Читать книгу Haunting at Remington House - Laura V. Keegan - Страница 4

Tom’s wife, Elise, had been dead for nearly two years, years Tom endured the dark depths of desolation and despair, immersed in an illusionary existence, fighting desperately to restore the delicate balance between reality and delusion—he battled to regain his sanity. Over time, with a halfhearted conviction, born out of a necessity to get on with his life and forgo his pain, Tom accepted the truth—he was not responsible for her death. Elise. He loved her madly. He hated her passionately.

It was time to leave Jamestown. Time to start over. On this bleak, sunless October day, Tom was leaving his damnable house and its memories of the tragic and untimely death of Elise. He was moving to Ravenswood.

The wind howled around the great, stone house. Dried leaves, like clouds of gold and crimson, sailed in the strong gusts, tossed higher and higher, then abandoned to float gently to the ground, swept up again and again in an endless, rhythmic cycle. Fog, heavily laden with moisture, drifted across the expansive front lawn forming a curtain that slowly obscured the house.

A cherub statue stared vacantly from the fountain, its half-lidded eyes dull and empty. Tom felt unsettled as he passed the imp-child, its eyes watching, following his every move. He’d be thankful to escape its penetrating gaze. A steady stream of water flowed from the urchin’s tiny, stone penis into the icy fountain; clouds of steam formed, hanging heavily in the air. Perched on the statue’s shoulder was a large raven, feathers shimmering black and midnight blue. As Tom passed, the impressive bird raised its expansive feathered wings, cawed eerily, then flew into the thickening haze.

Tom quickened his pace, hurrying down the tree-lined sidewalk to the waiting cab. Through a momentary break in the fog, a movement from the upper window of the house caught his eye. The wind stirred the white lace curtain of the room that had been Elise’s bedroom. For a moment Tom thought he saw the pale outline of a woman. Then the swirling mist completely shrouded the window. A shiver ran down his spine.

Tom handed his luggage to the cab driver and wrapped his wool scarf tightly around his neck against the cold. How fragile the mind, how easily deceived. But that’s all it was—a cruel trick of a tired mind. Elise was dead.

“Let’s go,” Tom said, slamming the taxi’s door. Finally, it’s over. The car pulled into the street, taillights flickering red as the driver slowed for a curve. Tom was on his way to Remington House, his new home.

***

From the third story window, Elise watched Tom walk down the sidewalk carrying his suitcases. She tried to will him back into the house, back to her. To no avail. She cursed as he climbed into the waiting taxi, stared in disbelief as the cab pulled away from the curb. “How dare you leave me in this dreadful house—this house that has become my prison. I don’t think so!” she snarled, her opalescent fists flailing against the cold glass. Fury pierced her soul like a hot knife. Tom would pay for his betrayal. She smiled cruelly as the thick mist rolled in, completely obliterating her view.