The Secret of Crickley Hall Read Online Free Page B
Author: James Herbert
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, Horror, Haunted Houses, Ghost, Orphanages
in the shadows left of the doorway, his thoughts at least distracted for a moment. He peered closer, squinting in the shadowy gloom.
The object had two solid-looking wooden rollers, one on top of the other, the smallest of gaps between, and on one side there was an iron wheel with a handle, presumably for turning them. Gabe smiled in quiet awe as he recognized the device for what it was: it was an old-fashioned mangle, used for wringing out water from freshly laundered clothes, the wet material passed through the tight rollers so that the water was squeezed from them. He'd seen one in a book once, but never in the flesh as it were. In the olden days it seemed every home had to have one standing out in the yard or garden. The modern tumble-dryer had taken its place.
Delighted, he touched the rusty cog wheel, then gripped the iron handle, but when he tried to turn it the wooden wheels refused to budge. He shone his light closer, examining the rusted parts, and for a while he was lost to all else. Scrape away the surface rust, clean up the metal, a liberal oiling of the cogs, followed by a smearing of industrial grease, and the mangle would be fine again. Useless, of course, in this day and age—he couldn't see Eve coming down to wring out their clothes with it—but an interesting part of household history.
He stood away from the old mangle, shaking his head in amused wonder, then turned to leave the boiler room. As he did so, the tip of his boot hit something hard and sent it scudding a couple of feet across the dusty floor with a sharp grating noise. He stooped to pick it up and discovered it was a two-foot length of hard metal, two inches or so wide with a round hole at its centre and bevelled edges. It looked like some integral part of a machine, but Gabe had no idea what. He hefted it in his free hand, feeling its weight. Maybe it came from some old gardening machinery, he considered, or maybe—
The small cry came from somewhere next door, barely audible over the noise of the rushing underground river at the bottom of the well. Quickly he stepped through the doorway into the main cellar and heard the faint voice again. Most parents are attuned to the sound of their own child's cry and Gabe was no exception. Cally was calling to him and there was something urgent in her voice.
'Daddy! Daddy! Mummy says come—' there was a short break while she remembered the last words—'right away!'
Gabe tossed the metal bar aside and hurried towards the narrow staircase that led from the cellar.
4: PERCY JUDD
She was waiting for him at the head of the stairs, a hand holding open the cellar door, her small tousled head poking through, obviously heeding his warning never to go down on her own. Gabe climbed the stairs rapidly, poor light overhead and his flashlight lighting the way, and Cally took a step backwards, frightened by the grimness of his expression.
'What's wrong, Cally?' he asked even before he reached the top step.
'Man,' she told him, pointing towards the kitchen.
Gabe strode past her, touching her head lightly as he went. 'It's okay, Skip,' he reassured her gently and she trotted after him, unable to keep up with his determined stride.
The old man stood on the threshold of the kitchen's outer door to the small piece of garden at the side of the house, rainwater dripping off his hooded stormcoat and muddy Wellington boots onto the rough-bristled welcome mat. Gabe came to a halt just inside the hall doorway, surprised and wondering what the fuss had been about, why he had been called so urgently.
Eve, whose back was to Gabe, quickly half-turned at his approach and said, 'Oh, Gabe, this is Mr… Mr Judd, isn't it?' She returned her attention to the stranger for affirmation.
'Judd, missus,' said the man, 'but call me Percy. First name's Percy.'
He spoke with a soft West Country burr that Gabe warmed to immediately.
''Fraid I couldn't stop it, mister, doggie ran right past me.' It came out as
The object had two solid-looking wooden rollers, one on top of the other, the smallest of gaps between, and on one side there was an iron wheel with a handle, presumably for turning them. Gabe smiled in quiet awe as he recognized the device for what it was: it was an old-fashioned mangle, used for wringing out water from freshly laundered clothes, the wet material passed through the tight rollers so that the water was squeezed from them. He'd seen one in a book once, but never in the flesh as it were. In the olden days it seemed every home had to have one standing out in the yard or garden. The modern tumble-dryer had taken its place.
Delighted, he touched the rusty cog wheel, then gripped the iron handle, but when he tried to turn it the wooden wheels refused to budge. He shone his light closer, examining the rusted parts, and for a while he was lost to all else. Scrape away the surface rust, clean up the metal, a liberal oiling of the cogs, followed by a smearing of industrial grease, and the mangle would be fine again. Useless, of course, in this day and age—he couldn't see Eve coming down to wring out their clothes with it—but an interesting part of household history.
He stood away from the old mangle, shaking his head in amused wonder, then turned to leave the boiler room. As he did so, the tip of his boot hit something hard and sent it scudding a couple of feet across the dusty floor with a sharp grating noise. He stooped to pick it up and discovered it was a two-foot length of hard metal, two inches or so wide with a round hole at its centre and bevelled edges. It looked like some integral part of a machine, but Gabe had no idea what. He hefted it in his free hand, feeling its weight. Maybe it came from some old gardening machinery, he considered, or maybe—
The small cry came from somewhere next door, barely audible over the noise of the rushing underground river at the bottom of the well. Quickly he stepped through the doorway into the main cellar and heard the faint voice again. Most parents are attuned to the sound of their own child's cry and Gabe was no exception. Cally was calling to him and there was something urgent in her voice.
'Daddy! Daddy! Mummy says come—' there was a short break while she remembered the last words—'right away!'
Gabe tossed the metal bar aside and hurried towards the narrow staircase that led from the cellar.
4: PERCY JUDD
She was waiting for him at the head of the stairs, a hand holding open the cellar door, her small tousled head poking through, obviously heeding his warning never to go down on her own. Gabe climbed the stairs rapidly, poor light overhead and his flashlight lighting the way, and Cally took a step backwards, frightened by the grimness of his expression.
'What's wrong, Cally?' he asked even before he reached the top step.
'Man,' she told him, pointing towards the kitchen.
Gabe strode past her, touching her head lightly as he went. 'It's okay, Skip,' he reassured her gently and she trotted after him, unable to keep up with his determined stride.
The old man stood on the threshold of the kitchen's outer door to the small piece of garden at the side of the house, rainwater dripping off his hooded stormcoat and muddy Wellington boots onto the rough-bristled welcome mat. Gabe came to a halt just inside the hall doorway, surprised and wondering what the fuss had been about, why he had been called so urgently.
Eve, whose back was to Gabe, quickly half-turned at his approach and said, 'Oh, Gabe, this is Mr… Mr Judd, isn't it?' She returned her attention to the stranger for affirmation.
'Judd, missus,' said the man, 'but call me Percy. First name's Percy.'
He spoke with a soft West Country burr that Gabe warmed to immediately.
''Fraid I couldn't stop it, mister, doggie ran right past me.' It came out as
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