Read Online The Devil's Beat (The Devil's Mark) by R. Scott VanKirk - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: R. Scott VanKirk
Ads: Link
face, who insisted that there were no such things as ghosts, was quite uplifting. Even so, it was spooky enough that he seldom stayed in the house after dark, but it didn't deter him wanting to fix the place up and make it his home. The house needed him, and he needed it.
He'd had to pry his considerable expenses out of his money manager, Tony's, fingers. He thought sourly about how difficult it was to get anything at all out of Tony. Tony wouldn't even tell Max his net worth. That would have to change soon.
In any event, Tony had finally wired the money to Max. As Max looked around, that money didn't show. The crust of dirt was gone from the floor, but the sub-flooring was still stained and warped. The house still smelled nasty. And the walls beneath the flood line were still covered with peeling wallpaper, dirt, and mold stains that nothing would get out. On top of that, he had noticed that some of the walls looked like they were termite-ridden. At least he hadn't seen any rats.
The thought of the amount of work that needed to be done exhausted him. He put his head back tiredly and let his eyes wander over the intricate patterns of the ceiling tiles. He'd been told that they were made of tin. The amount of work that had gone into this house's construction was staggering. His eyes came to rest on one loose tile over the card table. It was free on three sides and hung by a single corner. That seemed a bit dangerous to him, and he noted with excitement, it also seemed like something he could actually deal with.
He stood up on the couch and then stepped up on its arm and from there to the card table. He gingerly tested the table to see if it would hold his weight. It was a bit wobbly but seemed likely to hold. He stood on the table carefully, his legs straddling the toolbox with the skull. The skull cranked its eyes up, vainly trying to see Max standing over it. The skull, with its desiccated flesh, wasn't particularly expressive, but now, to someone with a good imagination, it might have looked slightly worried.
The ceilings in the house were all ten feet, but on the table, Max was able to reach the dangling tile. He grabbed it and gave it a tentative tug. It didn't budge. He pulled a bit harder. It still didn't move. He gave it a harder yank, then harder still. The tile came free in Max's hand. He hadn't quite prepared himself for it and overbalanced. He put his foot back to catch himself, and the table collapsed underneath him. Max flailed but had no chance. He went down hard, taking the tile and the toolbox with him. He wasn't around to see what happened next.
When Max awoke, he hurt. He had sharp pains in his head, his hip, and his right arm. He groaned and struggled to get his eyes open. When he finally succeeded, he let out a scream and tried to throw himself back away from the hideous face that was staring at him from ground level. He swatted at the face in terror and scrambled back as the head bounced away. When tried to put weight on his left hand, excruciating pain ripped up through his arm, and he fell back to the floor. He curled into a semi-fetal position and cradled his arm.
Distance from the head and the pain had a damping effect on his panic. He was still in the music room, the walls were flickering from the light of the television as it babbled on, and he had a host of new pains. Even those pains took a momentary back seat to his shock at the sight of the head, which was still spinning slowly on the ground a couple of feet in front of him. It was Old Bone, but it had changed. It had more flesh on it. Instead of a mummy skull, it looked more like an anatomy picture where all the skin had been stripped away showing the red muscles and white tendons. There were even some patches of skin. The skull wobbled to a stop, facing Max. Max struggled into a sitting position while Old Bone looked at him out of lidless eyes that were now not just desiccated white orbs, but had a brown iris and a grayish black
He'd had to pry his considerable expenses out of his money manager, Tony's, fingers. He thought sourly about how difficult it was to get anything at all out of Tony. Tony wouldn't even tell Max his net worth. That would have to change soon.
In any event, Tony had finally wired the money to Max. As Max looked around, that money didn't show. The crust of dirt was gone from the floor, but the sub-flooring was still stained and warped. The house still smelled nasty. And the walls beneath the flood line were still covered with peeling wallpaper, dirt, and mold stains that nothing would get out. On top of that, he had noticed that some of the walls looked like they were termite-ridden. At least he hadn't seen any rats.
The thought of the amount of work that needed to be done exhausted him. He put his head back tiredly and let his eyes wander over the intricate patterns of the ceiling tiles. He'd been told that they were made of tin. The amount of work that had gone into this house's construction was staggering. His eyes came to rest on one loose tile over the card table. It was free on three sides and hung by a single corner. That seemed a bit dangerous to him, and he noted with excitement, it also seemed like something he could actually deal with.
He stood up on the couch and then stepped up on its arm and from there to the card table. He gingerly tested the table to see if it would hold his weight. It was a bit wobbly but seemed likely to hold. He stood on the table carefully, his legs straddling the toolbox with the skull. The skull cranked its eyes up, vainly trying to see Max standing over it. The skull, with its desiccated flesh, wasn't particularly expressive, but now, to someone with a good imagination, it might have looked slightly worried.
The ceilings in the house were all ten feet, but on the table, Max was able to reach the dangling tile. He grabbed it and gave it a tentative tug. It didn't budge. He pulled a bit harder. It still didn't move. He gave it a harder yank, then harder still. The tile came free in Max's hand. He hadn't quite prepared himself for it and overbalanced. He put his foot back to catch himself, and the table collapsed underneath him. Max flailed but had no chance. He went down hard, taking the tile and the toolbox with him. He wasn't around to see what happened next.
When Max awoke, he hurt. He had sharp pains in his head, his hip, and his right arm. He groaned and struggled to get his eyes open. When he finally succeeded, he let out a scream and tried to throw himself back away from the hideous face that was staring at him from ground level. He swatted at the face in terror and scrambled back as the head bounced away. When tried to put weight on his left hand, excruciating pain ripped up through his arm, and he fell back to the floor. He curled into a semi-fetal position and cradled his arm.
Distance from the head and the pain had a damping effect on his panic. He was still in the music room, the walls were flickering from the light of the television as it babbled on, and he had a host of new pains. Even those pains took a momentary back seat to his shock at the sight of the head, which was still spinning slowly on the ground a couple of feet in front of him. It was Old Bone, but it had changed. It had more flesh on it. Instead of a mummy skull, it looked more like an anatomy picture where all the skin had been stripped away showing the red muscles and white tendons. There were even some patches of skin. The skull wobbled to a stop, facing Max. Max struggled into a sitting position while Old Bone looked at him out of lidless eyes that were now not just desiccated white orbs, but had a brown iris and a grayish black
Similar Books
