The First Betrayal by A. M. Clarke

Author:A. M. Clarke [Clarke, A. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Death, Fiction, Horror, Mystery, Thriller, Suspense
Amazon: B01BVJ1TXA
Publisher: A M CLARKE
Published: 2016-02-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty Five

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The trees were closing in, trying to pull her into their grasp. The naked limbs pale and ghostly, made an eerie noise, like dried brittle bones chaffing each other. She ran on, blind with panic and tears. Her screams were indistinguishable from the owls own screams, as they derided her from the safety of the malevolent trees. Unexpectedly, the way ahead was clear and the trees had receded behind her. A house appeared, as if from nowhere. The lights were on, welcoming her from within. She knocked on the door, frantically looking behind her, expecting someone or something to be there. The door opened, but no one stood behind it. Convincing herself that the door had already been ajar, and with little choice, she entered.

‘Hello is anyone home. I’m sorry to intrude but I need help. I think someone is following me. Hello.’ No one answered, so she continued down the hall. Faint music drifted from a room near the bottom of the long hall. Passing dark and closed doors, she reached the music and knocked again. Still no answer, so with a little trepidation, she turned the knob, and peeked around the door. A log fire burned in the grate, a pile of logs stacked beside it. A delicious smell of burning wood hung in the room. The music was coming from a beautiful gramophone, a vinyl record spinning under the needle. Over stuffed chintz chairs, crowded the floor and an impressive mahogany sideboard dominated the wall under the window. The top of the cabinet was covered in photographs in ornate frames. They held a life story of a young girl, who grew into a stunningly beautiful woman. Some included a handsome man, whose hair turned grey through the years, while the beautiful woman’s stayed the same vibrant red. The years hadn’t diminished her beauty, but had only added to it, and judging by the absence of the handsome man, she guessed he had passed on. Over the fireplace mantle, hung a portrait, the woman was so much more beautiful than in the photographs. Her beauty, not exaggerated by watercolours, but more amplified by its sensual strokes. It gave the impression of an angel afloat above ground.

She stood transfixed by her, the red tresses, teased and pulled up in a loose, casual way. Tied in back with one could imagine, an antique bejewelled clasp. A clasp that would undoubtedly match the extravagant amber necklace and drop earrings that adorned her. The face was bewitching, seemingly looking at the artist, but actually looking beyond, thinking or dreaming of someone or somewhere else. The dress was golden brown, brown, seems like such a dour colour, but this was gilded almost, the threads glimmering on the canvas. Like the season, it was autumnal in its simplistic, yet lavish setting. The threads alive in the intricacy of the fabric.

A noise startled her, and dragging her gaze away looked toward the door. Hinges creaked as it opened, and in floated the lady from the pictures.

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