999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [112]
The memory of that bright, bloody afternoon faded as I reached the edge of the pines. I found myself beside a packed-dirt road. It was no more than a country lane, really. I looked in both directions, could see nothing, and went to my left. Given a choice, I always go left. The wind had picked up and so had the rain. Without the protection of the forest I began to shiver. I picked up my pace and within twenty minutes I could see lights burning in a house across a dark field of bare, furrowed rows. I hurried across its open expanse, the bitter wind making my sopping clothes adhere to my skin. I passed an old, rusted tractor that had about it a forlorn air, as if its owner had abandoned it suddenly and without much thought.
The house was old, in the Victorian style, complete with ornamental gingerbread, a wide covered porch and those turreted rooms that look like a witch’s conical hat. The place looked gloomy. The fact that it was painted a battleship gray didn’t help, but truthfully I never much cared for the Victorian style—too ornate to no good purpose to suit me.
In any event, I climbed the wide plank stairs onto the porch and out of the rain. I shook myself off like a dog before I rang the bell. A chime sounded deep inside the house, setting up peculiar vibrations that set my teeth on edge. When no one answered on my second ring, I tried the door. It wasn’t locked.
Inside, I found myself in a magisterial vestibule that was oval in shape. Its main feature was a spiral staircase that grandly rose to the second floor. There was a living room to the right and a study to the left.
“Hello?” I called. “Anybody home?”
There was no reply. Save for the stertorous ticking of a grandfather clock, lacquered black with an etched white porcelain oval affixed just above its face. Had it been a human being I would have figured it was ill.
The study was lit by a wood fire in a massive stone fireplace so encrusted with charcoal it looked as if it had been used for centuries. As you can imagine, the crack and spark of the aromatic logs, as well as the heat itself, were very welcome. I placed myself beside the hearth and relaxed into the delicious heat. Within moments, I could feel my clothes drying out. While they did, I looked around the study. It was paneled in tiger-oak bookshelves. A chair rail ran around the room, and the molding and cornices were of a design and manufacture long out of date. A circular Aubusson rug covered the floor and an ornate ormolu chandelier hung unlit like a great spider waiting to be awakened.
When I was sufficiently warmed and my clothes no longer stuck to me like wet papier-mâché I made my way through the ground floor rooms without finding a living soul. Curiously, the place seemed well-lived-in. For instance, I discovered a plate of orange cheddar cheese and salt biscuits on the kitchen table, and on the massive gas stove a teakettle blackened now because someone had left the flame on while all the water had evaporated. I turned off the burner and almost seared my palm lifting the kettle to a cool spot.
I cursed just as I heard someone scream. Snatching up a large carving knife, I rushed out into the vestibule just as the scream came again, foreshortened this time by an odd and frightening liquid gurgle. It was a female voice and it had come from the second floor. I took the stairs three at a time.
“Hello?” I called at the top of the stairs. “Are you all right?”
I heard only a tiny whimper in reply.
Racing down the hall to my left, I kicked open the door to each room I passed. I was met with only darkness and the peculiar smell of disuse. Then I saw light seeping from under the door at the end of the hallway. I ran to the door and without hesitation threw it open.
I found myself in a huge bedroom, possibly the master suite. An enormous canopy bed occupied the right half of the room, while an uncomfortable-looking divan-and-chairs set