Today, we have an excerpt from House Haunters, the latest horror novel by K. C. Jones! Due to be published by Tor Nightfire, on October 6th, it is “a fast-paced thrill ride perfect for fans of How to Sell a Haunted House and Play Nice, in which a skeptical reality TV show producer and a misanthropic ghosthunter must team up to survive a shoot from hell.” The novel has already racked up a considerably amount of pre-publication praise and buzz, and now CR readers have a chance to give the read a try before it’s released! First, here’s the synopsis:

Grace Wonderly needs a hit show, or her career is dead.
But saving her job might just kill her.

With her studio relying on AI to greenlight new projects, finding the next breakout series is Grace’s only shot to save her job. And her sanity.

Her solution may be Frank Pendleton: a brilliant but abrasive — and admittedly handsome — ghost hunter who claims he can’t feel fear, making him uniquely attuned to the paranormal.

Frank is either a fraud or the real deal. Skeptical, but hoping for TV gold, Grace assembles a crew to shoot a proof of concept.

But when the production descends into a nightmare, Grace is forced to face the impossible: ghosts are real, and though cold and distant, Frank may be their only chance of getting out alive.

(Even before reading a single page, but after seeing that cover: I really hope the corgi lives…)

*

Hot Property

“A bit cold, isn’t it?” Luke Baker says, sweeping his eyes critically over the condominium’s main living space. “Warehouse chic,” he likes to call this particular trend. Polished concrete floors, exposed beams painted glossy black, everything in between varying shades of monochrome. White brick walls, steel countertops, slate appliances. Half the south-facing wall is sliding door panels, so that you can be completely open to the outside during the summer. Or the winter, if rain is your thing. The view is a panorama of the Vancouver waterfront district and swollen gray Columbia River, the fiery, autumn-tinged trees on Hayden Island the only pop of color in this dreary landscape. Even the smog-veiled rise of Portland’s distant hillside is painted from the same palette as the condo’s interior. From the door panels, another slab of concrete extends outward to a steel-cable railing. Two white deck chairs angle toward the river. A big kamado-style grill huddles in the corner like an aloof troll, sulking under its rain cloak. There are no plants.

“Floor’s heated,” Sophia says, without glancing up from her phone.

“I didn’t mean the temperature,” Luke clarifies, though he has no urge to take off his jacket either. He waves a hand at the lifeless space. “I’ll never understand why people like this.”

“It’s minimalist,” Sophia says, eyes breaking from the screen only briefly to glance about.

“It feels like I’m in a morgue.” Looking at the enormous refrigerator, he imagines opening it to find tiers of slide-out trays upon which stiff, toe-tagged feet peek from beneath sterile white shrouds.

“We’re selling square feet and a view. The rest is cosmetic. Here.” Sophia produces a small remote control seemingly from the air. She aims it toward a sleek two-way fireplace beneath the TV mounted high on a partition wall that subdivides the living space. An elegant gas flame appears. “Better?”

“Let there be hygge!” he declares. She manages to roll her eyes without taking them away from her phone. Luke smiles. He and Sophia have wildly different tastes, and the first minutes in a new property are usually filled with friendly banter over architecture and decor and reno choices. It’s fun. At the moment, though, she is too engaged with whatever is happening on her device to play, so he lets her be.

He roughly determines the center of the room and sets up his tripod. The kitchen, dining area, and TV space all flow together off the foyer. On the other side of the fireplace wall, the vibe skews a bit cozier, defined by book-lined shelves, Stressless recliners, and warm globe lamps. A hall off the kitchen leads to a full bath across from a deep laundry closet, with a generous guest room at the hall’s end. The owner’s suite extends off a short hall at the opposite side of the main living space. Luke slings his camera bag off his shoulder and onto a sofa upholstered in spotless white leather that looks as if it has never known the weight of a person kicking back after a long day. He attaches his 360-degree camera and powers it up. The interior resolves into focus on both the camera display and his phone.

“I need coffee,” Sophia announces. She pads to the door and slips back into her shoes. “There’s a café downstairs. Want anything?”

“Nah, thanks though,” Luke says, watching her go. The door shuts behind her and, minus one body, the temperature in the condo seems to dip ten degrees.

Across a wool area rug from the sofa is a dark wood cabinet. A lovingly crafted mid-century piece that does its best to help warm the space. He kneels and carefully opens it, appreciating the heft of the wood, the quality of the hardware. It looks recently refinished, though rather than the expected smell of cedar and stain, he gets a whiff of cinnamon, and underneath that the inside is scented faintly of smoke. Not campfire or cigarettes, but more astringent. Smoke from things that weren’t supposed to be burning. At his intrusion, glassware rattles inside, like delicate little creatures disturbed from slumber by his big, clumsy hands. He scoops out two coupe glasses and a bottle of nice whiskey and places them on top of the cabinet. The glasses reflect the fire, flickering promises of a romantic evening to come, or maybe a quiet celebration.

Luke repositions his camera to better frame this little detail. It’s a nice touch, gives the place a heartbeat. But his camera bag on the sofa spoils the effect. He moves it far out of sight to the guest bedroom and checks the framing on his phone. Better. Could still use . . . something.

He moves to the louvered bifold closet doors and gently tugs them open. Inside is a bunch of stuff tucked away by the owners at Sophia’s insistence. Clutter, linens, little effects deemed too personal for staging. A clear plastic container catches his eye. The label reads TAB’S PENGUINS.

Luke tugs the container free, glancing around like a thief as he does.

Sure enough, it is full of penguins. From wood to ceramic, whimsical to lifelike. Somebody is a collector. There are more containers in the closet, but he doesn’t dig any deeper. He doesn’t need to. Nestled right on top of the first box is exactly what he is looking for: a plump, well-loved plushie. The perfect pop of humor and life to both contrast with and complement the rest of the space.

Luke carefully extracts the stuffed penguin and tucks it up against one of the icy gray-and-white accent pillows on the sofa, facing the fire, like it’s been a hard day on the glacier. The silent flame dances in its black-bead eyes.

Perfect.

Luke returns to the guest room to be out of the camera’s view and captures a few images of the living space and kitchen for the virtual tour. The sun slips out from behind a cloud and lights up the trees across the river as if they’ve been set ablaze, further warming the cold condo. He captures a few more with this new backdrop, then pauses.

The smoke smell from the cabinet reaches his nose. That can’t be right, can it? All the way in here? It wasn’t that strong.

He hurries back, replaces the coupe glasses and bottle, and shuts the door before the odor can further taint the air. He stares at the piece, an odd unease stirring in his gut. Like he was halfway to the store and remembered he’d left a candle burning at home.

The smell is not fading. If anything, it’s getting stronger. He waves a hand over the offending piece of furniture to help disperse it, then turns toward the sofa, meaning to grab the penguin and return it to its container. Undoing his little amendments and getting everything back to normal before Sophia returns.

What stops him is a thin, oily brown haze staining the air.

“What is going on,” he says, his voice loud in the otherwise silent space. He wipes off his glasses, just in case, but there’s no improvement. Unless there is a smudge on his eyeballs, the condo is definitely smoky. As if somebody had overcooked bacon and not bothered to turn on the hood fan or open any windows. Only it doesn’t smell like bacon. An image creeps into his mind, a river of hot smoke boiling across the ceiling.

He casts an uncertain glance at the cabinet, wishing he’d never touched the damn thing, then hurries to the sliding glass balcony doors and pushes one open. Cool September air rushes in. He gulps it, surprised to find his chest burning, eyes stinging. It seems wildly unlikely that opening an old, smoke-damaged cabinet could have produced such an effect, but he can think of nothing else that might have caused this. To be safe, he checks on the owner’s suite and guest room and laundry, but discovers no other plausible source, no smoldering phone chargers or malfunctioning small appliances. Opening the entry door and peering into the hall reveals a clear, sterile common space.

A smoke detector squeals somewhere behind him. Whipping around, he sees the haze has thickened. Wherever it’s coming from, it must be inside the condo.

The fireplace!

Is this the first time it has been used, and the smoke is some kind of severe off-gassing? The whole building is new, finished within the last year if he recalls correctly, so it is entirely possible. Or maybe something hadn’t been wired properly, or a bit of protective plastic was accidentally left in place.

Luke looks around for the remote control but doesn’t see it anywhere. Sophia must have absently pocketed it on her way out. There has to be another way to operate it, though. An app, probably. He invokes the names of the dominant smart home assistants, but not one answers his plea to turn off the fire. Surely there’s a manual switch somewhere. He approaches the unit and runs his fingers around the frame on both sides, but finds no way to shut it off, no hidden panel or button. The smoke detector needling his eardrums makes it hard to concentrate. The unease in his gut tightens into something approaching panic. He fights the urge to simply flee from the unit and instead goes in search of the breaker panel. On the way, he calls Sophia.

“What’s up?” she answers, distractedly.

“Hey, I think something’s wrong with the fireplace. Got a lot of smoke in here.” He coughs, his vision going watery.

“What?”

“Yeah, I dunno, I can’t find the remote—”

“Is there a fire?” In the background, he can hear a man calling out her name and coffee order.

“No, no, it’s just . . . Maybe get maintenance up here. Something is wrong.”

“On my way.” She hangs up.

Luke shakes his head to order his thoughts. First, he needs to shut off the fireplace, to rule it out as a culprit. And then kill that damned smoke alarm, which is making it very difficult to focus on anything else. That and the smoke stinging his eyes, burning his sinuses and chest. He tries to hunt down the electric panel, but the coughing is making him sick, the tears blurring his vision. After nearly knocking over his camera, he decides to get out into the hallway and wait for better-equipped help to arrive.

He fights through the smoke, which has thickened into a nearly solid thing. He’s on his hands and knees by the time he reaches the door. His fingers wrap around the handle and he jerks them away.

It’s hot.

Luke stares at the angry red palm of his hand and then back at the door. How? How is there fire in the hall? He just looked out there. Using his shirt as a mitt, Luke twists the knob and pulls the door open. A gust of heat and smoke blasts his hair back. The hallway is wreathed in flame from floor to ceiling. The skin on his face pulls away from it; the smoke blinds him. The fire must have started in an adjacent unit and spread into the hall, even though he’s pretty sure the building is designed to keep exactly that from happening. Where is the suppression system? Where are the other residents? Why is nothing working the way it should?

Luke pulls back and slams the door shut. He retreats, seeking shelter and clean air out on the patio, then calls Sophia.

“I’m in the elevator,” she says.

“Don’t come up here!” he shouts, erupting into coughs. “The whole fucking floor is on fire!” He leans against the cable railing and looks down toward the sidewalk. Ten stories below, people mill about casually, running errands and enjoying the crisp autumn day. If any of them were to look up, they’d see smoke billowing out into the sky.

“Oh my god, Luke, are you serious?” Sophia’s voice breaks up into static. “Are you okay?”

“I’m on the balcony! I’m going to call the fire department.”

He ends the call and tries to bring up the keypad, but his fingers are trembling and the phone slips right from his sweat-slicked hand, clips the railing, and spins out into open air. He grabs for it, but it’s too late. His stomach turns as he watches it tumble downward. He tries to shout a warning to those below, but instead pulls a lungful of smoke and doubles over. His chest feels filled with cinders. The phone strikes the pavement and explodes like a grenade. People near the point of impact look up and point angrily.

Good grief, can they not see the situation here?

Luke looks back over his shoulder and sees that the front door has failed, sagged on its hinges, and allowed the fire to spread into the condo. In a moment of clarity he thinks to run back inside, look for a fire extinguisher—Why didn’t you do that in the first place!?—but the flames, greedy for the fresh cold air pouring in through the open door, overtake the living space before he can command himself to move. He watches helplessly as his camera is devoured by the blaze, plastic melting, tripod bending toward the floor. The penguin stares forlornly as the sofa combusts around it, the polyurethane cushions erupting like magma through the white leather crust, the wool rug underneath a pond of flame.

Luke heaves the slider shut and watches, mesmerized, as the condo is swiftly swallowed up. He can feel the heat of it seeping through the window, and the glass begins to creak and groan as the flames creep closer. It breaks the spell.

“Help me!” he screams at those below. Somebody raises a phone, but rather than put it to their ear they aim it at him. Recording him. Others join. Eager to capture, to share, to drink up that dopamine every time another like or reshare is tallied. “What’s the matter with you!” he shrieks.

The fire licks at the glass like a captive animal, angry and pacing and testing its pen for weakness. The panels moan again under the stress.

It’s going to break. It’s going to shatter into a million pieces and then I’m going to be trapped here and barbecued like meat on a spit.

He considers the storage closet, but it’s locked. He leans out over the railing, trying to see the neighboring balcony, but the side of the building juts out between them for privacy. Not that he could jump that far anyway.

He looks down, and can see the edge of the balcony directly below this one. A reclining patio chair covered for the year, empty plant stands. It’s a terrible idea, but it’s the only one he has.

Luke braces himself. Fills his lungs and empties them. Then he swings one leg over the top bar of the railing, contorting himself so that the arch of his foot rests on one of the cables and points inward, the taut metal cutting into his skin through his sock. It’s only now that he even remembers his shoes, still sitting by the front door where he’d taken them off. They’re probably nothing but ash and embers, now. His stomach twists.

Far below, somebody, seeing the new position he’s adopted, screams.

Luke heaves his other leg over, clipping his knee on the bar and barely feeling the pain as it rings through him. He grips the rail and carefully places both feet on the lip of concrete. Trying to picture in his mind how this is going to work, he moves one hand and then the other to the top cable, then down to the second, bending his knees as he squats, his backside pushing farther and farther out into the cold emptiness.

He inches one foot back and sets his knee against the narrow edge of concrete. Does the same for the other, until he is kneeling on the outside of the railing. Sweat streaks his face. The glass sliders appear to bulge toward him, distorting the already horrifying reflection of himself on the wrong side of the railing.

Luke grasps the cable as tightly as he can, hoping that it won’t cut through his hands like a cheese slicer and leave him fingerless and flailing. He drops one leg, his foot feeling around for the top bar of the patio railing beneath him, and then the other. His arms quake as he cautiously lowers himself. Distantly, he hears the wail of an approaching siren. At least somebody called the fire department.

His searching toes find nothing but air. An alarm sounds in his head, worse by far than the one still wailing inside. He steels himself and looks down.

It isn’t even close. He is a tall man, but not that tall. Even if he drops and manages to land on the railing, he’ll have to immediately shift all his weight forward in order to fall onto the patio and not back into oblivion. It’s a risk he is simply unwilling to take, no matter the alternative. Besides, with the fire department arriving, maybe a ladder will find him soon. Or a net for him to drop into. Something.

His plan abandoned, Luke tries to lift himself back up and finds he cannot. His arms shaking, metal chewing into his fingers, he’s helpless to raise himself at all.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he breathes. Below, people are shouting but he can’t understand anything they’re saying, not at this distance, not over the blood pounding in his ears.

His grip is weakening. Pain pulses through the adrenaline. The heat from inside begins to nip at his knuckles.

“No!” he shouts. You can do this, it doesn’t matter if you’re never able to twist off a bottle cap again, you will not let go of this goddamn railing, not even if—

The wall of glass explodes outward, tempered pebbles pelting him like hail. The heat follows, unleashed and furious. What happens next is beyond his conscious control. A part of his brain that was simply wired to react to such stimuli in the quickest, most sensible-in-the-moment way possible. A survival instinct, ironically.

Luke lets go.

For half of a second, he thinks his feet have found the railing under him after all, because it seems as though he isn’t falling, but teetering, and he lets relief rush in.

Then gravity exerts its dominance. His toes brush metal as he passes, and he makes a great effort to grab hold of whatever he can, but all he manages to do is push himself further out into the open air, cold wind rushing past his ears as he goes to meet his newfound fans below, who catch the whole thing on their phone cameras.

The investigation later determines, with confidence, that nobody else had been in the condo with Luke, and there was certainly no sign of a fire, not even in the fireplace, which had by then switched itself off at the behest of the central thermostat. The medical examiner finds no evidence of substances harder than caffeine in his system. What happened is a complete surprise to all who knew him. Searches of his home and car, of his emails and notes left around the house, reveal nothing that might suggest he’d been thinking self-destructive things, or suffering from hallucinations, or anything that might have caused him to believe there was a fire. Some pictures are recovered from his camera, but they show nothing beyond a nice, modern condo staged for quick selling. The closest thing to a witness is a stuffed penguin plopped onto the sofa, where it watched the grim events unfold.

And it isn’t talking.

*

K. C. Jones’s House Haunters is due to be published by Tor Nightfire in North America (October 6th) and in the UK (October 6th in eBook, December 17th in print).

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