The Architecture of Fear Read Online Free Page B

right, Goony-Bird?"
    Nearly lost among the oaks and towering hemlocks, Gail nodded frantically.
    "Henry, you're a dear." Tina bent to kiss his forehead. "I hope those burns don't hurt too much." Gently, she pinched one of his plump cheeks. He's getting fat, she reflected. But I'll have to neuter him soon, or his testicles will spoil the meat. He'll be easier to manage then.
    (She smiled, recalling her big, black-handled dressmaker's shears. That would be amusing—but quite impossible, to be sure. What was it that clever man in Texas had done, put some sort of radioactive capsule between his sleeping son's legs?)
    Dick said loudly, "And I'm sure Henry's a very good son."
    She turned to him, still smiling. "You know, Dick, you've never talked much about your own children. How old are they?"

Where the Heart Is by RAMSEY CAMPBELL

    Ramsey Campbell is emerging as a significant force in the development of contemporary horror fiction, especially the novel form. He is a writer of nearly mathematical precision whose story herein is reminiscent of the graphics of M. C. Escher. Through each individual twist and turn, "Where the Heart Is" seems a familiar tale of a man driven mad by the death of his wife. But as with Escher's visions of interlocking architectural realities, for example his print "The Belvedere Terrace," the whole is vastly more unsettling than the sum of its parts.

    I've just walked through your house. I lay on your bed and tried to see my wife's face looming over me, the way I used to. I spent longest in your baby's room, because that was where I began to die. Before I do, I want to tell you who I am and why I'm here, and so I'm writing this.
    I'm at your dining table now, but I won't be when you find me. You'll have found me, or you couldn't be reading this. There may not be much of me for you to recognize, so let me introduce myself again. I'm the man whose house you bought. This is my house, and you'll never get rid of me now.
    I've nothing against you personally. It wasn't your fault that the two of you nearly destroyed my wife and me—you weren't to know what you were doing. I can't let that stop me, but at least I can tell you my reasons. The truth is, I never should have let you or anyone else into my house.
    Maybe you remember coming to view it, in the rain. I was sitting in the front room, hearing the rain shake the windows and knowing it couldn't touch me. I was feeling peaceful and secure at last. As a matter of fact, I was wondering if the rain might be the last thing I ever heard, if I could sink into that peace where my wife must be, when your car drew up outside the house.
    By the time you got out of your car and ran up the path, you were drenched. I may as well be honest: I took my time about answering the doorbell. Only I heard you saying you'd seen someone in the front room, and that made me feel discovered. So I took pity on you out there in the storm.
    I don't suppose you noticed how I drew back as you came in. As you trod on the step, I had the feeling that you meant the house to be yours. Did you realize you hung your wet coats as if it already was? Maybe you were too drenched to wait for me to tell you, but you made me feel redundant, out of place.
    That's one reason why I didn't say much as I showed you over the house. I didn't think you would have listened anyway—you were too busy noticing cracks in the plaster and where damp had lifted the wallpaper and how some of the doors weren't quite straight in their frames. I really thought when we came downstairs that you'd decided against the house. Perhaps you saw how relieved I was. I wondered why you asked if you could be alone for a few minutes. I let you go upstairs by yourselves, though I must say I resented hearing you murmuring up there. And all I could do when you came down and said you were interested in the house was make my face go blank, to hide my shock.
    You must have thought I was trying to get you to raise your offer, but it