Read Online Dark Screams: Volume Two by Robert R. McCammon, Graham Masterton, Richard Christian Matheson - Free Book Online Page A
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by the previous owner, could be replaced with a new set of dark red curtains.
The crack across the plaster in the back of the room was another matter entirely and would be visible in any camera shot.
Patrick remained at the doorway, filling the frame. She didn’t glance at him as she walked around the ten-seater dining room table. She reached out and touched the table. “How old is this?”
“This was a part of the Fosters’ original furniture collection. It’s maybe a hundred years old. Abraham’s staff took good care of it until a caretaker from Boston inherited it.”
“Caretaker?” She snorted. “You must be referring to the guy who ruined everything.” There were more signs of renovation here: the basic builder crown molding along the ceiling, the blasé baseboards from the early nineties along the wall. This job was supposed to be quick and easy—not so much now.
Patrick nodded.
“So what happened to the Fosters?” Gail asked. “The producer told me the writer had trouble finding information. The locals wouldn’t talk about it and we only got so much from the newspaper articles.”
Patrick sighed. “The folks in town have tried to suppress most of the rumors regarding the disappearance of Abraham’s wife. Foster told everyone she ran away, but one of the couple’s former maids said Abraham probably killed her. Hence the mystery surrounding the property.
“The small businesses in Hastings depend on visitors every summer. The last thing they wanted was an urban legend to bring out the kooks.”
“But darkness is just what we need.” Eleanor approached the wall and touched the crack. The plaster was brittle and crumbled from pressure. Not a good sign. “The staff writer will need a monologue on what happened, so any details you can offer would be valuable.”
“I’ll be more than happy to do what I can for now.”
“For now?”
Patrick’s warm expression grew stern. “I’m expected in Europe in four weeks. If I understood the arrangement with your producer, you’d complete filming in that time.”
If everything went as planned this weekend, there’d be more than enough time to fix the issues in the sitting room and the dining room. Eleanor’s staff had spent plenty of time on the front lines with the tools needed for heavy lifting.
Dark memories bubbled from the cracks in this home. Leaving wasn’t an option, but soon enough she’d be back in Manhattan where she wanted to be.
—
With just forty-eight hours until the production staff arrived, the weight of the world pressed down on Eleanor’s shoulders. She’d swallowed more pain pills than she’d deemed necessary to knock out a growing tension headache.
The cold rain never ceased outside, making the process of hauling supplies and tools all the more stressful. Instead of hiring local contractors, she had the best team in place to handle most of the issues on their own. Depending on others had all too often cost her time and money on rush work.
Precious hours that morning had been spent covering the living room and dining room furniture with tarps to protect them. Part of that time had been spent boxing up vases, the paintings, and the like.
Seeing all those paintings, with most of them depicting hunted animals, leave the room was a welcome sight.
“What I wouldn’t give for a studio setup. We wouldn’t be in such a hurry.” Gail popped yet another chip into her mouth and extended the bag to Eleanor.
She shook her head. They still had a few hours’ work to do before lunch, and she didn’t have time for a snack. She sorted through the tools, forming a plan in her head, while Gail and Brody chatted.
Her assistant’s phone rang, the tone a chorus of chirping crickets. By now Eleanor had gotten used to it, but once in a while it annoyed her to no end. Her headache didn’t appreciate it, either.
“Looks like we’ve got a lead on the local rumor mill,” Gail said. “I’m heading into town to check it
The crack across the plaster in the back of the room was another matter entirely and would be visible in any camera shot.
Patrick remained at the doorway, filling the frame. She didn’t glance at him as she walked around the ten-seater dining room table. She reached out and touched the table. “How old is this?”
“This was a part of the Fosters’ original furniture collection. It’s maybe a hundred years old. Abraham’s staff took good care of it until a caretaker from Boston inherited it.”
“Caretaker?” She snorted. “You must be referring to the guy who ruined everything.” There were more signs of renovation here: the basic builder crown molding along the ceiling, the blasé baseboards from the early nineties along the wall. This job was supposed to be quick and easy—not so much now.
Patrick nodded.
“So what happened to the Fosters?” Gail asked. “The producer told me the writer had trouble finding information. The locals wouldn’t talk about it and we only got so much from the newspaper articles.”
Patrick sighed. “The folks in town have tried to suppress most of the rumors regarding the disappearance of Abraham’s wife. Foster told everyone she ran away, but one of the couple’s former maids said Abraham probably killed her. Hence the mystery surrounding the property.
“The small businesses in Hastings depend on visitors every summer. The last thing they wanted was an urban legend to bring out the kooks.”
“But darkness is just what we need.” Eleanor approached the wall and touched the crack. The plaster was brittle and crumbled from pressure. Not a good sign. “The staff writer will need a monologue on what happened, so any details you can offer would be valuable.”
“I’ll be more than happy to do what I can for now.”
“For now?”
Patrick’s warm expression grew stern. “I’m expected in Europe in four weeks. If I understood the arrangement with your producer, you’d complete filming in that time.”
If everything went as planned this weekend, there’d be more than enough time to fix the issues in the sitting room and the dining room. Eleanor’s staff had spent plenty of time on the front lines with the tools needed for heavy lifting.
Dark memories bubbled from the cracks in this home. Leaving wasn’t an option, but soon enough she’d be back in Manhattan where she wanted to be.
—
With just forty-eight hours until the production staff arrived, the weight of the world pressed down on Eleanor’s shoulders. She’d swallowed more pain pills than she’d deemed necessary to knock out a growing tension headache.
The cold rain never ceased outside, making the process of hauling supplies and tools all the more stressful. Instead of hiring local contractors, she had the best team in place to handle most of the issues on their own. Depending on others had all too often cost her time and money on rush work.
Precious hours that morning had been spent covering the living room and dining room furniture with tarps to protect them. Part of that time had been spent boxing up vases, the paintings, and the like.
Seeing all those paintings, with most of them depicting hunted animals, leave the room was a welcome sight.
“What I wouldn’t give for a studio setup. We wouldn’t be in such a hurry.” Gail popped yet another chip into her mouth and extended the bag to Eleanor.
She shook her head. They still had a few hours’ work to do before lunch, and she didn’t have time for a snack. She sorted through the tools, forming a plan in her head, while Gail and Brody chatted.
Her assistant’s phone rang, the tone a chorus of chirping crickets. By now Eleanor had gotten used to it, but once in a while it annoyed her to no end. Her headache didn’t appreciate it, either.
“Looks like we’ve got a lead on the local rumor mill,” Gail said. “I’m heading into town to check it
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