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About the Author

STEVE FRECH lives in Los Angeles. In addition to writing, he produces and hosts the Random Awesomeness Podcast, an improv-comedy quiz show that has been performed at Upright Citizens Brigade, The Improv, iO West, and Nerdist.

Also by Steve Frech

Dark Hollows

Praise for Steve Frech

‘I absolutely LOVED this book … An unputdownable page turner of a read’

‘This book just pulls you right in … I couldn’t put it down!’

‘One of the best thrillers I’ve read this year’

‘So gripping I just could not stop reading’

‘Like riding a rollercoaster … Should be on everyone’s reading list’

‘I burned through this’

‘I was hooked from page one’

Nightingale House

STEVE FRECH

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Dedication

Thank you, Deborah.

Nightingale House was not born with secrets, but they were made here.

They were sealed into the walls and buried beneath the floorboards.

Most of us don’t know what happened in the rooms we live in before we arrived. We never hear of the tragedies that occurred in the room where we sleep or the unspeakable acts that took place years ago in the basement.

And while the secrets of most houses are eventually forgotten, Nightingale House won’t allow that.

Its secrets remain, hiding in the shadows at the top of the stairs, in the whispers at the end of the hall, and in the sound of a little girl crying on the other side of a door to a room that’s empty.

They are still here, waiting …

1

With one hand, I reach up and press my fingers to my chest, feeling the ring that’s hanging from my neck, under my shirt. With my other hand, I reach out to my eight-year-old daughter, Caitlyn, who is standing by my side. Gusts of wind kick and swirl around us.

“Ready?” I ask.

She takes a deep breath and grasps my hand. “Ready.”

The Queen Anne-styled Nightingale House, sitting on the shore of Willow Lake, stands before us.

“Let’s do it,” I say.

We begin slowly walking up the stone path. The gables of the house, with its Turret Room, loom above as we approach. The wind does its best to knock us off course, but we eventually reach the wrap-around porch step up to the heavy, oak door.

I fish the key out of my pocket and offer it to Caitlyn.

“Care to do the honors?”

She stares up at me with those big, blue eyes. She looks so much like Nicole it hurts. I know Caitlyn is missing her mother right now just as much as I am.

“Okay.”

She takes the key and attempts to slide it into the lock, but her hands are shaking.

“You want some help?” I ask.

“No,” she stubbornly sighs.

I smile. She’s so much like Nicole.

She finally gets the key into the lock.