 1774 and had been present at Fort Randolph when Chief Cornstalk was killed. But that wasn’t what bothered her.

  “It wasn’t so much about Obadiah, as others. There are references about him in a letter I found. I made a copy to show you. I’ll bring it tomorrow, but right now I want to get off the phone.” A trickle of sweat broke out on the back of her neck. The rain had stopped but an oppressive weight hung in the air, warning of a brewing squall.

  “Okay.” Eve understood her fear. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Sarah breathed a sigh of relief when she returned the phone to its cradle. Lightning severed the sky in a white flash and zigzagged to the ground. She counted the seconds until thunder rattled the windows. Storms always seemed worse in a mobile home, but the rent was reasonable and the timing had been right when she’d taken it over.

  Her attention shifted to a framed photo on her desk. Her grandparents, arms around each other, smiling back at her. They’d raised her after the death of her parents, but each had suffered fatal illnesses within the last five years, leaving her on her own. A bittersweet smile curved her lips as she touched her fingertips to her mouth, then the photograph. “Miss you guys.”

  Time to finish packing the items for Shawn. She put the remaining documents in the carton, most newspapers and items that had been saved from the 1920s and ’30s. There were a few tin-type photographs dating back to the Civil War era, letters exchanged between family members during World War II, and the snippet of the letter she’d told Eve about.