Read Online Cherringham--Mystery at the Manor by Neil Richards - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Neil Richards
Ads: Link
handle. The door creaked as it opened.
Inside, the room was stuffy, the smell overpowering … old, and familiar. It took him back to the room of his aged father all those years ago. Those weekly ferry rides to Staten Island, the dread of seeing his dad so alone, grumbling, not coping. Dying.
He flicked on the flashlight, fingers wrapped around the lens to mask the beam.
He scanned the room: old heavy furniture, a big iron bed, stripped bare, an old armchair, bookshelves. On the floor more books, and against one wall, some old shelves, most empty, a few with dusty and cobwebbed ceramic pieces.
He even saw an Indian statue, a deity with several arms, hands extended, sitting cross-legged.
But though the statue was missing one of its eight arms, old Victor still hadn’t thrown it away, preferring to keep it here in his bedroom.
Jack flicked off the light. Nothing here.
Back into the hallway, he shut the door carefully behind him, trying to make do without the flashlight.
Finally he reached the locked entrance to the attic room.
Only one key, Hope said.
He pulled out a thin bit of rigid wire.
Never stopped me before.
And Jack started working the keyhole, back and forth until he heard a click, a bolt slipping back and if welcoming him the door slowly slid open.
He took a breath.
He didn’t get spooked too easily, not with everything he had seen.
But this dark, empty manor house, and the narrow staircase …
Some company right now, he thought, would be good.
***
In the attic room again he had no choice but to turn on the small flashlight, wrapping his hand around the lit end to make the beam as narrow as possible.
The place was a puzzle. No boxes. No old furniture. Completely empty. Which in itself was strange, in a house this old and lived-in.
He looked around one more time, letting the light slowly scan the room.
And he noticed something. The room seemed smaller than it should be, based on what this upper floor looked like from outside, and even from the dimensions of the floor below it.
It wasn’t uncommon for an attic to narrow; but — somehow the size here seemed off.
Which meant …
He let the light play along the angled wood of the roof, the walls, looking for … something.
And then he saw an outline on a wall to the right. To the casual eye, it might look like the grain of the wood, or where one wooden slat joined another. But as Jack went closer, he saw that wasn’t the case.
He pressed against it, tapped. A hollow sound answered him back.
And then he realized … the attic contained a hidden room.
Amazing, he thought.
But with no door knob, no key, how to get into this hidey-hole?
He started tracing the mystery door’s outline with his light.
Jack was beginning to think that he was stumped.
There may be a room on the other side of the wall but he was dammed if he knew how to get the flush door without a knob to open.
But he was always a big fan of trial and error.
So he began pressing against the nearly invisible outline, listening to what those hard presses did.
And when his hands got to the top, and he pressed hard, he heard something. Some movement or slippage.
And it looked as if a bit of the hidden door bowed out, mere millimetres, but it was something .
Could there be latches all around it?
Now he did the same thing, on either side, pressing hard, hearing more sounds, the door popping out a few more millimetres with every push.
Until, kneeling down in the dark attic, he pressed at the very bottom, and the door opened.
Giving up its secrets.
And he stood up, and pulled it wide open.
The room was small, not much larger than a walk-in closet and there were no windows so he could use his flashlight without worry.
And what he saw made him stop.
A small table, covered by rich red material with gold stitching that glistened under his light. On top of it was yet another elephant god but this one was holding something right in its broad lap, as if guarding it, protecting
Inside, the room was stuffy, the smell overpowering … old, and familiar. It took him back to the room of his aged father all those years ago. Those weekly ferry rides to Staten Island, the dread of seeing his dad so alone, grumbling, not coping. Dying.
He flicked on the flashlight, fingers wrapped around the lens to mask the beam.
He scanned the room: old heavy furniture, a big iron bed, stripped bare, an old armchair, bookshelves. On the floor more books, and against one wall, some old shelves, most empty, a few with dusty and cobwebbed ceramic pieces.
He even saw an Indian statue, a deity with several arms, hands extended, sitting cross-legged.
But though the statue was missing one of its eight arms, old Victor still hadn’t thrown it away, preferring to keep it here in his bedroom.
Jack flicked off the light. Nothing here.
Back into the hallway, he shut the door carefully behind him, trying to make do without the flashlight.
Finally he reached the locked entrance to the attic room.
Only one key, Hope said.
He pulled out a thin bit of rigid wire.
Never stopped me before.
And Jack started working the keyhole, back and forth until he heard a click, a bolt slipping back and if welcoming him the door slowly slid open.
He took a breath.
He didn’t get spooked too easily, not with everything he had seen.
But this dark, empty manor house, and the narrow staircase …
Some company right now, he thought, would be good.
***
In the attic room again he had no choice but to turn on the small flashlight, wrapping his hand around the lit end to make the beam as narrow as possible.
The place was a puzzle. No boxes. No old furniture. Completely empty. Which in itself was strange, in a house this old and lived-in.
He looked around one more time, letting the light slowly scan the room.
And he noticed something. The room seemed smaller than it should be, based on what this upper floor looked like from outside, and even from the dimensions of the floor below it.
It wasn’t uncommon for an attic to narrow; but — somehow the size here seemed off.
Which meant …
He let the light play along the angled wood of the roof, the walls, looking for … something.
And then he saw an outline on a wall to the right. To the casual eye, it might look like the grain of the wood, or where one wooden slat joined another. But as Jack went closer, he saw that wasn’t the case.
He pressed against it, tapped. A hollow sound answered him back.
And then he realized … the attic contained a hidden room.
Amazing, he thought.
But with no door knob, no key, how to get into this hidey-hole?
He started tracing the mystery door’s outline with his light.
Jack was beginning to think that he was stumped.
There may be a room on the other side of the wall but he was dammed if he knew how to get the flush door without a knob to open.
But he was always a big fan of trial and error.
So he began pressing against the nearly invisible outline, listening to what those hard presses did.
And when his hands got to the top, and he pressed hard, he heard something. Some movement or slippage.
And it looked as if a bit of the hidden door bowed out, mere millimetres, but it was something .
Could there be latches all around it?
Now he did the same thing, on either side, pressing hard, hearing more sounds, the door popping out a few more millimetres with every push.
Until, kneeling down in the dark attic, he pressed at the very bottom, and the door opened.
Giving up its secrets.
And he stood up, and pulled it wide open.
The room was small, not much larger than a walk-in closet and there were no windows so he could use his flashlight without worry.
And what he saw made him stop.
A small table, covered by rich red material with gold stitching that glistened under his light. On top of it was yet another elephant god but this one was holding something right in its broad lap, as if guarding it, protecting
Similar Books
