The Dwelling Mass market paperbound - 2004

First line

There was what looked to be a tombstone at the front of 362 Belisle, glaring morbidly in the gray morning light.

Excerpt

There was what looked to be a tombstone at the front of 362 Belisle, glaring morbidly in the gray morning light. A grim shrine to something passed over, Glenn hoped fervently that it wasn’t opportunity. The house at 362 was the only one with a hedge and a tombstone, in this case actually a four-foot concrete pillar with the name WAVERLEY stamped up the side in block letters. The hedge, a Caragana, would be pretty in bloom in a couple of months, but until then the pillar and the hedge together made the place look haunted.

Glenn tugged at the hair at the back of her neck, and absently brushed phantom wisps from the sides of her face out of habit. For fifty years, she had kept it long. Today, she’d had it cut. Short. It was driving her crazy.

She leaned against her car, giving the house the once-over before going in. It was gray and cool out, the sort of spring day that isn’t spring at all, but smells like winter and looks like threatening fall.

The hairdresser, a girl of about mid-twenties or so, had greeted her carefully. Hello, Mrs. Darnley, how nice to see you-- She’d stopped suddenly without finishing and blushed furiously. Oh god, I’m sorry, are you still going by Darnley? I’m so--

He died dear. He didn’t dump me, she’d said gamely, making the girl stutter and blush some more and ruining the whole New Glenn experience for about ten minutes. How could a person be so stupid? Howard would have loved that story.

About two weeks after he’d died a woman from the church down the street -- a church neither Glenn nor Howard had ever set foot in -- had dropped by with some pamphlets and Glenn had been forced to give her a particularly ugly go-away stare. One of the pamphlets had been titled Blooming after Widowhood. She’d thrown them all into the fireplace and they’d gone up the next cold snap. But she wished she’d at least taken a look at that one. She bet it had a section called, “Haircuts: Dos and Don’ts for the New Widow.” Glenn’s hair, chic as it might be, felt hard and cold and indifferent to her, like a clerk in a jewelry store. It hadn’t even known Howard, how dare it conceive to make her feel better?

Howard would have loved that one too.

She swiped absently at a phantom wisp.

From the outside, there was little to recommend 362 Belisle. It was ordinary. There were two things that separated it from the neighbors that might help (excluding the vile memorial- cum- pillar- cum- grave marker): there was the hedge, which would be pretty with yellow blooms soon, and the front door, which boasted stone stairs. The door was clearly new, and it brightened up the exterior, dragging the eye away from the common flat-front, which was a feature of literally hundreds of houses all over the city. It looked… different. It had been empty since the previous fall, and that was apparent. The yard had been neglected and it looked as though it could have used a paint job a couple of years earlier -- also no different from a dozen other homes on the block. It was not really a good day to look, if you were buying.

Early spring, before the snow was entirely gone, was the best time for a realtor to view a house. They were at their lowest ebb in the leafless, ashen surroundings, the litter and discard of winter clinging to their corners, unwanted, for sale, and for whatever reason, abandoned by the people who had once been a part of their walls and floors. There was a vulnerability about them then, caught naked in the daylight after god knows what infidelities. Houses in April were new divorcees with all the accompanying brittleness and desperation. The house on Belisle had all of those qualities. It looked as though it would fall and disappear out of courtesy, if you pushed it.

The letter from the insurance company said that numerous upgrades had been done inside and that would help in selling the place, but you had to actually get people to go inside, to call the number on the sign. Glenn was taking a look. She would probably take the listing. Her first in four months. Her last day of work, she’d had twelve.

Ah, How. See what ya done to me?

He would have refused to take the blame for his own death. He would have said it was the curry. Glenn smiled mildly and went inside, listening against her will to the sound of the cell phone in her purse not ringing.

If this was an ordinary morning Howard would have called her by now. Or she him. Retirement had made him easily lonely, a thing they were both aware of, and stepped around carefully. They met for lunch a lot. She might have called him from the front door and said, “Okay, I’m going in.” And he would ask her what she saw. In her poshest voice -- the voice that still held traces of an English accent, even when she wasn’t being posh -- she would rip the place to shreds, make it cry, and then, that done, would have begun to see its finer points.

Enormous hallway.

The fireplace works.

No wallpaper.

Miss Glenn, it sounds like a house among houses and you have been destined since birth to set it free among the people you are the messenger you are the--


From the Hardcover edition.

Media reviews

“…downright terrifying.”
—Chatelaine

“Moloney is skilled at blending the expected with the original…The Dwelling shows a fine understanding of human nature…”
—The Globe and Mail

“Moloney is very good at creating real people to inhabit her novels. You understand their motivations, their feelings, and want to call out warnings to them. Don’t do that! Don’t go in the attic!...if you like creepy, and enjoy that little frisson of horror on the back of your neck, read The Dwelling.”
—Hamilton Spectator

“If you’re in the mood for something spooky, Susie Moloney’s The Dwelling is the perfect thing…Very moody, very atmospheric…maybe not the thing to read after dark.”
—Chronicle-Herald (Halifax)

“Not recommended for pre-bedtime reading unless you have the ability to fall asleep after reading ghost stories. This book is so exciting in parts you will likely not be able to put it down until you have finished certain chapters.”
—Simone Joseph, The Era-Banner

“This is a great psychological thriller written in good taste with a suitably imaginative conclusion.”
—Books in Canada

“A refreshingly original take on the traditional ghost story. I sat up all night to finish it -- and not just because I was afraid to turn out the lights.”
—Kelley Armstrong, author of Bitten and Stolen

"If the best measure of a horror story is how scary it is, Susie Moloney's new novel is a success. This book will scare the bejesus out of you...not via an excess of blood or violence, but by conveying a pervasive atmosphere of the macabre. The Dwelling, like most good horror stories, contains a large dollop of mystery...[and] stellar characters."
—Douglas J. Johnston, Winnipeg Free Press

Praise for Susie Moloney’s A Dry Spell:

“A fast-paced . . . blend of ghosts, curses, bad weather, oddball characters and romance. Moloney is a gifted storyteller, drawing her likeable, credible characters with bold strokes and subtle touches.”
—The Globe and Mail

“A fine read . . . Like joyriding rural teenagers aching to get ‘airborne,’ we’re soon swept away by the breathless pace of Susie Moloney’s novel.”
—The Toronto Star

“A rare piece of work . . . Reminiscent of early Stephen King . . . A story that is heartfelt and contains a touch of myth.”
—Chicago Tribune

“Absorbing . . . Moloney intertwines powerful psychological, supernatural, and sexual undercurrents.”
—Entertainment Weekly


From the Hardcover edition.