Page 3 of Endless Anger (Monsters Within #1)

ASHER

FOURTEEN YEARS OLD

I don’t want to be visiting Quincy on this stupid campus. It’s dull and dark, the clouds hanging so low in the sky that it looks like they’re clinging to the buildings.

I’ll never understand why my sister chose this tiny college over the bigger and less expensive schools she was accepted into, except that she was going through a box of things from Dad’s childhood— one singular box—a few years back and discovered an old brochure from Avernia College in Fury Hill, New Hampshire, where our grandmother had apparently graduated top of her class.

Dad’s dead, biological mom, not Aunt Violet’s mom. I doubt Grandma would step foot anywhere as creepy as this. She likes sunshine too much.

From there, Quincy did a deep dive into the school’s history and discovered we had an ancestor who helped found the place, and her obsession only strengthened.

Lucy begged to tag along on the trip because she worships Quincy. And Noelle. And my parents. Everyone except me, it seems, even though I’d do pretty much anything for her.

Noelle says I want it too much. I don’t know what it is .

But I told Lucy there wasn’t room in the car. There’s no way I’m spending a weekend listening to her drool over my boring sisters or fantasize about how cool this school is and how she can’t wait to go here one day.

Ever since Quincy ditched Aplana Island for higher education, the idea that Avernia is Lucy’s ticket to getting out is all she can fucking talk about. That and the litter of puppies her mom is fostering.

Frankly, I’d rather let Foxe take a whack between my legs than listen to her talk about either one.

My hands are in my pockets as I trail behind my family, not paying a lick of attention to the campus tour guide as they explain the school’s “rich, vibrant history” and the influences of ancient Greek and Roman cultures on it.

The thick trees lining the property and the stained glass windows in many of the pointed stone structures don’t make any of this less soul sucking.

I don’t even really understand why we’re here—Quincy’s been a student for two years now and never invited us to a family weekend before. The tour feels unnecessary, but Dad wouldn’t let me skip and hide out in the car, waiting for Lucy to call me.

Mom hangs back like she’s worried I might slip away at the first opportunity.

“And this is the Obeliskos—the largest and oldest library on campus.” Our tour guide is a tall person with spiky white hair and thick, purple glasses resting on the bridge of their wide, pale nose.

“Legend has it that certain floors are haunted by the spirits of students who’ve passed on before graduation. ”

They point up at the building, which looms behind a clock tower that doesn’t appear to tell the correct time.

I glance at Mom, who’s already reaching for me. The diamond ring on her left hand catches in the sunlight as it pokes through a cloud.

“Kallum,” she says to Dad. “Asher and I will meet up with you three in a bit. ”

He nods once. “At the dorms.”

Noelle frowns. “You’re going in there? Didn’t you just hear them say it’s haunted?”

Quincy rolls her eyes. “They say everything is haunted on this campus. Fury Hill residents are extremely superstitious and paranoid.”

“Dates back to the founding families,” the tour guide tells us. “Lot of conspiracy theories surrounding the creation of the school and how the joint venture turned into an undead bloodbath.”

“Undead?” Dad cocks an eyebrow. “As in zombies?” He glances at Quincy, his expression skeptical. “Are we sure you should be attending a school that promotes the existence of the supernatural? What happened to art and science?”

“Mr. Anderson, you don’t think humans are alone in the world, do you?” the tour guide questions. “You think all the stories about ghouls and goblins are fake?”

Dad’s jaw clenches. “If there’s a creature out there worse than a human, I’ve yet to be convinced.”

He continues walking, leaving the five of us standing at the library’s entrance. Quincy exhales, her shoulders slumping, and starts after him. The tour guide follows suit, marking something off on their clipboard.

Noelle purses her lips, glancing at us and then the Obeliskos.

Something unreadable flashes through her gaze…

like the passing of a shadow behind an empty window, rustling the curtain.

“He has a point, but I still don’t want to go in there.

I bet you’ll fall through the stairs. This place doesn’t look like it gets inspected often. ”

Sprinting after the other three, Noelle’s dark brown hair swishes against her back, which is rigid despite her excited gait.

I look up at Mom, who simply watches her daughter with eyes that seem sad.

I’m not sure why, and I don’t bother asking.

Snapping out of it, Mom drags me through the Obeliskos’s revolving glass door and into a lobby with a giant circulation desk and rows of tables with desktop computers behind it. Two staircases and an elevator punctuate the center of the room, splitting the halls beyond that seem to go on for miles.

Sturdy bookshelves lines the walls, cut so they fit beneath more stained glass windows, and the dark wood floors creak as we walk on them.

Mom sighs wistfully. “Nothing beats a campus library.”

We migrate slowly through the many rows of books, circling around study areas and tiptoeing past the offices toward the back. Eventually, we come to another elevator, where a sign with the building’s levels is plastered above the buttons.

“Fury Hill archives and world encyclopedias,” I read, tracing the words with a finger. “Thirteenth floor.”

“Looking to prove your father wrong?” Mom asks, reaching for my hand. She squeezes as the elevator doors slide open, tugging me inside.

“He’s never wrong,” I mutter.

“Never say never, my darling boy.”

The thirteenth floor is as creepy as it sounds like it would be. The first level had decent lighting and enough human paraphernalia that, despite its emptiness, still gave it a sense of agency.

Up here, it’s like time is stuck in a bottle and hasn’t moved for centuries. City archives are locked in glass display cases alongside rare leather-bound classics and an endless collection of encyclopedias.

Posters on the wall instruct visitors not to touch the books without proper handling equipment and not to remove them from the premises.

I grab one from a shelf and flip to the middle, searching until I find something mildly interesting. The entries are mostly about the founding of Fury Hill, but there’s a name that continually comes up, making me pause when it gets to the actual person.

Cronus Anderson (born c. 1550—died unknown).

One of the six founding family members, Cronus is attributed with the conception of Avernia as a learning institution, the construction of town around campus, and promoting drilling near the base of the White Mountains for raw minerals that would boost Fury Hill’s economic growth.

Eventually, like the other founders, Cronus would go on to establish his bloodline and grow his wealth. Though he survived the consumption crisis, Cronus was excommunicated before his death.

There are no records of the death of Cronus Anderson. It is likely they were destroyed in a fire that eventually burned down his farm or perhaps intentionally erased at the behest of his daughter.

Similarly, documentation of his time during the height of the crisis in Fury Hill have all but disappeared.

Witnesses recall his intervention with unconventional methods of medicine and how he was one of the few who seemed unaffected by the illness.

He is often blamed by residents for having taken advantage of the situation to gain ownership of the school and town.

While still revered as a medical marvel and important piece of Fury Hill history, it is important to note that the Anderson bloodline is ? —

See index for more information.

The last part of that paragraph cuts off, having been scribbled out with a permanent marker. I glance up, a strange feeling clutching at my chest. Mom’s a few rows down, flipping through a tattered copy of some town periodical.

Beneath the entry for Cronus is a host of others, each with the same surname, indicating direct relations. My stomach twists as I drag my finger along each bullet point, pausing only when I get to the bottom few.

Deidre Anderson.

Kallum Anderson.

With quick fingers, I turn to the index and find my apparent ancestor’s name.

A note is written in the margins—in fact, the entire back end of the book is handwritten anecdotes, some pages falling out as if they were stapled in after the fact.

The bloodline is tainted. Cronus placed this fate upon their heads. If a descendant steps onto this campus, it is the duty of Avernia to ensure they do not remain if we are to avoid the curse that plagues them.

Remember the law of three. Unity will result in our failure—they will be the destruction of us all .

Snorting, I snap the book closed. What kind of an encyclopedia includes a call to action?

And curses ? Tainted bloodlines?

It almost feels like a prank, and I’m tempted to ask Quincy about it when we meet back up later, just to see if she’s aware of the apparent connections we have here too. Maybe that’s why she stays—she’s always wanted a deeper family history.

What could possibly be deeper than fable?

“Find anything interesting?” Mom asks when we finally exit the thirteenth floor, heading in search of the rest of our party. “Not a good selection for fiction, and unfortunately, I’m not that interested in the town’s story. But at least there were no ghosts.”

“Oh, there’s fiction up there all right. Some of those entries were just plain weird.” I pause, looking at her from the corner of my eye. “Did Q ever tell you why she had to come here?”