Copyright Timeless Love: The Wrath Copyright © 2026 R. E. Smith ISBN (Paperback): 9798199490696 ISBN (Hardcover): 9798199488754 All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. First Edition Published by R. E. Smith Monticello, FL
Timeless Love
The Wrath
By R.E. Smith
Prologue
October, 1880
Rain hammered the coastline hard enough to flatten the tall grass along the cliffs while Elias Turner stumbled through the woods with blood running down his arm and a lantern shaking wildly in his hand. Mud sucked at his boots. Branches whipped across his face. Cold Atlantic wind roared through the trees above him and drove the rain sideways through the dark. Behind him, a gunshot exploded somewhere in the fog, followed by another, and then came screaming so raw and panicked that Elias nearly dropped the lantern into the mud.
“Henry!” Elias shouted into the storm, lifting the lantern higher as he pushed toward the survey camp near the shoreline. The woods swallowed his voice whole. Rain poured through the oak branches overhead and rolled down the back of his coat while he staggered between the trees, one hand clamped over the torn meat of his shoulder. The camp lanterns had burned there less than an hour earlier, three small yellow lights near the cliff path where the men had left their gear, maps, and coffee boiling black over a coal stove. Darkness filled that part of the forest now.
Fog drifted low across the ground in pale ribbons while the storm churned above the coastline beyond the trees. Elias stopped beside an enormous oak rising from the earth near the cliffs, and the sight of it stole what breath the run had left him. The tree looked ancient beyond reason. Roots thick as corpses twisted through the ground and disappeared beneath rock overlooking the Atlantic below. Rainwater streamed down the bark in black rivers while wind groaned through branches wide enough to blot out half the sky. The surveyor in him noticed the trunk first, the roots second, the impossible angle of the ground third, and then fear shoved all measurements from his mind.
Another scream echoed through the woods behind him, short and sharp, cut in half by pain. Elias raised the lantern again and called Henry’s name, though his voice had gone thin. The fog shifted between the trees, and a woman stepped into the clearing barefoot, her dark hair soaked against animal furs wrapped around her body. Rain rolled across her skin while she stood motionless beneath the oak with sadness in her face deep enough to hollow a man out. Elias stared at her through the storm and managed one useless word. “Ma’am?”
The woman said nothing. Her eyes stayed fixed on him for several long seconds before she slowly lifted one hand toward the woods behind him. The gesture carried the plain force of warning. Elias turned partway, lantern raised, and saw movement drifting through the fog beyond her. Tall shoulders emerged first, followed by the dark line of a spear shaft and a stone point protruding straight through a man’s chest, slick with blood darkened by rain. The figure stepped forward between the trees, broad, bare-chested, covered in old scars and fresh blood. His eyes locked onto Elias, and grief burned there hot enough to feel alive. The storm seemed to bend around him.
Henry burst into the clearing screaming, revolver raised in both hands. “There you are, you crazy son of a bitch—” The words died in his mouth when he saw the man beneath the oak. The revolver shook violently in his grip. His face had gone white beneath the rain and dirt, and the madness in his eyes looked less like courage than collapse. “Oh sweet Jesus,” he whispered.
The woman turned toward Henry, fear crossing her face in an instant. Henry fired. The gunshot shattered the clearing, and the bullet tore through the woman’s head. She vanished in a burst of fog where her body had stood moments earlier. Henry screamed louder and fired again. The second shot cracked through the rain. The third followed immediately. Smoke rolled from the barrel and disappeared into the storm, but the man with the spear stayed exactly where he stood. Rain streamed down his body while blood dripped steadily from the stone point jutting through his chest.
Henry backed away sobbing openly, boots slipping in the mud near the roots. “He’s dead,” he gasped. “He’s fucking dead.” The figure took one slow step forward. Henry turned the revolver toward Elias with wild broken eyes. “You brought it here.”
“What?” Elias barely heard himself over the rain.
“You fucking brought it here!” Henry fired before Elias could move. Pain exploded through Elias’s shoulder and hurled him backward into the roots of the oak. The lantern smashed against stone beside him, glass bursting outward as the flame died. Darkness swallowed the clearing. Henry kept screaming somewhere in the woods, his voice moving farther away, then closer again, as if the forest itself kept turning him around.
Rain thundered through the branches overhead. A child began crying beneath the storm, soft and close, and Elias looked upward through rainwater running into his eyes. The man stood over him now, close enough for Elias to see tears mixed with rain on his face. The grief in him had become something larger than grief, something sharpened by death and held in place by rage. Somewhere beyond the storm, a scream rose through the woods, and it carried the sound of a man grieving hard enough to shake the earth beneath the trees.
Contents
Chapter Three — Winter Fires. 29
Chapter Four — Teeth In The Dark. 36
Chapter Five — The Rebuilding. 45
Chapter Eight — The Oak Tree. 79
Chapter Nine — The Devil In The Trees. 95
Chapter Eleven — The Woman By The Trees. 111
Chapter Twelve — The Wrath. 120
Chapter Thirteen — The Trees Between Armies. 130
Chapter Fourteen — Friendly Fire. 140
Chapter Fifteen — Edmund Vane Harrow.. 152
Chapter Sixteen — The First Accident 163
Chapter Seventeen — Foundations. 168
Chapter Eighteen — Harrow House. 174
Chapter Nineteen — The Grand Opening. 181
Chapter Twenty-One — The Crack In The Wall 198
Chapter Twenty-Two — The Woman In White. 208
Chapter Twenty-Three — The Return. 216
Chapter Twenty-Four — Inside Harrow.. 225
Chapter Twenty-Five — The Husband. 234
Chapter Twenty-Six — The Boys Who Entered Harrow.. 244
Chapter Twenty-Seven — The Woman In The Dust 257
Chapter Twenty-Eight — The Return To Harrow.. 268
Chapter Twenty-Nine — Ten Minutes Inside. 275
Chapter Thirty — What Waited In Harrow.. 282
Chapter Thirty-One — Rene. 288
Chapter Thirty-Two — The Harrow Grand Again. 297
Chapter Thirty-Three — The Séance. 307
Chapter Thirty-Four — The Lower Level 322
Chapter Thirty-Five — The Child / The Wrath Awakens. 332
Chapter Thirty-Six — Sleep No More / Blood In The Walls. 338
Chapter Thirty-Seven — Daren / The Storm.. 344
Chapter Thirty-Eight — The Chase / The Oak. 351
Chapter Thirty-Nine — The Spearhead. 357
Other Books by R. E. Smith. 367
Historical Fiction & Historical Horror 367
Horror & Supernatural Fiction. 367
Fantasy & Dark Epic Series. 367
Author’s Note
Every horror story is about something deeper than the thing hunting people in the dark.
Sometimes it is grief.
Sometimes guilt.
Sometimes loneliness.
Sometimes rage buried so deep a person stops recognizing it inside themselves.
This story began with one thought:
What would love look like if death could not kill it?
The answer frightened me.
Because love does not disappear when people die. Love stays. It changes shape. Sometimes it hardens into grief. Sometimes grief hardens into anger. Sometimes anger sits in one place for so long it poisons everything around it.
That became the soul of this book.
The spirit inside Harrow House was never written as a monster in the traditional sense. He was written as a man trapped inside the worst moment of his existence, still trying to protect his family centuries after losing them. His wrath came from love with nowhere left to go.
That felt human to me.
Terrifyingly human.
The Native American elements within this novel were inspired by the coastal Algonquian peoples who lived throughout the northeastern coastline long before colonists arrived. I approached those sections with deep respect for their connection to land, ancestry, family, oral tradition, and spiritual memory. This story remains fiction, though the emotional truths behind it were treated seriously throughout the writing process.
I wanted the horror in this novel to feel physical and intimate. Wet wood. Cold ocean air. Storms rattling old walls at three in the morning while grief breathes through the rooms beside you. I wanted readers to feel the kind of fear that follows them after they close the book and turn out the lights.
More than anything else, I wanted this story to feel tragic.
Because beneath every death, every haunting, every violent moment inside Harrow House, this story has always been about family.
About the people we would die for.
About the people we would kill for.
About the terrifying things love can become when it loses peace.
Thank you for walking through Harrow House with me.
Sleep carefully.
— R. E. Smith
Timeless Love
The Wrath
Chapter One — River Smoke
The cold came off the water first.
The kind of cold that rolled low and soft across the coastline before dawn, carrying the smell of saltwater, wet stone, fish guts, smoke, and seaweed rotting somewhere beyond the black shoreline. The tide hissed against the rocks in the dark while long fingers of fog moved slowly between the trees and drifted through the sleeping village. Somewhere out past the breakers a whale exhaled into the morning gloom, deep and hollow enough to vibrate faintly through the earth beneath bare feet.
Smoke rose from the village in thin gray streams. The shelters sat low against the ground near the coast, framed from bent saplings and covered in bark, woven mats, and animal hides darkened by years of weather and smoke. Canoes rested upside down along the shore beside racks of drying cod and stripped bluefish hanging stiff in the cold air. Beyond the homes stood the forest. Endless oak and pine stretching westward in thick walls of black shadow where the morning sun had not yet reached.
The village woke slowly.
Children stumbled sleep-heavy from shelters rubbing their eyes while women stirred cooking fires back to life with long sticks blackened from years of use. Dogs barked somewhere near the shoreline and gulls screamed overhead already searching for scraps. Men returned from fishing along the coast carrying nets slick with seawater while older women split shellfish beside flat stones and traded gossip before sunrise had fully broken over the ocean.
Mattanaw stepped from the trees carrying a young deer across his shoulders.
Blood darkened one side of the animal’s neck where his arrow had entered clean beneath the jaw. Two rabbits hung tied from his belt beside a skinning knife wrapped in worn leather. Pine needles clung to the fur around his calves and cold marsh water soaked his moccasins nearly black to the ankle.
Beside him walked Sôgemaw.
The old man carried three ducks by their feet in one hand and a bow in the other. Gray streaks braided through his hair caught the early light while deep lines around his eyes folded harder every time he squinted toward the ocean. He still walked like a hunter despite his age. Straight-backed. Quiet-footed. Every movement careful and balanced like he never wasted energy unless he had to.
“You stepped on enough branches this morning to wake every deer between here and the river,” Sôgemaw muttered.
Mattanaw shifted the deer higher on his shoulders. “The deer is dead.”
“It died from surprise.”
“It died from my arrow.”
“Your arrow surprised it.”
Mattanaw laughed softly through his nose.
The old man glanced sideways at him. “You laugh because you know I am right.”
“I laugh because you complain every morning.”
“That is because you give me new things to complain about every morning.”
They walked between the shelters while people called greetings toward them. A fisherman near the shore lifted a hand after seeing the deer.
“You finally found one too old and blind to outrun you.”
Mattanaw pointed toward the sea. “Go wrestle fish.”
“I already did. The fish lost.”
A few nearby men laughed while continuing to pull nets onto the shoreline.
Near the center of the village, women prepared morning food over several cooking fires burning low against the cold. The smell of roasting shellfish and smoked fish drifted heavily through the damp air. Sparks climbed upward through the fog and vanished.
That was when Sôgemaw slowed.
Mattanaw followed the old man’s gaze without speaking.
Awenasa crouched beside one of the fires scraping scales from a fish with the edge of a sharpened shell. Long dark hair fell over one shoulder while strands of colored beads clicked softly every time she moved. Gray fur wrapped around her shoulders against the morning cold and smoke drifted lazily around her face while she worked.
Beside her sat the wolf.
The animal looked enormous against the firelight. Thick gray fur. Heavy shoulders. One torn ear from some old fight long before Awenasa found him wandering half-starved near the river as a pup. Most people in the village still kept their distance from the beast despite how calm he usually acted around children.
The wolf noticed Mattanaw immediately.
Its ears perked upright.
Its tail hit the dirt once.
Awenasa looked up a breath later and caught him staring.
Her mouth curled slowly into a smile.
Sôgemaw grunted beside him. “There she is.”
Mattanaw kept walking. “I see her.”
“You look at her every morning.”
“I look at everyone every morning.”
“You look at her like you forgot how breathing works.”
“That is a lie.”
“It is not.”
Mattanaw adjusted the deer on his shoulders and ignored him because arguing with Sôgemaw only made the old man enjoy himself more.
The wolf suddenly stood and trotted straight toward him.
Awenasa looked offended immediately.
“Oh, fuck you then,” she called after the animal.
Mattanaw barked out a laugh before he could stop himself.
The wolf shoved its giant head against his side hard enough to nearly throw him off balance beneath the deer carcass.
“You feed him scraps,” Awenasa said while standing. “That is why he likes you.”
“He likes me because he understands greatness.”
“He likes you because you smell like raw meat.”
“That can also be greatness.”
The wolf pressed against Mattanaw again while he scratched thick fur behind its neck.
Awenasa approached through the smoke carrying the half-cleaned fish in one hand and the shell scraper in the other. She stopped close enough for him to smell cedar smoke tangled in her hair beneath the sharp salt scent blowing off the water.
“You missed yesterday,” she said.
“I hit two rabbits.”
“You missed three birds first.”
“The birds moved.”
“The birds were flying.”
“That is moving.”
She rolled her eyes toward the sky.
Sôgemaw muttered something under his breath about young people becoming stupid around pretty faces and continued walking toward the cooking fires.
Awenasa watched him go before lowering her voice slightly.
“My mother says you stare too much.”
Mattanaw blinked once. “Your mother watches me?”
“She watches everyone.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It probably is.”
The wolf sat heavily between them and leaned against Mattanaw’s leg like he had already chosen sides in some argument nobody else understood yet.
Awenasa pointed at the animal. “Traitor.”
Its tail thumped happily against the dirt.
Mattanaw grinned. “He knows quality people.”
“He knows who carries extra meat.”
“Still quality.”
Awenasa tried not to smile.
Tried.
Failed.
It hit him right in the chest every damn time.
He could walk through freezing rain for half a day carrying meat across his shoulders without complaint. He could pull fishing nets until his arms shook. He could skin deer, climb cliffs along the coast, and swim water cold enough to numb his bones.
Then this girl smiled at him and suddenly he forgot how to stand correctly.
Behind them the village continued waking fully beneath the growing sunrise. Children chased one another between shelters while fishermen argued loudly near the shoreline over tangled nets. Smoke drifted low through the settlement and somewhere farther inland a woodpecker hammered against a tree hard enough to echo through the forest.
Awenasa glanced toward the deer hanging across his shoulders.
“You finally caught one bigger than yourself.”
“It was difficult carrying your future meals all the way home.”
“My future meals?”
“Yes.”
“So now you hunt for me?”
“I hunt for everyone.”
“That sounds less romantic.”
Mattanaw narrowed his eyes. “I can stop hunting for you specifically.”
“No you cannot.”
Confidence.
That was another thing about her.
Awenasa spoke like somebody entirely comfortable inside her own skin. She laughed loudly when something was funny. Argued openly with men twice her age. Climbed trees faster than half the boys in the village and swam farther into the ocean than anyone except the fishermen.
She scared him a little.
Mostly because he liked it.
“You still smell terrible,” she said.
“You already decided that.”
“I wanted to make sure you knew.”
“I know many things.”
“You missed three birds.”
“One bird.”
“Three.”
“The sun was in my eyes.”
“The sun was behind you.”
“The bird was difficult.”
“The bird was flying.”
“That bird sounds very talented.”
She laughed softly and looked away for a second, smiling toward the dirt while trying to hide it.
God.
There it was again.
That tight feeling in his chest like somebody reaching inside him and pulling slowly.
A sharp voice called her name from farther down the village.
Awenasa glanced toward the cooking fires where several women worked beside racks of drying fish.
“My mother wants help.”
“She sounds dangerous.”
“She is dangerous.”
“You should probably go.”
“I should.”
Neither of them moved.
The wolf yawned loudly between them and flopped onto the dirt.
Awenasa stepped backward slowly, still watching him.
“You really do stare too much.”
“You really do talk too much.”
“That is because somebody has to talk for both of us.”
“I speak.”
“You grunt.”
“That is speaking.”
“To the wolf maybe.”
“He understands me.”
“He understands food.”
“Same thing.”
She shook her head, smiling again despite herself.
Then she turned and walked back through the smoke toward the cooking fires, beads clicking softly in her hair while the wolf remained exactly where he was beside Mattanaw.
Halfway there she glanced back over her shoulder.
Mattanaw still watched her.
This time she caught him openly.
And instead of pretending not to notice, she smiled directly at him before disappearing into the waking village.