Read Online Night Things: A Novel of Supernatural Terror by Michael Talbot - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Talbot
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brought with it more questions. Why had Sarah Balfram devised such elaborate strategies to control and influence the route a person took through her house? And what might he find if he managed to outwit her various stratagems and travel deeper into its interior? This last question sent a chill through him.
After finishing the breakfast dishes and seeing Stephen off to ready the generator building for the job applicants, Lauren decided to do some exploring of her own. However, she was still so fascinated by some of the rooms she had already seen she decided that the first thing she was going to do was take another stroll through the first floor.
Again what drew her attention as she wandered through the rooms were the many treasures the house contained. In the butler’s pantry she lingered admiringly over the large collection of Georgian silver and Meissen porcelain, and in the Moorish-styled billiard room she was astounded to find what appeared to be an authentic Sung-dynasty vase. But as she continued on, what started to strike her as odd about the house was how strangely anonymous it was. The rooms were opulently furnished; even the smallest details had been carefully thought out and attended to. But nowhere was there any sign the house had ever really been lived in. There were no portraits of Sarah Balfram or any other members of her family. Even the pages of the books in the library were still uncut—obviously no one had ever actually used the library as a place to read.
Unsettled by the discovery, she went upstairs via the servants’ entrance off the kitchen. Wandering through some of the servants’ rooms she searched for some sign they had once been inhabited, but again she found nothing. There were no old letters stuffed behind any of the mirrors, no stray coat hangers left in any of the closets, no old magazines, no medicine bottles, not even any lining paper in any of the bureau drawers.
Still, there were other signs the house had been used. Floorboards had been rubbed smooth by the passage of feet, and carpets had started to go threadbare in what appeared to be the most heavily trafficked areas. But why, she wondered, had none of the house’s inhabitants ever really left a personal mark upon the place?
Spurred on by this question, she decided to go deeper into the house, but quickly became lost in a crisscrossing of hallways with no avenue out but a narrow set of stairs. After going down them she found herself in the front entrance hall of the house and saw Garrett sitting solemnly on the main staircase. She smiled at him, but continued to look up at the house perplexedly.
“So the house dumped you out too,” he said.
She looked at him confusedly. “What do you mean?”
“You were walking around upstairs and got lost, and the only way out was to come down that set of stairs and into the entrance hall, right?”
“Right, but so?”
“So, the house did it. It doesn’t like people walking around too much in it. It always sends them back downstairs.”
She looked at him skeptically. “Are you trying to tell me the house is alive?”
He sighed patiently. “No, it’s not alive. It’s the way it was built.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Garrett. Why would Sarah Balfram build her house that way?”
He greeted the question with utmost seriousness. “That’s just it,” he said staring contemplatively up into the house. “Why did she do it?”
Before she could react further, the sound of a car arriving distracted her and she went out onto the pillared veranda to see who it was. A young man in a checkered shirt was stepping down from a dilapidated pickup truck. Although she had heard no other sounds of people arriving, to her surprise she saw that a small crowd had gathered near the generator building. By a tree an older man smoking a pipe had apparently arrived on a bicycle. Two other men, brothers it seemed, stood by an old Ford Mustang, and a man with disheveled black hair and the whitest skin
After finishing the breakfast dishes and seeing Stephen off to ready the generator building for the job applicants, Lauren decided to do some exploring of her own. However, she was still so fascinated by some of the rooms she had already seen she decided that the first thing she was going to do was take another stroll through the first floor.
Again what drew her attention as she wandered through the rooms were the many treasures the house contained. In the butler’s pantry she lingered admiringly over the large collection of Georgian silver and Meissen porcelain, and in the Moorish-styled billiard room she was astounded to find what appeared to be an authentic Sung-dynasty vase. But as she continued on, what started to strike her as odd about the house was how strangely anonymous it was. The rooms were opulently furnished; even the smallest details had been carefully thought out and attended to. But nowhere was there any sign the house had ever really been lived in. There were no portraits of Sarah Balfram or any other members of her family. Even the pages of the books in the library were still uncut—obviously no one had ever actually used the library as a place to read.
Unsettled by the discovery, she went upstairs via the servants’ entrance off the kitchen. Wandering through some of the servants’ rooms she searched for some sign they had once been inhabited, but again she found nothing. There were no old letters stuffed behind any of the mirrors, no stray coat hangers left in any of the closets, no old magazines, no medicine bottles, not even any lining paper in any of the bureau drawers.
Still, there were other signs the house had been used. Floorboards had been rubbed smooth by the passage of feet, and carpets had started to go threadbare in what appeared to be the most heavily trafficked areas. But why, she wondered, had none of the house’s inhabitants ever really left a personal mark upon the place?
Spurred on by this question, she decided to go deeper into the house, but quickly became lost in a crisscrossing of hallways with no avenue out but a narrow set of stairs. After going down them she found herself in the front entrance hall of the house and saw Garrett sitting solemnly on the main staircase. She smiled at him, but continued to look up at the house perplexedly.
“So the house dumped you out too,” he said.
She looked at him confusedly. “What do you mean?”
“You were walking around upstairs and got lost, and the only way out was to come down that set of stairs and into the entrance hall, right?”
“Right, but so?”
“So, the house did it. It doesn’t like people walking around too much in it. It always sends them back downstairs.”
She looked at him skeptically. “Are you trying to tell me the house is alive?”
He sighed patiently. “No, it’s not alive. It’s the way it was built.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Garrett. Why would Sarah Balfram build her house that way?”
He greeted the question with utmost seriousness. “That’s just it,” he said staring contemplatively up into the house. “Why did she do it?”
Before she could react further, the sound of a car arriving distracted her and she went out onto the pillared veranda to see who it was. A young man in a checkered shirt was stepping down from a dilapidated pickup truck. Although she had heard no other sounds of people arriving, to her surprise she saw that a small crowd had gathered near the generator building. By a tree an older man smoking a pipe had apparently arrived on a bicycle. Two other men, brothers it seemed, stood by an old Ford Mustang, and a man with disheveled black hair and the whitest skin
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