Call Me Ismay Read Online Free Page A

gulped in air desperately, but managed to take in only a mouthful of foul dust and cobwebs. When he realized what he'd inhaled, he began to cough violently, so hard in fact that his head snapped up and back and right into the tabletop above him, nearly knocking him unconscious. Langston gripped the back of his head with his uninjured hand, an overwhelming sense of embarrassment and failure enshrouding him. Time to go , he thought, his soul a seething pot of shame and guilt. Time to go back to the George Hotel, clean up and perhaps sleep for about a week. I can reason with the editors later. Another flash of lightning occurred outside- its bolt not as bright nor its thunder quite as loud as the one that had struck moments before, but it still felt like a condemning shout from heaven nonetheless. Langston felt his knees digging into the floor below, and he wondered whether he'd now resemble some poor, pathetic blighter who'd gotten himself into a pub brawl, once he managed to stumble away from the chapel. “Perhaps the rain will be good for washing the blood and the dust that's all over me,” he muttered.
     
    Langston moved slowly, fearing another collision with the heavy table that now surrounded him. A slight panic began to stir as he realized the table was constructed in such a way that merely crawling out from under it wasn't a possibility. The table's weight and lack of much space between its legs meant that Langston would have to leverage his way out by lifting the table from underneath, using his shoulders, and hopefully getting the table to scoot a few inches with every push. Already weakened and tired, Langston groaned loudly on every attempt to move the table away from the wall, his body unable to force the table to move more than an inch at a time. With every shove the table creaked mightily, its stout legs reconnecting to the floor with a resounding thud.
     
    As Langston strained to free himself, he noted that the table was causing damage to the floor, and not just by leaving scratch marks on every move, but also weakening and cracking the stone in places. It struck Langston that it was entirely possible the table was covering a crypt. Perhaps it's the Gidley family crypt , he mused bitterly. It'd almost be fitting if the floor gives way and I'm forever entombed with the cursed Gidleys.
     
    Langston continued to struggle, when he noticed that an outright collapse of the floor might not be too far-fetched. Cracks and holes were starting to form, and he could hear pebbles and other debris shaking its way to the floor and perhaps even settling upon whatever lay beneath. Just how poorly produced are these stones? he pondered, growing more alarmed and annoyed. With his uninjured hand, he stuck a finger into a hole that had just formed, and watched in amazement as the opening crumbled and widened in response to the movement of his dusty digit.
     
    Then the unthinkable happened. The floor accepted his entire hand as he dug deeper, coming apart as easy as dust, until a opening at least three feet long created itself as it caved in, almost as if a small earthquake had struck in this corner of the Winkleigh Church. Langston didn't consider himself a vandal, but more a horrified observer of shoddy workmanship. With renewed vigor, Langston forced the table further away from the wall, fearing the floor was about to create a full-blown fissure that could devour both himself and the heavy furniture.
     
    Freed at last from the underside of the table, Langston sat a few feet from the hole in the floor, mopping his brow with the sleeve of his jacket, and still spitting granules of dirt as they rolled through his teeth. What exactly lay under here? he wondered, debating whether or not he really wanted to see what inhabited the floor below.
     
    He glanced over his shoulder, once more taking in the majestic solitude of the chapel. Not much had changed in terms of the lack of outside light, and the storm outside was most