Wizards: Magical Tales From the Masters of Modern Fantasy by Jack Dann & Gardner Dozois

Author:Jack Dann & Gardner Dozois [Dann, Jack & Dozois, Gardner]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: cookie429
ISBN: 9780441015887
Publisher: Ace Trade
Published: 2008-05-06T00:00:00+00:00

THE next day, the earthquake struck.

The chandeliers swayed. The organ sighed and moaned. The crystal chittered in the cabinets. One nail worked its way free and rolled across the thrumming floorboards. A rumble welled up, not from below the house, but from above and around the house, as if the sound were pressing in from all sides. The ghosts were in a mad whirl, coursing through the house like a current of smoke overhead, blended and featureless but for the occasional startled face. I lurched along the walls, trying to keep my balance as I sought the exit nearest me, the front door. Once I fell and yelped as my palms touched the hot parquet.

Plaster sifted into my eyes as I stumbled through the entrance hall. I knew my mistake when I saw that massive front door, surely locked, the key long since thrown away or hidden in a far scullery drawer of this lunatic house. If the entire edifice were to shake down and crush me, this slab of swirling dark oak would be the last thing standing, a memorial to Pearl.

The grandfather clock toppled and fell just behind me, with the crash of a hundred heavy bells. I flung myself at the door and wrenched the knob. It turned easily, as if oiled every day, and I pulled the door open with no trouble at all. Suddenly all was silent and still. A robin sang in the crepe myrtle as the door opened on a lovely spring day. A tall black man in a charcoal tailcoat stood on the porch, top hat in hand, and smiled down at me.

“Good morning,” he said. “I was beginning to fear that no one was at home. I hope my knock didn’t bring you too dreadfully far. I know this house is harder to cross than the Oklahoma Territory.”

“Your knock?” I was too flabbergasted to be polite. “All that was your knock?”

He laughed as he stepped inside, so softly that it was just an openmouthed smile and a hint of a cough. “That? Oh, my, no. That was just my reputation preceding me. Tell me, pray, might the mistress of the house be at home?”

“Where else would I be, Wheatstraw?” asked the widow, suddenly at my elbow and every hair in place.

“Hello, Winchester,” the visitor said.

They looked at each other without moving or speaking. I heard behind me a heaving sound and a muffled clang. I turned just as the grandfather clock resettled itself in the corner.

Then the widow and the visitor laughed and embraced. She kicked up one foot behind. Her head did not reach his chin.

“Pearl,” the widow said, “this is Mr. Petey Wheatstraw.”

“Pet-ER,” he corrected, with a little bow.

“Mr. Wheatstraw,” the widow continued, “is a rogue. My goodness,” she added, as if something had just occurred to her. “How did you get in?”

We all looked at the front door. It was closed again, its bolts thrown, its hinges caked with rust. No force short of dynamite could have opened it.

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