Читать книгу Haunting at Remington House - Laura V. Keegan - Страница 6

The drive proved much longer than Tom expected. After passing through the quaint town of Ravenswood, its streets filled with costumed children gathering candy on this All Hallows’ Eve, the taxi driver and his fare drove for miles in mutual silence, passing only an occasional house set well back from the road. Lights sparkled in windows creating the only visible light in the shadowy trees. On the outskirts of town the road turned into a two-lane highway. Tom rolled the window down. At once he heard the rhythmic sounds of the ocean pounding onto the shore. The glorious smell of salty ocean permeated and stung his nostrils. He inhaled deeply filling his lungs with the wonderfully intoxicating sea air. After driving for about half an hour on the desolate, winding beach highway, the cab turned off onto a dirt road.

Rounding a curve in the long driveway, Tom had his first view of Remington House. He was finally home. Nestled in a grove of barren, leafless trees, Remington House waited for him. The moon peered from behind an expanse of clouds illuminating the stately three-story, clapboard house. From this angle, he could see three stone chimneys protruding from the broad-hipped roof. A wide verandah ran the full length of the house front, continuing around to the east. The moon slipped behind the thick clouds, shadowing the house in darkness.

“You ever been here?” the driver asked.

“No, I bought it sight unseen. My attorney did the legwork for me.”

“Nice place. Too bad you’re seeing it in the dark for the first time. It’s incredible in the daylight.”

The driver stopped in the gravel drive below the porch. While he unloaded the suitcases, Tom climbed the stairs and crossed the verandah. He stopped in front of the heavy double-entry doors, fumbling in his pocket for the key. Several lights had been left on inside, their glow casting eerie patterns across the porch. Lace curtains covered the leaded glass windows, obscuring his view into the house.

“Mr. Gardner, are you going to open the door? You have the key, right?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Tom’s hand was shaking as he unlocked the door and stepped into the oak- paneled entryway. Directly in front of him was a wooden staircase leading up into the pitch black, second floor. A cold draft blew down the staircase and across his face. A nudge from behind reminded him the driver was still loaded down with suitcases and was trying to get past him into the house.

Tom stepped into the entryway, letting the man go around him. To the left, a doorway opened into a study, dimly lit from the porch lights. “Put the suitcases in there. I’ll take care of them later,” Tom said. “What do I owe you?”

“Twenty four.”

Tom handed the driver the fare, along with a generous tip. “That should do it then. Thanks. Goodnight.”

The driver stared curiously at Tom. “You okay?” he asked, sticking his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Fine,” Tom said, turning to open the front doors so the driver would leave.

“You look beat. Least I can do is light the fireplace for you. It’s freezing in here. Don’t think anyone turned the furnace on. Might need to check the pilot light.”

“Not 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 been in the basement that whole time?”

“Yeah. Wow! I had no idea that much time had gone by. That’s amazing . . . and very strange.” Mary frowned, wrinkling her forehead. “Anyway, when I came into the living room, I saw the open door and the light on in the study. I was making sure everything was okay. That’s when you saw me. You scared me, too,” Mary added.

“I bet I did. Well, tell me, Mary, what can I do to make amends?”

Mary laughed nervously. “Nothing. It’s okay. I need to call my dad to come get me, though. My car’s in for service, so my dad dropped me off here this afternoon. Then of course, my cell phone died, and your landline’s not working. Do you have a cell phone I could use?”

Tom handed Mary his phone. “Sorry I yelled at you. It’s been a long day.”

“That’s okay. I completely get it.” She smiled at Tom as she punched in the numbers. “Hey, Dad, you can come and get me now. Yeah, I know, but my phone battery died.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Yeah, I’m finished. Mr. Gardner’s here now. Hey, Dad, you know where the breaker box is? Some of the power’s off.” She nodded to Tom. “Okay. We’ll find it. See you in a while. Bye.” She handed Tom his phone.

“Okay. Show me the way to the basement,” Tom said. “Let’s get the lights back on.” He followed Mary through the living and dining rooms and into the kitchen. Candles burned illuminating the room in a dull, shadowy glow.

Mary picked up the flashlight from the counter and handed it to Tom. “The basement stairs are here.” She unlocked the door. They’d just started down the wooden stairs when the kitchen and basement lights came on.

“Well, I guess that takes care of that,” Tom said. “Still, I better go down and make sure everything’s okay. I don’t want the lights going out again tonight. Your dad told you where the fuse box is?”

“He says it’s in the furnace room. I never found the furnace room! I got kind of lost down there in the dark, though.”

They descended the steep, wooden stairs, Tom in the lead. “I think the furnace room is down that hall,” Mary said, pointing to her right.

But it wasn’t. They wandered around and around, through room after room, some empty, some filled with boxes, some stuffed with antique furniture. Wispy cobwebs grabbed at their bare arms, clung to their eyelashes.

Tom scratched his head. “This makes no sense. We’re going in circles. I can’t figure out where we are. I thought we came in from the hallway over there, but where are the stairs?” The lights flickered off and on.

Mary motioned to her left. “Let’s try that way. That looks like the door at the bottom of the stairs. It must have swung closed.” They walked in the direction of the door. There was a loud pop. The lights went out, leaving them in total darkness.

“Damn! What did I do with the flashlight? Did I give it to you?” Tom asked.

“No,” Mary said.

Tom felt for Mary’s hand. In the darkness he grabbed it, surprised at how icy-cold it was, how bony and stiff her fingers were. He pulled her after him, moving cautiously toward where he thought the door should be. He crept down the long hallway, his shoes scuffling on the hard cement, at last coming to a door. The knob felt reassuringly solid in his hand. He turned it. The lights flickered on. Tom turned to Mary who was squeezing his hand painfully. There was no one there! He looked down. Red indentations were visible from the tight pressure to his hand. No one there registered in his mind, echoed again and again. He glanced around looking for Mary. The lights went out! He stood alone, his back pressed against the cold, cement wall that smelled faintly of mold. Motionless, Tom waited in the dark. Waited . . . for what?

In the distance he heard Mary shouting, fear clearly discernible in her voice. “Mr. Gardner?” she yelled. “Where are you? I’m scared! Please! Answer me!”

He had to get to her! Tom felt in his pockets. What the hell had he done with the flashlight? He hurried down the hall, heard Mary’s breath coming in short gasps. “Don’t be afraid, Mary, I’m here. Walk toward my voice.” He inched forward, trying to forget what had just happened, his hand still throbbing. At last, he felt her warm, outstretched hand.

Suddenly there was the whirring of an electric motor, a flash of lights. The power came on. Tom and Mary were standing in the center of the furnace room. Directly in front of them was the fuse box—open, all switches in the on position. Lying on the floor in front of them was the flashlight. Tom reached down and grabbed it, not wanting to risk darkness again.

Mary was pale and obviously shaken. “I swear, someone ran by me—right after the lights went out. Why did you leave me?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Mr. Gardner, how did we get in here?”

Tom hurriedly looked around. “We must have walked though that doorway in the dark without knowing it.” Tom pointed at a doorway to their right.

“I haven’t moved since you left me. I know I haven’t. What’s going on?” Mary cried.

“It’s okay; it’s an odd floor plan, that’s all. Especially in the dark,” Tom said.

“I want to get out of here! Let’s go upstairs.” Mary twisted her ponytail nervously in her fingers.

“Let me check the fuses first.” Tom found nothing wrong—not that he knew a lot about wiring. But it looked okay to him. He closed the metal box. “Come on. Everything seems fine.” Again they wandered through hallway after hallway, room after room. When at last they found the stairs, they didn’t hesitate but ran up and into the kitchen. Tom slammed the door.

For reasons better left for each of them to understand, Tom and Mary dismissed their experience in the basement, neither one wanting to admit to the other, or more importantly to themselves, what had occurred. Better to let it be. Better to forget that it made no sense.

“I’ll tell you one thing. Before I go down there again, I’ll find the floor plans for the basement!” Tom laughed, trying to make light of the situation.

“Hello?” a deep voice called. “Mary, where are you? Hello?”

“We’re here, Dad. In the kitchen.”

Her dad looked from Mary to Tom. “Mary, are you all right? You’re pale as a ghost!”

“I’m okay. The power was out, and we got lost in the basement trying to find the fuse box and then . . . well, I got scared in the dark—that’s all. Never mind.” Mary took her dad’s hand. “Dad, this is Tom Gardner. Tom, this is my dad, Mick Stevens.”

“Glad to meet you.” Mick pulled his daughter to him, hugging her with one arm. He extended his free hand to Tom. “So, you’re the lucky owner of this house? This is a fine place. They don’t build them better than this. No sirree! My grandfather helped build Remington House back in the twenties. Meant to stand a lifetime. Solid—that’s what this house is.”

“Dad, I’m tired, please don’t get started talking about how things used to be,” Mary chided her dad. “Mr. Gardner is tired. Let’s go home. Oh, almost forgot— I left a few groceries in the kitchen to get you by.”

“Thanks, Mary. Much appreciated. It was nice to meet you, Mick. You have a lovely daughter. Mary thanks for your help.” Tom handed her a fifty.

“Wow, that’s too much. I was only here a few hours.”

“Well deserved, I’m sure. Will you be here tomorrow?”

“I have classes all day, but I can come the day after. I’ll be here around eleven. Goodnight.”

Tom walked them to the door. “Goodnight.”