children raised inside were treated with the same kind of neglect and violence. Or a house where the lawn edge is straight as a razor and there isn’t even a stray pebble out of place could indicate an overabundance of discipline.
Still, 96 Endicott did give off a whiff of something unclean, Nat realized as he walked up the path to the porch. Who paints a house black with green trim? Even the color that the Prescotts had chosen, that deep hue—Nat recognized it as what they called Dartmouth green—was the darkest on the market. It was picked by an owner who secretly wished to paint his house all black but knew that his neighbors will frown and whisper, Do we have a devil worshipper in our midst? , so he went with one degree above that with the darkest green in the hardware shop. Its light-sucking pigment made the looming mass of the house seem heavier and more massive against the sky as Nat climbed the steps. As he got to the top, he realized the porch and first floor were half hidden behind some spiky uncategorized trees that had started to grow wild.
The only other house visible on the street was a hundredyards away. Who called 911 to begin with? Nat wondered, remembering John’s story about Chase Prescott. Who could hear the dog screaming?
He rang the bell, and it seemed instantly that the double-wide door opened and a figure stood in the half darkness. Nat recognized the general shape of Walter Prescott, though the light was so bad his head was wrapped in a kind of gray murk.
“Mr. Prescott?”
“Yes?”
Prescott’s features slowly swam into view. He stood there, staring at Nat, as if he had no idea who the psychiatrist was but was too afraid to ask him to leave. The old man’s eyes darted uncertainly.
“It’s Dr. Thayer.”
Nothing.
“You asked me to come by?”
With this, Prescott’s eyes found Nat’s and stared at him in terror.
“To come by? Whatever for?”
Nat lowered his head, as if to say, Are you serious, man? “To talk to Becca. Your daughter?”
Prescott’s lips moved soundlessly, as if he was repeating to himself what Nat had just said, or translating it from some other language. Then he looked up.
“Oh, Dr. Thayer . Of course. Come in.”
Prescott pulled the door wide, and it swung back soundlessly. Nat walked into the echoing foyer, whose ceiling was lost above him in the gloom. There were no lights on in the first floor as far as he could see. The gleaming dark hardwoods of the foyer had patches of dusky light playing over them, illumination that came from a small stained glass window to the right of the door in the shape of a diamond. In front of Nat, there was a long hallway,with only a few feet of floorboards visible before they merged into blackness. To his left, a stairway with an elaborately carved railing zigzagged up to the second floor.
“Are you feeling all right?” Nat said, turning to Prescott.
Prescott shuffled around Nat in halting steps and reached out to the front door. When he closed it, the resulting sound boomed through the foyer and into the house’s interior, a kind of sonic echo that revealed passageways Nat couldn’t even see in the dimmed light. He’d never heard a house sound so dead, as if there were no furniture, no stuffed leather to reflect the sound waves as they traveled through the darkness.
Nat heard locks slam shut and the screeching of metal. Prescott was sliding a large metal rod along its sleeve. He forced the head of it through a circular iron latch that was bolted to the black door frame. When Prescott was done, he turned to Nat, his yellow teeth visible.
“I . . . I just woke up. I was up all night last night.”
“Everything okay?”
Prescott was staring at Nat, who had the odd impression that the old man was afraid he was going to attack him, his entire body ready to flinch if Nat made any sudden gesture.
“We haven’t had visitors here since Chase . . .”
Nat waited. “Yes. Since Chase . . .”
“Since
Still, 96 Endicott did give off a whiff of something unclean, Nat realized as he walked up the path to the porch. Who paints a house black with green trim? Even the color that the Prescotts had chosen, that deep hue—Nat recognized it as what they called Dartmouth green—was the darkest on the market. It was picked by an owner who secretly wished to paint his house all black but knew that his neighbors will frown and whisper, Do we have a devil worshipper in our midst? , so he went with one degree above that with the darkest green in the hardware shop. Its light-sucking pigment made the looming mass of the house seem heavier and more massive against the sky as Nat climbed the steps. As he got to the top, he realized the porch and first floor were half hidden behind some spiky uncategorized trees that had started to grow wild.
The only other house visible on the street was a hundredyards away. Who called 911 to begin with? Nat wondered, remembering John’s story about Chase Prescott. Who could hear the dog screaming?
He rang the bell, and it seemed instantly that the double-wide door opened and a figure stood in the half darkness. Nat recognized the general shape of Walter Prescott, though the light was so bad his head was wrapped in a kind of gray murk.
“Mr. Prescott?”
“Yes?”
Prescott’s features slowly swam into view. He stood there, staring at Nat, as if he had no idea who the psychiatrist was but was too afraid to ask him to leave. The old man’s eyes darted uncertainly.
“It’s Dr. Thayer.”
Nothing.
“You asked me to come by?”
With this, Prescott’s eyes found Nat’s and stared at him in terror.
“To come by? Whatever for?”
Nat lowered his head, as if to say, Are you serious, man? “To talk to Becca. Your daughter?”
Prescott’s lips moved soundlessly, as if he was repeating to himself what Nat had just said, or translating it from some other language. Then he looked up.
“Oh, Dr. Thayer . Of course. Come in.”
Prescott pulled the door wide, and it swung back soundlessly. Nat walked into the echoing foyer, whose ceiling was lost above him in the gloom. There were no lights on in the first floor as far as he could see. The gleaming dark hardwoods of the foyer had patches of dusky light playing over them, illumination that came from a small stained glass window to the right of the door in the shape of a diamond. In front of Nat, there was a long hallway,with only a few feet of floorboards visible before they merged into blackness. To his left, a stairway with an elaborately carved railing zigzagged up to the second floor.
“Are you feeling all right?” Nat said, turning to Prescott.
Prescott shuffled around Nat in halting steps and reached out to the front door. When he closed it, the resulting sound boomed through the foyer and into the house’s interior, a kind of sonic echo that revealed passageways Nat couldn’t even see in the dimmed light. He’d never heard a house sound so dead, as if there were no furniture, no stuffed leather to reflect the sound waves as they traveled through the darkness.
Nat heard locks slam shut and the screeching of metal. Prescott was sliding a large metal rod along its sleeve. He forced the head of it through a circular iron latch that was bolted to the black door frame. When Prescott was done, he turned to Nat, his yellow teeth visible.
“I . . . I just woke up. I was up all night last night.”
“Everything okay?”
Prescott was staring at Nat, who had the odd impression that the old man was afraid he was going to attack him, his entire body ready to flinch if Nat made any sudden gesture.
“We haven’t had visitors here since Chase . . .”
Nat waited. “Yes. Since Chase . . .”
“Since
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