Houses of Stone, KATHY [classic literature books TXT] 📗

went on. "But I would rather not show them to you; they're probably flooded, they always are after it rains, and I promise you, there's nothing down there. I cleared everything out of the house."

"What about the attic?"

"You don't want to go up there."

"Why not? Wasn't that where the manuscript was found?"

"That's right. In a trunk under a pile of old clothes. But there's nothing there now except dust and cobwebs. Everything is in storage."

"Everything?"

"Yes. Including," he* added tantalizingly, "a few boxes of papers and photo albums and miscellaneous junk I kept out of the sale. Despite my greed I draw the line at putting family mementos on the auction block."

"You wouldn't get much for them at auction."

He gave her a knowing smile. "If you want to look through them we can probably come to an agreement."

"I do want to look through them, but not today. Just promise you won't sell them to Bill Meyer."

"Done."

"I'd still like to see the attic. You don't have to come with me, I know you must be anxious to get to work. Just point me in the right direction."

He didn't respond immediately. Then he said slowly, "I guess it's all right. A waste of time, as I said. You won't enjoy it. I haven't had a chance to clean the place, and there are mice."

"I like mice." Karen smiled sweetly. "Adorable little furry creatures."

He was not amused. "Come on, then, if you're determined."

He left her at the foot of the attic stairs, with a look that dared her to go on. The prospect was certainly not enticing. The narrow enclosed stairwell was a dusky dark, and she heard small scuttling sounds above. The mice were not visible, though, when she reached the top of the stairs. They must have run for cover when they heard the door open.

No wonder the place was so dark. There were windows high under the roof, but they were small and opaque with crusted dirt. The first board she stepped on sagged and groaned. She stopped, squinting into the shadows and trying to orient herself. The stairs she had climbed had been in the west wing. This space, though extensive, could not extend over the entire house; that wall of roughly mortared brick on her left must mark the end of the wing, with the central block beyond. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she saw the outlines of a door.

Slowly, testing each board before she put her weight on it, she moved toward the door. Creaks and groans accompanied each step, but the floor seemed solid enough. The door was solid too, a massive structure of rough boards. The heavy latch was of metal, red with rust that coated her palm and fingers when she took hold of it. The hinges screamed in protest when she forced the panel back.

Ahead lay a narrow passageway with closed doors along one side. That was all she saw before the cold leapt out at her like an imprisoned animal desperate for freedom. It was far more intense than that first wave of icy air, not the absence of warmth but a positive force, active and malevolent. Black cold, cold darkness, heavy with despair. It gripped her body like huge dead hands, weakening her limbs and stifling her breath.

She fled mindlessly, leaving the door ajar, and tentacles of icy air followed, trying to hold her back. Down the narrow stairs, stumbling and slipping, along the corridor toward the back of the house—and straight into the arms of Cameron Hayes. She clung to him, panting and shivering. But not with cold. Sunlight filled the corridor; the air was cool but perfectly comfortable.

"What's wrong?" His voice was low, the soft slurred accent more pronounced. He was a little taller than Bill Meyer; her head fit neatly into the angle of his neck and shoulder. Meyer was more heavily built, as she had good cause to remember. Now she was acutely conscious of the structure of Cameron's body, bone, sinew and muscle, under his thin shirt. He smelled of sweat and paint and turpentine, not expensive aftershave.

Karen stiffened, straightening the fingers that had clung to his shoulders, moving her hands to press against his chest. The ridges of his collarbones were hard and sharply defined against her flattened palms. "I beg your pardon," she said formally. "I didn't see you."

"My fault," Cameron said, in the same slurred voice. "I shouldn't have let you go up there alone. Did you see . . . Did a mouse run over your foot?"

She had not deceived him. She'd have to find some reasonable excuse for that mad rush, but pride kept her from accepting the one he had offered. "I am not afraid of mice. It must have been a—a bat. Flying at me, flapping its wings."

"They don't get in your hair, you know. That's an old wives' tale."

"Would you mind letting go of me?"

"Oh. Sorry." One of his hands had cupped the back of her head. When he lifted it, a few hairs caught on the roughened skin. Karen pulled away, smoothing her tumbled locks.

"Bats can be rabid."

"Of course." He continued to watch her, his face unreadable. "They aren't usually active during the day."

"I must have disturbed it."

"Right. Well. I'd better get back to work. Sure you're okay?"

"Absolutely."

He nodded and walked away. Karen went in the opposite direction— primarily because it was the opposite direction. After getting lost once or twice in the twisting corridors of the west wing she found the stairs that descended into the kitchen. The old gas stove and painted cupboards were comforting reminders of ordinary domestic activities. Karen raided Cameron's supplies and made coffee. The room was warm, but she could still feel the chill deep inside.

Maybe there was a curse on the place, she thought wryly—something that doomed her to make a fool of herself every time she came there, something with a perverse sense of humor that pushed her into situations where she was forced to act like