Read Online The Back Door of Midnight by Elizabeth Chandler - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Chandler
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throughanother avenue of trees. I recalled the sounds of sirens and running feet from my first dream. If fire trucks had entered from one direction, it would have been easy for the kids setting the blaze to exit through the other. It seemed an ideal place for arson.
I ducked under the police tape and walked to the center of the cordoned-off area. Standing there, I turned slowly, my eyes sweeping the landscape. It was like looking at something in a wavy mirror, like looking at your living room reflected in a Christmas ball, finding it both strange and familiar. Somehow, the image of this place had gotten inside my head. Somehow, it had rooted in my brain before I had seen the place for real, and it scared me.
eight
WHEN I ARRIVED home at dinnertime, Aunt Iris was sitting at the kitchen table making a sandwich. “You’re back,” she said, sounding surprised.
I was about to explain who I was and why I was here, then decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, as long as she thought I was myself or my mother. “I got a job, Aunt Iris. And I’ve been to the grocery store.”
“We have plenty of food,” she replied.
I eyed the two pieces of slimy meat she had just laid on her bread and the mayo jar with yellow, crusty stuff inside the rim. “Thanks, but I don’t want to be mooching off of you. I bought one of those already-cooked rotisserie chickens. Want to try it?”
Without waiting for her response, I slid her sandwich plate to the side and placed the plastic container with chicken in front of her. She studied it for a moment, then picked up the butcher knife she’d been using and hacked off a leg.
“Where will you be working, Anna?”
So she did know who I was. “At a store called Always Christmas.”
“Marcy’s shop. That’s very nice.”
She sounded normal, making me wonder if she had taken some kind of medicine. I thought it took longer for psychiatric drugs to work.
“I hope you remembered to get Dr Pepper,” she said, watching me put away groceries.
“I did. Want some?”
“No, thank you,” Aunt Iris replied. “I have private matters to attend to.”
I opened the refrigerator and moved to one side all the stuff I planned to throw out when she wasn’t looking.
“It’s unfortunate,” she said.
“What is?” I asked, wiping off the cleared shelf with a dishrag.
“I really can’t say. They are private matters.”
“All right.”
“I’ll be in my office.”
I pulled my head out of the refrigerator in time to see her slip a key into the door that led from the kitchen into the next room, the one I’d found locked last night. Curious, I followed her to the door to see what was there.
Two of the room’s walls had glass-fronted cabinets with counters beneath, the kind you see in an old science lab. There was a desk, what looked like an examining table, and an old-fashioned scale. A bookshelf just inside the door was crammed with worn volumes on the care of horses, cows, sheep, and, yes, goats.
“Was this my great-grandfather’s office?” I asked.
Aunt Iris swung around. “I told you some things are private!”
“Okay, okay,” I said, taking a step back.
She sat down at the desk, which was topped with a collection of candleholders, all of them covered with wax, their candles burnt down to the metal. What did she do in here?
“Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?”
“I can hear you prying. It’s nobody’s fault.”
“It isn’t?” I replied, not sure what she was talking about.
“Of course not,” she said. “People just die.”
“Sooner or later.”
“On your way out, Joanna, close the door behind you.”
Obviously, I was supposed to leave. I returned to the kitchen but kept the door cracked between us. A minute later she closed and locked it—I heard the double click. Oh,
well.
I fixed myself a salad and ate the other chicken leg,listening for movement inside her office, hearing nothing. Thinking about the melted candles, I sniffed but couldn’t smell
I ducked under the police tape and walked to the center of the cordoned-off area. Standing there, I turned slowly, my eyes sweeping the landscape. It was like looking at something in a wavy mirror, like looking at your living room reflected in a Christmas ball, finding it both strange and familiar. Somehow, the image of this place had gotten inside my head. Somehow, it had rooted in my brain before I had seen the place for real, and it scared me.
eight
WHEN I ARRIVED home at dinnertime, Aunt Iris was sitting at the kitchen table making a sandwich. “You’re back,” she said, sounding surprised.
I was about to explain who I was and why I was here, then decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, as long as she thought I was myself or my mother. “I got a job, Aunt Iris. And I’ve been to the grocery store.”
“We have plenty of food,” she replied.
I eyed the two pieces of slimy meat she had just laid on her bread and the mayo jar with yellow, crusty stuff inside the rim. “Thanks, but I don’t want to be mooching off of you. I bought one of those already-cooked rotisserie chickens. Want to try it?”
Without waiting for her response, I slid her sandwich plate to the side and placed the plastic container with chicken in front of her. She studied it for a moment, then picked up the butcher knife she’d been using and hacked off a leg.
“Where will you be working, Anna?”
So she did know who I was. “At a store called Always Christmas.”
“Marcy’s shop. That’s very nice.”
She sounded normal, making me wonder if she had taken some kind of medicine. I thought it took longer for psychiatric drugs to work.
“I hope you remembered to get Dr Pepper,” she said, watching me put away groceries.
“I did. Want some?”
“No, thank you,” Aunt Iris replied. “I have private matters to attend to.”
I opened the refrigerator and moved to one side all the stuff I planned to throw out when she wasn’t looking.
“It’s unfortunate,” she said.
“What is?” I asked, wiping off the cleared shelf with a dishrag.
“I really can’t say. They are private matters.”
“All right.”
“I’ll be in my office.”
I pulled my head out of the refrigerator in time to see her slip a key into the door that led from the kitchen into the next room, the one I’d found locked last night. Curious, I followed her to the door to see what was there.
Two of the room’s walls had glass-fronted cabinets with counters beneath, the kind you see in an old science lab. There was a desk, what looked like an examining table, and an old-fashioned scale. A bookshelf just inside the door was crammed with worn volumes on the care of horses, cows, sheep, and, yes, goats.
“Was this my great-grandfather’s office?” I asked.
Aunt Iris swung around. “I told you some things are private!”
“Okay, okay,” I said, taking a step back.
She sat down at the desk, which was topped with a collection of candleholders, all of them covered with wax, their candles burnt down to the metal. What did she do in here?
“Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?”
“I can hear you prying. It’s nobody’s fault.”
“It isn’t?” I replied, not sure what she was talking about.
“Of course not,” she said. “People just die.”
“Sooner or later.”
“On your way out, Joanna, close the door behind you.”
Obviously, I was supposed to leave. I returned to the kitchen but kept the door cracked between us. A minute later she closed and locked it—I heard the double click. Oh,
well.
I fixed myself a salad and ate the other chicken leg,listening for movement inside her office, hearing nothing. Thinking about the melted candles, I sniffed but couldn’t smell
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