Books by Stuart Neville

The Ghosts of Belfast

Collusion

Stolen Souls

The Final Silence

Those We Left Behind

So Say the Fallen

Ratlines

The Traveller and Other Stories

The House of Ashes

Copyright © 2021 by Stuart Neville

Published in the United States by

Soho Press, Inc.

227 W 17th Street

New York, NY 10011

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Neville, Stuart, 1972- author.

Title: The house of ashes / Stuart Neville.

Description: New York, NY : Soho Crime, [2021]

Identifiers: LCCN 2021011526

ISBN 978-1-61695-741-4

eISBN 978-1-61695-742-1

Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

Classification: LCC PR6114.E943 H68 2021 | DDC 823/.92—dc23

Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Jo, Issy and Ezra, for giving me a reason.

Fire

Fire

Glass breaks downstairs and she freezes in her bed, the blankets tight around her. Then a low noise, not quite a thump, but she feels it rise up through the floor, into the bedstead. Outside, a car door slams, then its engine rattles and fades.

She lies still for a time, listening, frightened. People come to her door sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. Children from the village, mostly, daring to walk all the way out here and knock on the mad old woman’s door and run into the trees. This is different. She can’t tell the time, but she knows it’s near dawn from the milky grey that covers everything.

She listens. Something hums down below, as if the house has come awake along with her. A crackling, then one of the cats yowls, things knocked down and scattered. She sits up, the blankets falling away, and the damp chill of the air creeps beneath her nightdress. The smell reaches her, the dark, bitter smell, and she looks to the door, sees the glowing red and orange and the black swirling fingers reaching through the gaps.

Oh, no, she whispers. Oh, no, no, no.

Another cat howls, screams, she hears its pain.

Please God and Jesus, no.

She pushes the blankets back and pulls her legs from under them, ignoring the aches that come along with the movement. Lowering her feet to the floor, her lower back spasms, and she whines. The air has thickened now, the milky-grey light giving way to a greater darkness that reaches inside of her, scratching at her lungs.

She gets to her feet, her hips and knees protesting. The floor seems to tilt beneath her and she staggers to the door, reaching for the old ceramic handle. As she turns it, she feels the presence of heat, but too late. The door is already opening inward, pushed by some mighty force, and she falls back as scorching air blasts through.