Читать книгу From The Mists Of Wolf Creek - Rebecca Brandewyne - Страница 12

By the time Hallie pulled the car to a stop beneath the intricate wooden carport on one side of the house, the wind was lashing the trees unmercifully, the rain was pouring down and the fleeting dusk had well and truly died.

She was inordinately grateful for what protection, however small, the carport provided as, with difficulty born of the storm, she lifted the vehicle’s rear hatch and unloaded the two bags she had packed to bring with her. Then she fumbled in her purse for the house keys Gram’s attorney, Simon Winthorpe, had mailed to her some days ago.

Once she had finally got the side door open and stepped into the small vestibule beyond, she felt for the light switch on the wall. But much to Hallie’s consternation, when she flicked it, nothing happened. Either the electric company had not received her instructions to restore the power, or else the storm had knocked the power out. Either way, she was obviously not going to be able to get the lights to come on.

Wondering what else might go wrong this seemingly ill-omened night, she set her luggage inside, then returned to the car to fetch the flashlight from the emergency roadside kit she always carried in the cargo space. Punching one of the buttons on the key remote, she locked the car, then ran back into the house, closing the door behind her, shutting out the inhospitable elements.

For a moment, Hallie just stood there in the darkness, dripping with rain and shivering with cold. She correctly suspected that the outside temperature had dropped twenty degrees or more in the last few hours, and she was dressed for summer, not for the onslaught of a storm and its attendant chilliness.

But finally, collecting herself, she switched on the flashlight and began to explore the house. Once or twice, she tested other light switches, only to receive the same disappointing result as before. She had hoped the lightbulb in the vestibule was simply burned out, but now, it was clear to her the power itself was indeed off.

As she proceeded down the hall beyond the vestibule and then through several of the rooms on the ground floor of the house, shining the flashlight this way and that, Hallie was swept with myriad emotions.

Much to her vast relief, in so many ways that she now realized had subconsciously been of prime importance to her, the old farmhouse had not changed. In rooms that had clearly been redone over the years, Gram had chosen the very same patterns that had always papered the walls, and she had reupholstered the furniture with fabric identical to the worn material it had replaced. She had moved little or nothing in the intervening years. Sofas, chairs, curio cabinets, and tables still stood where they always had, and paintings still hung in their accustomed places.

The large portrait of Hallie’s mother, Rowan—forever young and beautiful—still looked down at her from its place of honor above the intricately carved fireplace mantel in the front parlor.

On the much simpler fireplace mantel in the back parlor, Gram’s treasured collection of antique Victorian oil lamps were still clustered, along with the sharp, ornate brass scissors she had used to trim the flat wicks, and the beautiful, matching brass box that housed the stick matches she had employed to light them.

Now, as in her childhood she had watched her grandmother do so many times before, Hallie crossed the room to remove the oil lamps’ glass chimneys, carefully trim the wicks and set them ablaze. Soon the back parlor was awash with the warm glow of their flames and with the fragrant scents of the oils that filled the glass fonts. Sweet lavender and vanilla mingled with the pungent smell of the beeswax with which her grandmother had always polished the furniture.

Standing there in the room, closing her eyes and inhaling the old, familiar aromas, Hallie could almost imagine she was a child again, that any minute now Gram herself would come into the back parlor, wiping her hardworking hands on the apron she had always tied on over her simple workaday garments.

But, no, Hallie would never see her grandmother again in this life.

At the thought, hot tears stung her eyes, and almost, she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake in coming back here to Meadowsweet.

It was said that one could never go home again.

Sighing heavily, fighting back the flood of tears that threatened once more to fall, Hallie abruptly switched off her flashlight. Then, picking up one of the oil lamps, she made her way to the kitchen.

There, she drew up short, stunned and incredulous.

For here, at last, everything was changed.

Once, solid-oak cupboards, turned dark with smoke and age, had lined the walls, one of which cabinets had sported an ancient copper sink, and open shelves cluttered with crockery had hung above. There had been a large, worn butcher block in the middle of the room, and a badly scarred yellow pine floor. The open hearth to one side had been composed of reddish brown bricks blackened with soot from winter fires.

The kitchen was the one part of the house Hallie remembered much more vividly than all the rest. It had always reminded her of the old cozy but mysterious kitchen in some fairy-tale cottage, and sometimes, she had half suspected Gram herself was really some enchanting witch.

But now all that was gone, as surely as her grandmother was. In its place were clean white beadboard cupboards topped with black granite counters, above which gleamed glass-fronted upper cabinets. A white porcelain Belfast sink had replaced the copper one, and a long wooden farmhouse table occupied the center of the room. The floor was now a checkerboard of black and white tiles, and the old brick fireplace had been painted white to match. Against one wall stood a massive Welsh dresser Hallie had never before seen. Only Gram’s crockery on its shelves was the same. Even her old stove and refrigerator Hallie thought must surely have dated from the fifties had given way to modern reproductions that looked like Victorian antiques.

What on earth had ever caused her grandmother to make such drastic alterations to the kitchen, Hallie wondered, deeply puzzled, when she had plainly left the remainder of the house so largely untouched?

As she continued to stare at the many changes that had been made, Hallie was suddenly beset with the oddest sensation that there was something missing, something she ought to have been seeing, but that was no longer there in the kitchen. But try as she might, she could not think what it was, and at last, she gave up the attempt, realizing it was getting late and that she was truly hungry and exhausted.

There would be plenty of time in the weeks to come to explore the old farmhouse properly during the daylight hours—and when she had got the power to the lights restored.

Fortunately, Gram’s sweeping redecoration of the kitchen had not included switching from a gas stove to an electric one, so Hallie would be able to cook, at least. Now, if she could only find a tin of tea and something to eat.

She had planned to run up to the corner market upon her arrival and buy some groceries. She had not counted on oversleeping earlier at the motel where she had spent last night and, as a result, getting such a late start today. Nor had she accurately calculated how long the drive this afternoon would take or on being delayed by the storm and the wolf.

So much for the best-laid plans of mice and men, she thought, frowning.

Opening the icebox, Hallie was once more besieged with amazement and disbelief. For, instead of finding it completely empty, as she had expected, she discovered it was filled with food: a huge glass platter of cold fried chicken and large ceramic bowls of homemade baked beans, cole slaw and potato salad—precisely what Gram herself would have prepared for her homecoming.

At first, in her weariness, Hallie thought dimly that it must be victuals hospitable neighbors had made and carried over when her grandmother had died. Then she recognized how stupid that notion was, that there would have been no one here to provide meals for and that Gram had passed away last month, besides. All the food would have spoiled by now.

Adding to her confusion were the plates of biscuits and brownies she finally noticed sitting on the counter next to the fridge. Slowly unfolding the plastic wrap and examining them, she found they were fresh, probably baked that very afternoon, in fact.

At the realization, Hallie felt a sudden cold chill creep down her spine.

Someone had been in this house earlier—perhaps was even still here….

From the knife block perched on the farmhouse table, she carefully withdrew a sharp butcher knife for protection. Then, picking up the oil lamp, she embarked upon a thorough inspection of the house, determinedly pushing aside her nostalgia and grief at familiar sights that kindled long-buried memories to concentrate instead on some sign of an intruder.

Back through the ground floor, she progressed, her mouth dry and her heart pounding as she searched behind sofas and yanked open closet doors to peer inside, only to find nothing save emptiness. Then, stealthily, Hallie ascended the beautifully carved staircase in the main hall to the upper story.

Here, the tale was exactly the same as it mostly was below. Nothing had changed, except that just like downstairs, all the closets were bare. Much to her astonishment and heartache, even her old bedroom looked just as she had left it so many years ago, all her childhood books, dolls and stuffed animals perched neatly on their shelves, her robe still lying across the foot of the bed.

At the sight, Hallie felt more certain than ever Gram must have had a very good reason for sending her away. Her grandmother would never have left this room untouched like this if it had been nothing more than an annoying reminder of a bothersome child, or if Hallie’s resemblance to her dead mother had been more painful than Gram could bear.

Now there remained only the attic. But when she reached the bottom of the narrow staircase that rose to that dark space above, Hallie hesitated, all the strictly forbidden Gothic stories she had ever sneaked into her great-aunts’ town house and read as a teenager returning to haunt her. She had always thought those poking-and-prying heroines who had invariably crept up steep narrow attic stairs to investigate matters that really had not concerned them in the first place were exceedingly dumb. A deranged killer had always been hiding up there, lurking in the shadows, lying in wait to conk the heroine on the head as a dire warning for her snooping.

Most assuredly, Hallie did not want to suffer a like fate. She had already had more than enough for one day, and now, it belatedly occurred to her that Mr. Winthorpe’s wife, Blanche, had probably brought the food over and left it for her. It was just the sort of neighborly gesture Mrs. Winthorpe would have believed proper. Hallie did not know why she had not thought of it earlier, instead of leaping to the crazy conclusion that an intruder was in the house.

For pity’s sake! she chided herself sternly. An interloper wouldn’t have stocked the fridge and baked biscuits and brownies! She must be even more tired than she had realized.

Sighing with relief, truly glad she was not to be compelled up into the attic, Hallie returned downstairs to the kitchen, inordinately grateful she was not going to be forced to cook for herself, either. She even discovered a tin of Earl Grey loose tea in one of the cupboards and so was able to make a cup of hot tea.

Perhaps her luck was changing, after all.

Filling a plate, she ate mechanically, now so weary that she could actually scarcely eat at all. Still, she knew she needed something in her stomach if she did not want to awaken with a sick, hunger headache in the morning. So she cleaned her plate and drank her tea.

When she had finally finished, Hallie unconsciously did something she had not done since her childhood in this very kitchen: she swirled the remnants of her tea around clockwise three times, then turned her white ceramic mug upside down on its matching saucer to drain off the remaining liquid.

For an instant she waited expectantly for Gram to take the cup and turn it right side up again, peering into it to see what symbols the tea leaves left inside it had formed. But of course, her grandmother was not there, and so Hallie could not imagine why she had ever done such a thing, indulging in a long-forgotten gesture Great-Aunts Agatha and Edith had labeled “superstitious pagan nonsense” and a habit they had labored diligently to break her of.

“Aunts Agatha and Edith would surely not be very happy with me right now, Gram.” Hallie spoke in the empty room. “They said it was a good thing you sent me to them, that otherwise I might have lost my way and become a heathen and a sinner, just as you did. I know they meant well and loved me. Still, it was a long, hard path you set my feet on, Gram, when you sent me away to them. Did you know it would be? Is that why you did it? You always believed that kind of journey was the making of a person.”

There was no response save for the plaintive keening of the wind outside and the steady thrumming of the rain against the kitchen windows. But Hallie had not really expected one. In some dark corner of her mind she knew she was talking only to herself, that her grandmother had passed beyond the pale into another state of being.

Still, for old times’ sake, and for everything from her childhood in this farmhouse that she held dear, she closed her eyes, made a wish then upended her teacup to look inside.

She supposed there were symbols someone like Gram, knowledgeable about the art of reading tea leaves, would have recognized. But to Hallie, the dregs seemed like nothing more than a complete mishmash at the bottom of her cup.

Inexplicably, she felt a strange, bewildering sense of disappointment, as though she had believed her grandmother would somehow speak to her through the teacup—and had not.

Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she smiled wryly.

“What a silly notion, child!” she could hear Great-Aunt Agatha announce firmly. “If they are good, the dead go to Heaven. If they are evil, they go to Hell. What they do not do, missy, is hang around the world from which they have departed, carrying on in death just as they did in life! It was undoubtedly Henrietta who put such a heathenish idea into your head. She ought to be ashamed of herself! But, then, I’m certain she is not, no—for she has never suffered any shame at all at her wild behavior, no matter how grievous it has proved to her poor family!”

“Henrietta” had been Gram’s given name. Hallie was named after her.

Covering her mouth, Hallie yawned widely, dully realizing she was so thoroughly exhausted that she was about to fall sound asleep sitting straight up in her chair.

“Well, Gram, as much as I’d like to continue this somewhat lopsided conversation, I’m afraid I really do need to get to bed. I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

In fact, Hallie was so tired that instead of washing the dishes, as she normally would have done, she set her cup and plate to one side of the sink. Then, after extinguishing all the oil lamps in the back parlor, she turned on her flashlight to guide her in the darkness and trudged back upstairs, not even bothering with her luggage.

She would unpack tomorrow, when she was rested and feeling more herself. Right now, she had the most peculiar sensation that by coming back here to Meadowsweet, she had somehow been mysteriously transported back in time to her childhood. She was thinking, saying and doing things she had not thought of in years—and talking to herself, besides.

What she needed was a long hot bath, followed by a nice soft bed.

But in the end, Hallie skipped the former and, stripping off her clothes, headed straight for the latter in her childhood bedroom.

Her last thought as she drifted into slumber was that somewhere outside in the night, a lone wolf was howling in the storm.