Those same hairs still stood on end.

With a crunch of stones, Jake swung his bike off the main road and onto the crushed stone driveway that led through the rolling acres of his family’s estate. The ride from town had helped clear Jake’s head; but he still felt uneasy, haunted by those fiery eyes in the smoke.

As he passed through the wrought-iron gates, Jake waved to the two stone ravens perched atop the pillars to either side. The birds were the namesakes for his family’s estate: Ravensgate Manor.

“Hey, Edgar. Hey, Poe,” he called to the statues as he passed under their baleful gazes.

The pair of ravens had been nicknamed by his great-great-grandfather, Augustus Bartholomew Ransom, back in the nineteenth century. Augustus had been school friends with the writer Edgar Allan Poe, whose poem “The Raven” had become a favorite of his. It was even said that one of those stone ravens had been the inspiration behind Poe’s poem. Over the centuries, an ongoing debate raged among family members as to which raven was the source of that inspiration.

Edgar or Poe.

Jake placed his money on the raven to the right. With its bowed head and hooded eyes, Poe always gave him a bit of the creeps. But like an eccentric pair of uncles, the two ravens had grown to be as much a part of the family and its history as anyone.

And at least those two weren’t going anywhere.

Jake pedaled onward, winding through a hardwood forest of sugar maples and black oaks. Eventually the woods gave way to a sprawling English garden. In the center rose the manor house of Ravensgate, built in a Tudor style with stone turrets, timber-framed gables, and a slate roof gone mossy with age. It had started as a country farmhouse, meant only as a family retreat from the city. But over the centuries, it had been added to and expanded into its current sprawl.

The front entrance, though, remained the same. Even the door came from that original farmhouse: constructed of stout oak hewn from the hills around here, bound in straps of copper, and secured with square-headed nails.

Jake squeezed his bike’s brakes and slowed as he swung toward the front of the house. A circular driveway wound past the entrance. He immediately spotted a car parked near the flagstone steps that led up to the front door.

Jake noted two strange things immediately.

The front door was ajar—something Aunt Matilda would never have allowed. But more disturbing, Jake recognized the car parked at the stoop. It was a black sedan, identical to the one that had smashed into the school.

He was sure of it.

Same make, same model.

It was too much of a coincidence to ignore.

Nerves jangled with warning. Jake’s blood went cold. He dropped his bike and ran in a low crouch toward the house.

Something was wrong.

From inside the house, a loud crash echoed out, accompanied by the tinkle of broken glass. Next came something that stopped his heart: a scream of pain and anguish.