Phantom Evil
A secret government unit is formed under Adam Harrison, famed paranormal investigator. The six members he's gathered have a psychic talent of their own.Jackson Crow heads the group. Haunted by his experience with an ancestral ghost, and the murders of two teammates, Jackson can't tell if he's been demoted or given an extraordinary opportunity. He's aware that the living commit the most heinous crimes, while spiritualist charlatans fool the unwary. To balance Jackson's skepticism, Adam's paired him with Angela Hawkins, a woman who learned the painful lesson of loss at an early age.The case: In a historic New Orleans mansion, a senator's wife falls to her death. Most think she jumped, distraught over the loss of her son. Some say she was pushed. Others believe she was beckoned by the spirits of the house—once the site of a serial killer's work.Whether supernatural or human, crimes of passion and greed will cast them into danger of losing their lives…and their souls.
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Also by HEATHER GRAHAM
NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES
THE KEEPERS GHOST MOON GHOST NIGHT GHOST SHADOW THE KILLING EDGE NIGHT OF THE WOLVES HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS UNHALLOWED GROUND DUST TO DUST NIGHTWALKER DEADLY GIFT DEADLY HARVEST DEADLY NIGHT THE DEATH DEALER THE LAST NOEL THE SÃANCE BLOOD RED THE DEAD ROOM KISS OF DARKNESS THE VISION THE ISLAND GHOST WALK KILLING KELLY THE PRESENCE DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR PICTURE ME DEAD HAUNTED HURRICANE BAY A SEASON OF MIRACLES NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS EYES OF FIRE SLOW BURN NIGHT HEAT
Dedicated to the Hotel Monteleone,
and the wonderful staff there, and to everyone who has helped me all these years to keep Writers for New Orleans up and aboutâ and our writers writing on for the beautiful and historical city of New Orleans!
Dennis Hewitt, Jorge Cortazar, Irwin Lee, Michael Montgomery,
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Chef Randy Buck (Executive Chef), Chef Jose Munguia (Sous Chef),
Chef Ming Duong (Pastry Chef), Fred Connerly, Jorge Melara, Renee Penny, Hilda Henderson, Thomas Joseph
At Fifi Mahoneyâsâthe worldâs most amazing wig shop
Brian Peterson, Marcy Hesseling, Nikki McCoy, Jamie Gandy,
Bobby Munroe, Megan Lunz
And at Harrahâs
Jordan Smith, K. Brandt
Andâ¦very especially, Sheila Vincent,
who has gone above and beyond for us, so very many times!
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PROLOGUE
The house on Dauphine
âMommy.â
She had dozed, Regina Holloway thought. Sheer exhaustion from the work she engaged in at the house on Dauphine Street. Sheer exhaustion had finally allowed her to drift off to sleep. The word, the whisper, was something she had conjured in her mind; she had been so desperate to hear it spoken again.
Waking, not opening her eyes, she listened to what was real. The sound of musicians down the street, and the spattering of applause that followed their jazz numbers. The deep, sad heartbeat of the saxophone. The distant noise of the mule-driven carriages that took tourists around the historic French Quarter. Sometimes, the sound of laughter.
She breathed in the smell of pine cleaner, which they had been using on the house. Beneath itâdrifting in from the open French doors that led to the courtyard of the beautiful homeâwas the sweet scent of the magnolia trees that grew against the rear wall. Theyâd finally gotten their home in the French Quarter, with its subtle and underlying hint of strange days gone by.
Some said that it was haunted by those days, by that history, certainly not always so pleasant. This house had been, after all, owned by Madden C. Newton, the killer who had terrorized many a victim in the years following the Civil War. The tour group carriages rolled by with tales of ghosts and ghastly visions seen by previous owners. But neither she nor David believed in ghosts, and the house had been a steal. Now, of course, she longed with her whole heart to believe in ghosts. If they existed, she might see her Jacob again.
But ghosts were not real.
The house was a house. Brick, wood, mortar, lath, plaster and paint. She and David had both grown up on the âotherâ side of town; they had dreamed of owning such a house. They had, however, never dreamed that they would live in it alone.
Yes, she knew what was real, and what wasnât. She was learning to live without the painkillers that had gotten her through the first months after Jacob had been lost. The painkillers had given her several strange visions, but none of them ghostly.
âMommy.â
But she heard the word, and she heard it clearly. She opened her eyes, and a scream froze in her throat.
A little boy stood there. A little boy just about Jacobâs age, seven. He was dressed in Victorian-era breeches, a little vest and frock coat, knickers and boots.
And an ax blade cut into his skull, the shaft protruding from it. A trail of blood seeped down the sides of his face.
âMommy, it hurts. It hurts so badly. Help me, Mommy,â he said, looking at her with wide, blue, trusting eyes.
She so desperately wanted to scream. She had seen her son in dreams, but this wasnât her son. She knew the stories about the house, knew about the murders that had taken place here just after the Civil Warâ¦.
Yes, she knew, but at the worst of times, she hadnât had such strange and horrible visions.
He wasnât real.
Sounds emitted from her at last. Not screams. Just sounds. Sounds of terror, like the nonsense chatter of an infant. She wanted to scream.
âMommy, please. Mommy, I need you.â
It wasnât Jacob, and it wasnât Jacobâs voice. And Jacob had been killed in a car accident six months ago; a drunk driver had nearly killed them all, veering over three lanes on I-10 late at night.
