Read Online The Hangman's Whip by Mignon G. Eberhart - Free Book Online
Authors: Mignon G. Eberhart
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the trees, the path twisted constantly, leaves touched her face and seemed to move away; once a bird, disturbed, fluttered alarmingly in some near-by thicket.
She knew the path well even at night, but she lost her way twice and had to fumble through undergrowth and only by a sense of direction found the path again. It must have been actually something after ten when she reached the small clearing about the cottage and saw the light in the window.
Richard was there, then; he’d reached the cottage ahead of her.
She came out of the path. A small flash of lightning, still far away, illumined the cottage with its high peaked roof and the grass of the clearing briefly and faintly as she hurried across it.
The lightning vanished; there was only a distant murmur of thunder, and her foot on the tiny porch of the cottage sounded loud and abrupt. She half expected Richard to hear it and open the door for her, but he didn’t. She called softly, “Richard,” and opened the door.
It opened directly upon the living room. It was small and sparsely furnished, and no one was there. There was a sweet, rather sickish odor somewhere; something she seemed to know but could not quite identify. And someone had been there for, besides the light, there were two glasses on the table beside it and something else that looked like a toy—a thin green silk cord with a green celluloid ball and tassel on one end of it.
She only glanced at the table and around the room.
Thunder came again, this time much nearer, rolling long and loud. There were two doors opening from the living room: one leading to the tiny kitchen at the back, one to a bedroom. Both were open; she went to the nearer, the bedroom door, and said, “Richard …” and stopped.
The room was dark, but someone was there; a figure, barely discernible in the light from behind her, stood still across the room. Seemed, in fact, to be standing on something—a chair, a bench? Yet there was something oddly sluggish and motionless about the figure. Something wrong about its stillness and silence.
Her breath caught in her throat so she couldn’t speak.
She must reach for the light. But before she could move there was another flash of lightning, tremendously bright and sharp and clear. Simultaneously, with a crackling sound, the light in the room behind her went out.
She wasn’t aware of it. For in the lightning flash she had a clear glimpse of the figure across the room. It was not standing on a chair or a bench; it was supported, horribly limp, by a rope that went up toward the bare rafter and out of sight. And it was Eve Bohan, blue chiffon dress showing between folds of a dark raincoat, golden hair gleaming. She was dead. Nothing alive could look like that. And then the bright greenish light was gone, and thunder fell upon the cottage, shaking it.
It surged and rolled and died away, yet still there was a kind of rushing sound in Search’s ears.
Through it, however, she heard the sound of footsteps in the kitchen.
Chapter 7
S HE SHRANK BACK AGAINST the door casing and whirled around so she was staring into the darkness of the little living room. Someone was coming from the kitchen into the living room; there was a crash, as if whoever it was had blundered into a chair in the dark, and she cried: “Richard!”
It was Richard. There was a sudden cessation of footsteps and then his voice, sounding unnatural through the darkness: “Search, is it you? Where are you?”
“Here—in the doorway.”
“Stay there. Don’t move. The lights have gone—”
There was another but not so brilliant flash of lightning. She caught only a glimpse of him—tall, his white shirt open at the throat, his face a pale blotch. He caught her arms. “When did you get here?”
“Just now. Eve—in there—”
Thunder rolled again over the cottage. He cried above it: “You’ve seen her? I didn’t mean you to! I—Search, you’ve got to go back. Quick.”
“What happened? Why did
She knew the path well even at night, but she lost her way twice and had to fumble through undergrowth and only by a sense of direction found the path again. It must have been actually something after ten when she reached the small clearing about the cottage and saw the light in the window.
Richard was there, then; he’d reached the cottage ahead of her.
She came out of the path. A small flash of lightning, still far away, illumined the cottage with its high peaked roof and the grass of the clearing briefly and faintly as she hurried across it.
The lightning vanished; there was only a distant murmur of thunder, and her foot on the tiny porch of the cottage sounded loud and abrupt. She half expected Richard to hear it and open the door for her, but he didn’t. She called softly, “Richard,” and opened the door.
It opened directly upon the living room. It was small and sparsely furnished, and no one was there. There was a sweet, rather sickish odor somewhere; something she seemed to know but could not quite identify. And someone had been there for, besides the light, there were two glasses on the table beside it and something else that looked like a toy—a thin green silk cord with a green celluloid ball and tassel on one end of it.
She only glanced at the table and around the room.
Thunder came again, this time much nearer, rolling long and loud. There were two doors opening from the living room: one leading to the tiny kitchen at the back, one to a bedroom. Both were open; she went to the nearer, the bedroom door, and said, “Richard …” and stopped.
The room was dark, but someone was there; a figure, barely discernible in the light from behind her, stood still across the room. Seemed, in fact, to be standing on something—a chair, a bench? Yet there was something oddly sluggish and motionless about the figure. Something wrong about its stillness and silence.
Her breath caught in her throat so she couldn’t speak.
She must reach for the light. But before she could move there was another flash of lightning, tremendously bright and sharp and clear. Simultaneously, with a crackling sound, the light in the room behind her went out.
She wasn’t aware of it. For in the lightning flash she had a clear glimpse of the figure across the room. It was not standing on a chair or a bench; it was supported, horribly limp, by a rope that went up toward the bare rafter and out of sight. And it was Eve Bohan, blue chiffon dress showing between folds of a dark raincoat, golden hair gleaming. She was dead. Nothing alive could look like that. And then the bright greenish light was gone, and thunder fell upon the cottage, shaking it.
It surged and rolled and died away, yet still there was a kind of rushing sound in Search’s ears.
Through it, however, she heard the sound of footsteps in the kitchen.
Chapter 7
S HE SHRANK BACK AGAINST the door casing and whirled around so she was staring into the darkness of the little living room. Someone was coming from the kitchen into the living room; there was a crash, as if whoever it was had blundered into a chair in the dark, and she cried: “Richard!”
It was Richard. There was a sudden cessation of footsteps and then his voice, sounding unnatural through the darkness: “Search, is it you? Where are you?”
“Here—in the doorway.”
“Stay there. Don’t move. The lights have gone—”
There was another but not so brilliant flash of lightning. She caught only a glimpse of him—tall, his white shirt open at the throat, his face a pale blotch. He caught her arms. “When did you get here?”
“Just now. Eve—in there—”
Thunder rolled again over the cottage. He cried above it: “You’ve seen her? I didn’t mean you to! I—Search, you’ve got to go back. Quick.”
“What happened? Why did
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