Free The Pariah by Graham Masterton Page B

long uncertain walk uphill.

    SEVEN

    I was tempted, as I walked up Quaker Lane, to stop off at George Markham’s house and play a few hands of cards with him and old Keith Reed. I had been neglecting my neighbours ever since Jane was killed, and if I was going to continue to live here, well, I thought I ought to do something about visiting more often.
    But even as I approached George’s front fence, I knew that I was only making excuses for myself. Visiting George would be nothing more than a way of deferring my return to Quaker Lane Cottage, and to whatever fears were concealed behind its doors. Visiting George would be cowardice: letting the whispers and the voices and the strange movements scare me away from my own home.
    I hesitated, though, and looked in at George’s parlour window, where I could just see the back of Keith Reed’s head as he dealt out the cards, and the lamplit table, and the beer-bottles, and a sudden blue drift of smoke from George’s cigar. I hoisted my sacks of groceries a little higher, and took in a deep breath, and carried on up the hill.
    Quaker Lane Cottage was in complete darkness when I approached, even though I was sure that I had left the front porch light on to guide me home. The gale blew around the house and rustled its creepers like hair, and the two shuttered upstairs windows looked like tightly-closed eyes. A house that was keeping its secrets to itself. In the far distance I could hear the endless dejected grumbling of the North Atlantic surf.
    I put down my sacks of groceries, took out my keys, and opened the front door. Inside, it was warm, and calm, and I could see the dancing light from the living-room fire reflected on the ceiling. I brought in my bags and closed the door behind me. Perhaps the house wasn’t really haunted after all. Perhaps the creaking of that swing last night had simply put me on edge, and given me a temporary attack of mild hysteria.
    Nevertheless, once I had stacked away the groceries and the liquor, and switched on the oven for my lasagne dinner, I went all the way around the house, upstairs and down, looking into every room, opening up every closet, kneeling down and peering under every bed. I just wanted to know when I sat down and ate my meal tonight that there wasn’t anything hiding in the cottage that might come down and catch me unawares.
    Ridiculous; but, what would you have done?
    I watched television for an hour or so, although reception was blurry because of the weather. I watched Sanford and MASH and even Trapper John, M.D. Then I cleared up the remains of my meal, poured myself a large whisky, and went into the library. I wanted to take a look at that painting that Edward Wardwell had made such a fuss about in Salem, and see if perhaps I couldn’t identify the ship in it.
    It was strikingly cold in the library. Usually it was one of the warmest rooms in the house. It wasn’t worth laying a fresh log fire; but I switched on the electric fan heater.
    After only a few seconds, though, the heater abruptly short-circuited, crackled sparks, whirred, and died. There was a smell of burned plastic and electricity. Outside, creepers tapped against the window; a soft and complicated pattern, like unremembered spirits seeking access.
    I picked up the painting, still in its wrapper, and selected one or two books from the shelves that I thought might help me discover what the ship might be. Osborne’s Salem Marine; Walcott’s Massachusetts Merchant Vessels 1650 - 1850; and, just out of inspiration, Great Men of Salem, by Duglass. I remembered that many of the leading commercial and political figures in Old Salem used to own private ships, and Duglass’ book might contain some clues about the one in the picture.
    By the time I was ready to leave the library, it was so cold in there that I could actually see my breath. The barometer must be dropping like a stone, I thought to myself. Yet, in the hallway, it was as warm as it had been before,