Chet didn’t register anything from this—Fleetwood had told him of the tragedy of the year before when part of the place had burned.
“Sorry,” Boz said sheepishly, detecting the brief silence. “A little graveyard humor. None of us from town ever really liked the school. Or the house, for that matter. A girl whose sister I used to know, she died there last spring. It was pretty mysterious. I wouldn’t want to discourage anyone from going there, but it’s weird, like this road. Pothole!” he shouted again in warning, and the Mustang lurched.
The Mustang made its way up the mostly gravel road to the formal entryway between too large stone posts. The property was hidden by a tall stone wall; and as the car rounded the bend, going past an empty guard booth, Chet felt as if perhaps he had made the wrong decision in taking Fleetwood’s money. He caught a glimpse of what looked like a dismantled fountain, just a large hole at the center of the drive. To the right of this, a large white house: straight ahead, Harrow. Four cars were parked in a marked lot on the left-hand side of the drive, a Honda Civic, a BMW, a Jeep Grand Cherokee, and what looked like a fairly generic midsized rental car.
The doorway was open, and a man of medium height with thinning hair and a very pale face stood there in the front porch light, looking as if he were lost.
3
“Well, I guess this is it. Thanks,” Chet said. “I appreciate it.” “No prob. Like I said, the woman is crazy. She’s hot, though.’ “Hot like pretty?” “Hot like burning up,” Boz said. “But she’s a crazy bitch.”
4
Chet ambled up to the porch, feeling as if it was his first day at school. He swung the knapsack around and tried to grin so that the guy on the porch wouldn’t know how nervous he was. Crazy thoughts went through his head: what if this was some big joke?
What if this was one of those cults that pulled you in with promises and money and then kidnapped you? What if this was a house full of psycho lunatics?
A dog came bounding up from a muddy field just beyond the driveway—it was black and white and its fur was caked with twists of dirt and twigs and fallen leaves. It began barking playfully. It nearly jumped on him as Chet stepped up on the porch. Then the dog turned and ran off again, as if it had its own secret agenda.
The man with the thinning red hair kept a flat line of a smile as Chet approached him. He looked like he had once been happy in life but now had some tragic sense of life’s little secrets. He’s one of us, Chet thought, and it calmed him a bit. He’s got something like I do, and he knows how it keeps you separate from other people.
When Chet got closer he offered his hand for shaking. “Hi. I’m Chet.”
The man glanced at Chet s hand, and then back up to Chet’s face. He didn’t extend his own hand. “I’m Frost Crane, and that mangy animal was Conan. Why she can’t just leave her mutt at home ...” the man said, his voice like a mouse squeak crossed with a fart. “Frost Crane,” he repeated in a more normal tone. This time he said it as if Chet was supposed to know who he was. Was he someone famous? Chet didn’t watch as much TV as he probably should—he had never seen the guy before. Maybe he was a politician?
“You the owner?” Chet asked.
“No,” Frost said. “I’m a guest.”
“Me, too,” Chet said. “Anyone here yet besides us?”
Then the door opened, and a man just shy of Chet’s height, with jet-black hair and a thick mustache, held the door back. He was stocky and besweatered and had the kind of face that seemed warm and inviting—the way Chet had always imagined his father would be, if he had a father, and the way the preacher in St. Chris had seemed to him. “Hello,” the man said, somewhat out of breath. “I’ve just been running some interference here.” He nodded toward the other man. “Frost, good to see you. And Chet.” He glanced over at him.
Chet didn’t recognize him until he had stepped into the house and then realized it was Jack Fleetwood, the man who had asked him questions a year or so before. He thought of Fleetwood as much younger than this guy, who must’ve been forty or even older. “Dr. Fleetwood,” Chet said, shaking his hand. “Good to see you, sir.”
“Let’s dispense with the doctor,” Fleetwood said. His voice was amplified a bit by a slight echo in the entryway, which was icy cold to Chet. “I find these academic degrees make one think of a pediatrician or something. I trust you two had good trips.”
Frost Crane shot a withering glance at Chet. “We came separately. I drove up.”
“This is some place,” Chet said, ignoring Cranes tone of voice. The ceiling was done in some kind of swirling plaster, and the walls were covered with an overly flowered Victorian wallpaper. The foyer opened on an enormous hall, with statues of soldiers that reminded Chet of history lessons about the Spanish conquistadors. Two paintings hung on a far wall—one, a portrait of an old man, and the other, what looked like a scene of some beautiful valley with low mountains rising beyond it.
“Isn’t it grand?” Fleetwood said, ushering them in farther. “The wallpaper has been replaced to more closely resemble the house’s original paper. Much of what was here—when the school burned—had to be destroyed. But come on, set your bags down here. We’ll go to the rooms later—unless you’re tired?”
“I’m a bit beat,” Frost said, so quietly that it was hard to hear him. Then, a bit louder, ‘The cab that brought me here hit a doe. He was driving fast along the woods. It darted out, and he hit it.”
Chet blinked. “Shit,” he said.
“It made me a little nauseated,” Frost said. “There was a lot of blood.” He took a breath. “I’ve never been in a car that hit an animal like that. It was sickening.”
“That’s awful,” Chet said.
Fleetwood shook his head. “People need to drive more carefully. There are a lot of deer up here, I’d guess.”
“Bambi,” Chet said soberly, and then cracked a smile. “Sorry. Just made me think of Bambi, the movie. You know.”
Frost Cranes face turned sour. “I hate cartoons. I don’t even mind hunting. It’s a sport. But not with a car. Not like that. If you’re going to hunt, you use a weapon, and a car should not be one. But that’s just me.”
“Would a cup of coffee help? Supper’s going to be in less than an hour, and you’re welcome to retire to your rooms right after, if you’d like,” Fleetwood said, his voice on the edge of begging.
“I’m a bit beat,” Frost repeated, and glanced at his watch. “I took the train. The train always tires me. I couldn’t nap. And I couldn’t enjoy myself because someone was sick. Coughing the whole trip. And then, the deer. Well. It hasn’t been my kind of day.” He made a funny noise—as if he was smacking his lips. He glanced up the large, box-cluttered staircase. “My room up there?”
Fleetwood nodded. “But could you at least come in for ten minutes? To meet the others?’
Frost was silent; he glanced at Chet, as if for some support. He turned toward the staircase. “Which one?”
“There are seven on the first landing. They’re very rough. Pick the one you’d like,” Fleetwood said, and then shrugged.
“I’d like to meet everybody,” Chet said.
Frost Crane went up the staircase, stepping over some papers that were piled to the left-hand side. Chet set his knapsack down and followed Jack Fleetwood into the next room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
1
This was the house’s original anteroom, but the school turned it into an administrative office,” Fleetwood said, taking Chet through the first room. It consisted of a large desk and several more boxes.
“What’s all the stuff?”
“Equipment, gadgets. Nothing fancy, just for sound and pictures. We’ve got cameras in every room and along the halls. Video, all hooked up to some PCs in my bedroom. Just for monitoring.”
“Even the bathrooms?” Chet laughed.
“No, we’ve left those for privacy,” Fleetwood said. “But it’s all in your contract.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Chet s
aid. “You think you’ll get ghosts on film?”
2
Frost Crane was generally pissed.
He’d had the worst day of his life—or so it had felt—and the voices hadn’t come to him at all for days. It was like a dry spell, which was all the better for coming to Harrow.
He was sure that whatever was in the house would do something for it. He had arrived in a terrible mood at the front gate of Harrow, dropped there by the ruthless and deer-hating cabdriver who had no doubt overcharged him for the brief ride from the train station. He had managed to swallow the dreadful food on the train, but it only made him sick. He had spent half the train ride to Watch Point in the bathroom, either retching or dry heaving, and he had been feeling dizzy ever since. He wondered if he was dehydrated.
His first view of the house had not impressed him.
Yes, it was a large thing, this property, but it looked no different than some of the other prep schools he’d seen in the world, those that had taken over large manors and had destroyed whatever architectural beauty there had been. He was almost gleeful that the school had caught fire—served someone right for tampering with a grand old house. Frost was generally unimpressed with the outside of the house. It reminded him of a cross between an embassy building and a child’s version of a medieval castle. Besides which, the rot was everywhere: The stone wall that surrounded the property was crumbling in spots; the front gate could not close completely. (He’d tried to close it when he went in, but there was no way the two sides would meet, nor was there a lock in sight. Frost didn’t really like the idea of a house without locks, and he had heard that there were local kids who got up to trouble here; that’s what the cabdriver had told him.) The weather was another story: It had seemed about twenty degrees colder in Watch Point than anywhere else in the world, and he had to wonder just how far north he was as he walked the potholed drive up to the front door.
And then, that kid, what was he, seventeen? Was Frost being thrust in with a group of teenagers? This was going to be an absurd holiday.
But at least there was the money.
And maybe, Frost thought: Maybe I can get a book out of it. Then I can really make some money.
3
Frost Crane was a bit more impressed with the inside of the house. Fleetwood, of course, was there, with his overly congenial air masking his ambition, but Frost let that go. He was sleepy and tired and nausea had been overtaking him since he set foot inside the gate. He was sure he’d either throw up or his bowels would release and deliver something truly nasty into his John Henry briefs; he was happy when he made it up the stairs—”Messy place,” he whispered under his breath—and first found the bathroom at the end of a brief, alleylike hallway off the main corridor. It was warmer upstairs than down, and he took a few seconds to notice the exquisite floors—surely oak or cherry, and although they were quite scuffed and somewhat sunken, the craftsmanship was beautiful. The bathroom was basic and unimpressive, and obviously had once been made for students, for there were six urinals and three stalls, and he immediately went into one and coughed up what little food he’d had on the train. After washing his face he was annoyed at the lack of towels (there were none in sight, so he wiped at his wet face with his hands); he experienced some dizziness and leaned into the sink and drank water directly from the faucet; and then went to the bathroom window to see what kind of view could be had.
He rolled the window open to reveal what seemed like another rooftop just beneath, and a courtyard with white stone arches that seemed like the bones of some cathedral. Large square lights had been placed in what might’ve been a garden; it lit up several large sculptures of classical figures as if it were daylight. Everything beyond those lights was complete blackness, and it wasn’t quite six o’clock. The incoming chill made him close the window again.
Feeling less dizzy, he went back out into the hallway and picked up his suitcase and jacket. He found three rooms, each of which seemed suitable, though none of them particularly spectacular. They still had the look of offices, although some antique furniture stood in corners, out of place. He chose the room with the view of the back of the house and its arches and towers. It was a small room but had an enormous four-poster bed with dragons and gargoyles carved into the posts; the bed was neatly made, and a small portable telephone rested on the bedside table. There were two lamps—one tall standing one near the window, and a smaller one that sat on what might’ve been a child’s desk, near the bed. Frost glanced at the large mirror near the wardrobe and offered himself a smile, although inside he had already begun to sense that something was wrong.
The voices will be back, he told himself. They’ll return.
Surely they’ll return.
Then he went to the bed and lay down across it. He was asleep within seconds. He awoke briefly a few minutes after settling down, when he thought he heard a noise, but the room was dark, and he thought nothing of it. He closed his eyes and drifted off again.
It felt like just minutes later that the lights came up in his bedroom, and he opened his eyes to see a teenaged girl with purple
hair standing by his bedroom window. “Christ, it’s hot up here,” she said, turning to him. Her expression was neither happy nor sad, but a mixture of the two. “We’ve got drinks downstairs. Dinner’s in twenty minutes.”
“All right,” Frost said groggily, recognizing Fleetwood’s daughter, Mira. Her hair had been sandy brown last time he’d seen her, and she had not worn so much makeup, particularly such dark makeup.
“I would’ve thought you’d have been the first at the bar,” Mira said, and then walked out of the room. The light by the bed seemed harsh to him, and Frost reached up to switch it off, but then decided he might as well get up.
Frost glanced at his watch: It was almost seven fifteen. He’d been asleep for just over an hour. He felt anything but rested.
The bed creaked as he pushed himself up. He laughed at himself—he’d awakened with an erection, something that, as he was getting older, seemed more of a reminder of who he once was than of whom he’d become in the past few years. The voices had taken away his sex drive completely—this was another problem. He had tried a few times to get it back, that feeling of strength and manhood and power and pleasure, but in fact, it had always just remained flaccid. No amount of pornography, no glimpse of a woman’s thighs, no touch of a woman’s hair or skin had done anything to bring it back. He had nearly gotten an erection when he’d stayed at the Foundation in the city, but just as he was pressing his mind to conjure up images of naked redheads with titosauruses on their chests and snatches the size of small forests, just as his fingers began manipulating the tender skin, he’d been interrupted, and his little Frost had never woken up again.
In fact, the bitch had called him “Jack Frost” after that, like it was some kind of joke. She had said it to her friends—he’d overheard her. He knew she was a bitch, even if she pretended not to be.
Mira is nothing but a goddamn purple-headed bitch.
And now, here, in Harrow.
A hard-on. A nice big one, too.
Not bad for a forty-five year old. Not friggin’ bad. Not bad for a guy who grew up with a warm father who caught him doing something pretty bad in the barn one day and took a pitchfork off the rack and pointed it right at the boy’s peepee just to keep him from doing it anymore. Hey, hey, not bad, I say.
An extra ten minutes before he appeared in the parlor wouldn’t be too awful. He reached down and felt the gabardine of his slacks, and the nice little lump that was there. He flicked the zipper up and brought it all the way down. A little pride in ownership, sez I. Imagine all the women of the world blended into one suctioning woman with all of her soft parts being directed toward this magnificent lump of man flesh.
Something both freezing and burning seemed to have taken over his loins. He could stroke right here, in this room, and they’d never know. He could play with himself, his hard-on, his MANHOOD HOT DAMN IT, and it was Harrow givin
g this to him, he was sure.
He would be powerful here.
Then he thought he heard that odd click again, just as he had when he’d drifted off to sleep.
He got up out of the bed, his fly down, the heat within him feeling like he would explode. He walked to the window and made sure the curtains were pulled tight. Then another click. He went over toward the door, and there, at one corner of the room:
A damn video camera.
It was a compact little camera, a red light above the lens, and it turned on a metal pivot. Drilled into the wall. A mechanical eye.
They’re watching me.
They’re not going to let me alone here at all. They’re going to just film us and see everything we do and there’ll be no privacy.
That bitch is probably laughing at me like she did before. She’s probably somewhere watching this right now.
They’re all bitches. They’re nothing but a bunch of spying bitches, and this is not about Harrow at all, it’s about finding out how to get the voices so they can do this, too. But they’re not counting on Snapping Jaws and how it’ll come and get them, how it will not let them treat me like this for long.
And then his erection died, as if it had slammed into a wall of ice: a fast and painful death.
His desire no longer interested him, and he felt a little sad as he went to put his shoes on and go downstairs to meet the others.
CHAPTER EIGHT
1
“I see you’ve all found the liquor cabinet,” Mira Fleetwood said, stepping into the parlor, feeling as if she wished she’d never promised her father to come and help out. This was a place full of those same freaky people as at the Foundation, and at least she didn’t have to deal with them after six o’clock back in the city.
Harrow: Three Novels (Nightmare House, Mischief, The Infinite) Page 45
