Read Online What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? by Henry Farrell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Henry Farrell
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appear.Knowing full well that she hadn’t the courage yet to confront Jane openly and demand the meaning of this horror, she had decided that when Jane did come into the room, it would be best to pretend not to have lifted the cloth at all, not to have seen the odious display beneath. If Jane should ask, she would simply say she hadn’t been hungry. Tomorrow when she was feeling more collected, she would insist that they discuss the matter fully and openly.
Mercifully, through the afternoon Jane had not come near the room, or even upstairs to the second floor. There had been occasional sounds of movement from down below, but nothing in any way extraordinary or alarming. Now, however, with the coming of twilight, the sounds grew louder and more frequent. And then, almost exactly at the moment when the last faint traces of daylight faded from the room, Jane’s footsteps approached with sudden briskness through the lower hallway and across the living room to the stairs.
Blanche reached out quickly to the bedside lamp and switched it on, commanding herself at the same time to be calm and composed. She watched shudderingly as the circle of light dashed itself out into the room, reaching, it seemed, with soft fingers for the desk and the repugnant tray.
She could not guess what Jane’s attitude might be, what she might say or do. Taking up the book from her lap, she propped it firmly against the arm of her chair in an effort to hold it steady.
When Jane came into the room, Blanche kept her eyes rigidly lowered to the book. Even so, she felt the panic rise again within her, suddenly, sharply. In an effort to hold it back, she told herself that she must not let herself be hysterical. There was nothing, really, to be frightened about. Nonetheless her hands tightened their hold upon the book, as if in an effort to brace her entire being against the assault of any word or gesture that might come from Jane’s direction.
Jane, meanwhile, showed no inclination at all toward communicativeness. Carrying a new tray—Blanche’s dinner tray thistime—she crossed directly to the desk and put it down beside the one already there.
At the corner of Blanche’s eye there appeared two monstrous mounds of white horror in the shadows beyond the reach of the light. And then, taking up the dreadful lunch tray, Jane, still without a glance in Blanche’s direction, turned and made her way out of the room. Not until her footsteps had faded off down the stairs did Blanche let the book fall from her trembling hands back into her lap.
The white-shrouded tray loomed sharply out of the dimness, seeming to swell in size and grow enormous. She closed her eyes against the sight, but it was still there before her in the darkness of her mind. And then she paused, sniffing the air around her. Was there an odor? Of warm food? Of roasted meat? She opened her eyes and sniffed again. This time Jane had brought her a proper meal. She started hesitantly forward, but stopped again, abruptly, as the odor suddenly soured in her nostrils and became the stink of death and decaying flesh. She leaned forward and lowered her head into her hands, fearful that she was going to be sick.
And then, slowly, it came to her—the reason why Jane was doing this to her. She meant to kill her, to starve her to death! She intended to create in Blanche so strong a terror of what she would find on the trays at mealtime that she would not dare to go near them. Blanche was certain of it; it was exactly the sort of diabolical scheme that would appeal to Jane. In time she would be able to bring perfectly good meals into the room, just as before, and be assured that Blanche would refuse to eat them or even go near them. And in the end, when Blanche died of starvation in the midst of plenty, who would ever think to blame Jane?
Blanche returned her gaze to the covered tray on the desk. She was not mistaken in this conjecture; she was positive she wasn’t. She and Jane were embarked
Mercifully, through the afternoon Jane had not come near the room, or even upstairs to the second floor. There had been occasional sounds of movement from down below, but nothing in any way extraordinary or alarming. Now, however, with the coming of twilight, the sounds grew louder and more frequent. And then, almost exactly at the moment when the last faint traces of daylight faded from the room, Jane’s footsteps approached with sudden briskness through the lower hallway and across the living room to the stairs.
Blanche reached out quickly to the bedside lamp and switched it on, commanding herself at the same time to be calm and composed. She watched shudderingly as the circle of light dashed itself out into the room, reaching, it seemed, with soft fingers for the desk and the repugnant tray.
She could not guess what Jane’s attitude might be, what she might say or do. Taking up the book from her lap, she propped it firmly against the arm of her chair in an effort to hold it steady.
When Jane came into the room, Blanche kept her eyes rigidly lowered to the book. Even so, she felt the panic rise again within her, suddenly, sharply. In an effort to hold it back, she told herself that she must not let herself be hysterical. There was nothing, really, to be frightened about. Nonetheless her hands tightened their hold upon the book, as if in an effort to brace her entire being against the assault of any word or gesture that might come from Jane’s direction.
Jane, meanwhile, showed no inclination at all toward communicativeness. Carrying a new tray—Blanche’s dinner tray thistime—she crossed directly to the desk and put it down beside the one already there.
At the corner of Blanche’s eye there appeared two monstrous mounds of white horror in the shadows beyond the reach of the light. And then, taking up the dreadful lunch tray, Jane, still without a glance in Blanche’s direction, turned and made her way out of the room. Not until her footsteps had faded off down the stairs did Blanche let the book fall from her trembling hands back into her lap.
The white-shrouded tray loomed sharply out of the dimness, seeming to swell in size and grow enormous. She closed her eyes against the sight, but it was still there before her in the darkness of her mind. And then she paused, sniffing the air around her. Was there an odor? Of warm food? Of roasted meat? She opened her eyes and sniffed again. This time Jane had brought her a proper meal. She started hesitantly forward, but stopped again, abruptly, as the odor suddenly soured in her nostrils and became the stink of death and decaying flesh. She leaned forward and lowered her head into her hands, fearful that she was going to be sick.
And then, slowly, it came to her—the reason why Jane was doing this to her. She meant to kill her, to starve her to death! She intended to create in Blanche so strong a terror of what she would find on the trays at mealtime that she would not dare to go near them. Blanche was certain of it; it was exactly the sort of diabolical scheme that would appeal to Jane. In time she would be able to bring perfectly good meals into the room, just as before, and be assured that Blanche would refuse to eat them or even go near them. And in the end, when Blanche died of starvation in the midst of plenty, who would ever think to blame Jane?
Blanche returned her gaze to the covered tray on the desk. She was not mistaken in this conjecture; she was positive she wasn’t. She and Jane were embarked
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