The High House Read Online Free Page A

wanted his father, who he now knew to be involved in dangerous business indeed. He wondered how the Bobby could be so cruel.
    Finally, he slept a twitching, trembling sleep, a brief cessation from the horror.
    When he woke, he found the face of the ghost thrust before him once more. He screamed and ran again.
    * * *
    In years after, he remembered nothing about the Room of Horrors except its night and terror, for it was indeed filled with fears of every sort that sent him scurrying across the boards, hiding in closets and crannies, sleeping when he could, only to be awakened by the things of nightmare. He found food sometimes, for it was never the purpose of the chamber to starve its victims. There were moments and even hours of respite, but these were always broken by tramping feet, hideous howls, or leering stares.
    He could not have lasted long there, in such dread, not without being broken in spirit. Whether he remained a week, or only a single day, he never knew; it seemed eternal, but eventually he heard the sound of thunder. A blast shook the chamber, blinding him; he thought it only a new peril. But when he could see again he found Brittle, holding a lantern aloft, standing before the marble door, which lay broken and smoking, sundered by a mighty blow, the smell of sulphur roiling from it. Beside the butler stood Lord Anderson, his jagged Lightning Sword held high, fury burning in his eyes. In that moment, Carter understood, perhaps for the first time, that his father would have dared the devil himself to save him. He swept Carter into his arms in one swift motion, wrapping him in his cloak as if he were an infant. Wasting no time on speech, but weeping as he went, he rushed the lad up the stair.
    Carter cried in his father’s arms until he fell asleep, so that he did not even remember being tucked safely into his own bed.
    * * *
    He had nightmares for several weeks thereafter, and his father stayed close, neglecting the business of the house to be with his son. Carter remembered those days as happy ones, despite the lingering fear, because of Lord Anderson’s attentions. Murmur, if anything, was even less kind, and often, as the Master held his son’s hands to help him say his nightly prayers, Carter would see, between half-closed lids, the lady standing at the doorway, glaring.
    It happened shortly after Carter’s twelfth birthday that he wandered back into the walled garden, which he had avoided since his encounter with the Bobby. Still, looking out the windows, the sunlight against the leaves beckoned him, and he followed after, to play among the hedges, knowing his father was in council with visitors and would be busy throughout the afternoon.
    With a carved wooden sword and a hat made of paper, he charged among the hedges, playing games of war, fancying himself a brave captain, leader of a host. The tall rows of privet provided fortresses, enemy lines, and corners for turning and falling on the foe, and he played while the cool breath of morning lapped his brow.
    He was bent down upon the ground, drawing a map in the dirt with a stick, when a shadow suddenly crossed above him. Looking up, he saw the Bobby grinning unpleasantly.
    He shrieked in terror and leapt up, but the hedges pinned him roundabout, and the Bobby grasped him in his cruel grip. He cupped one hand over his mouth and dragged him across the yard. They were at the well, heading toward the gate behind the grape arbor, when Carter got his teeth into the thick hands. The Bobby growled in rage and the boy screamed for help as loud as he could. His captor cuffed him sharply, then continued dragging him toward the gate.
    At that moment, Brittle bounded out of the doorway, a broad-axe in his hands, running with an agility Carter had not thought possible in the ancient butler.
    Seeing himself pursued, the Bobby gave a cry of rage, lifted Carter, and flung him into the well.
    He tumbled into darkness, fortunate not to strike his head on the way down, but