Something, though, something … I couldn’t help feeling it was something terrible. I think I should try to find out, I thought. Before trying to treat her in any way.
I wondered. Could it have anything to do with that horrible mess in the bedroom?
EPILOGUE
THE LIVING ROOM WAS LIT ONLY BY THE LAMP ON THE table beside the easy chair. Ursula sat in the chair and held a book on her lap. She wore a white cotton blouse with a scoop neck and ruffled collar, a light-blue skirt, and a pair of high-heeled sandals. A charm bracelet dangled from her left wrist. Her hair, washed and brushed, lay in a smooth sheen over her neck and shoulders.
The rest of the room was subdued, the walls silhouetted with the distorted shadows of the furniture. He sat in the corner, in Pin’s corner, barely illuminated by the fringe of Ursula’s reading lamp. The weak light made his eyes seem deeper, hollow-like, glassy. The bony features of his face were skeletonized. His lips, firmly closed, were like a seam sewn tightly. His arms rested on the arms of the wheelchair and his hands dangled at the ends, hung in afterthought, lifeless, frozen.
In fact, all of him seemed cut in ice, preserved. His eyes were rigid; he did not blink. Only on close inspection could one discern the slight, almost imperceptible movement his breathing created in his chest. His hair had been brushed and sprayed until not a strand was out of place.
It was snowing in heavy, wet flakes, the kind that stuck to the window and turned quickly into raindrops that moved willy-nilly down the panes, creating spider webs on the glass. Because of the angle of the lamplight, the rest of the outside world was cloaked in a curtain of black. Indeed, it seemed as though the windows hung on a wall of night. Only a counter light was on in the kitchen and the hall light that illuminated the entranceway and stairway.
The house was quiet. The wind moved over the shingles to make an undulating hissing sound. Occasionally one of the shutters on the side of the house would bang, but it had no rhythm or regularity.
Ursula smiled and stroked the cover of her book lovingly. It was wrapped in a thin, aged leather, and the imprint on it was almost rubbed out. It said, “Ursula’s Book.” She opened it gently, as though it would crumble in her fingertips.
“I know,” she said, without looking toward the corner, “it’s time. You want me to begin. Mustn’t be impatient,” she added in mock chastisement. “We mustn’t rush, ever. Rushing only causes accidents. Yes.
“Shh,” she said. “I won’t begin until it’s perfectly quiet. You must pay complete attention.”
She paused. The angelic smile stayed with her. She looked up from the book and into her own memory for a moment. What she saw and what she heard pleased her.
“It’s my turn. I go,” she said and lifted the opened book from her lap until she held it close enough before her to begin.
“The Adventures of Pinocchio,” she began. “Once upon a time …”
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Another Original publication of POCKET BOOKS
POCKET BOOKS, a Simon & Schuster division of GULF & WESTERN CORPORATION
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright © 1981 by Andrew Neiderman
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020
ISBN: 978-1-4516-6651-9
eISBN-13: 978-1-4516-8174-1
First Pocket Books printing April, 1981
POCKET and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster.
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