Greywalker - Kat Richardson [110]
We ate and joked around some more, then headed for the museum.
I parked the Rover in the gravel lot across the street. Will pulled his truck in beside mine. The house was forbidding, all its windows frowning and clouded through a thick bank of Grey. Even the glow of the nexus seemed to have died out. We crossed the street, but this time the gate was locked. I rang the bell on the intercom.
A woman’s voice spoke from the box. “We’re closed on Mondays.”
“Harper Blaine. I have an appointment with the curator.”
“Oh. I’ll be right up.”
A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman in a suit, heels, and corporate hairstyle appeared from behind the house. She took one look at Will and knew a kindred spirit. They chattered antiques the whole way up the drive.
“Nobody cares about the national heritage here,” she declared as we reached the kitchen door. “You have to drag every penny of funding out of these bureaucrats’ hands as if it were their own money. They’d rather spend it on a new baseball stadium. Watch your feet. There’s a towel to wipe your shoes on.”
We did as she suggested, leaving the mud on the towel instead of the parquet floor. She led us into the main hall and waved her hands around. “Gorgeous, isn’t it? It’s a damn sight better than it was when I came here. They had the interior all done in high Victoriana. Crammed with horrible gewgaws and junk, bad wallpaper, ugly, ugly colors. Totally out of period for this building.”
“Then why did the museum acquire a parlor organ?” Will asked.
“Oh, yes. That’s what you came for, isn’t it? There was an organ on the original inventory, but it was broken and the first curator threw it out. Come on. It’s upstairs. You can imagine what it was like getting it in here!” she added, leading us up the front staircase. Upstairs, she opened the door in front of us. “There you go. Awful, isn’t it?”
A small sofa, chairs, and a needlework stand clustered around the hearth, as before, exuding their reassuring odor of age, must, and wood oil. Against the back wall stood the organ, outlined in gleaming red threads and writhing with vile, silent Grey snakes. Will pulled out the description sheet I’d given him and started studying it.
I felt woozy and my heart sped up. I clamped down on the feeling, but the sense of seasickness remained, tickling away, and the room had become hazy and soft like the stink of rot no matter how I tried to resist it.
Will read the sheet as we walked across the polished wood floor. Two feet inside the door, I felt sick. At four feet, my head was pounding with an instant headache of migraine proportions. I put my hand on Will’s arm.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I lied. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel well.” I turned my attention back to the parlor organ.
It was still the ugliest thing I’d ever seen and would have been even if it wasn’t cloaked in swirling energy matrices and sucking darkness like a drain. It had grown worse in just a few days. Clear vision in the Grey seemed to have come with Wygan’s “gift.” Storm-mist pulsed around the organ and phantom faces leered and screamed in transient gusts of paranormal wind. Creeping horror played up and down my spine. I dragged myself a step closer to it, hating the proximity. A glowing tentacle struck out and slammed into my chest where Wygan’s thread was tied. I gagged and stumbled.
I tried to bend the Grey and push it away. The tentacle rippled and sucked away the strength of my push. My knees folded and I felt the floor rush up as vision went black.
Will grabbed me under the arms. “Harper!”
The tentacle pulled on me, wrapping around my insides like a steel fist. I choked, “Get me out of here.”
Will picked me up and ran out. He didn’t stop until we were outside, where he put me on my feet with the care of a collector placing a prized piece.
“Are you all right now? Are you sick? Do you need a glass of water, a doctor . . . ?”
I slumped down on the carriage steps like a dropped sandbag.“No, no. I’m OK now. I just . . . I just need some air. Go back inside. I’ll be fine.” I could not