Read Online The Binding by Nicholas Wolff - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nicholas Wolff
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Chase . . .”
Prescott’s lips worked, and the eyes seemed to protrude even farther out of their sockets. He dropped his head quickly and whispered something to himself. It didn’t sound like died , but a word or two full of soft sibilants. Whatever it was, it seemed to end the thought adequately for him, because he immediately headed left toward the stairs.
“Can we get some light?” Nat said. “Don’t want to fall and break my neck. My insurance sucks.”
Nat heard, rather than actually witnessed, the old man stop.Then Prescott came back out of the darkness and whispered to Nat, leaning over to make himself heard. “I don’t, usually.” His eyes were pleading.
“Can I ask why not?”
“It . . . attracts attention.”
“From whom ?”
The old man smiled, as if Nat knew the answer. “Whoever might wish this place harm.”
With that, Prescott went for the stairs, passing beyond one ray of sunlight and disappearing into the darkness except for a pale smudge and the sound of his feet whisking up the few first steps. Nat stumbled after the ghostly figure.
His foot kicked on the bottom of the stairs, and the darkness rose up in front of his face as he pitched forward. He caught the railing with his right hand before the polished wood knocked out his front teeth, then straightened up, took a deep breath, and slowly brought his next foot up. He reached a wide landing after three slow steps, then turned right with the railing and started up again.
The darkness slowly thickened as Nat climbed the stairs. He could hear the sound of Prescott’s feet above him and then silence as the old man reached the top and moved off down the second-floor hallway into the interior of the house.
This is bananas , Nat thought. It was as if the house were weighing on Prescott, as if he were afraid of the wood and glass that made it up.
Nat hurried after him, suddenly afraid to be left alone in that echoing, malevolent house. When he got to the top of the stairs, he saw a light glowing dimly at the end of the hall. He started down it unsteadily, distance and depth seeming to have been altered in the murkiness. When he took a step, he wasn’t sure if he would land on a plank of wood or drop downward into the basement. As he shuffled on, the light ahead seeming to grow nobrighter, Nat felt ahead with his left hand. He could make out . . . things on the walls next to him, but he felt an urgency to get down the hall and only glanced once to his left. Through the dimness he perceived something, a paleness, welling up at him. He stopped and stared, and then the features came clear and it was a face, a chalky face with long, flaccid white cheeks and eyes that seemed blacker than the gloom. The eyes regarded him accusingly, and the face seemed to hang in the air, disembodied, no throat below it and only the hint of a hat perched above the severe brow.
A painting, of course, a family portrait of some kind, with a beady eye at the center that was not beautiful but recriminating, with some kind of white bonnet above it. Nat moved away uneasily from it and kept on toward the light and the profile of Prescott, head down, lost in his own thoughts.
Finally, after what seemed like a few minutes but could only realistically have been ten seconds, Nat was standing next to Prescott. The light fixture next to the old man’s face was screwed to the wall at about six feet, the glass yellowed and rimed with dirt.
“This is Becca’s room.”
“Well, let’s go in.”
Prescott shook his head. “I can’t.”
Nat looked at Prescott. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I can’t bear the way she looks at me. She claims she doesn’t know me, Dr. Thayer. If you ever have children, I hope you’ll never experience that look of . . . distaste. I find it unendurable.”
Prescott reached up and turned a key, then snapped a sliding lock across with a sound that exploded like a rifle shot in the passageway. Then another.
“Mr.
Prescott’s lips worked, and the eyes seemed to protrude even farther out of their sockets. He dropped his head quickly and whispered something to himself. It didn’t sound like died , but a word or two full of soft sibilants. Whatever it was, it seemed to end the thought adequately for him, because he immediately headed left toward the stairs.
“Can we get some light?” Nat said. “Don’t want to fall and break my neck. My insurance sucks.”
Nat heard, rather than actually witnessed, the old man stop.Then Prescott came back out of the darkness and whispered to Nat, leaning over to make himself heard. “I don’t, usually.” His eyes were pleading.
“Can I ask why not?”
“It . . . attracts attention.”
“From whom ?”
The old man smiled, as if Nat knew the answer. “Whoever might wish this place harm.”
With that, Prescott went for the stairs, passing beyond one ray of sunlight and disappearing into the darkness except for a pale smudge and the sound of his feet whisking up the few first steps. Nat stumbled after the ghostly figure.
His foot kicked on the bottom of the stairs, and the darkness rose up in front of his face as he pitched forward. He caught the railing with his right hand before the polished wood knocked out his front teeth, then straightened up, took a deep breath, and slowly brought his next foot up. He reached a wide landing after three slow steps, then turned right with the railing and started up again.
The darkness slowly thickened as Nat climbed the stairs. He could hear the sound of Prescott’s feet above him and then silence as the old man reached the top and moved off down the second-floor hallway into the interior of the house.
This is bananas , Nat thought. It was as if the house were weighing on Prescott, as if he were afraid of the wood and glass that made it up.
Nat hurried after him, suddenly afraid to be left alone in that echoing, malevolent house. When he got to the top of the stairs, he saw a light glowing dimly at the end of the hall. He started down it unsteadily, distance and depth seeming to have been altered in the murkiness. When he took a step, he wasn’t sure if he would land on a plank of wood or drop downward into the basement. As he shuffled on, the light ahead seeming to grow nobrighter, Nat felt ahead with his left hand. He could make out . . . things on the walls next to him, but he felt an urgency to get down the hall and only glanced once to his left. Through the dimness he perceived something, a paleness, welling up at him. He stopped and stared, and then the features came clear and it was a face, a chalky face with long, flaccid white cheeks and eyes that seemed blacker than the gloom. The eyes regarded him accusingly, and the face seemed to hang in the air, disembodied, no throat below it and only the hint of a hat perched above the severe brow.
A painting, of course, a family portrait of some kind, with a beady eye at the center that was not beautiful but recriminating, with some kind of white bonnet above it. Nat moved away uneasily from it and kept on toward the light and the profile of Prescott, head down, lost in his own thoughts.
Finally, after what seemed like a few minutes but could only realistically have been ten seconds, Nat was standing next to Prescott. The light fixture next to the old man’s face was screwed to the wall at about six feet, the glass yellowed and rimed with dirt.
“This is Becca’s room.”
“Well, let’s go in.”
Prescott shook his head. “I can’t.”
Nat looked at Prescott. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I can’t bear the way she looks at me. She claims she doesn’t know me, Dr. Thayer. If you ever have children, I hope you’ll never experience that look of . . . distaste. I find it unendurable.”
Prescott reached up and turned a key, then snapped a sliding lock across with a sound that exploded like a rifle shot in the passageway. Then another.
“Mr.
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