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

"Ah, but there's one chapter in this that may interest you. You remember what I suggested the other night?"

"Oh. Is there something about Amberley?"

She reached for the book. Joan returned it to her purse. "I'll read aloud as we eat. There's a place down the road that serves half-pound burgers with chili and bacon and cheese and onions and—"

"Oh, all right." Karen grinned reluctantly. "An hour and a half, not a minute more."

"Make it two hours and I'll give you the book. I have to start back by three anyhow; it's a two-hour drive, and we're having a special treat at Happy Hour. Six whole ounces of tomato juice."

The hamburgers weren't quite greasy enough for Joan, but she compensated by devouring a pile of french fries. A little moan of pleasure escaped her lips as she leaned back, replete.

"You missed one," Karen said, indicating a lone french fry.

"Oh, yeah. You've done your good deed for the day, dearie. You have just saved a life."

"Sharon's, I suppose."

"She may yet survive the week. I promise I won't bug you again, but I trust you have no objection to my attending the auction this weekend."

"How do you know about that?"

"There was an ad in Auction Weekly."

"Oh, so you're an auction freak. Why didn't I know that?"

"It's a secret vice. I only share it with fellow addicts. This looks like a good one—Saturday and Sunday both."

The information was new to Karen. She wondered why Peggy hadn't told her. Probably because she hadn't asked.

Joan went on, "The prison gates open at noon on Friday, so I plan to drive down and attend the viewing that afternoon. We might have dinner if you can spare the time."

"I'll see. Is Sharon coming with you?"

"She'll have to, unless she wants to rent a car," Joan said calmly.

"It could be quite a jolly little reunion," Karen said. "Peggy is here too. Did you know that?"

"I thought she might be. You'll get nasty wrinkles if you frown like that. What's the matter with you? Sure I'm curious about what you're doing. That's what friends are for—to share your interests and help out when they can."

"I wasn't frowning, I was thinking," Karen explained. "I appreciate the offer, Joan, but I don't see how you can help, unless Dorothea turns up again. You loom threateningly almost as well as she does."

Joan grinned. "I did enjoy that. However, I possess other talents besides the ability to loom, talents which I will now demonstrate." She took a book from her purse, and shook her head when Karen reached for it. "I insist on reading aloud. The literary style is absolutely delicious." Clearing her throat, she pronounced the words with unctuous enjoyment.

" 'Though the handsome mansions of the region abound in apparitions of infinite variety, none boasts the collection that haunt a grim old house not far distant from the bright lights and cheerful society of Fredericksburg. The visitor who approaches this domicile, overhung with un-trimmed trees, on a gloomy winter day feels certain that a curse does hang over the place as the dark clouds hang down over its roof.

" 'No one knows when the house was built. It is one of the oldest in the region, but history and local legend remain silent as to the precise date of its origin. Those same legends tell of the builder's horrible history; fleeing his native England after some unspeakable crime, he selected a spot in the wilderness remote from civilization, and many an unfortunate slave died in its building. And not slaves only. For he brought a companion with him, a beautiful young girl whose face bore the stamp of sorrow and was never heard to utter a word.' "

Joan paused for a drink of water, and Karen said, " 'Appalling' is more appropriate than 'delicious.' How much more of this drivel is there?"

"I haven't gotten to the best part. Listen. 'Was she mute by birth or had some cruel hand deprived her of her tongue? Was she his daughter, as he claimed, or his hapless, helpless paramour? Whatever, she went with him into the forests and was never seen again—in life. But she has been seen since, by many a terrified trespasser and poacher, her white garments floating as she runs, and in pursuit the dark, hooded shape of the man she flees. In vain! For if the watcher has the fortitude to remain and see the drama out to its end, the pursuer wins the race, falling upon the tragic victim and swallowing her up in his cloak and stifling, with repeated blows, the agonized shrieks that at last quiver into silence. Yes; in death the poor creature found the voice life had denied her, but too late! The Screaming Lady is one of the Tidewater's most tragic ghosts.' "

Joan looked up from the book. "Honestly, Karen, you're staring like a stuffed owl. Isn't it hilarious? I thought you'd get a kick out of it."

"Oh, yes. It is. I do."

"There's a pack of spectral hounds too," Joan said happily. "And a rocking chair that rocks when nobody's sitting in it, and footsteps that thump up and down the back stairs, and cold spots in various rooms— the author claims she heard the footsteps and felt the cold—and bloodstains that can't be cleaned off, and other good stuff."

Karen nodded dumbly.

"The people who produce these books are usually local wanna-be writers," Joan explained. "I collect them from all over the country. The same basic themes are repeated over and overflights going on and off, funny noises in an empty house, furniture moving—and White Ladies aren't uncommon. This one is a little off-beat, though. You see what that could mean."

"It's an interesting idea," Karen said slowly. "But it's pretty farfetched. What else does he say about Amberley?"

"Such chauvinism. It's a she, not a he. Violetta Fowler."

Peggy was fascinated by the Screaming Lady. "You're absolutely certain you never heard or read that story before today?"

"Of course I'm not certain," Karen said wearily.