The Sisters: A Mystery of Good and Evil, Horror and Suspense (Book One of the Dark Forces Series) Read Online Free
amount of fuss over every
thing it touched turned a crimson color. And it was delighted.
After dinner, Sarah climbed the staircase and, stepping onto the first landing, looked back over her shoulder. The feeling that she was not alone in the house had taken hold and she could not easily shake it.
The interior décor was a mixture of modern and period design. She looked back down the wide staircase: broad oak planking from edge to edge, wearing a thin and threadbare burgundy carpet. The walls were covered in a florid paper of indeterminate pattern meant to resemble climbing roses; but now they were rendered simply as broad red splotches over a hunter green background. It seemed to Sarah that the pattern itself moved and scuttled whenever she looked away from it, so that thick clutches of flowers might appear within arm’s length of where she stood while none covered the vines ten feet away. The lights on the landing shone out brightly from wall sconces meant to resemble large clamshells.
“I wonder who furnished this place,” Sarah said out loud. “It’s a cross between Martha Stewart and Martha Washington. Remind me to bring a decorator from this century with me next time I come.”
She shivered, wishing now she had brought anyone with her. She was also regretting her rash vow to make this visit some kind of character test.
She rolled her large, black suitcase into the first bedroom on her right, bumping the wheels off the carpet and onto the bare planking that, in sunlight, was charming and warm. Now the room seemed stark and uninviting, unwilling to give up the cold that seeped from its surface. The room itself was cheery enough, however, and had always been a favorite of Sarah’s in past visits.
She clicked the overhead light switch and rolled the suitcase onto an oval rug next to the iron four-poster bed. With a quick motion, she yanked off the white sheet that covered the rich down comforter and feather pillows. This room was done up in yellows, her favorite color, with pale white accent paint on the wainscoting and windowsills. A fat, old-fashioned chair with ottoman sat in a corner next to an elaborately carved wardrobe and, across the room, an antique washstand, complete with pitcher and basin, was centered on the wall.
She hoisted the bag onto the mattress and began unpacking. The pork chops had done a good job of filling her with counteracting ballast for the half-bottle of wine she had consumed, and she now only had a pleasant buzzing sensation that was making her very sleepy.
Without much thought to organization, she shoved clothes, underwear, socks and other belongings into various drawers built into the wardrobe and then hung up a few bulky sweaters.
The house was now warm enough for her to walk around without the jacket and she had left it downstairs in the kitchen. The blue cable knit sweater she wore over her jeans and Timberland boots would, with slight variation, be her favored attire for this visit. She never had been much of a clothes horse (whatever that means, she thought) and always chose comfort over style when possible.
With her unpacking complete, she picked up the few toiletries she had brought, along with a thick cotton nightshirt and lilac velour robe, and stepped into the cold hallway to visit the single bathroom on this floor.
Wind was whistling through the seams of the window at the end of the hallway and Sarah shivered again, drawing a thin arm across her well-formed breasts. The hallway light was on and stark shadows were drawn on the floor and walls by the heavy furniture that lined the hallway. She dashed quickly into the bathroom and threw the door shut behind her, fumbling for the light switch. She clicked it on and yellow light flooded the small room. Her heart was racing, though she could not say why.
“I really am going to have to cut back on that wine,” she said, and started getting ready for bed.
Chapter 3
The Monday morning sun rose bright and
thing it touched turned a crimson color. And it was delighted.
After dinner, Sarah climbed the staircase and, stepping onto the first landing, looked back over her shoulder. The feeling that she was not alone in the house had taken hold and she could not easily shake it.
The interior décor was a mixture of modern and period design. She looked back down the wide staircase: broad oak planking from edge to edge, wearing a thin and threadbare burgundy carpet. The walls were covered in a florid paper of indeterminate pattern meant to resemble climbing roses; but now they were rendered simply as broad red splotches over a hunter green background. It seemed to Sarah that the pattern itself moved and scuttled whenever she looked away from it, so that thick clutches of flowers might appear within arm’s length of where she stood while none covered the vines ten feet away. The lights on the landing shone out brightly from wall sconces meant to resemble large clamshells.
“I wonder who furnished this place,” Sarah said out loud. “It’s a cross between Martha Stewart and Martha Washington. Remind me to bring a decorator from this century with me next time I come.”
She shivered, wishing now she had brought anyone with her. She was also regretting her rash vow to make this visit some kind of character test.
She rolled her large, black suitcase into the first bedroom on her right, bumping the wheels off the carpet and onto the bare planking that, in sunlight, was charming and warm. Now the room seemed stark and uninviting, unwilling to give up the cold that seeped from its surface. The room itself was cheery enough, however, and had always been a favorite of Sarah’s in past visits.
She clicked the overhead light switch and rolled the suitcase onto an oval rug next to the iron four-poster bed. With a quick motion, she yanked off the white sheet that covered the rich down comforter and feather pillows. This room was done up in yellows, her favorite color, with pale white accent paint on the wainscoting and windowsills. A fat, old-fashioned chair with ottoman sat in a corner next to an elaborately carved wardrobe and, across the room, an antique washstand, complete with pitcher and basin, was centered on the wall.
She hoisted the bag onto the mattress and began unpacking. The pork chops had done a good job of filling her with counteracting ballast for the half-bottle of wine she had consumed, and she now only had a pleasant buzzing sensation that was making her very sleepy.
Without much thought to organization, she shoved clothes, underwear, socks and other belongings into various drawers built into the wardrobe and then hung up a few bulky sweaters.
The house was now warm enough for her to walk around without the jacket and she had left it downstairs in the kitchen. The blue cable knit sweater she wore over her jeans and Timberland boots would, with slight variation, be her favored attire for this visit. She never had been much of a clothes horse (whatever that means, she thought) and always chose comfort over style when possible.
With her unpacking complete, she picked up the few toiletries she had brought, along with a thick cotton nightshirt and lilac velour robe, and stepped into the cold hallway to visit the single bathroom on this floor.
Wind was whistling through the seams of the window at the end of the hallway and Sarah shivered again, drawing a thin arm across her well-formed breasts. The hallway light was on and stark shadows were drawn on the floor and walls by the heavy furniture that lined the hallway. She dashed quickly into the bathroom and threw the door shut behind her, fumbling for the light switch. She clicked it on and yellow light flooded the small room. Her heart was racing, though she could not say why.
“I really am going to have to cut back on that wine,” she said, and started getting ready for bed.
Chapter 3
The Monday morning sun rose bright and
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