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Authors: Rick Hautala
Tags: Horror
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motion behind the curtained sidelight. They straightened up when the door latch jiggled, and the heavy door swung inward.
“Good afternoon,” Dale said, smiling at the stocky, white-haired woman who stood in the doorway. She looked to be in her late sixties and like the man at the gas station, had heavy, fleshy jowls. Dale found himself wondering if everyone in town had jowls like that. Maybe it was from eating potatoes all the time! She didn’t have the gas station attendant’s squinty, pig-like eyes, though. Hers were bright, sparkling blue, like ice on a sunny winter day.
The woman smiled and, stepping to one side, invited them in with a sweeping wave of her hand. Dale opened the screen door and stepped back to let Angie enter first. He eased the door shut behind him to make sure it didn’t slam.
“My name is Dale Harmon, and this is my daughter, Angela. You must be Mrs. Appleby. The man at the gas station said you might have a room we could rent for a few days. I didn’t notice a no vacancy sign.”
“Good old Sparky,” the woman said. “Call me Lil.” She extended her hand to Dale and shook it firmly. “And, sure, I have a room. Just one left, but it’s one of the nicest.” She looked smaller now than she did standing in the doorway, and she reeked of an overpowering flowery perfume.
The house, or what Dale could see from the entryway, seemed an extension of the old woman: cozy, warm, and hospitable. The stairs leading up from the hallway were covered by a dark red runner rug. On one wall beside a small desk with a registration book, a delicately carved grandfather clock measured the time with a slow, steady tick-tock .
Off to the left was a sitting room whose built-in shelves, Dale could see, were lined with old books. There were leather-bound volumes and “recent” bestsellers with faded and worn dust jackets. Two pine-green leather chairs, glossy with age, faced a fireplace. Between the two chairs was a dark wood, oval table with several copies of National Geographic fanned out. To the right was a small parlor with warm, dark paneling and two fringed couches facing another fireplace. In one corner, almost as an afterthought, was a small television set with a rabbit-ear antenna. Dale wondered what stations you could pick up way out here, maybe something from Canada. Throughout the entryway and two rooms, the polished hardwood floor was covered by several handmade scatter rugs.
“I charge thirty-five dollars a night,” Lil said. “That includes breakfast, if you’d like. So if you’ll just fill out this registration card, we’ll be all set.” She led Dale over to the desk and stood aside while he leaned over the desk and signed in.
Angie, meanwhile, was still lost in looking around the house. She felt as though she had literally stepped back into another century. The TV was the only thing that broke the illusion. The house seemed to shut out the rest of the world and embrace her with a warmth she had never experienced before. She could imagine herself living in a house like this and being happy for the rest of her life, even so far away from everything.
“You must be, oh, I’d say twelve, going on thirteen,” Mrs. Appleby said, propping her chin on her forefinger as she stared at Angie, smiling.
One side of Angie’s face twisted into a smile as she nodded. “Exactly,” she said. “Are you a mind-reader?”
Mrs. Appleby smiled and shook her head. “Oh, no. It’s just that I have a granddaughter who looks about your age. Her name’s Lisa. She’s off somewhere now, but I’ll just bet the two of you will hit it off just fine.”
“I can’t wait to meet her,” Angie said, still glancing around, trying to absorb the peaceful quiet of the house. The prospect of having someone her age in the house brightened her spirits even more. From somewhere inside the house, there came a loud bang followed by the sound of running feet.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Appleby, “I’ll bet that’s her
“Good afternoon,” Dale said, smiling at the stocky, white-haired woman who stood in the doorway. She looked to be in her late sixties and like the man at the gas station, had heavy, fleshy jowls. Dale found himself wondering if everyone in town had jowls like that. Maybe it was from eating potatoes all the time! She didn’t have the gas station attendant’s squinty, pig-like eyes, though. Hers were bright, sparkling blue, like ice on a sunny winter day.
The woman smiled and, stepping to one side, invited them in with a sweeping wave of her hand. Dale opened the screen door and stepped back to let Angie enter first. He eased the door shut behind him to make sure it didn’t slam.
“My name is Dale Harmon, and this is my daughter, Angela. You must be Mrs. Appleby. The man at the gas station said you might have a room we could rent for a few days. I didn’t notice a no vacancy sign.”
“Good old Sparky,” the woman said. “Call me Lil.” She extended her hand to Dale and shook it firmly. “And, sure, I have a room. Just one left, but it’s one of the nicest.” She looked smaller now than she did standing in the doorway, and she reeked of an overpowering flowery perfume.
The house, or what Dale could see from the entryway, seemed an extension of the old woman: cozy, warm, and hospitable. The stairs leading up from the hallway were covered by a dark red runner rug. On one wall beside a small desk with a registration book, a delicately carved grandfather clock measured the time with a slow, steady tick-tock .
Off to the left was a sitting room whose built-in shelves, Dale could see, were lined with old books. There were leather-bound volumes and “recent” bestsellers with faded and worn dust jackets. Two pine-green leather chairs, glossy with age, faced a fireplace. Between the two chairs was a dark wood, oval table with several copies of National Geographic fanned out. To the right was a small parlor with warm, dark paneling and two fringed couches facing another fireplace. In one corner, almost as an afterthought, was a small television set with a rabbit-ear antenna. Dale wondered what stations you could pick up way out here, maybe something from Canada. Throughout the entryway and two rooms, the polished hardwood floor was covered by several handmade scatter rugs.
“I charge thirty-five dollars a night,” Lil said. “That includes breakfast, if you’d like. So if you’ll just fill out this registration card, we’ll be all set.” She led Dale over to the desk and stood aside while he leaned over the desk and signed in.
Angie, meanwhile, was still lost in looking around the house. She felt as though she had literally stepped back into another century. The TV was the only thing that broke the illusion. The house seemed to shut out the rest of the world and embrace her with a warmth she had never experienced before. She could imagine herself living in a house like this and being happy for the rest of her life, even so far away from everything.
“You must be, oh, I’d say twelve, going on thirteen,” Mrs. Appleby said, propping her chin on her forefinger as she stared at Angie, smiling.
One side of Angie’s face twisted into a smile as she nodded. “Exactly,” she said. “Are you a mind-reader?”
Mrs. Appleby smiled and shook her head. “Oh, no. It’s just that I have a granddaughter who looks about your age. Her name’s Lisa. She’s off somewhere now, but I’ll just bet the two of you will hit it off just fine.”
“I can’t wait to meet her,” Angie said, still glancing around, trying to absorb the peaceful quiet of the house. The prospect of having someone her age in the house brightened her spirits even more. From somewhere inside the house, there came a loud bang followed by the sound of running feet.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Appleby, “I’ll bet that’s her
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