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

out the light and prepared for bed. All that wine, and brandy on top of it, after a day of strenuous physical activity, had left her stumbling and groggy. She felt sure she would sleep soundly, in spite of Simon's deflating, depressing, devastatingly accurate analysis. She consoled herself by concluding that no real harm had been done. She hadn't wasted that much time. Viewing the house had not been just a romantic indulgence. Simon didn't understand; atmosphere was important, being actually on the spot had given her a new insight.

The dark figure came shambling down the corridors of sleep. Holding the candle high, she waited for it to approach. Knowing what it was, horror had been replaced by pity—or so she believed; but when the dreadful face lifted toward hers and the white eyeball shone yellow with reflected light—when the twisted hands groped blindly for her skirts— compassion faltered and she recoiled from the touch and from the hoarse mumbling voice.

"Is it she? Is she the one? She must be warned, it will soon be too late ..."

And then, in the manner of a true nightmare, the film vanished from the creature's blinded eye. Both eyes opened to display dark dilated pupils rimmed with brilliant blue—the eyes of youth, clear and bright and wide with fear. The voice rose in a high woman's scream. "Wake! Wake, or it will be too late!"

The cry had come from her own throat. Gasping for breath, Karen rolled over. Her face had been buried in the pillow, but when she inhaled she found herself still struggling for air. The room was white with moonlight—strange, heavy light, like curdled milk. She sucked it into her lungs with the next breath, and burst into a fit of coughing.

Sheer instinct got her out of bed and to the window. A few deep breaths brought her closer to conscious waking. What had happened to the moon? The milky light was not white, it was reddish, uncertain, flickering.

Now wide awake and weak-kneed with terror, Karen ran to the closed bedroom door. One touch was all she needed; the wooden panel was so hot it stung her palm. Thank God some half-remembered lecture had kept her from opening that door. The living room must be engulfed in flames.

The air near the floor would be clearer. She remembered that too. A folder in some hotel room, telling guests what to do in case of fire . . . On hands and knees she crawled to the closet and dragged out the unwieldy bundle of rope and metal. Her head was swimming and she could hear the crackle of the flames through the closed door.

One hard shove sent the screen tumbling out. It seemed to take an eternity to locate the heavy metal strips that hooked over the windowsill, and push the ladder out. Filling her lungs with the relatively clearer air near the floor, she held her breath and ran to the bed. A tongue of flame bit through the smoldering wood of the door and licked toward her as she pitched the briefcase out the window and climbed over the sill, bare feet feeling for the topmost rung. She was halfway down when the fire broke through the wall of the garage next to the ladder. Without looking to see what lay below, she threw herself backward. Prickly branches broke her fall and tore her arms and legs. Rolling over, she saw the briefcase lying on the ground. The lurid light was as bright as the day of a planet circled by a red sun.

Clasping the briefcase to her breast, she retreated to what seemed a safe distance and stood in a benumbed stupor watching the flames blow like wildly tossing hair from her bedroom window. The whole place was gone, it was too late to save it ... But what about the house? The miracle of her own survival had overshadowed all other concerns till then, and she swore at herself in a shaky undertone as she pushed through the hedge and ran across the garden. The neighbors' house was some distance away, it probably was in no danger, but if blowing sparks caught the roof here, and she couldn't wake Mrs. Fowler . . . The windows were dark. Shouting, she banged on the back door. There was no response. Mrs. Fowler's window remained unlighted.

Karen set her teeth, shielded her face with her arm, and swung the briefcase. Glass shattered. She cleared the jagged shards from the frame with another sweep of the briefcase and reached inside. Bolts, chains— thank God, the key was in the lock, Mrs. Fowler must also be aware of the danger of fire—and of burglary, she had taken precautions for herself that she hadn't bothered to supply for her tenants. The door finally gave way. Still not a sound from upstairs. How could the woman sleep through the racket?

She learned the answer after she had located the telephone and called the fire department. Mrs. Fowler was sound asleep in her bed, snoring like a baritone.

Thank God, Karen thought. She had half expected to find the old woman stark and stiff, her face set in a glare of Gothic horror. She leaned over Mrs. Fowler and shook her.

There was no response, not even a grunt. Karen stepped back, her nose wrinkling. The stench of stale whiskey permeated the bedclothes and Mrs. Fowler herself.

Chapter Fourteen

Western culture . . . was a grand ancestral property that educated men had inherited from their intellectual forefathers, while their female relatives, like characters in a Jane Austen novel, were relegated to modest dower houses on the edge of the estate.

Sandra M. Gilbert,

"What Do Feminist Critics Want?", 1985

BY the time Peggy arrived, the garage had collapsed into a blackened, steaming heap. The scene had an insanely festive appearance; people in a wild variety of informal costumes chatting and drinking coffee and watching like spectators at a performance, headlights crisscrossing the dark and turning the sprays of water into sparkling