Searchers After Horror by S.T. Joshi

Author:S.T. Joshi
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781878252548
Publisher: Fedogan and Bremer Publishing LLC
Published: 2015-03-01T16:00:00+00:00

Miranda's Tree

Hannes Bok

The old house on the hilltop, where the paved road ended on oiled dirt, had been remodelled so long ago that it had become old again—like a rejuvenated lady in need of another bit of plastic surgery. Above the newer, smaller homes, it loomed like a medieval castle over a small village, and was set apart from them by vacant lots, in one of which spread a gigantic oak.

The mistress of this house, Edna Thorpe, rocked restlessly on the battered porch swing, pulling on the pillows behind her, shifting uncomfortably about, her nose wrinkling disgustedly at her inability to achieve complete ease. She was a short, dumpy woman, dressed at present in a limp slack-suit which had been stretched beyond mere bagginess at the elbow, knees, and seat. Except for the assistance of eyebrow pencil, mascara, and lipstick, her features were as indefinite as though her face had been modelled of dough and then baked. Her frizzy sand-colored hair had been unimaginatively parted in the middle and then dragged back over her ears.

She squirmed toward the screen-door and shouted into the house, “Elaine!” There was no prompt reply, and she called again, this time with a note of menace, “Elaine!”

“What, mama?” The little girl’s voice was a reluctant wail.

“Come out here when I call you; don’t just stay in there and ask what!” her mother cried sharply. There was a silence, then several loud and hollow thumps as though someone within the dwelling were kicking the furniture about. Seven-year-old Elaine tiptoed out on the front porch, her round face too innocent to be credible. Hugged to the front of her soiled dress was a book. The screen-door slapped smartly shut behind her.

“All right,” the cold-eyed mother said. “Go into the house and come out again, and see that you don’t slam the door this time!”

The child eyed her parent as if to gauge the extent to which disobedience might proceed unpunished, then turned, went into the house, emerged, and carefully closed the door.

“That’s better,” Edna conceded, relaxing. “The postman’s coming up the hill. I want you to get our mail, if he has anything for us.” She looked away as though expecting contempt in the child’s eyes, writhed uneasily, and wrenched the corner of a pillow. “I’m too tired to get up,” she added in explanation.

Elaine peered down the street. “He’s stopping in at the Johnsons’,” she said.“Mamie Johnson gets letters sometimes from her brother in the army. She does, because I saw one once!” She glanced at her mother as though awaiting a denial.

“What’s that book you’ve got?” Edna Thorpe peered narrowly.

Elaine apprehensively scanned her book’s red cover, and clutched it more closely. “It—it’s just a book,” she evaded weakly.

“I mean, what’s the name of it?” Edna’s eyes were hardening with suspicion.

Elaine’s gaze was hunted. She affected to look at the title. “Why, it’s just a book I got from the school library,” she said at length.

Her mother put out a peremptory hand. “Bring it here.”

Elaine hesitated;

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