*
*
*
She awoke with a jolt, disturbed by something she
couldn’t identify. What time it was she didn’t know but the
fire had burned down to a bed of glowing embers. Then
she jumped as light flared beyond the drapes of her
window, briefly outlining on the brocade a score of
groping tree shadows.
‘Only lightning, for God’s sake,’ she murmured,
angry at her jumpiness. Distant thunder boomed around
the mountains and hills, accompanied by a sudden dismal
wind. How gothic, she thought. No doubt the ghost of
McTavish or whatever its name happened to be would
soon begin its tour of the place.
Sighing, she settled back into her pillows, staring at
the embers and seeing in them a multitude of shapes that
undulated and insinuated into each other like worms. For
some reason the patterns reminded her of that grotesque
mask downstairs in the dining room and she shuddered, as
she had at the window.
‘This dump gives me the bloody creeps,’ she told
herself. Then, realising what she had said, she frowned and
added, ‘By creeps I don’t mean fear, I mean a pain in the
arse. It doesn’t scare me, just pisses me off. Yeah, that’s
what I’m saying.’
She closed her eyes, waited for the numbness of
sleep to touch her limbs again. Strange thoughts
meandered through her mind, thoughts without substance:
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