door, the door that led to the kitchen. It was the
same kind of sensation you have when you’re tired, and you think you’ve
glimpsed something out of the corner of your eye. The corner
of a robe, swishing silently away, or maybe a flickering triangle of moonlight.
I listened.
Except for the creak of old timbers and the muffled squeaking of the
weathervane, the house was unnaturally silent I wondered if Marjorie and Miss
Johnson had gone for a drive somewhere, just to get away from the funereal
atmosphere of Winter Sails. But that didn’t make sense; she would have told us
before she went.
I was about to
walk toward the kitchen when I thought I heard something rattle. It sounded
like keys, or someone rattling cutlery in a kitchen drawer. I froze. I had a
sudden ghastly vision of Max Greaves, slicing away at his face with the carving
knife and screaming while he did it. But I suppressed the vision as much as I
could and briskly opened the kitchen door.
The kitchen was
empty. The old pine table was bare, and the cupboards were neatly dosed. A
faucet dripped steadily into the sink. I walked across the room, biting my lip
in perplexity, and turned it off. I felt ridiculously nervous and jumpy, and
when I saw my own reflection in the kitchen window, I almost had a heart
seizure.
Then-very
faintly and distantly-I heard it. Odd, monotonous, mournful
music. It made my hair prickle and my mouth go suddenly dry. I couldn’t
make out if it was singing or some kind of twanging string instrument. It gave
me the strangest sensation that the house was alive with ghostly, pattering
rodents. I lifted my head and concentrated as hard as I could, because it was
very indistinct, but the harder I listened, the fainter it became, and soon it
had faded altogether.
A few moments
later, I heard Anna calling me from upstairs.
Chapter 3
S omething had happened upstairs and I couldn’t quite understand
what. As I walked quickly along the long wooden corridor, I could sense an odd
and subtle change in the atmosphere, like the moments before a thunderstorm or
the intense breathlessness of a tropical hothouse. Anna was waiting for me at
the far end, just where I had left her, but she was pressed up against the
wall, her arms up against her breasts as if to protect herself from something.
“Anna?” I
called.
She looked up.
Then she said, “Harry!” in a thankful whisper and came running down the
corridor and into my outspread arms. I held her warmly and reassuringly and
stroked her hair.
After a few
seconds she looked up; her face was pale and scared. She had lost her
sophisticated little hat somehow and her short, curly, black hair was wild and
untidy.
“Did you hear
it?” I asked her. She nodded. “I was beginning to think I was going mad. I
thought: What if Harry hasn’t heard it? Supposing I’m going
as nuts as Max Greaves?”
“It was real,
all right. I heard it way down in the kitchen. Do you know where it came from?”
She shrugged.
She was still trembling nervously, the same way that Marjorie had trembled when
she talked about Max’s terrible death in the kitchen.
“It was faint here, too, I could hardly hear it. But there was something
horrible about it. It made me feel that the corridor was full of running
insects, or rats, or cockroaches. I couldn’t see anything, and I tried not to
panic. But it just made me feel that way, as if creatures were swarming
everywhere.”
“Anna,” I said
quietly, “was there anyone up here? Did you see anyone?”
She shook her
head. “Nobody. There isn’t another way up here, is
there?”
I looked down
at her and tilted her chin up so that I could see her face. “There has to be
some explanation. You know that as well as I do .”
“But what? If it wasn’t the jar, then who could possibly play music like that? And why would they want to?” I sniffed. “I
don’t know. But there’s something really weird going on here. Maybe-I don’t know, maybe somebody’s trying to
same kind of sensation you have when you’re tired, and you think you’ve
glimpsed something out of the corner of your eye. The corner
of a robe, swishing silently away, or maybe a flickering triangle of moonlight.
I listened.
Except for the creak of old timbers and the muffled squeaking of the
weathervane, the house was unnaturally silent I wondered if Marjorie and Miss
Johnson had gone for a drive somewhere, just to get away from the funereal
atmosphere of Winter Sails. But that didn’t make sense; she would have told us
before she went.
I was about to
walk toward the kitchen when I thought I heard something rattle. It sounded
like keys, or someone rattling cutlery in a kitchen drawer. I froze. I had a
sudden ghastly vision of Max Greaves, slicing away at his face with the carving
knife and screaming while he did it. But I suppressed the vision as much as I
could and briskly opened the kitchen door.
The kitchen was
empty. The old pine table was bare, and the cupboards were neatly dosed. A
faucet dripped steadily into the sink. I walked across the room, biting my lip
in perplexity, and turned it off. I felt ridiculously nervous and jumpy, and
when I saw my own reflection in the kitchen window, I almost had a heart
seizure.
Then-very
faintly and distantly-I heard it. Odd, monotonous, mournful
music. It made my hair prickle and my mouth go suddenly dry. I couldn’t
make out if it was singing or some kind of twanging string instrument. It gave
me the strangest sensation that the house was alive with ghostly, pattering
rodents. I lifted my head and concentrated as hard as I could, because it was
very indistinct, but the harder I listened, the fainter it became, and soon it
had faded altogether.
A few moments
later, I heard Anna calling me from upstairs.
Chapter 3
S omething had happened upstairs and I couldn’t quite understand
what. As I walked quickly along the long wooden corridor, I could sense an odd
and subtle change in the atmosphere, like the moments before a thunderstorm or
the intense breathlessness of a tropical hothouse. Anna was waiting for me at
the far end, just where I had left her, but she was pressed up against the
wall, her arms up against her breasts as if to protect herself from something.
“Anna?” I
called.
She looked up.
Then she said, “Harry!” in a thankful whisper and came running down the
corridor and into my outspread arms. I held her warmly and reassuringly and
stroked her hair.
After a few
seconds she looked up; her face was pale and scared. She had lost her
sophisticated little hat somehow and her short, curly, black hair was wild and
untidy.
“Did you hear
it?” I asked her. She nodded. “I was beginning to think I was going mad. I
thought: What if Harry hasn’t heard it? Supposing I’m going
as nuts as Max Greaves?”
“It was real,
all right. I heard it way down in the kitchen. Do you know where it came from?”
She shrugged.
She was still trembling nervously, the same way that Marjorie had trembled when
she talked about Max’s terrible death in the kitchen.
“It was faint here, too, I could hardly hear it. But there was something
horrible about it. It made me feel that the corridor was full of running
insects, or rats, or cockroaches. I couldn’t see anything, and I tried not to
panic. But it just made me feel that way, as if creatures were swarming
everywhere.”
“Anna,” I said
quietly, “was there anyone up here? Did you see anyone?”
She shook her
head. “Nobody. There isn’t another way up here, is
there?”
I looked down
at her and tilted her chin up so that I could see her face. “There has to be
some explanation. You know that as well as I do .”
“But what? If it wasn’t the jar, then who could possibly play music like that? And why would they want to?” I sniffed. “I
don’t know. But there’s something really weird going on here. Maybe-I don’t know, maybe somebody’s trying to
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