Tormentor Read Online Free

that conversation was steered—most politely and often in a roundabout manner—on to a different subject. If the intent was to reassure me in any way, it did exactly the opposite.
    Alan had been right about the hotel though—things got decidedly lively as the night wore on, but I took my leave when a country and western trio started up in the main lounge, their volume turned up so high that any further quiet conversation was well-nigh impossible.
    The strains of “Stand By Your Man” followed me as I headed up the avenue towards the castle and the shore path beyond.
    * * *
    The walk back was almost as pleasant as the earlier one had been. The night air felt chilly, but with a hint that summer might eventually be arriving, even here. There was enough light for me to see the track—most of the time—but I resolved to bring the flashlight the next time.
    It also took me longer to get back than I anticipated, so I was relieved when I saw the squat shape of the house on the horizon, a darker shadow against the sky. I was less happy to see the light was on in the main room, for I had a distinct memory of switching it off before I left.
    There were no cars but mine in the barn or driveway, and no sound from inside. I went in the front door, noisily, to let anyone who might be there know of my presence.
    “Hello?” I shouted, then immediately felt self-conscious—and stupid. Beth and I had often jeered at movies when people did exactly the same thing. If there is indeed a prowler present, he’s hardly going to shout back, “Yes, I’m just lurking in the closet with a big knife.”
    Thankfully my stupidity went unnoticed; there was no reply. I did a tour of the house. The French windows were securely locked, there was no sign of anything missing, and I started to think my memory was playing tricks when it came to switching off the lights.
    Then I saw my laptop.
    The lid was open and the machine switched on, sitting on top of the new desk. By now I was worried more about my sanity than my memory, for I was absolutely certain I’d powered it down before leaving.
    I had new e-mail—two items, both scrambled gibberish, but both containing two words that were all too clear.
    Stay down.
    * * *
    A restless night followed—I couldn’t settle, worried by the fact that someone might have been in the house, and almost equally worried it was my own mind playing tricks on me. I chased down the beer I’d had earlier with a few more from the fridge and tried to wash my mind clear with a big dumb action movie on the laptop. It didn’t work. Even epic-sized Hollywood bangs weren’t enough to drive away a growing unease. I thought about following the beer down with some of the Talisker—but that would have felt too much like giving in. Instead I turned to something I hadn’t done since the week after the funeral—I talked to Beth. Or rather, I talked to the urn, for in my heart I knew it was all that was left of her—there was no happier place beyond, no celestial harps. Not for Beth, or for me. If there were anything of her left, she’d have talked to me before now.
    “I’m going mad, sweetheart,” I whispered.
    I could well imagine her reply—she didn’t have to be here for me to know exactly what it would be.
    “What, again?”
    But just giving voice to my fears seemed to do the trick—hearing them spoken aloud diminished them; it brought them into focus and made me see them for what they were—new-house nerves and fear of change.
    I went to bed feeling less nervous, and fell asleep watching the patterns of light and shadow on the ceiling coming in through the curtains I deliberately left open; my small gesture of defiance, one I needed that night to prove to myself I wasn’t afraid of the dark.

 
     
     
    5
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    By the time June came around I’d settled into a routine. I painted, or at least thought about painting during the day, and watched movies on the laptop at night. I took to having