Read Online Dollenganger 03 If There Be a Thorns by V. C. Andrews - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: V. C. Andrews
Tags: Horror
Ads: Link
passion that was always just below the surface ignited, caught fire, and something electric tingled my skin too.
Lest I see too much, I silently crawled back to my room with the embarrassing vision of them rolling about on the floor still on my mind. Over and over again, turning, clutching at each other, both wild-- and the last thing I heard was a zipper being pulled. His or hers, I didn't know. Though I wondered about it. Did a woman ever pull down a man's fly zipper of her own free will--even a wife?
I ran into the garden. In the dark, near the great white wall, near a pale, nude statue of marble, I fell down on the ground and cried. Rodin's statue "The Kiss" was the first thing I saw when I looked up. Just a copy, but it told me a whole lot about adults and their feelings.
I'd been a child believing my parents' integrity was flawless, their love a brilliant, smooth ribbon of unbroken satin. Now it was tattered, stained and no longer shining Had they argued many times and I just hadn't heard? I tried to remember. It seemed to me that they'd never had such a terrible argument before, only brief conflicts that had been soon resolved.
Too old to cry, I told myself. Though fourteen was almost a man's age. Already I was sprouting a few hairs above my lips and other places Sniffling, choking my sobs back, I ran to the white wall and climbed the oak tree. Once there on the wall I sat in my favorite place and stared off at the huge white mansion, which looked ghostly in the moonlight. I thought and I thought about Bart and who was his father. Why hadn't he been named after Daddy Paul? Surely a son should have his father's name. Why Bart instead of Paul?
As I watched, as I wondered, fog from the sea began to roll in, curling back upon itself, enfolding the mansion until I couldn't see it. All about me spread the thick gray mist. Eerie, frightening, mysterious.
From the grounds next door came strange muffled noises. Was that someone crying over there? Great wracking sobs that were punctuated by moans and short prayers that asked for forgiveness.
Oh, God! Was that pitiful old woman crying just like my mother had cried? What had she done? Did everyone have some shameful past to conceal? Would I be like them when I grew up?
"Christopher," I heard her sob. Startled, I jerked and tried to find where she was. How did she know my dad's name? Or did she have a Christopher of her own? I knew one thing. Something dark and threatening had come into our lives. Bart was acting stranger than usual. Something or someone had to be influencing him in subtle ways I couldn't quite put my finger on. Whatever was changing Bart didn't have anything to do with Mom and Dad. If I couldn't understand them, Bart wouldn't have a chance. But whatever it was between my parents, and whatever was going on with Bart, I felt I had the weight of the world on my shoulders, and they weren't that strong yet.
One afternoon I deliberately hurried home from ballet class early. I wanted to find out what Bart did with himself when I was away. He wasn't in his room, Ihe wasn't in the garden, so that left only one place he could possibly be. Next door.
I found him easily. Much to my surprise, he was inside the house and sitting on the lap of the old woman who never wore any clothes that weren't black.
I sucked in my breath. The little rascal cuddled up cozily on her black lap. I stole closer to the window of the parlor she seemed to favor above the others. She was singing softly to him as he gazed up into her veil-shrouded face. His huge dark eyes were full of innocence before his expression suddenly changed to that of someone sly and old. "You don't really love me, do you?" he asked in the strangest voice.
"Oh, yes I do," she said softly. "I love you more than I have ever loved anyone before."
"More than you could love Jory?"
Why the Devil should she love me?
She hesitated, glanced away, answered, "Yes . . . you are very, very special to me."
"You will always love me best of
Lest I see too much, I silently crawled back to my room with the embarrassing vision of them rolling about on the floor still on my mind. Over and over again, turning, clutching at each other, both wild-- and the last thing I heard was a zipper being pulled. His or hers, I didn't know. Though I wondered about it. Did a woman ever pull down a man's fly zipper of her own free will--even a wife?
I ran into the garden. In the dark, near the great white wall, near a pale, nude statue of marble, I fell down on the ground and cried. Rodin's statue "The Kiss" was the first thing I saw when I looked up. Just a copy, but it told me a whole lot about adults and their feelings.
I'd been a child believing my parents' integrity was flawless, their love a brilliant, smooth ribbon of unbroken satin. Now it was tattered, stained and no longer shining Had they argued many times and I just hadn't heard? I tried to remember. It seemed to me that they'd never had such a terrible argument before, only brief conflicts that had been soon resolved.
Too old to cry, I told myself. Though fourteen was almost a man's age. Already I was sprouting a few hairs above my lips and other places Sniffling, choking my sobs back, I ran to the white wall and climbed the oak tree. Once there on the wall I sat in my favorite place and stared off at the huge white mansion, which looked ghostly in the moonlight. I thought and I thought about Bart and who was his father. Why hadn't he been named after Daddy Paul? Surely a son should have his father's name. Why Bart instead of Paul?
As I watched, as I wondered, fog from the sea began to roll in, curling back upon itself, enfolding the mansion until I couldn't see it. All about me spread the thick gray mist. Eerie, frightening, mysterious.
From the grounds next door came strange muffled noises. Was that someone crying over there? Great wracking sobs that were punctuated by moans and short prayers that asked for forgiveness.
Oh, God! Was that pitiful old woman crying just like my mother had cried? What had she done? Did everyone have some shameful past to conceal? Would I be like them when I grew up?
"Christopher," I heard her sob. Startled, I jerked and tried to find where she was. How did she know my dad's name? Or did she have a Christopher of her own? I knew one thing. Something dark and threatening had come into our lives. Bart was acting stranger than usual. Something or someone had to be influencing him in subtle ways I couldn't quite put my finger on. Whatever was changing Bart didn't have anything to do with Mom and Dad. If I couldn't understand them, Bart wouldn't have a chance. But whatever it was between my parents, and whatever was going on with Bart, I felt I had the weight of the world on my shoulders, and they weren't that strong yet.
One afternoon I deliberately hurried home from ballet class early. I wanted to find out what Bart did with himself when I was away. He wasn't in his room, Ihe wasn't in the garden, so that left only one place he could possibly be. Next door.
I found him easily. Much to my surprise, he was inside the house and sitting on the lap of the old woman who never wore any clothes that weren't black.
I sucked in my breath. The little rascal cuddled up cozily on her black lap. I stole closer to the window of the parlor she seemed to favor above the others. She was singing softly to him as he gazed up into her veil-shrouded face. His huge dark eyes were full of innocence before his expression suddenly changed to that of someone sly and old. "You don't really love me, do you?" he asked in the strangest voice.
"Oh, yes I do," she said softly. "I love you more than I have ever loved anyone before."
"More than you could love Jory?"
Why the Devil should she love me?
She hesitated, glanced away, answered, "Yes . . . you are very, very special to me."
"You will always love me best of
Similar Books
