Read Online The House That Jack Built by Graham Masterton - Free Book Online
Authors: Graham Masterton
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squittering. Eflie's stomach went weightless for a split second, and the car snaked, and she was sure that he had almost lost control.
'For Christ's sake will you slow down? This is my car and I don't want to die in it!'
They drove through rippling surface water in a high cloud of spray. 'What's the matter?' Craig laughed at her. 'Don't you trust me, or what?'
'Of course I trust you, but-'
They sped past the Red Oaks Inn. Just as Craig was slowing down to take the curve, Effie saw somebody sitting on the front verandah. A man, with his arm lifted, and his mouth open, as if he were trying to call out to them.
Instantly, she gripped Craig's knee and said, 'Stop, Craig! Stop! There's somebody waving!'
He swerved into the parking-lot and slithered to a stop. 'For Christ's sake, what was that all about?' he demanded.
'He's waving at us, look!'
'So what? He's only some kid!'
Effie opened the car door. 'He waved, all right? I want to see what he wants.'
'He waved! For Christ's sake, people wave at anything. People wave at trains. It doesn't mean they want them to stop!'
Effie turned to him furiously. 'If you really want to know, I don't care why he's waving. But I wanted to slow you down. You never drove like that before.'
Craig puffed out his cheeks in resignation. 'All right. I'm sorry. But what's the use in having a fast car if you never go fast?'
'What's the use in having a fast car if you're lying in the cemetery?'
They were still arguing when they climbed out of the car. They slammed their doors much more forcefully than they needed to, and they kept an angry distance as they walked up to the inn. As they approached, they were watched with obvious trepidation by a skinny bespectacled youth with very long chestnut hair who was sitting on the front verandah with both heavily-booted feet raised on the rail. He wore a yellow-and-black checkered work-shirt, and a sleeveless vest of thick gingery tweed. In spite of his outdoorsy clothes, his face was the colour of semolina. He had large brown eyes that were magnified by his spectacles, and a large sharp nose that was simply large, no magnification necessary.
Parked on the opposite side of the inn was a dusty '69 Dodge Charger which presumably belonged to him. Most of it was black, but its hood was off-white and its driver's door was metallic green.
'Hi, there!' called Craig, with forced, over-loud friendliness, as they climbed the steps up to the verandah. The young man watched them without saying anything, without taking his boots off the rail. He had righted one of the inn's occasional tables, and Effie was immediately fascinated by the picnic lunch which he had meticulously spread out on it, on an opened-out copy of National Enquirer. Two or three slices of pumpernickel, an orange, a small half-empty jar of blueberry jelly, a carton of Philadelphia Cream Cheese, four Saltines, a tomato and a dill pickle.
'You waved,' said Effie, brightly.
The young man slowly blinked at her, and then blinked equally slowly at Craig.
'Did you want something?' asked Effie. 'Or were you just… waving?'
'Oh, sorry, I wanted something. You're Mr. and Mrs. Bellman, right? I was trying to catch your attention.' His voice was surprisingly deep for his pasty, juvenile appearance, and he had a very distinctive Massachusetts accent. Effie would have guessed that he came from Boston's North Shore originally, Salem or Marblehead.
Craig put on his martyred talking-to-retards tone. 'You were trying to catch our attention?'
'That's right.'
'Well, you caught it. You caught our attention. Here we are, all attentive. Now what?'
'Do you live around here?' Effie asked him. 'The reason I ask is, I used to come to the Red Oaks Inn when I was a girl, I mean my parents brought me here, and I was just
'For Christ's sake will you slow down? This is my car and I don't want to die in it!'
They drove through rippling surface water in a high cloud of spray. 'What's the matter?' Craig laughed at her. 'Don't you trust me, or what?'
'Of course I trust you, but-'
They sped past the Red Oaks Inn. Just as Craig was slowing down to take the curve, Effie saw somebody sitting on the front verandah. A man, with his arm lifted, and his mouth open, as if he were trying to call out to them.
Instantly, she gripped Craig's knee and said, 'Stop, Craig! Stop! There's somebody waving!'
He swerved into the parking-lot and slithered to a stop. 'For Christ's sake, what was that all about?' he demanded.
'He's waving at us, look!'
'So what? He's only some kid!'
Effie opened the car door. 'He waved, all right? I want to see what he wants.'
'He waved! For Christ's sake, people wave at anything. People wave at trains. It doesn't mean they want them to stop!'
Effie turned to him furiously. 'If you really want to know, I don't care why he's waving. But I wanted to slow you down. You never drove like that before.'
Craig puffed out his cheeks in resignation. 'All right. I'm sorry. But what's the use in having a fast car if you never go fast?'
'What's the use in having a fast car if you're lying in the cemetery?'
They were still arguing when they climbed out of the car. They slammed their doors much more forcefully than they needed to, and they kept an angry distance as they walked up to the inn. As they approached, they were watched with obvious trepidation by a skinny bespectacled youth with very long chestnut hair who was sitting on the front verandah with both heavily-booted feet raised on the rail. He wore a yellow-and-black checkered work-shirt, and a sleeveless vest of thick gingery tweed. In spite of his outdoorsy clothes, his face was the colour of semolina. He had large brown eyes that were magnified by his spectacles, and a large sharp nose that was simply large, no magnification necessary.
Parked on the opposite side of the inn was a dusty '69 Dodge Charger which presumably belonged to him. Most of it was black, but its hood was off-white and its driver's door was metallic green.
'Hi, there!' called Craig, with forced, over-loud friendliness, as they climbed the steps up to the verandah. The young man watched them without saying anything, without taking his boots off the rail. He had righted one of the inn's occasional tables, and Effie was immediately fascinated by the picnic lunch which he had meticulously spread out on it, on an opened-out copy of National Enquirer. Two or three slices of pumpernickel, an orange, a small half-empty jar of blueberry jelly, a carton of Philadelphia Cream Cheese, four Saltines, a tomato and a dill pickle.
'You waved,' said Effie, brightly.
The young man slowly blinked at her, and then blinked equally slowly at Craig.
'Did you want something?' asked Effie. 'Or were you just… waving?'
'Oh, sorry, I wanted something. You're Mr. and Mrs. Bellman, right? I was trying to catch your attention.' His voice was surprisingly deep for his pasty, juvenile appearance, and he had a very distinctive Massachusetts accent. Effie would have guessed that he came from Boston's North Shore originally, Salem or Marblehead.
Craig put on his martyred talking-to-retards tone. 'You were trying to catch our attention?'
'That's right.'
'Well, you caught it. You caught our attention. Here we are, all attentive. Now what?'
'Do you live around here?' Effie asked him. 'The reason I ask is, I used to come to the Red Oaks Inn when I was a girl, I mean my parents brought me here, and I was just
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