Read Online Chill Waters by Joan Hall Hovey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joan Hall Hovey
day. Rachael’s heart lurched at the sight of someone standing out by the old elm tree. They were staring straight in at her.
Darkness fell again and the watcher was gone. A fleeting silhouette caught in the blue-white glow, like a negative of a photograph, instantly swallowed up by the night. She could see nothing now, only the blackness and the rain streaming down the glass, and her own reflection. But she sensed him out there. Her pulses were racing, her mouth dry. The fine hairs on her arms tingled as if brushed with electricity. I saw someone. I know I did.
Moving closer to the window, Rachael waited for the next flash of lightning to confirm what her eyes had clearly seen. Iris Brandt’s words echoed in her mind: “You’re in danger here, Rachael. Terrible danger.” She shivered involuntarily.
The next flash came but revealed only the tree in its contorted shape. No one standing beside it. Her imagination? A trick of the lightning, maybe. You’re losing it, Rachael.
Thunder cracked, reverberating through her body, giving her a sense of being caught in the eye of the storm. She moved away from the window.
A torrent of rain rattled the windows in their casings. Lightning stabbed the objects in the room in otherworldly light, making them appear to jerk about in a mad, convulsive dance, as if alive. Drained and exhausted, as if the storm, rather than infusing her with its energy, was stealing what little she had left. I need to go back and lie down. I don’t feel well.
As she was about to go into the living room, the bulbs in their three tulip-shaped shades flickered threateningly. She stood perfectly still. “No, please,” she whispered.
She fixed the lights with her gaze, as if she might impose her will on them to remain bright and steady, but they flickered a second timeand againdimming lower and lower, finally abandoning her to the darkness.
Damn! What next?
She felt her way long the edge of the counter, closed a hand around the last drawer handle. Pulling it open she rummaged inside for the broken candles and the card of matches she’d seen there earlier.
Her fingers fumbled over curtain hooks, a corkscrew, an iron caster from a long discarded item of furniture, its owner apparently figuring it would come in handy at some point. At last her hand closed around a short, chunky candle. The smooth, waxy feel of it lent comfort. She came up with four candles in all, in varying lengths. She found the matches, lit one of the candles and set it on the kitchen table, dispelling a layer of the thick, inky darkness.
She placed two more candles at either end of the counter, bringing welcome light into room. The flames made wavering circles on the ceiling. The last candle, she took into the living room, letting the small flame guide her step. She was about to set it on the mantle, when someone knocked on the front door. She spun around, the movement creating a draft that blew out the flame. Now only the glow from the fireplace kept her from being in total darkness.
The silhouetted figure by the Elm tree leapt to the forefront of her mind.
Iris sat on the ashrose sofa, a double-shot of whiskey in hand, still shaken from her awful nightmare. Sensing her mistress’ distress, Cleo crept up next to her and licked her hand. Iris stroked the warm, silky body, more out of her own need for contact, but eliciting a grateful purr from Cleo just the same.
Iris had quit smoking three weeks before. Now she slipped her hand into the pocket of her robe, found the lone cigarette she kept there (and in other pockets) in case of emergency. This damn well qualifies, she thought.
Rain pattered insistently against the window, sounding like the tapping of fingers of someone wanting to be let inside. In the far corner of the room, the grandfather clock ticked away, as it had through three generations. Tick tock…tick tock…like a time-bomb. Time running
Darkness fell again and the watcher was gone. A fleeting silhouette caught in the blue-white glow, like a negative of a photograph, instantly swallowed up by the night. She could see nothing now, only the blackness and the rain streaming down the glass, and her own reflection. But she sensed him out there. Her pulses were racing, her mouth dry. The fine hairs on her arms tingled as if brushed with electricity. I saw someone. I know I did.
Moving closer to the window, Rachael waited for the next flash of lightning to confirm what her eyes had clearly seen. Iris Brandt’s words echoed in her mind: “You’re in danger here, Rachael. Terrible danger.” She shivered involuntarily.
The next flash came but revealed only the tree in its contorted shape. No one standing beside it. Her imagination? A trick of the lightning, maybe. You’re losing it, Rachael.
Thunder cracked, reverberating through her body, giving her a sense of being caught in the eye of the storm. She moved away from the window.
A torrent of rain rattled the windows in their casings. Lightning stabbed the objects in the room in otherworldly light, making them appear to jerk about in a mad, convulsive dance, as if alive. Drained and exhausted, as if the storm, rather than infusing her with its energy, was stealing what little she had left. I need to go back and lie down. I don’t feel well.
As she was about to go into the living room, the bulbs in their three tulip-shaped shades flickered threateningly. She stood perfectly still. “No, please,” she whispered.
She fixed the lights with her gaze, as if she might impose her will on them to remain bright and steady, but they flickered a second timeand againdimming lower and lower, finally abandoning her to the darkness.
Damn! What next?
She felt her way long the edge of the counter, closed a hand around the last drawer handle. Pulling it open she rummaged inside for the broken candles and the card of matches she’d seen there earlier.
Her fingers fumbled over curtain hooks, a corkscrew, an iron caster from a long discarded item of furniture, its owner apparently figuring it would come in handy at some point. At last her hand closed around a short, chunky candle. The smooth, waxy feel of it lent comfort. She came up with four candles in all, in varying lengths. She found the matches, lit one of the candles and set it on the kitchen table, dispelling a layer of the thick, inky darkness.
She placed two more candles at either end of the counter, bringing welcome light into room. The flames made wavering circles on the ceiling. The last candle, she took into the living room, letting the small flame guide her step. She was about to set it on the mantle, when someone knocked on the front door. She spun around, the movement creating a draft that blew out the flame. Now only the glow from the fireplace kept her from being in total darkness.
The silhouetted figure by the Elm tree leapt to the forefront of her mind.
Iris sat on the ashrose sofa, a double-shot of whiskey in hand, still shaken from her awful nightmare. Sensing her mistress’ distress, Cleo crept up next to her and licked her hand. Iris stroked the warm, silky body, more out of her own need for contact, but eliciting a grateful purr from Cleo just the same.
Iris had quit smoking three weeks before. Now she slipped her hand into the pocket of her robe, found the lone cigarette she kept there (and in other pockets) in case of emergency. This damn well qualifies, she thought.
Rain pattered insistently against the window, sounding like the tapping of fingers of someone wanting to be let inside. In the far corner of the room, the grandfather clock ticked away, as it had through three generations. Tick tock…tick tock…like a time-bomb. Time running
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