Read Online The Year's Best Horror Stories 7 by Gerald W. Page - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gerald W. Page
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the Connecticut shore, past service stations, markets, sandwich shops. Now and then they glimpsed Long Island Sound to the right. At toll gates, Cobbett threw quarters into hoppers and drove on.
"New Rochelle to Port Chester," Laurel half chanted. "Norwalk, Bridgeport, Stratford-"
"Where, in 1851, devils plagued a minister's home," put in Pursuivant.
"The names make a poem," said Laurel.
"You can get that effect by reading any timetable," said Cobbett. "We miss a couple of good names-Mystic and Giants Neck, though they aren't far off from our route. And Griswold-that means Gray Woods-where the Judge's book says Horace Ray was born."
"There's no Griswold on the Connecticut map anymore," said the Judge.
"Vanished?" said Laurel. "Maybe it appears at just a certain time of the day, along about sundown."
She laughed, but the Judge was grave.
"Here we'll pass by New Haven," he said. "I was at Yale here, seventy years ago."
They rolled across the Connecticut River between Old Say-brook and Old Lyme. Outside New London, Cobbett turned them north on State Highway 82 and, near Jewett City, took a two-lane road that brought them into Deslow, not long after noon.
There were pleasant clapboard cottages among elm trees and flower beds. Main Street had bright shops with, farther along, the belfry of a sturdy old church. Cobbett drove them to a sign saying Mapletree Court. A row of cabins faced along a cement-floored colonnade, their fronts painted white with blue doors and window frames. In the office, Phil Drumm stood at the desk, talking to the plump proprietress.
"Welcome home," he greeted them. "Judge, I was asking Mrs. Simpson here to reserve you a cabin."
"At the far end of the row, sir," the lady said. "I'd have put you next to your two friends, but so many theater folks have already moved in."
"Long ago I learned to be happy with any shelter," the Judge assured her.
They saw Laurel to her cabin and put her suitcases inside, then walked to the farthest cabin where Pursuivant would stay. Finally Drumm followed Cobbett to the space next to Laurel's. Inside, Cobbett produced a fifth of bourbon from his briefcase. Drumm trotted away to fetch ice. Pursuivant came to join them.
"It's good of you to look after us," Cobbett said to Drumm above his glass.
"Oh, I'll get my own back," Drumm assured him. "The Judge and you, distinguished folklore experts-I'll have you in all the papers."
"Whatever you like," said Cobbett. "Let's have lunch, as soon as Laurel is freshened up."
The four ate crab cakes and flounder at a little restaurant while Drumm talked about The Land Beyond the Forest. He had signed the minor film star Caspar Merrick to play Dracula. "He has a fine baritone singing voice," said Drumm. "He'll be at afternoon rehearsal."
"And Gonda Chastel?" inquired Pursuivant, buttering a roll,
"Shell be there tonight." Drumm sounded happy about that. "This afternoon's mostly for bits and chorus numbers. I'm directing as well as producing." They finished their lunch, and Drumm rose. "If you're not tired, come see our theater."
It was only a short walk through town to the converted barn. Cobbett judged it had been built in Colonial times, with a recent roof of composition tile, but with walls of stubborn, brown-gray New England stone. Across a narrow side street stood the old white church, with a hedge-bordered cemetery.
"Quaint, that old burying ground," commented Drumm. "Nobody's spaded under there now, there's a modern cemetery on the far side, but Chastel's tomb is there. Quite a picturesque one."
"I'd like to see it," said Pursuivant, leaning on his silver-banded cane.
The barn's interior was set with rows of folding chairs, enough for several hundred spectators. On a stage at the far end, workmen moved here and there under lights. Drumm led his guests up steps at the side.
High in the loft, catwalks zigzagged and a dark curtain hung like a broad guillotine blade. Drumm pointed out canvas flats, painted to resemble
"New Rochelle to Port Chester," Laurel half chanted. "Norwalk, Bridgeport, Stratford-"
"Where, in 1851, devils plagued a minister's home," put in Pursuivant.
"The names make a poem," said Laurel.
"You can get that effect by reading any timetable," said Cobbett. "We miss a couple of good names-Mystic and Giants Neck, though they aren't far off from our route. And Griswold-that means Gray Woods-where the Judge's book says Horace Ray was born."
"There's no Griswold on the Connecticut map anymore," said the Judge.
"Vanished?" said Laurel. "Maybe it appears at just a certain time of the day, along about sundown."
She laughed, but the Judge was grave.
"Here we'll pass by New Haven," he said. "I was at Yale here, seventy years ago."
They rolled across the Connecticut River between Old Say-brook and Old Lyme. Outside New London, Cobbett turned them north on State Highway 82 and, near Jewett City, took a two-lane road that brought them into Deslow, not long after noon.
There were pleasant clapboard cottages among elm trees and flower beds. Main Street had bright shops with, farther along, the belfry of a sturdy old church. Cobbett drove them to a sign saying Mapletree Court. A row of cabins faced along a cement-floored colonnade, their fronts painted white with blue doors and window frames. In the office, Phil Drumm stood at the desk, talking to the plump proprietress.
"Welcome home," he greeted them. "Judge, I was asking Mrs. Simpson here to reserve you a cabin."
"At the far end of the row, sir," the lady said. "I'd have put you next to your two friends, but so many theater folks have already moved in."
"Long ago I learned to be happy with any shelter," the Judge assured her.
They saw Laurel to her cabin and put her suitcases inside, then walked to the farthest cabin where Pursuivant would stay. Finally Drumm followed Cobbett to the space next to Laurel's. Inside, Cobbett produced a fifth of bourbon from his briefcase. Drumm trotted away to fetch ice. Pursuivant came to join them.
"It's good of you to look after us," Cobbett said to Drumm above his glass.
"Oh, I'll get my own back," Drumm assured him. "The Judge and you, distinguished folklore experts-I'll have you in all the papers."
"Whatever you like," said Cobbett. "Let's have lunch, as soon as Laurel is freshened up."
The four ate crab cakes and flounder at a little restaurant while Drumm talked about The Land Beyond the Forest. He had signed the minor film star Caspar Merrick to play Dracula. "He has a fine baritone singing voice," said Drumm. "He'll be at afternoon rehearsal."
"And Gonda Chastel?" inquired Pursuivant, buttering a roll,
"Shell be there tonight." Drumm sounded happy about that. "This afternoon's mostly for bits and chorus numbers. I'm directing as well as producing." They finished their lunch, and Drumm rose. "If you're not tired, come see our theater."
It was only a short walk through town to the converted barn. Cobbett judged it had been built in Colonial times, with a recent roof of composition tile, but with walls of stubborn, brown-gray New England stone. Across a narrow side street stood the old white church, with a hedge-bordered cemetery.
"Quaint, that old burying ground," commented Drumm. "Nobody's spaded under there now, there's a modern cemetery on the far side, but Chastel's tomb is there. Quite a picturesque one."
"I'd like to see it," said Pursuivant, leaning on his silver-banded cane.
The barn's interior was set with rows of folding chairs, enough for several hundred spectators. On a stage at the far end, workmen moved here and there under lights. Drumm led his guests up steps at the side.
High in the loft, catwalks zigzagged and a dark curtain hung like a broad guillotine blade. Drumm pointed out canvas flats, painted to resemble
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