Read Online What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? by Henry Farrell - Free Book Online
Authors: Henry Farrell
Ads: Link
and it had lain so long in death that it had gone even beyond the state of putrefaction. All thatremained, really, were a few matted feathers, some of the thin parchmentlike skin and the delicate white bones. This, with macabre deliberation, had been placed at the center of a carefully arranged ring of lettuce, and upon the back of the corpse had been obscenely spattered a thick dab of mayonnaise. Beside the plate, resting on a napkin bearing Blanche’s initials, were a precisely placed knife and fork.
4
T he shadows of evening had begun to gather thickly around her, and on the carpet the patterned oblong of light from the window had started to lengthen and fade. The worst of her terror had passed now, but only the worst of it, only the cold, white sting of panic. She was still unable to hold her gaze for long away from the dreadful tray on the desk no matter how much the sight of it sickened her.
Mercifully it was covered, though she had no recollection of having replaced the cloth. The moment following the one in which she had first seen the horror on the tray had passed in a sick, tumultuous blur. It was as if that small space of time had been completely lost to her; the next thing she remembered she was out in the hallway at the phone frantically dialing Dr. Shelby’s number.
Instinct, perhaps, had prompted her to call the doctor, or she may have recalled Mrs. Stitt’s insistence that she consult the doctor about Jane. She had not stopped, though, to consider her motives. Dialing the number, she had pressed the receiver to her ear and breathlessly waited.
Had she not been so nearly in a state of shock, she would have known instantly that something was wrong. As it was, fully half a minute passed before she realized that the phone was dead.
At first she simply couldn’t believe it; it was impossible that the instrument should fail her just when she needed it so desperately. And then, with a new start of panic, she understood what hadhappened; Jane had taken the phone downstairs off the hook to prevent her calling out. At the same moment that this disquieting bit of knowledge came into her mind, she became aware, as before, of the soft sound of breathing on the line.
A moment passed, two. The breathing continued, marking Jane’s listening presence there at the phone in the lower hallway. Blanche shook her head in frightened disbelief. It was insane. As insane, nearly as—as making a salad of a dead bird.
“Jane!” she cried out suddenly. “Jane——!”
The sound of her voice struck sharply against the silence there in the hallway, broke and shattered it. She fell back aghast at what she had done. Quickly, thrusting the receiver from her, she dropped it into its cradle and turned away. She looked back into her room and it was then that she saw, with an audible sigh of relief, that she had covered the tray with the cloth.
The afternoon had passed as an unreal, sunlit nightmare, and Blanche, shrinking from the crystalline brightness that poured in at the window, had cowered in the false safety of the shadows by her bed. Forced upon her was the realization that Jane, having terrorized her, had also made her a helpless prisoner.
But why? Blanche asked herself. For what possible purpose? That was the worst of it, not knowing what dark inspiration lay behind this strange program of terror. Did Jane mean only to frighten her? Was this her way to voice a protest against selling the house? Or was it meant as a warning? These questions, no matter how they repeated themselves over and over in her mind, remained unanswered.
Jane wouldn’t hurt her, wouldn’t do her physical violence; Blanche felt certain of that. Jane would never do anything, surely, to increase the awful burden of guilt she had borne all these years since the accident. There was nothing, Blanche told herself, really to fear.
There in the shadows, she kept a book in her lap so that she could pretend to be calmly reading if Jane should suddenly
4
T he shadows of evening had begun to gather thickly around her, and on the carpet the patterned oblong of light from the window had started to lengthen and fade. The worst of her terror had passed now, but only the worst of it, only the cold, white sting of panic. She was still unable to hold her gaze for long away from the dreadful tray on the desk no matter how much the sight of it sickened her.
Mercifully it was covered, though she had no recollection of having replaced the cloth. The moment following the one in which she had first seen the horror on the tray had passed in a sick, tumultuous blur. It was as if that small space of time had been completely lost to her; the next thing she remembered she was out in the hallway at the phone frantically dialing Dr. Shelby’s number.
Instinct, perhaps, had prompted her to call the doctor, or she may have recalled Mrs. Stitt’s insistence that she consult the doctor about Jane. She had not stopped, though, to consider her motives. Dialing the number, she had pressed the receiver to her ear and breathlessly waited.
Had she not been so nearly in a state of shock, she would have known instantly that something was wrong. As it was, fully half a minute passed before she realized that the phone was dead.
At first she simply couldn’t believe it; it was impossible that the instrument should fail her just when she needed it so desperately. And then, with a new start of panic, she understood what hadhappened; Jane had taken the phone downstairs off the hook to prevent her calling out. At the same moment that this disquieting bit of knowledge came into her mind, she became aware, as before, of the soft sound of breathing on the line.
A moment passed, two. The breathing continued, marking Jane’s listening presence there at the phone in the lower hallway. Blanche shook her head in frightened disbelief. It was insane. As insane, nearly as—as making a salad of a dead bird.
“Jane!” she cried out suddenly. “Jane——!”
The sound of her voice struck sharply against the silence there in the hallway, broke and shattered it. She fell back aghast at what she had done. Quickly, thrusting the receiver from her, she dropped it into its cradle and turned away. She looked back into her room and it was then that she saw, with an audible sigh of relief, that she had covered the tray with the cloth.
The afternoon had passed as an unreal, sunlit nightmare, and Blanche, shrinking from the crystalline brightness that poured in at the window, had cowered in the false safety of the shadows by her bed. Forced upon her was the realization that Jane, having terrorized her, had also made her a helpless prisoner.
But why? Blanche asked herself. For what possible purpose? That was the worst of it, not knowing what dark inspiration lay behind this strange program of terror. Did Jane mean only to frighten her? Was this her way to voice a protest against selling the house? Or was it meant as a warning? These questions, no matter how they repeated themselves over and over in her mind, remained unanswered.
Jane wouldn’t hurt her, wouldn’t do her physical violence; Blanche felt certain of that. Jane would never do anything, surely, to increase the awful burden of guilt she had borne all these years since the accident. There was nothing, Blanche told herself, really to fear.
There in the shadows, she kept a book in her lap so that she could pretend to be calmly reading if Jane should suddenly
Similar Books
