Read Online Crying Child by Barbara Michaels - Free Book Online Page A

barrier. A tall iron fence, painted black, enclosed the plot. It was well tended; the stones stood stiffly erect, despite theirobvious age; the scant grass was neatly clipped and the flowers, rosebushes and other perennials showed the work of a gardener’s hands.
    “What is a cemetery doing out here in the middle of the woods?” I asked.
    “It’s the Fraser family plot. They aren’t buried here any more, of course; but it’s consecrated ground, all the same.”
    “So many of them.”
    “The Frasers have been on the island for a long time. They had big families in the old days—sisters and cousins and maiden aunts. The servants, too. That’s why there are so many graves.”
    “I’ll bet Hezekiah was responsible for that atrocity,” I said, indicating the biggest monument in the place. It was more than a monument; massively built of gray stone, it was a miniature Gothic house—a mausoleum.
    “Right. How did you know?”
    “The general ostentation, and the style. Mrs. Willard said he built his house like the Wedding Cake House—full-blown Gothic revival, in other words. Good heavens, it would be bad enough on a full-sized house; crammed onto that little building it looks frightful.”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Will said thoughtfully. “You have to admit the frightfulness is appropriate to the function.”
    “I’m not sure that idea appeals to me…. Theplace is in excellent condition. Who maintains it?”
    “Jed. Who else?”
    “And I thought he was lazy!”
    “You can’t have taken a good look at the grounds around the house, or you wouldn’t say that. Jed does more, with less visible effort, than any man I’ve ever met. But he does like to give the effect of languid disinterest. He’s got a funny sense of humor.”
    “Can we go in?”
    “Sure.” Will unlatched the gate. “We have to cross the clearing anyhow, to get back to the house.”
    The cemetery was a microcosm of early American funerary monuments. The epitaphs ranged from curt announcements of the name and the relevant dates to florid homemade verses that related the virtues of the deceased or the circumstances of his demise. One or two of the latter were classics of unconscious humor, as worthy of preservation as the well-known examples of the genre which have been so often published. The designs on the tombstones were just as curious. I appreciated the earthy symbolism of the winged skull, which was popular around the turn of the century—the eighteenth century, that is. There was a rising-sun design which struck an oddly pagan note.
    After a while Will glanced at his watch.
    “Now you will have to hurry if you don’t wantto be late for lunch. You can come back anytime, you know.”
    “I’m sorry. This really is a fascinating—oh!”
    My unexpected movement caught him off balance, and he swayed backward under my weight as I threw myself against him. His arms went around me in a completely reflexive movement.
    “What in God’s name is the matter?”
    I made a sound which I would hate to have to reproduce in writing, and then got control of my voice.
    “Someone…over there.”
    “Where?”
    Still holding me, Will turned in a complete circle.
    “I don’t see anybody,” he said. “And if there were somebody…so what? From your reaction I thought you’d stepped on a rattlesnake.”
    “Over there, by the dead tree, the one that leans at an angle….”
    There was certainly nothing by the tree now. I detached myself from Will. I will admit that I was not anxious to do so, but I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. It was such a corny trick, the scream and the timid maidenly terror. As my panic subsided, I felt my cheeks get hot. Of course he would think…What else could he think? My reaction had been so grossly out of proportion to any conceivable stimulus.

    “What was it?” Will asked. “Man, woman…monster?”
    “I…don’t know. Something tall and dark…Will, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I flipped. Just the