The Broken Hours: A Novel of H. P. Lovecraft Read Online Free
Author: Jacqueline Baker
frequently pointed out. He might have mentioned it, after all.
Either way, it appeared no one would be coming down to greet me. I deposited my umbrella upon the iron stand and, after wiping my soaked shoes pointlessly, mounted the groaning staircase.
When I reached the landing, the air changed.
I do not know how else to describe it. It darkened, became more dense. The carpet grew unpleasantly thick beneath my shoes, a swollen thing. I paused, disoriented, off-balance, and gripped the cold banister to steady myself, the wax sticky on my palm. My sodden clothing chafed against my skin, and I unbuttoned the collar of my overcoat. I shut my eyes, breathed. Pricks of light raced behind my eyes like mad, blue constellations. I could almost feel the bracing, elemental rush of wind and rain beyond the papered walls.
It was a long moment before I regained my equilibrium, and I put this off, quite logically, to the storm and the absence of windows on the landing, and to my fatigue and light-headedness at the lack of a decent meal in many days. That I had not collapsed before now seemed miraculous in itself. I hoped I was not coming down with something.
Still, though I was not a superstitious man, I was aware that I had always been rather … impressionable. Easily swayed, Jane once said. The man Baxter’s face came back to me, abashed as he mentioned his wife, the upstairs tenants. But I had detected something else there, too. A question in his gaze, and in the bleached gaze of the boy as well.
I gripped the banister more tightly, moved from the landing slowly upward, feeling that weightiness, as if it were pressing me back. A door stood closed in the shadows above me and I climbed toward it, sliding my hand along the nicked banister, my valise thumping against my knees. I hesitated on the upper landing only an instant, then raised my fist and rapped soundly, the noise ricocheting around in the darkness. My trousers clung wetly to my shins and I shivered and rapped again and, inexplicably, looked over my shoulder down the staircase. At last, hearing no sound from within and being, after all, expected, I opened the door.
I was hit, first, by a wall of bad air, as if neither door nor window had been opened in weeks. As if the rooms had sat long empty, the air unstirred by even the slightest movement. An earthy smell, not altogether unpleasant, flooded over me, mixed with that same musky sweet odour and even taste of old cherries. It filled my throat, recalling to me an orchard I must once have known as a child, the plump, rich fruit warm and soft from the sun. But as soon as I grasped for the memory, it was gone, as is the way with memories. Like ghosts, they can only be glimpsed from the corners of the eyes.
From where I stood in the doorway, the apartment seemed darker than had the main floor foyer. I recalled that from the outside I’d seen all the curtains pulled shut against the streetlamps and whatever scant gray light the sky yet held. That heaviness of air seemed denser there, weightier, as if the darkness were caused not merely by a lack of light but by the presence of something else.
I noticed, then, a panelled door down a couple of steps at the end of the front hall, set a little apart from the rest of the suite. Though the door was shut fast, a light shone dimly from beneath.
Hello? I called out. Sir? It’s Arthor Crandle.
Only the wind and the rain outside. I stepped into the apartment, dropping my sodden valise with an intentional clatter, then rapped my knuckles in brisk manufactured annoyance against the wall where I stood waiting.
Hallo! I called again.
Still, nothing came. I could imagine only that my employer was asleep or had stepped out. I walked to the end of the hall and, descending the steps to the lighted room, rapped soundly there, just to be certain. My wet clothes hung heavily from my shoulders and hips as I waited. I cleared my throat, watching the dampness spread out under my shoes in the weak
Either way, it appeared no one would be coming down to greet me. I deposited my umbrella upon the iron stand and, after wiping my soaked shoes pointlessly, mounted the groaning staircase.
When I reached the landing, the air changed.
I do not know how else to describe it. It darkened, became more dense. The carpet grew unpleasantly thick beneath my shoes, a swollen thing. I paused, disoriented, off-balance, and gripped the cold banister to steady myself, the wax sticky on my palm. My sodden clothing chafed against my skin, and I unbuttoned the collar of my overcoat. I shut my eyes, breathed. Pricks of light raced behind my eyes like mad, blue constellations. I could almost feel the bracing, elemental rush of wind and rain beyond the papered walls.
It was a long moment before I regained my equilibrium, and I put this off, quite logically, to the storm and the absence of windows on the landing, and to my fatigue and light-headedness at the lack of a decent meal in many days. That I had not collapsed before now seemed miraculous in itself. I hoped I was not coming down with something.
Still, though I was not a superstitious man, I was aware that I had always been rather … impressionable. Easily swayed, Jane once said. The man Baxter’s face came back to me, abashed as he mentioned his wife, the upstairs tenants. But I had detected something else there, too. A question in his gaze, and in the bleached gaze of the boy as well.
I gripped the banister more tightly, moved from the landing slowly upward, feeling that weightiness, as if it were pressing me back. A door stood closed in the shadows above me and I climbed toward it, sliding my hand along the nicked banister, my valise thumping against my knees. I hesitated on the upper landing only an instant, then raised my fist and rapped soundly, the noise ricocheting around in the darkness. My trousers clung wetly to my shins and I shivered and rapped again and, inexplicably, looked over my shoulder down the staircase. At last, hearing no sound from within and being, after all, expected, I opened the door.
I was hit, first, by a wall of bad air, as if neither door nor window had been opened in weeks. As if the rooms had sat long empty, the air unstirred by even the slightest movement. An earthy smell, not altogether unpleasant, flooded over me, mixed with that same musky sweet odour and even taste of old cherries. It filled my throat, recalling to me an orchard I must once have known as a child, the plump, rich fruit warm and soft from the sun. But as soon as I grasped for the memory, it was gone, as is the way with memories. Like ghosts, they can only be glimpsed from the corners of the eyes.
From where I stood in the doorway, the apartment seemed darker than had the main floor foyer. I recalled that from the outside I’d seen all the curtains pulled shut against the streetlamps and whatever scant gray light the sky yet held. That heaviness of air seemed denser there, weightier, as if the darkness were caused not merely by a lack of light but by the presence of something else.
I noticed, then, a panelled door down a couple of steps at the end of the front hall, set a little apart from the rest of the suite. Though the door was shut fast, a light shone dimly from beneath.
Hello? I called out. Sir? It’s Arthor Crandle.
Only the wind and the rain outside. I stepped into the apartment, dropping my sodden valise with an intentional clatter, then rapped my knuckles in brisk manufactured annoyance against the wall where I stood waiting.
Hallo! I called again.
Still, nothing came. I could imagine only that my employer was asleep or had stepped out. I walked to the end of the hall and, descending the steps to the lighted room, rapped soundly there, just to be certain. My wet clothes hung heavily from my shoulders and hips as I waited. I cleared my throat, watching the dampness spread out under my shoes in the weak
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