Read Online The Marbury Lens by Andrew Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrew Smith
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Historical, People & Places, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, England, Social Issues, Survival Stories, Survival, Europe, Friendship, London (England), Emotional Problems, Kidnapping, Military & Wars, Law & Crime, Horror stories
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toward me. It made a slick trail of moisture on the wood of the bar top. Like a snail.
A business card had been pinched down by its corner beneath the glass.
I went to the door and looked both directions along the street, but Henry was nowhere in sight.
I turned back into the pub.
The bartender said, “Do you want the beer?”
I picked the card out from under the glass. It was blank, but someone had scrawled with black ink, in all capital letters that smeared from the condensation: DON’T LOOK FOR ME, JACK. TAKE CARE. MIND WHAT I TOLD YOU. — H.H.
“No, thank you.”
Then I went back to my table, slipped Henry’s glasses into the pocket of my shorts, and walked back to the hotel.
I didn’t get it.
He knew who I was, said he’d known me for a long time. From somewhere called Marbury. But I’d never even heard of that place. He had to be wrong.
He’d followed me around all day. It couldn’t have been an accident that he left those glasses sitting there on my table. It all seemed too intentional, too planned out. But I couldn’t figure out what his messages meant, either. Was this all some kind of perverted joke? Was I on hidden camera or something?
I must be drunk, I thought.
Freddie Horvath did something to my brain.
Sometimes, I know it was just me, but I could almost hear his voice telling me things, trying to scare me.
You haven’t gotten away.
Seventeen
Midnight.
It was cool, so I shut the window. I left the drapes pulled back, then I undressed and got into bed. I lay there looking around the room that almost glowed in the gray moonlight filtered through the uneven, ancient glass of the window.
And in the night, something moved inside my room.
At first, I heard a rolling sound coming from beneath the bed.
Just like Freddie’s bed.
You better see what’s under there, Jack.
Something wooden and small, round—like maybe an empty spool of thread; maybe a nut. It rolled, and I could measure the distance it covered by the sound it made, across the width of the bed. Roll. Then stop. Then three taps; and it rolled back in the opposite direction.
He did something to my brain.
You better look, Jack.
Roll. Three taps. Right across the floor, an equator through the center of my belly.
Silence.
Roll. Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Like someone knocking, but I was certain it was right there on the floor beneath my bed.
I pushed back the covers and turned on the lamp next to me. And I know it was compulsive and dumb, but the first thing I did was to look at my foot to see if I was trapped again. I rubbed my hands around my ankle, and then I bent down to look under the bed.
What are you looking for, Jack? Something to get away with?
Don’t fool yourself, Jack. You haven’t gotten away from anything.
I couldn’t see anything, just black. I reached up and tipped the lamp downward. It hung from the edge of the nightstand, swinging slowly. I lowered myself onto my hands and knees, the side of my face pressed to the floor.
Wood floor.
And I heard something, just a hushed whisper that sounded like someone said “shhhh” or maybe a word, like “soft.” But it was real.
Did something to my brain.
There was nothing there.
Don’t fool yourself.
You haven’t gotten away from anything.
I sat on the floor. I was so tired. I got back into bed and switched off the lamp.
Then I went to sleep.
Part Two
The Strange Boys
Eighteen
I think I never slept as soundly as I did that first night I spent in London. When I woke, I lay there on my back for a few minutes, pressed down into the softness of the bed by the weight of a heavy feathered comforter that seemed to be holding the pieces of me together, and looked out at the perfection of the day on the other side of the window.
The building must have mice, I thought. It didn’t matter, once I fell to sleep I never heard anything at all. I didn’t even dream.
I got up from bed and opened the window.
And later on, after I ate breakfast downstairs and went
A business card had been pinched down by its corner beneath the glass.
I went to the door and looked both directions along the street, but Henry was nowhere in sight.
I turned back into the pub.
The bartender said, “Do you want the beer?”
I picked the card out from under the glass. It was blank, but someone had scrawled with black ink, in all capital letters that smeared from the condensation: DON’T LOOK FOR ME, JACK. TAKE CARE. MIND WHAT I TOLD YOU. — H.H.
“No, thank you.”
Then I went back to my table, slipped Henry’s glasses into the pocket of my shorts, and walked back to the hotel.
I didn’t get it.
He knew who I was, said he’d known me for a long time. From somewhere called Marbury. But I’d never even heard of that place. He had to be wrong.
He’d followed me around all day. It couldn’t have been an accident that he left those glasses sitting there on my table. It all seemed too intentional, too planned out. But I couldn’t figure out what his messages meant, either. Was this all some kind of perverted joke? Was I on hidden camera or something?
I must be drunk, I thought.
Freddie Horvath did something to my brain.
Sometimes, I know it was just me, but I could almost hear his voice telling me things, trying to scare me.
You haven’t gotten away.
Seventeen
Midnight.
It was cool, so I shut the window. I left the drapes pulled back, then I undressed and got into bed. I lay there looking around the room that almost glowed in the gray moonlight filtered through the uneven, ancient glass of the window.
And in the night, something moved inside my room.
At first, I heard a rolling sound coming from beneath the bed.
Just like Freddie’s bed.
You better see what’s under there, Jack.
Something wooden and small, round—like maybe an empty spool of thread; maybe a nut. It rolled, and I could measure the distance it covered by the sound it made, across the width of the bed. Roll. Then stop. Then three taps; and it rolled back in the opposite direction.
He did something to my brain.
You better look, Jack.
Roll. Three taps. Right across the floor, an equator through the center of my belly.
Silence.
Roll. Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Like someone knocking, but I was certain it was right there on the floor beneath my bed.
I pushed back the covers and turned on the lamp next to me. And I know it was compulsive and dumb, but the first thing I did was to look at my foot to see if I was trapped again. I rubbed my hands around my ankle, and then I bent down to look under the bed.
What are you looking for, Jack? Something to get away with?
Don’t fool yourself, Jack. You haven’t gotten away from anything.
I couldn’t see anything, just black. I reached up and tipped the lamp downward. It hung from the edge of the nightstand, swinging slowly. I lowered myself onto my hands and knees, the side of my face pressed to the floor.
Wood floor.
And I heard something, just a hushed whisper that sounded like someone said “shhhh” or maybe a word, like “soft.” But it was real.
Did something to my brain.
There was nothing there.
Don’t fool yourself.
You haven’t gotten away from anything.
I sat on the floor. I was so tired. I got back into bed and switched off the lamp.
Then I went to sleep.
Part Two
The Strange Boys
Eighteen
I think I never slept as soundly as I did that first night I spent in London. When I woke, I lay there on my back for a few minutes, pressed down into the softness of the bed by the weight of a heavy feathered comforter that seemed to be holding the pieces of me together, and looked out at the perfection of the day on the other side of the window.
The building must have mice, I thought. It didn’t matter, once I fell to sleep I never heard anything at all. I didn’t even dream.
I got up from bed and opened the window.
And later on, after I ate breakfast downstairs and went
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