James Herbert Collection: The Rats, the Survivor, the Spear, Haunted, the Jonah, Moon, the Magic Cottage, the Fog, Creed, the Dark, Others, Nobody True, Shrine by Herbert James

Author:Herbert, James [Herbert, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781780482460
Amazon: 1780482469
Goodreads: 11448713
Published: 2011-07-19T02:59:32+00:00

ACCUSED

FIRST HER VOICE, and then her, Midge, standing in the upstairs hallway, the door behind open wide, the greens outside muted by drizzling rain.

She was watching me as though I were an intruder, a sneak-thief inside her beloved cottage; and in truth, that was how I felt.

The illustrated scene that had been more in my mind than on that artboard was wrenched from me as if into a vortex, the root of which was the painting itself. Visions of reaching bones left me, in part dissolving but mostly swallowed, sucked away. I staggered back, suddenly released from the spiraling images like a jettisoned first stage from a rocket, and my shoulder hit the windowframe behind. The brief pain jolted my senses even more and my eyes rapidly focused.

Midge's painting was there before me, a bright, daylight landscape, correct in essence to the original, yet idealized in its presentation. A pretty cottage in a pretty setting. But I had glimpsed something dark.

"Mike? Mike, what's wrong?"

I turned to her, and I still leaned weakly against the windowframe. I was too confused to speak.

Midge strode into the room and her hair and face were wet with rain, the anorak she wore shiny with moisture. She came to me and I all but collapsed into her arms.

"You look dreadful," she said. "You're so pale. And your eyes . . . oh God, your eyes!"

"Let me . . . let me sit down."

I hardly understood my own words they were so garbled, but she could see for herself that I was barely able to stand. She helped me to the sofa and lowered me onto it. Gratefully, I sank back against the cushions.

I stared over at the drawing board, the picture taped to its surface no longer visible from that angle, while Midge stroked my cheek with a damp and cold hand. She left me. but quickly returned with a small tumbler of liquid.

"Brandy," she said, holding the glass toward my lips.

I took it from her, barely able to lift the glass. The brandy tasted awful, but the warming shock was good.

"Oh, Midge, you've no idea . . ."

"Your eyes are so bloodshot, Mike. How much did you drink last night?"

"The picture . . ."

"You may not have liked it, but isn't this an overreaction?"

"No, Midge, no joking . . ." I drank more brandy.

She steadied my hand as the glass trembled against my mouth. "Tell me what's wrong," she said, her voice hushed.

"Jesus, it's this place, Midge. There's something going on here that we don't understand."

"Oh now, Mike, how can you say that?" she chided. "It's perfect here, and you know it."

"The picture moved. I looked at it, and the picture bloody moved!"

Reasonably enough, she looked at me as though I were crazy.

"It's true, Midge! It came . . . it came alive! I saw things happening there, I could smell the flowers, I could feel the breeze. And there was someone inside the cottage, and I'm sure I know who it was—"

I expected bewilderment, incomprehension.

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