For the next week or so, at the request of the publisher, I'll be posting short excerpts from my new supernatural thriller, The Newton Cipher. Enjoy! And if they whet your appetite an you want to read the entire book, you can find it here: The Newton Cipher

EXCERPT #4
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HOUSE ON THE HILL
South Bend, Indiana

Alasdair Edelstein’s house sat at the top of a small hill in an old South Bend neighborhood. Last month, the neighborhood would still have been described as leafy. Now, at the end of November, it was merely icy.
He steered his old Volvo slowly along the winding neighborhood street, peering through the thickly falling snow. The windshield wipers jerked back and forth, feebly flicking away the flakes half melted by his defroster.
His old eyes had enough difficulty in good visibility. In the darkness and in the snow, he was unable to see any further ahead than the next faint sphere of light cast by the irregularly spaced streetlights on either side of the curving road.
Finally, where the street ended in a cul-de-sac, he aimed the Volvo between the two brick pillars that marked the sides of his driveway. The pillar on the left doubled as his mailbox, and he stopped long enough to roll down the window and collect its contents.
The snow had already covered the driveway ahead, but decades of experience coming home in inclement weather took over. He revved the engine, turned the wheel just past the first big oak on the right, and gunned it again to make it up the second switchback.
In hindsight, he knew should have left his office at the University much earlier, but he wanted to finish Trina’s letter of recommendation, as well as send a few emails. And do a quick bit of research on sixteenth- century occultism.
He’d been thinking ...
A weather-beaten birdbath suddenly appeared in the headlights, looking like a giant snow-capped mushroom. The bath marked his next turn, and he swung the Volvo to the left, accelerating to get the momentum he needed to make it up the final—and steepest—part of the driveway.
When he was younger, he’d loved the long approach to his house. In fact, that was what first sold him on it—a tottering old Victorian, in need of a good coat of paint, perched high atop four acres of heavily treed hill. Behind it, a three-tiered garden stepped down to the slow- moving Saint Joseph river. As a bonus, the twisting driveway that led up from the cul-de-sac below was daunting enough to turn away most unwanted guests.
Once he moved in, however, his house and its eccentric occupant were intriguing enough to entice adventurous trick-or-treaters and Christmas carolers, who soon learned that Edelstein was eccentric but quite generous. Those who did make the climb up the driveway were rewarded with extra-large candy bars, or, during the week before Christmas, his own special wassail blended with Saigon cinnamon and French armagnac.
In short, he was the kind of quirky old man his neighbors rather liked, rather than shunned, even if they only saw him occasionally. And that was how he liked it.
But he was in his 80s now, and the neighbors came by less and less. At this age, the driveway was a challenge on good days and a downright menace on bad ones. His driving skill simply wasn’t what it used to be, and, for that matter, neither was his old Volvo.
When the engine revved around the final turn, the Volvo’s back end fishtailed, the tires spinning in the heavy snow. The car slipped left and then, with a jolt, skidded off the driveway.
Thud.
Edelstein winced as the side of car hit the birdbath. He pressed the gas again, but the wheels just spun, causing the Volvo to shimmy and then, alarmingly, begin to slide backward.
“Damn,” Edelstein muttered. The only forward progress now would be on his own two feet.
He turned off the ignition, yanked on the emergency brake, and grabbed his leather satchel off the passenger seat, first stuffing the mail inside. He put on his gloves, set his tweed cap on his head, and flicked on the tiny flashlight that dangled on the end of his keychain. Then he opened the door and carefully stepped out.
The last few yards were relatively steep, and he took slow, sideways steps to keep his footing, aiming the light ahead of him as he made his way to where the driveway leveled off.
That was when he noticed the faint impressions in the snow, only partly covered by fresh flakes.
Footsteps, going to his front door.
Someone had been here. And not long ago.
The front door was closed, but unlocked. Edelstein pretended not
to notice the small puddles of water on the mat inside as he turned the knob and pushed the door open fully. He flicked on the light and set his gloves and keys on the round table in the center of the foyer.
Old floorboards creaked as he walked down the hallway to the kitchen. It was not a particularly large house, but it contained such a variety of little rooms and passages that it felt much bigger than it was.
He filled a glass with tap water in the kitchen, and then made his way through the old butler’s pantry to his office, a converted scullery at the back of the house. Former pantry shelves were now stocked with books, and a large window looked out on the back gardens and down to the river. The view was dark—all he could see were the accumulations of snow in the corners of the old window panes.
Edelstein set down his satchel, took out the mail, and placed it alongside the glass of water on top of his scuffed wooden desk.
He turned on a small lamp. Soft yellow light reached the spines of old books and scholarly journals crammed onto the shelves around him. On one wall, a faded print of Teniers the Younger’s The Alchemist hung in a cheap frame. Edelstein peered at it: an old man, hunched over a bellows to heat a crucible, transmuting one metal into another; behind him hovered his acolytes, discussing their own decoctions, seemingly oblivious to the magical transformation the alchemist was about to produce.
But he was their teacher. Their turn would come.
Edelstein looked at the glass of water, still untouched, then idly patted the pocket of his coat.
Outside the wind blew, rattling the panes and pushing against the outer walls. The old house creaked. In the front hall, the grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour, a distant echo from the far side of the house.
He almost didn’t hear the footsteps approaching.
Almost.
Edelstein held his hand to the glass on his desk, palm outward. The
water within trembled, sending slight ripples up against the rim.
“I wondered if you’d come,” Edelstein said. Then he added, “I
won’t let you harm her.”
The man’s accent was thick.
“We shall see. Why do you not drink your water?”
Edelstein laughed. “Have you ever tasted South Bend tap water?
Even you wouldn’t drink it.”
“Now it will be harder to kill you.”
“Impossible, I should think.” Slowly, almost arthritically, Edelstein
sat back into the chair behind his desk.
The shadow stepped forward into the lamplight, resolving into a big man in a dark coat.
“Perhaps. But I shall try.”