Read Online Deficiency by Andrew Neiderman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrew Neiderman
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over Christie and Carissa and she suggested Kristin."
"What happened to your parents?" he asked. Parents always interested him, probably because of the vagueness surrounding his own.
"Car accident," she said. He could see that the memory was fresh enough to bring tears to her eyes.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Are you the only child?"
"Yes."
"So am I," he said.
She smiled.
The chef hit a bell.
"I've got another pickup," she said.
He smiled and watched her walk away, watched the way her hips clung to the light blue uniform, how her buttocks swayed and her shoulders turned. The female form was truly the most beautiful sight on earth, he thought. All of them, every one of them, no matter how tall or how thin, how short or how fat, were beautiful to him. He found something to admire and something to desire in each and every female he saw. That even went for young ones, especially girls just becoming women. Was that part of his special power, his ability to see the promise in a young girl's body?
Why worry about it? he thought and shrugged. Why worry about anything?
He finished his lasagna, had some coffee, and then went looking for Grandmother Martin's rooming house at the west end of this small hamlet called Loch Sheldrake. It consisted of one long main street and a number of side streets, most of the homes vintage late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Grandmother Martin's large home was no exception. It was easy to find because it was so architecturally distinct.
It was a three-story Victorian with rusticated stone foundation, lower story porch supports, and tower. The walls of the upper stories were clad with textured shingles. The steeply pitched roof had intersecting cross gables and multilevel eaves. The windows in the lower level of the tower had Romanesque arches and the windows of the third story were all Palladian windows. There were two gabled dormers, both with three ribbon windows.
He thought there were at least five or six acres of land surrounding the house, and noted a small pond in the rear with a gazebo beside it. How picturesque, he thought and for a moment had a flash of memory that suggested he had lived somewhere similar in his youth. Was that his memory or someone else's? What difference did it make? The important thing was it left him with a residue of nostalgia and made him all the more eager to rent a room.
Grandmother Martin greeted him at the door. She was obviously a feisty old lady with a hard firm face that had inquisitive eyes filled with suspicion. She kept her gray hair neatly cut just below her ears and wore no makeup, not even a trace of rouge to hide the paleness of her complexion. She looked like one who would not deny age nor tolerate anyone who tried. She was small-boned, not more than five feet four at the most, but she stood so erect and secure, it was as though she had a steel rod shoved down the center of her spine.
Old people were more than simply an anomaly to him; they were frightening as well. His world was a world of youth and vibrancy. Age was a disease, not a natural process. He saw it truly as decaying. Wrinkled and gray, toothless and forgetful, crippled and arthritic, old men and women were already dead in his eyes. They offered no sustenance for his well-being. He felt as though he were looking into the face of his own death should he ever fail to provide for himself.
Grandmother Martin sensed his aversion for her, and it triggered warnings, but he was able to manage one of his charming smiles and keep his voice soft, controlled, appealing. He quickly explained how he had come to knock at her door. She smirked.
"Kristin's as good as any booking agent," she said, but she didn't make it sound like something good. "It ain't the season no more, you know. Things is closed everywhere," she warned.
"Oh, I know that, but fall is so beautiful here, I thought I would linger a few days, maybe even a week or so and enjoy the scenery and the peacefulness. Life is so hectic
"What happened to your parents?" he asked. Parents always interested him, probably because of the vagueness surrounding his own.
"Car accident," she said. He could see that the memory was fresh enough to bring tears to her eyes.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Are you the only child?"
"Yes."
"So am I," he said.
She smiled.
The chef hit a bell.
"I've got another pickup," she said.
He smiled and watched her walk away, watched the way her hips clung to the light blue uniform, how her buttocks swayed and her shoulders turned. The female form was truly the most beautiful sight on earth, he thought. All of them, every one of them, no matter how tall or how thin, how short or how fat, were beautiful to him. He found something to admire and something to desire in each and every female he saw. That even went for young ones, especially girls just becoming women. Was that part of his special power, his ability to see the promise in a young girl's body?
Why worry about it? he thought and shrugged. Why worry about anything?
He finished his lasagna, had some coffee, and then went looking for Grandmother Martin's rooming house at the west end of this small hamlet called Loch Sheldrake. It consisted of one long main street and a number of side streets, most of the homes vintage late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Grandmother Martin's large home was no exception. It was easy to find because it was so architecturally distinct.
It was a three-story Victorian with rusticated stone foundation, lower story porch supports, and tower. The walls of the upper stories were clad with textured shingles. The steeply pitched roof had intersecting cross gables and multilevel eaves. The windows in the lower level of the tower had Romanesque arches and the windows of the third story were all Palladian windows. There were two gabled dormers, both with three ribbon windows.
He thought there were at least five or six acres of land surrounding the house, and noted a small pond in the rear with a gazebo beside it. How picturesque, he thought and for a moment had a flash of memory that suggested he had lived somewhere similar in his youth. Was that his memory or someone else's? What difference did it make? The important thing was it left him with a residue of nostalgia and made him all the more eager to rent a room.
Grandmother Martin greeted him at the door. She was obviously a feisty old lady with a hard firm face that had inquisitive eyes filled with suspicion. She kept her gray hair neatly cut just below her ears and wore no makeup, not even a trace of rouge to hide the paleness of her complexion. She looked like one who would not deny age nor tolerate anyone who tried. She was small-boned, not more than five feet four at the most, but she stood so erect and secure, it was as though she had a steel rod shoved down the center of her spine.
Old people were more than simply an anomaly to him; they were frightening as well. His world was a world of youth and vibrancy. Age was a disease, not a natural process. He saw it truly as decaying. Wrinkled and gray, toothless and forgetful, crippled and arthritic, old men and women were already dead in his eyes. They offered no sustenance for his well-being. He felt as though he were looking into the face of his own death should he ever fail to provide for himself.
Grandmother Martin sensed his aversion for her, and it triggered warnings, but he was able to manage one of his charming smiles and keep his voice soft, controlled, appealing. He quickly explained how he had come to knock at her door. She smirked.
"Kristin's as good as any booking agent," she said, but she didn't make it sound like something good. "It ain't the season no more, you know. Things is closed everywhere," she warned.
"Oh, I know that, but fall is so beautiful here, I thought I would linger a few days, maybe even a week or so and enjoy the scenery and the peacefulness. Life is so hectic
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