Read Online Campbell Wood by Al Sarrantonio - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Al Sarrantonio
Tags: Horror
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wouldn't pick her up for fifteen minutes. She felt like standing out in the cold anyway. She didn't want to be here anymore. She saw the bent paperback on top of her pile of books and hesitated to smooth it out. She let her hand rest lovingly on it. She made a resolution. No matter what, even if they cared nothing about her, she would do this play. She was in love with it now, and there was nothing that would stop her.
She walked to the back of the auditorium and pulled open a door, holding her coat close around her neck as she stepped out. It was getting too cold to stand and wait. She thought of going back inside, but as she looked back she saw the janitor staring at her oddly from the front, by the stage.
She let the door close, hearing the loud, final click it made. The lonely cold surrounded her.
11
B oris snapped awake.
Something in his cat mind, the half that never really slept, sent him into wide-eyed readiness. A sound? He listened, his ears straight up. Maybe, but there was nothing now. A bright light at the corner of his eyes? He turned his head, but there was no repeat if that was what it had been. Feeney, asleep next to him on the bed, his head curled under one white paw, had looked up also, but now yawned, lowering his head again. He was content to let the other cat do all the preliminary work.
Boris cocked his head for another few moments, and then, just as he was about to give up he heard it again. A sound, very low, almost inaudible, but out of the ordinary. What could it be? Not Seth or Kaymie; he could still faintly hear them playing outside in the backyard. A mouse? Bird? Squirrel? There were certainly possibilities there.
He stretched languidly awake, his ears alert for any repeat of the disturbance.
There it was.
It seemed to come from the attic.
As Boris jumped nimbly off the bed Feeney awoke, gave him a disgusted look, and curled back into himself.
Boris padded to the base of the stairs leading to the attic and paused, taking the time to lick an unruly patch of fur on his hind leg into place. His ears were listening, though, and when the sound repeated he knew just where to go. He moved quietly up the carpeted steps to the attic door.
Sometimes it didn't close all the way when it was shut. Sure enough, when he pushed at it with his paw, using the side of his head as a sort of wedge, the door angled open a crack.
Cold air from inside pushed out at him.
He eased his way through the small opening, sliding his body around the door and inside. The room was dark, with only a splash of late autumn sunlight from the single small window giving long shadows, but that didn't matter; his eyes quickly adjusted to the chilly gloom.
The sound came yet again.
It was a creak almost; not the scrabble he would have expected from an invading rodent or the scratch a bird would make. Also, a bird probably would have sensed his presence by now and would be flapping madly around the room. He would have liked that, of course.
The sound seemed to originate in the far left corner of the room behind some old boxes. But then the same kind of sound came from the other side of the room, high up. This confused him. From past explorations, he knew there was nothing over there but a high and apparently empty shelf; it was even too high for him to negotiate, though Feeney, being nimbler and thinner, had once accomplished the feat. He had found nothing of importance, apparently, since after looking down gloatingly at Boris for a while, he had jumped back down. There was something, it seemed, up there now.
Boris decided to concentrate his labor on the first source.
There were a couple of empty wooden milk crates over there, filled with old records mostly. Boris slowly made his way toward them in a stalking crouch.
A bird crossed the light outside the window, drawing his attention away for a moment. The sound came again.
A vague, formless memory came to Boris. He remembered something like this sound, another time.
She walked to the back of the auditorium and pulled open a door, holding her coat close around her neck as she stepped out. It was getting too cold to stand and wait. She thought of going back inside, but as she looked back she saw the janitor staring at her oddly from the front, by the stage.
She let the door close, hearing the loud, final click it made. The lonely cold surrounded her.
11
B oris snapped awake.
Something in his cat mind, the half that never really slept, sent him into wide-eyed readiness. A sound? He listened, his ears straight up. Maybe, but there was nothing now. A bright light at the corner of his eyes? He turned his head, but there was no repeat if that was what it had been. Feeney, asleep next to him on the bed, his head curled under one white paw, had looked up also, but now yawned, lowering his head again. He was content to let the other cat do all the preliminary work.
Boris cocked his head for another few moments, and then, just as he was about to give up he heard it again. A sound, very low, almost inaudible, but out of the ordinary. What could it be? Not Seth or Kaymie; he could still faintly hear them playing outside in the backyard. A mouse? Bird? Squirrel? There were certainly possibilities there.
He stretched languidly awake, his ears alert for any repeat of the disturbance.
There it was.
It seemed to come from the attic.
As Boris jumped nimbly off the bed Feeney awoke, gave him a disgusted look, and curled back into himself.
Boris padded to the base of the stairs leading to the attic and paused, taking the time to lick an unruly patch of fur on his hind leg into place. His ears were listening, though, and when the sound repeated he knew just where to go. He moved quietly up the carpeted steps to the attic door.
Sometimes it didn't close all the way when it was shut. Sure enough, when he pushed at it with his paw, using the side of his head as a sort of wedge, the door angled open a crack.
Cold air from inside pushed out at him.
He eased his way through the small opening, sliding his body around the door and inside. The room was dark, with only a splash of late autumn sunlight from the single small window giving long shadows, but that didn't matter; his eyes quickly adjusted to the chilly gloom.
The sound came yet again.
It was a creak almost; not the scrabble he would have expected from an invading rodent or the scratch a bird would make. Also, a bird probably would have sensed his presence by now and would be flapping madly around the room. He would have liked that, of course.
The sound seemed to originate in the far left corner of the room behind some old boxes. But then the same kind of sound came from the other side of the room, high up. This confused him. From past explorations, he knew there was nothing over there but a high and apparently empty shelf; it was even too high for him to negotiate, though Feeney, being nimbler and thinner, had once accomplished the feat. He had found nothing of importance, apparently, since after looking down gloatingly at Boris for a while, he had jumped back down. There was something, it seemed, up there now.
Boris decided to concentrate his labor on the first source.
There were a couple of empty wooden milk crates over there, filled with old records mostly. Boris slowly made his way toward them in a stalking crouch.
A bird crossed the light outside the window, drawing his attention away for a moment. The sound came again.
A vague, formless memory came to Boris. He remembered something like this sound, another time.
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