Haunting at Remington House. Laura V. Keegan

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ tonight. A fire would be greatly appreciated though,” Tom said, following the driver into the room to the right of the hall.

      “I’ll get some wood from out back. I did some remodeling for the previous owners, so I know my way around. Wait here.”

      Tom paced nervously waiting for him to come back inside. A few minutes later, Tom heard the slamming of a door from the back of the house. Carrying a canvas sling filled with wood, the driver came in, put the bundle down and threw several pieces of kindling into the fireplace. In a short time, he had a fire blazing. Tom leaned forward to warm his hands.

      “Much better,” the man said. “It’s been damned cold the past few days. All these old houses are cold—poorly insulated, lots of drafts.” He stood up. “There’s plenty of wood chopped outside. You should be fine for a few days anyhow.”

      “Thanks . . . uh?”

      “Name’s Joe. Joe Tilson,” he said extending his callused hand to Tom.

      Joe’s handshake was firm and reassuring in Tom’s own shaking hand. He realized his trembling was evident to Joe. Embarrassed, he withdrew his hand, though Joe didn’t act as if he’d noticed. “I’m Tom Gardner.”

      “Yeah, I knew that. Need anything else before I go?”

      “No. Thanks.”

      “Well, if you find anything that needs to be done around here, I’m always looking for extra work to make it through the winter. It’s the off-season here. I don’t do a lot of driving-for-hire this time of year.” Joe threw a few more pieces of wood into the fire and stacked the rest of the cut wood into the storage bin on the side of the fireplace. “I was a contractor in New York—once upon a time. Got tired of the big city and moved out here.” He zipped his jacket. “Anyhow, I know my stuff, and I’m reasonable. And honest.”

      “Thanks. Why don’t you check back tomorrow? I’ll look around and see what needs to be done.”

      “Sure, Mr. Gardner. I’ll stop by in the morning. Goodnight.”

      After Joe left, Tom sank down into the couch in front of the crackling fire and surveyed the room. The wall with the fireplace was of rich, earth-hued brownstone that reached to the high, ten-foot ceiling. The mantle was about a foot deep and perhaps ten feet wide, built of solid golden-oak, its underside blackened with soot. Dozens of antique-tin, daguerreotype photos covered the ledge. Faces of lifeless men and women stared vacantly from pewter frames. “God those are creepy! They go in the trash tomorrow.”

      The hearth was deep-brown, polished granite, inlaid with black stones—maybe obsidian. The inlaid pattern radiated out from a central hub. It looked very primitive—possibly even occult in design.

      Built into the wall on the left of the fireplace was a large, wood-storage bin, now half- filled with the wood Joe hauled in earlier. Extending from the floor to the ceiling on the right of the fireplace was a bookcase about six feet wide. Photographs of an old couple filled several shelves. He wondered why they hadn’t been packed away. Tom picked up one of the pictures, studying it. Must be the previous owners.

      The man and woman glaring from the frame were obviously brother and sister, their sharp, well defined features mirrored in their faces. Around their necks they wore heavy amulets, inlaid with dark, sparkling stones. The man’s face was skeletal. Wrinkled skin hung off his long thin neck, making his stiffly starched, white collar appear several sizes too large. Protruding cheekbones and deep-set eyes added to his pallid, sickly appearance. Tufts of black hair stuck out from either side of his head.

      The woman seemed younger, more vibrant. Her silver hair was pulled tightly back from her face in a pristine bun. The woman’s face was deeply wrinkled and covered in heavy makeup, apparent even in the photograph. Her eyebrows were penciled dark brown, her thin lips painted scarlet red. Dots of rouge emphasized the woman’s sculpted cheekbones. Diamond earrings hung from her elongated earlobes. Tom imagined she’d been a stunner in her day. Her eyes, though—something was wrong. With icy-malice she glared at him from the tarnished frame. Shuddering, Tom turned the photograph face down on the shelf. All these pictures go in the trash. Creepy damn things!

      To the right of the bookcase was a single black-mahogany door with an antiqued-brass, lever-set handle. Curious, Tom twisted the lever downward and pushed. The door didn’t budge. Turning the handle again, he rammed the doorframe with his shoulder. The old wood creaked, its dry hinges squealing as the door gave way. Tom started to fall forward, quickly steadying himself by grabbing the doorframe. The door opened into a small, bare room under the upper staircase.

      There was a half-door to the left that Tom guessed was a storage area. Barely visible in the dim light was still another door on the far wall to the left and still another on the wall to the right. Stepping into the small room, Tom was immediately assaulted by a freezing chill. His breath formed a mist in the damp air. The smell of old, damp wood filled his nostrils. Moving slowly forward, Tom opened the door at the far left. It led into the back end of the study. He found the light switch, flipped it and glanced around the room. The study was paneled in oak varnished to a warm glow. The fireplace wall on the west was tiled from floor to ceiling in deep, amber-colored marble squares. The southern wall facing the veranda was comprised almost entirely of windows hung with heavy, antique lace drapes that Tom hoped would allow sunshine to filter into the room and lighten what was, in his opinion, an oppressive atmosphere.

      Several large, floral-patterned Oriental rugs, in colors ranging from tans to deep browns, covered the highly buffed, oak floor. All the furniture in the room was upholstered in varying shades of brown leather. On the east wall, by the door to the entryway, were bookcases filled with hundreds of leather-bound books. In front of the bookcase was a massive oak desk and chair.

      Alerted by the sound of creaking floorboards, Tom spun around. In the dark shadows, in the far corner of the room, someone stood. Tom’s breath caught, there was a ringing in his ears, sweat collected above his brow. Instinctively he reached up wiping it away with a trembling hand. She was standing there, twenty feet from him. “In the name of God!” Tom yelled. “What do you want?” His voice, low pitched and hollow, seemed to come from someone else, someone behind him.

      She stepped out of the shadows. “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t hear you come in. It’s okay. I’m supposed to be here. Are you Mr. Gardner?” She was a slight girl, maybe 19 or 20 with long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. She took a step toward him.

      Seeing her in the shadows he’d thought . . . To hell with what he’d thought. Tom took a deep breath, steadied himself. “I’m Tom Gardner. Who are you, and what are you doing sneaking around here?”

      “I’m Mary Stevens. I was hired to clean the house.”

      Tom said, “Oh! I remember. John Atwood hired you.”

      “That’s right,” Mary said. “I’ve been here since this afternoon. I was dusting the dining room and some of the power went out. I didn’t hear you come in because I’ve been wandering around in the basement—in the dark mind you—trying to find the fuse box. Which I never did find. When I came upstairs, the door from the basement into the kitchen was locked. I had to go out the basement entrance and around back to get in the house.” She pointed behind her.

      “Sounds like you’ve had quite an ordeal,” Tom said.

      Mary nodded.

      “I’ve been here about an hour,” Tom said. “You’ve СКАЧАТЬ