Chapter 6
Chapter Six
JJ (Josh)
The empty seat next to me at our meeting means Hart will be on even more of a warpath. He’s already yelled at Laird twice.
I take my seat in the House of Eights sanctum. If anyone were to inquire about our group or where we meet, no one other than our twelve members could tell them. And we would deny our existence completely.
Because that is one of the many rules we live by.
The honor I felt at being chosen my freshman year dwindled by the third day of the initiation process. Two solid months of torturous rituals, lack of sleep, and constant terror that I would mess up and lose my place culminated in acceptance.
This is my life now. Or the way I die.
Die from an unfortunate “accident” because I couldn’t hack it.
House of Eights or H.O.E., (the acronym tickles me more than I’ll admit, especially given it aligns with some of our members’ reputations), would facilitate the tragedy, but that is never discussed.
In my freshman year, two incoming students passed away.
One took a fall from a window in the Great Hall, and the other managed to electrocute himself.
Both failed the initiation rites. Or so the whispers say.
Maybe I should be grateful that the Eights sought me out to attend Rockefeller Amherst because of my particular gifts, but I’m not there yet.
Right now, I’m more focused on keeping my shit together, because my best friend has disappeared without a word. Does it mean he was eliminated?
All my recollections, my knowledge… the reappearance of her…
I can’t let myself think about it.
Hart is already on his feet at the large oak table, the House of Eights symbol carved at its center. A figure eight with a triangle in the middle. “I’m calling the meeting to order. Who knows where the fuck Van Cleave is?” He nods to the empty seat beside me.
Laird sputters in reply, “I thought he was in Strasbourg… uh, F-France?” His arm shakes as he smooths his hair down.
Ignoring him completely, Hart turns to me. “Where is he, JJ?”
Only one person can successfully stand up to Hart, and that’s Eric.
Without him here, Hart runs roughshod over every single one of us.
It could be his Type A personality or his raging narcissism, but we all just put up with it.
Whatever lies beneath Hart’s attractive face and brilliant mind is frightening. I’ve seen him make a professor cry.
During our meetings, we keep each other up to date on developments in our assignments and any potential issues. The main focus is always on the Eternal Triad… and the Divines, because J.D. Rockefeller ensured the House of Eights would continue to protect the balance in the world.
No biggie, right? Just the fate of humanity sitting in our hands.
Crazy talk. It’s preposterous.
And that’s why we’ve remained a rumor, never confirmed.
Rockefeller was the first person with the power and knowledge to recognize the need to organize the effort, rather than leaving it in the hands of a small group that proved, time and again, to be corrupt.
So, along with the University, the House of Eights was formed in 1893. J.D. Rockefeller and Joseph Amherst sought out the original twelve, and every four years, current members select the next group. We’re scouted for our strengths or our connections. Secrecy is paramount.
In Pythagorean numerology, eight represents victory, prosperity, and overcoming. It is tied to abundance and the endless flow of infinity.
Eight is considered a sacred number. In biblical meaning, the number eight represents the cycle of life and the promise of renewal, symbolizing completeness, wholeness, and perfection.
The secret of the House of Eights slipped out in the 1930s when a suicidal member spoke to the press about it. It was later dismissed as complete fiction, but the rumors and whispers never truly died out.
That member died in a car wreck two days after his interview.
Mya Abbott stands. “Are you in charge now, Crawford? The better question is, where’s Dr. Fraine? Eric doesn’t need to check in with you.” She rolls her eyes as she crosses her arms.
Each cycle of the House of Eights has had a Regent leader. Dr. Fraine has held that position for two cycles, eight years. More often than not, he’s too busy to attend our meetings, preferring to meet one on one in his office.
Hart Crawford has become the self-appointed leader, and he hates to be questioned, especially by any of his fellow H.O.E. members. He levels a glare at Mya. “Until you have something of worth to add, you can keep your mouth shut.”
The feeling of tension in the dark stone room with no windows, where our voices often echo, ramps up as Mya sits in a huff.
Gas-lit torches cast light that dances across the stone ominously.
It gives me the creeps and always has. Running the length of the Regent’s Great Hall, located under the basement and accessed through a hidden door from the chapel, is our sanctum.
It holds the table and chairs, as well as two safes.
One safe contains past evidence and communications, while the other holds assets such as gold bars, cash, jewels, and artifacts. Only Dr. Fraine has the combinations.
The symbol on the table and the inset, elaborate artwork on one wall are the only things that give any identity to this space. The scrolling carved stone, featuring the Latin phrase “Ad Infinitum,” is an ornate feature that draws my eye each time we are seated here.
I hold my tongue while Hart berates us all for laziness, lack of focus, and disloyalty to our cause. “If we need to step up, we’ll fail if all of you keep acting like this is a game,” he warns, his voice sharp and unwavering.
Ellis laughs, interrupting Hart’s lecture.
“Relax. You’re buying into a fairytale. Do you believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny too, man?
What are we actually doing here, huh? If this isn’t some elite fraternity, what do you think it is?
I’m here for connections beyond school, to pave my way to big money.
You act like the lore is real. I guarantee it’s not. ”
“Ellis, you’re proving my point. You’ve seen enough in the last three years, and you still think it’s all a story meant to keep us scared and in our place.
” Hart walks around the table, his fists clenched as tightly as his jaw.
“Predicted disasters and deaths, prophecies coming true, even the opportunities that have led us into unimaginable situations. How could you even question it anymore?”
I no longer do.
But maybe it’s because I’ve always had sensitivities. Memes affectionately called it my uncanny knack, but I’ve felt change coming, sensed whether it’s good or bad. I’ve had memories that don’t make sense, dreams that haunt my waking hours about disasters from the past.
I’ve had memories of them, their roles still murky.
I know Elizabeth.
Ellis shares a look with Rett. Both have reached a boiling point with Hart.
They can both trace their family trees back to American presidents, a legacy of power and the ebb and flow of money.
Rett is a great-great-grandson of Woodrow Wilson.
Beyond modeling, he’s in position to take over financial institutions along the entire east coast. Ellis is related to Gerald Ford, and his family controls an international communications company.
One blowhard classmate and fellow member won’t make either of them back down.
“Can we get back on track here?” I ask before it turns into a full-blown fight.
“Where are we at with Tullis?” Soren asks.
“Dead. He died in a plane crash last week,” Mya says in a bored voice.
My guts ripple.
Then it hits me, as if a fist slammed down into the center of my being. I look around me to see an Olympic-sized pool. Pennants marking years of collegiate excellency hang from the rafters. Standing poolside in Rafferty Hall at RockAm, I’m alone.
Voices filter to me from the locker area as a young Henry Tullis walks in with a towel around his waist. He turns to look at me. “Hey, thought you were too busy to meet up?”
A laugh comes from a tall, dark-haired male, obscured by the stands. He says, “He can’t stand being left out. Of course he’s here.”
That voice… is it…
Kaitlyn pulls on my shirt, her voice in my ear. “Are you high right now?”
Blinking as I stare at her face, I nod. Words fail me.
What in the fucking tarnation was that?
Henry Tullis, U.S. Ambassador to Germany, was fifty-eight years old when he met his demise. Why did I just have a vision of him as a college student here?
Why did I feel like I was there with him, while he was an active member of the House of Eights? What does it mean?
Suddenly, I’m gripped by alarm. I’ve never had something like that happen to me before.
“If you are, can’t blame you. I’ve got a test to cram for. Instead I’m stuck listening to Hart get his rocks off about all this bullshit.”
As an Amherst heir, Kaitlyn is often dismissed as a nepo baby, but she’s a genius. She’s written two papers published in medical journals, and she’s working on cell manipulation to stop disease growth.
Wiping my hand across my mouth, I squeeze my eyes shut as I respond to her, “He might have a point about how serious we’ve all been.”
Which is lacking. Half of us seem to think the House of Eights gives us carte blanche to indulge in excess. Parties, hook-ups, trips, money.
The other half of us knows there is truth to what we’ve been told. Just no idea what to do with the limited information.
“Dead? Fucking dead?” Rippley Maxwell asks, his eyes wide.
“That’s clearly what I said,” Mya replies.
We have two female members, Mya and Kaitlyn, and I wouldn’t want to be on the bad side of either one. Mya is cutting in all she says and does. Kaitlyn is emotionless.
The door at the end of the long, open room isn’t quiet. It sticks, forcing whoever is entering to pull it open. When it finally gives, all attention shifts as Eric lopes into the room.
Soren half stands. “I thought you were…”
“Great punctuality,” Hart says, turning to look his way.
Eric stops abruptly, his eyes fixed on the wall of art beyond us. “When did it start?”
What? I follow his gaze, scanning the wall, its corners and crevices, until I see it.
Hells bells and wishing wells.
That’s new. And fucking terrifying.
Hart swears under his breath, while Laird makes a weird squawking noise beside me.
“The clock… when did it start keeping time again?” Eric repeats, more sternly.
A large clock at the top center of the art wall draws all our attention. It hasn’t worked since I’ve been a member, maybe even long before. There was no fixing it, as it was part of the stone itself. But today, it’s moving. Keeping the correct time.
The skulls carved beside it have their jaws open, as if screaming. They had always been closed.
I grip the back of my chair as I stand.
Each one of us is paying attention now.
“Mother fucking no way,” Ellis says. “This is a prank, right?”
Hart stares, open-mouthed.
Rett shoves his chair back and moves closer. “What does it mean? What’s happening?”
From somewhere behind me, Eric says, “It means…it’s started. Whatever the hell it is.”