by Byars, Betsy
She patted her hair into place and said, “Oh, here’s where we were.” She began to read.
Slowly she took another step and another. Higher ... higher. With each step, her fear grew until it seemed to swirl around her like a cape that held no warmth.
In the distance came the sound of thunder. She glanced out the window. She could see nothing through the dense, chilling fog that circled the tower.
A storm was coming. She must hurry.
Still she hesitated before taking the next step. Only eight steps remained. She could see the heavy wooden door at the top now, a trapdoor.
Only seven steps.
Now she could hear it. The sound of breathing seemed to move from side to side behind the trapdoor. It was as if whoever, whatever was there, was trying to find a way out.
“I’m coming,” she whispered.
The door to the bedroom opened behind Herculeah, and, startled, she spun around.
“Your hour’s up, Herculeah,” the nurse said.
“Already? I just started. I’ve hardly read two pages. I got started talking about myself—I do that all the time. Plus I was getting to the good part. The girl in the book was hearing breathing. I’ve got to find out what’s doing that breathing.”
“Sorry. It’ll keep. Tomorrow the print will still be right there waiting for you.”
“I know.” Herculeah sighed. “Actually I read a lot of books, and I’ve learned that authors save important things—things like what’s waiting up in the tower, doing that heavy breathing—until the very end. If I know authors, this one will start a flashback just when she gets to the trapdoor. Then, on the last page—finally, finally—we’ll find out what was in the tower.”
“You must do a lot of reading.”
“Yes.”
“But we don’t want to tire Mr. Hunt.”
“No. Did I tire you, Mr. Hunt?”
Two blinks. No.
“But did I scare you?”
No.
She laughed. “Well, I scared myself.”
Herculeah folded a ribbon into the book to hold her place. She closed the book and set it on the table.
“I’ll be back tomorrow to pick up. Remember where we left off? It’s getting ready to storm. The girl heard thunder. It’ll be a dark and stormy night when anything can happen.” She gave her words a dramatic reading.
He blinked a forceful yes.
“Dramatic things always happen during storms—though it’s dramatic enough with something waiting for her at the top of the tower.”
Another forceful yes.
“Do you know what’s up there?”
Yes.
“Because you’ve read the book before?”
“Time,” the nurse reminded her.
“I have to go.” Herculeah smiled at the old man, his face pale against the pillows, his bright bird eyes trying to tell her something, something important.
The nurse said, “Your friend is waiting for you outside.”
“Meat?”
“I think that’s his name. I tried to get him to come inside, but he wouldn’t.”
“That’s Meat.”
Herculeah almost explained that Meat was afraid of this house, that he half believed the ghost stories that surrounded it, believed the stories that the portraits had holes in the eyes so that someone in a secret passage behind the wall could watch your every move.
“Meat ... Herculeah ...” the nurse said. “What wonderful names!”
“Meat got his because there’s a lot of him. I got mine because my mom was watching a Hercules movie when she was waiting for me to be born. Mom was kidding around about naming me Hercules if I was a boy. The nurse said, ‘What about if it’s a girl?’ Mom said, ‘She’ll be Herculeah.’ I guess I was lucky. The doctor got in the act and said, ‘How about Samson?’ He even sang it, ‘Oh, Samson-ya!’” She laughed. “Anyway, everyone who knows me says it suits.”
“I only met you this afternoon,” the nurse said, “but I think it suits you, too.”
As they moved into the hall, Herculeah said, “You know, I can’t stop wondering why he chose this book.” She smiled. “Although I’m always looking for the reasons people do things.”
“I wondered about that, too.”
“Really?”
“Because I’ve had other patients like Mr. Hunt, patients who have been deprived of everything but their minds. And it seems that another sense has been heightened. They seem to know what’s ahead, the way an animal can sense a storm.”
“Premonitions.”
“Yes. If Mr. Hunt had some way of knowing there would be trouble in that tower, he would have picked this book. Well, I’ve got to get back to my patient.”
“Right. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
“Oh, I won’t be here,” the nurse said, smiling. “New grandchild. A Miss Wegman is taking over for me. Do you need me to show you the way out?”
“No, I remember the way.”
“Because this house has a lot of halls that don’t go anywhere and oddly shaped rooms. It’s easy to get lost in here.”
“I won’t.”
She started down the stairs. She was lost in thought until she glanced at the painting on the wall. It was a family portrait: old man Hunt—Lionus Hunt, who had built the house—his wife, and the four children. Mr. Shivers Hunt was the oldest of the children. Then there was a younger sister and twin girls.
Herculeah paused, half hoping to see someone peering at her through holes in the old man’s eyes.
Oh, well, she told herself, it was too much to hope for.
She was turning to go when something about the twins caught her eye. The twins were dressed alike—in middy blouses—but there was something about the blouse of the smaller twin.
She bent closer. She rubbed her fingers over the painting. The figure of the smaller twin had been damaged in some way. It had been repaired, but not by the same artist who had done the original picture. Strange.
Strange, too, about Mr. Hunt’s choosing the book. There was so much she didn’t know, so much she would have to find out.
With a shiver of anticipation, she continued down the stairs.