Hangman's Curse Read online

  hangman’s curse

  Frank Peretti

  hangman’s curse

  THE VERITAS PROJECT VOLUME 1

  © 2001 by Frank E. Peretti

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts in reviews.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Peretti, Frank E.

  Hangman’s Curse / written by Frank Peretti

  p. cm. — (The veritas project ; #1)

  Summary: When several students at Baker High School are stricken by an alleged curse of the school’s ghost, Elijah and Elisha Springfield and their parents, undercover investigators, are sent to uncover the truth behind the events.

  ISBN 0-8499-7616-2 (Hardcover)

  ISBN 0-8499-7785-1 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN 1-4003-0371-0 (Movie Edition)

  ISBN 978-1-59554-445-2 (repackage)

  [1. High schools—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction. 3. Bullies—Fiction.

  4. Christian life—Fiction. 5. Mystery and detective

  stories.] I. Title. II. Series.

  PZ7.P4254 Han 2000

  [Fic]—dc21

  00-045084

  Printed in the United States of America

  08 09 10 11 12 QW 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Interoffice Memo

  To: The President

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  From: Mr. Morgan

  Per your request, please be advised that we have assembled an independent investigative team, a family by the name of Springfield, consisting of both parents and their twin children, a boy and a girl. As you can see from the attached file, these people have extensive training and experience in crime prevention and investigation and are well qualified to fulfill the stated mission requirements: to investigate and solve strange mysteries, crimes, and occurrences, seeking not only the Facts, but the Truth behind the Facts, and to report their findings and suggestions.

  Since, as you have requested, the team will be operating from a biblical, Judeo-Christian perspective, the team will be funded through private, non-tax-deductible contributions and will have no connection with or support from the government or your administration.

  However, as you have requested, you will have input in choosing each assignment for the team, and will receive a written report from the team upon the completion of each assignment.

  Considering the mission description for the team, we thought of the Latin word for truth, veritas, and have code-named this effort The Veritas Project.

  We have placed articles and advertisements in selected print media and are already receiving requests for assistance. I will bring the first batch of requests to your office at your earliest convenience.

  Contents

  1 appointment with fear

  2 the ghost and the angel

  3 the legend of abel frye

  4 lies and terror

  5 the forbidden hallway

  6 witches and bullies

  7 a my and crystal

  8 hangman’s curse

  9 algernon wheeling

  10 a lethal combination

  11 dollars and scents

  12 crawling minions

  13 veritas

  1

  appointment

  with fear

  Baker High School quarterback Jim Boltz wiped his hands on his jersey, angrily this time. He’d almost fumbled the snap again, the third time in the first quarter. His hands were slick with sweat. They were shaking. He clenched them into fists.

  “Y’okay, Jim?” asked the center.

  “M’okay!” he snapped back.

  He was looking bad; he knew it and his team knew it. He had to get it together, had to quit missing, dropping, forgetting. This was an important game, Baker against Whitman. The Baker High School stadium was filled to capacity. He took his place in the huddle, his stomach in knots.

  “Okay, uh, double-wide right, tight end left, 755 fly, on one. Ready . . .”

  “We just did that play,” said Dave, one of the wide receivers.

  Jim stared at the turf. He was thinking about breathing.

  Howie suggested, “How about power-I right, play action 242 . . .”

  Jim’s brain finally snapped into gear. “Uh, yeah, yeah, uh, tight end down and out, on two. Ready . . .”

  “Break!” they all yelled.

  The huddle broke and they headed for the line of scrimmage.

  Jim forgot the play. He tagged his fullback and got a reminder.

  “Ready, set, red twenty-one, red twenty-one, red twenty-two, hut, HUT!”

  He got the snap, faded back, looked for his receiver, saw a face in the stands . . . The face was pale. The eyes were cold and cruel, and they gazed at him unblinkingly.

  Jim’s hand trembled. He almost dropped the ball.

  “Why’s he standing there?” Coach Marquardt growled from the sidelines. Still in his midtwenties, Marquardt was all meat, no fat, and tough enough to scare any kid within range of his glare. “Boltz! Wake up and throw the ball!”

  Jim threw the ball. It wobbled in a pitiful, lazy arc over the line of scrimmage and bounced far short of the receiver. The play was over, and it was sheer luck the ball wasn’t picked off by a linebacker.

  This time, Gordon, the center, got right in his face. “Jim, what’s the problem? Hey, I’m talking to you!”

  Jim was eyeing that face in the stands. “Sleazy little wimp!”

  The center turned to follow Jim’s gaze. “Who?”

  “He’s gonna pay for this.”

  Gordon was still looking. “Who?”

  Jim turned toward the huddle. “C’mon.” It was fourth down on Whitman’s 24-yard line and Baker had four yards to go for a first down.

  Jim took some deep breaths. It had to be exhaustion. Maybe it was the stress of playoffs coming up. With two more wins, they’d go to the state championship game on Turkey Day, the big one. That could be doing it. Maybe it was a touch of the flu, or something he ate. It could be anything.

  Anything but—

  Fear.

  Uh-uh. No way. Not me, not here, not now, and not from that little creep in the stands. He looked at those distant black eyes and mouthed the words, I’m not afraid of you!

  Ian Snyder sat hunched like a vulture in row twelve on the far end of the bleachers, dressed in black, the only color he owned. The seats all around him were vacant. After three miserable years in high school, he was used to it. He was enjoying every moment of watching Baker High’s star quarterback fall apart. The searing, demonic smile never left his face. Oh, you’re scared, all right. I can see it in the way you keep looking this way and keep blowing this football game. I’ve got you right where I want you, don’t I?

  “Abel Frye,” he whispered, his eyes gleaming like the silver pendant that hung from his left ear. “Abel Frye.”

  Jim Boltz shook off the weakness, clamped his hands together to keep them steady, and called for one more pass play, a last-ditch attempt to make that first down.

  The Baker Hawks went to the scrimmage line; he took the snap, faded back—

  His arm faltered in midthrow.

  Someone was standing in the end zone.

  Abel Frye. The name reverberated like an iron bell through his brain, taking command of every thought, every intent, numbing every nerve.

  Beneath the upstretched arms of
the goalpost stood a gaunt, decaying figure washed pale by the floodlights, shreds of a tattered shirt moving like vapors in the breeze, the head cocked grotesquely against the right shoulder as if the neck were broken, a golden-eyed hawk perched on the left shoulder. The youth looked dead, his face a chalky white, and yet his eyes met Jim’s and then his pale, gray lips parted in a hideous grin.

  They knew each other. This was an appointment.

  “YES!” said Ian Snyder, leaping to his feet, arms high in jubilation. Those who noticed had no idea what he was so excited about.

  The hawk’s wings burst open as it leaped off the bony shoulder. With head low and eyes crazed with killing, it came straight for Jim Boltz.

  Every thought fled from Jim’s mind. He had no awareness of the game, the football in his hand, or the opposing tacklers breaking through. The only reality for Jim Boltz was fear.

  Searing, mind-conquering fear.

  The hawk grew larger as it came closer, wings beating furiously, talons open.

  Jim Boltz turned and ran.

  Coach Marquardt came unglued and almost crossed the sideline onto the field. “What in Sam Hill is he doing? BOLTZ! TURN AROUND!”

  Assistant Coach Raddison could only gawk, but he did put a hand on Marquardt’s shoulder in the hope of containing his temper.

  The hawk’s wings burst open as it leaped off the bony shoulder. With head low and eyes crazed with killing, it came straight for Jim Boltz.

  Their star quarterback was outrunning Whitman’s tacklers, running faster than they’d ever seen him run, but in the wrong direction. The Baker crowd was on its feet, roaring, shrieking, waving, trying to get Boltz’s attention. The Whitman crowd was on its feet as well, but hysterical, pointing, laughing, having a great time.

  Jim’s receivers reached the end of their patterns, turned, and then stood there, bewildered and incredulous as their quarterback shrank in the distance and both teams fell into confusion.

  Coach Marquardt signaled “time out” and crossed onto the field, cursing and fuming.

  Raddison grabbed his arm. “Vern, the play isn’t over!”

  “What play?” Marquardt jerked free. “It’s happening again. Can’t you see that? BOLTZ! I’m gonna put your rear in a blender! You hear me?”

  Raddison saw Jim Boltz collapse and roll into the end zone, get to his feet again, collapse again. The ball tumbled free and a Whitman tackler dove on it. The referee blew his whistle and the play was over.

  Raddison had seen this before. “Oh, no.” He hollered, “First aid! Let’s go!” and then ran after Marquardt.

  “TIME OUT!” Marquardt hollered, signaling, and he got it.

  A Whitman tackler trotted up to the Baker quarterback, still on the ground. “Hey, congratulations, you just got us two points!”

  The quarterback was writhing on the ground, whimpering, screaming. “What dollar in the kenzo slater, make it uptown and drive it, down way!”

  The tackler had extended his hand to help his opponent off the ground, but now he shied back. “Hey, you all right?”

  Boltz was twitching, twisting, staring wide-eyed at nothing and plainly terrified. “Does it, does it, no, unload and white the ground! Chevy maker in the postgame!”

  He threw up his arms as if fending off an attack from . . . something.

  “Wow,” said the tackler to a teammate, “he’s, he’s—”

  “He’s wacko, that’s what he is.”

  “Abel Frye!” Boltz screamed, inching and clawing along the ground, eyes staring upward. “Abel Frye!”

  Then he was on his feet, starting to run.

  Marquardt and Raddison overtook him and brought him to the ground, holding him down, trying to contain his lashing arms and kicking feet.

  “Give us a hand here!” Raddison shouted, and players from both sides came to help hold Jim down.

  “Where’s the doc?” Marquardt shouted, searching. Then he slapped Jim Boltz on the helmet. “Cut it out, Boltz!”

  A medic came running, emergency kit in hand.

  The field was filling with parents, schoolmates, fans, the curious.

  “Please stay off the playing field,” said the announcer over the loudspeakers. Nobody listened.

  The medic took charge. There was no need to check for pulse or breathing; the poor kid had plenty of both. “Let’s get him inside. Careful, now.”

  “Make way there!”

  Marquardt was on one arm, Raddison on the other. Between them, Jim Boltz began to weaken, his voice ebbing from a scream to a whimper. As they reached the passage to the locker rooms, his head began to droop and he muttered two last words before he passed out: “Abel Frye . . .”

  Marquardt cursed and looked at Raddison.

  Raddison nodded grimly. “You’re right. It’s happening again.”

  As the puzzled and murmuring football crowd gravitated toward the field, Ian Snyder turned and stole quietly up the stairs to the exit, his hands in the pockets of his long black trench coat. Yeah, he thought, now Boltz will be just like the others. In all the confusion, no one gave his presence in the stands a second thought.

  In Washington, D.C., far from the Capitol dome, was an old redbrick office building with office space and apartments available for rent. On the fifth floor, at the end of a narrow hall with a noisy steam radiator, was a plain little office with its title painted in small black letters on the door: The Veritas Project. Just inside that door, Consuela, the secretary, sorted through conventional mail at her desk. Seated at a computer nearby, Carrie, the assistant, scanned through e-mails from all around the country. Between their two workstations was another door, and beyond that door was the cluttered office of Mr. Morgan, the boss.

  Mr. Morgan was sitting at his cluttered desk, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, his tie loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He was reading a field report he’d just received via the Internet: “Springfield/Montague/Phase Two.” What he read pleased him, and he smiled, nodding his head.

  Morgan was middle-aged, bald, bespectacled, and generally unimpressive in appearance. His name and face were not widely known in this town, and his office was in an obscure, hard-to-find location. He preferred it that way. A project like Veritas could benefit from being quiet, unknown, and behind-the-scenes. He was well connected with the right people, and that was all that mattered.

  His telephone bleeped and the voice of his secretary said, “Mr. Morgan, the President on line one.”

  He picked up the receiver, pressed the button for line one and responded, “Mr. President.”

  The voice on the other end was immediately recognizable. Mr. Morgan was hearing from the foremost leader of the free world. “Mr. Morgan, I understand we have trouble brewing in Baker, Washington.”

  “Yes, sir. I heard from the high school counselor just this morning.”

  “Mr. Gessner.”

  “Yes. So you’ve read my report already?”

  “Every word of it. And I agree. Veritas should have a look at it. Where are the Springfields now?”

  Mr. Morgan glanced at the report he’d just finished reading. “Montague, Oregon. That drug abuse prevention program.”

  “How long before they’re finished with that?”

  Mr. Morgan looked at his watch. “Well . . . it could be as soon as half an hour, if everything goes according to plan.”

  In a quiet old neighborhood where ancient maple trees overshadowed the street with their shady branches and pushed up the sidewalks with their roots, where the yards were small and neat except for an occasional neglected bicycle or forgotten skateboard, a late-model station wagon pulled slowly to a stop along the curb.

  Inside, the driver looked warily at the gabled gray house several doors down the street. “That’s it.” He was a high school kid, sixteen or seventeen, thin, and nervous. Beside him sat another high schooler, a girl. Neither appeared to have slept, eaten, or bathed in days, and both were dressed in weird, pricey clothing that carried the same message a
s their dour expressions: Let the whole world drop dead.

  In the rear seat, a young man with a grim, wary expression peered out the window and asked, “Are they ready?”

  “If they aren’t ready for company we won’t get through the front door,” said the driver. “I called ’em and they said it was all clear.”

  “So let’s do it.”

  They got out of the car and crossed the street quickly, while looking up and down the street and toward the surrounding houses in case anyone might be watching.

  An unkempt, slightly heavy blond woman in jeans and oversized shirt answered the front door on the third knock. She recognized the boy and girl. “Hey, Luke. How you doing, Leah?” She eyed the stranger warily. “This must be Marv.”

  “This is Marv,” Luke confirmed. “The buyer I told you about.”

  She studied Marv’s face, her suspicion never waning. “How long have you known him?”

  “We buy from him all the time. He’s okay,” said Leah.

  The woman flung the door open. “Well, come inside before somebody sees you.”

  They walked into a modest living room. The carpet was worn, with several years’ worth of cigarette holes. The furniture looked old, smelled old, and nothing matched. A big cat lay curled on the couch and looked up at them for only a moment before lowering its head again in disinterest.

  “Let’s see your money,” said the woman. “Convince me.”

  Marv reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills. “You’re not dealing with a small-timer.”

  She was impressed at the sight of the hundred-dollar bills. “So Luke and Leah tell me.” Her expression softened. “I’m Nancy. My husband Lou’s down in the lab right now.”

  He smiled, only slightly. “So let’s see your goods. We’ll make this quick.”

  He followed her into the kitchen where she reached into a drawer and produced a plastic bag containing white powder. “One hundred grams of crank, finished up just this morning.”

  Now it was Marv’s turn to be impressed. “You must have some kind of lab.”

  “We don’t talk about it.”