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

came from the throat of someone or something that hurtled toward her, racing along the path, across the clearing and . . . And died. The air shivered with silence.

Peggy was the first to break it. They had reached out instinctively to clasp hands; Karen's fingers ached from the pressure of Peggy's grip.

"Jesus H. Christ," Peggy gasped. Her face was a sickly shade of gray. "What the hell was that?"

"You ..." Karen's throat was dry. She had to swallow before she could go on. "You heard it too?"

"I'd have to be deaf not to hear it. There was nobody—nothing— there."

"But you didn't feel the cold ..."

"What cold?" Peggy peered into her face. "Let's get the hell out of here. Can you walk?"

"Of course."

Karen took a deep breath and forced herself to look again at the tumulus. That was all it was, a heap of fallen stone. Sunlight filled the clearing. The only sounds she heard were bursts of birdsong and the soft voiceless murmur of running water.

"Let's go," Peggy said.

"Don't you want to—"

"No. Start walking."

They had to go single file. Peggy followed close on Karen's heels. Neither spoke again until they had emerged from the woods. "I'd like to wash up," Peggy said. "Is it okay if we use the kitchen sink?"

"I don't see why not. We can go in the back way."

Peggy's face had regained its healthy color, but the bar of soap slipped from her hands when she started to scrub them under the tap. She recaptured it and handed it to Karen. "I don't suppose there's anything to drink around here."

"The cans we put in the refrigerator—"

"That wasn't what I had in mind. Oh, well. It's a bad habit I ought to control." Leaning against the counter, she folded her arms and stared at Karen. "I never heard anything like that in my life. Can you think of a rational explanation?"

"Animals make funny noises," Karen said feebly.

"Very true. Siamese cats in heat, mating porcupines—you can understand why a female porcupine might object to that process—bobcats . . . I've heard 'em all, at one time or another. That was not an animal. And it was there, only a few feet away, when it stopped."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Not what you're thinking." Peggy rubbed the bridge of her nose reflectively. "That doesn't fit either. I've never had a psychic experience in my life, but I'm familiar with the literature. Your traditional ghosts don't appear in broad daylight without suitable accompaniments—frissons of terror, chilling cold . . . Wait a minute. What was that you said about cold?"

She'd never have had the courage to confess if Peggy had not shared the experience. After she had described the feeling of ghastly cold in the hall and in the attic, she added, "Cameron felt it too—in the hall. He tried to hide it, but I could tell. And although he took me through the rest of the house, he let me go alone to the attic."

"Hmmm." After a moment of cogitation Peggy shook her head. "There's no pattern that I can see. To me the hall felt chilly but it wasn't abnormal—just the ordinary cold of an unheated house. You weren't aware of anything unusual in the cellar, yet he was uncomfortable there."

"Claustrophobia. I don't have that problem."

"It's possible to find pseudo-scientific explanations for everything," Peggy muttered. "Claustrophobia, sensitivity to incompetent architectural measurements, collective auditory hallucination . . . Well, you'll be relieved to hear that I am not going to suggest a seance or a visit to the attic. In a way I wish I could buy the ghost story; it would be so much easier to summon Ismene's spirit from wherever the hell it is and ask her what we want to know instead of doing all this boring research."

Karen was prevented from replying by the arrival of Cameron Hayes, who entered by the door leading to the front of the house. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't realize you were here."

"I don't know what you're apologizing for," Peggy said coolly. "It's your house. Ready for lunch?"

"Soon as I get some of this paint off my hands." He went to the sink. "Find anything interesting?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Do you know anything about that tumbledown pile of stones in the clearing?"

His hands stopped moving. After a long second he reached for the can of paint remover. "I'm not sure what you mean," he said.

Peggy took the can from him and removed the top. "Hold out your hands. I'll pour, you scrub. There's a path—you must know which one I mean, it's the only one—leading downhill toward the river, and an opening in the woods about—oh, quarter of a mile from here. The stones are almost hidden by vines, but they once formed a structure of some kind."

"A wall ..." Cameron began.

"Not a wall. This is a discrete mound, not an elongated structure. I can't figure out what it might have been," Peggy went on, half to herself. "The stones are massive; they wouldn't build an animal pen or storage shed out of such solid materials. Slave quarters and the other outbuildings that were part of a plantation wouldn't be located so far from the house. Any ideas?"

Cameron reached for a ragged towel and dried his hands. "Sorry. You might ask Lisa; she spent more time with our uncle, listening to his boring stories, than I did. It does sound like a strange place to find a stone building; I hadn't thought about that until you—" He broke off, his eyes widening. "Is that what you're thinking? A house of stone . . . Hers?"

"How do you know about that?" Karen demanded suspiciously.

Cameron raised his eyebrows. "I read the poems, after you explained your interest in the lady. I was . . . curious. Maybe I'm missing something, since I'm just a dull-witted reader instead of a literary critic, but I thought the house of stone was a figure of speech."

"So did I," said Peggy, before Karen could reply. "So