halfheartedly offered before the house itself. It struck Dave that, like its former inhabitants, the ex–Feinstein residence had just given up. It was dejected, empty not only in its overall exterior, but in the very wood and fiberglass itself.
Dave let out a long breath. With wary eyes panning the streets for witnesses, he got out of the car.
The front door would most likely be locked. Had to be, he reasoned. Gladys didn’t seem the type to trust neighbors even in such a mild, suburban area. He could always tell Sally the door was locked, and he didn’t want to break in through a window because, after all, trespassing was bad enough without tacking on breaking and entering charges.
But she would know. Some gut feeling inside told him if he lied, she would know, and for some reason this was important enough to her that a lie would be an outright betrayal.
Stones and bones. A guy couldn’t go back on stones and bones.
With a final glance toward either end of the street and to the window whose curtain lay motionless against the frame, Dave headed toward the house. He wondered briefly what ghosts were in that house, memories let go, tears long dried, old pains left to fall apart like his surroundings.
Dave shook his head. He was, of course, being silly. There was nothing waiting inside for him but dust and old furniture. Gladys and the executor of Max’s will no doubt had taken anything important from the place already. And Dave would make sure by seeing for himself. To put Sally’s mind to rest, of course.
Dave’s feet creaked beneath his weight on the first wooden step, and for a moment, he stopped, compelled to silence by the overcautious desire to slip in unnoticed. Back in his days of teenage escapades sneaking in and out of the house, a friend had toldhim that climbing the stairs with feet as far out toward the side edges of the steps as possible made for a quieter ascent. It didn’t really work, but by instinct Dave reverted to the trick every time he wanted to sneak up stairs. His feet splayed toward the outermost edges, and he climbed the remainder of the steps. Taking hold of one of the posts to either side of the steps, he hoisted himself up onto the porch. It groaned as he crossed to the front door. The knob felt cold in his hand. As he turned it, it caught.
Locked, see, it’s locked, thank God, and now I can just
—
The door swung inward on silent hinges.
Damn
.
Dave crossed into the shadowy front hall.
The house had simply ceased to be domestic. The hall held a grayish tinge of dust that made it appear grainy and secondhand, a replication of a real house assembled in a charade of hominess. An air of unuse hung heavy, almost humid. Dave went to turn on the light and thought better of it.
Nothing moved. Nothing settled or creaked or even ticked. He alone breathed. The house was dead.
Stairs rose upward into shadows from off to the left, a few feet before a living room, while the right offered a dining room. In those spaces, too, Dave couldn’t help but feel that the spirit of the rooms had departed, and the empty shell, still as stone, lay open to other more terrible things occupying it.
Parallel from the stairs on the right side before the dining room, a rectangular portion of the wall jutted outward. Embedded too deeply into the surface of the outcropping stood a weather-worn old door with an old-fashioned brass handle.
Dave reached a hesitant hand out toward the handle, his fingers brushing the cold metal.
Please, God, let
this
one be locked, at least
, he thought as he gripped it. With a woody whisper the door arced open.
Damn again
.
The boxy gloom of the interior molded into winter coats, and above them, an empty shelf. He peered on tiptoe, just to see what was back there. Nothing.
He crouched to peer under the coats. A pair of galoshes, a couple of pairs of winter boots, and some scarves littered the floor. Nothing Dave figured was meant for him.
With distaste that raised the
Dave let out a long breath. With wary eyes panning the streets for witnesses, he got out of the car.
The front door would most likely be locked. Had to be, he reasoned. Gladys didn’t seem the type to trust neighbors even in such a mild, suburban area. He could always tell Sally the door was locked, and he didn’t want to break in through a window because, after all, trespassing was bad enough without tacking on breaking and entering charges.
But she would know. Some gut feeling inside told him if he lied, she would know, and for some reason this was important enough to her that a lie would be an outright betrayal.
Stones and bones. A guy couldn’t go back on stones and bones.
With a final glance toward either end of the street and to the window whose curtain lay motionless against the frame, Dave headed toward the house. He wondered briefly what ghosts were in that house, memories let go, tears long dried, old pains left to fall apart like his surroundings.
Dave shook his head. He was, of course, being silly. There was nothing waiting inside for him but dust and old furniture. Gladys and the executor of Max’s will no doubt had taken anything important from the place already. And Dave would make sure by seeing for himself. To put Sally’s mind to rest, of course.
Dave’s feet creaked beneath his weight on the first wooden step, and for a moment, he stopped, compelled to silence by the overcautious desire to slip in unnoticed. Back in his days of teenage escapades sneaking in and out of the house, a friend had toldhim that climbing the stairs with feet as far out toward the side edges of the steps as possible made for a quieter ascent. It didn’t really work, but by instinct Dave reverted to the trick every time he wanted to sneak up stairs. His feet splayed toward the outermost edges, and he climbed the remainder of the steps. Taking hold of one of the posts to either side of the steps, he hoisted himself up onto the porch. It groaned as he crossed to the front door. The knob felt cold in his hand. As he turned it, it caught.
Locked, see, it’s locked, thank God, and now I can just
—
The door swung inward on silent hinges.
Damn
.
Dave crossed into the shadowy front hall.
The house had simply ceased to be domestic. The hall held a grayish tinge of dust that made it appear grainy and secondhand, a replication of a real house assembled in a charade of hominess. An air of unuse hung heavy, almost humid. Dave went to turn on the light and thought better of it.
Nothing moved. Nothing settled or creaked or even ticked. He alone breathed. The house was dead.
Stairs rose upward into shadows from off to the left, a few feet before a living room, while the right offered a dining room. In those spaces, too, Dave couldn’t help but feel that the spirit of the rooms had departed, and the empty shell, still as stone, lay open to other more terrible things occupying it.
Parallel from the stairs on the right side before the dining room, a rectangular portion of the wall jutted outward. Embedded too deeply into the surface of the outcropping stood a weather-worn old door with an old-fashioned brass handle.
Dave reached a hesitant hand out toward the handle, his fingers brushing the cold metal.
Please, God, let
this
one be locked, at least
, he thought as he gripped it. With a woody whisper the door arced open.
Damn again
.
The boxy gloom of the interior molded into winter coats, and above them, an empty shelf. He peered on tiptoe, just to see what was back there. Nothing.
He crouched to peer under the coats. A pair of galoshes, a couple of pairs of winter boots, and some scarves littered the floor. Nothing Dave figured was meant for him.
With distaste that raised the
Similar Books
