The Curse of the Wendigo by Rick Yancey

Author:Rick Yancey [Yancey, Rick]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯), Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Other, Supernatural, Monsters, Horror tales, Apprentices, Horror, Horror & Ghost Stories, Orphans, Legends; Myths; Fables, Action & Adventure, Horror stories, Young adult fiction, Philosophy
ISBN: 9781416984504
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing
Published: 2010-10-12T07:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN

“What Have I to Live For?”

I supped on warmed-over lentil soup and cold roasted lamb that night, sitting in the von Helrung kitchen with the butler, Bartholomew Gray, who was as kind as he was dignified, and who thoughtfully distracted me from my distress with a hundred questions about my home in New England, and with stories about his family’s progress from slavery in the Deep South to the great “shining city on a hill,” New York. His son, he proudly informed me, was abroad, studying to be a doctor. During my dessert of custard and fresh strawberries, Lilly appeared to rather officiously announce I would be sleeping in the room next to hers and she hoped I didn’t snore because the walls were quite thin and she was a very light sleeper. She still seemed miffed that she had been banished, whereas I had enjoyed an audience with the stricken John Chanler. I thought of her uncle’s gift and the glow in her eye at its macabre contents. I suspected she would gladly have traded places with me.

At a little past one the following morning, my fate caught up with me—the doom that demanded I be disturbed at precisely the moment I was drifting off to sleep. The door to my room opened, revealing the fitful dance of a candle’s flame, followed by Lilly in her dressing gown. Her voluptuous curls had been freed from their ribbons and cascaded down her back.

I pulled the covers up to my chin. I was self-conscious of my appearance, for I was wearing one of von Helrung’s nightshirts and, though he was a small man, he was much larger than me.

We regarded each other for a moment by the flickering candlelight, and then she said without preamble, “He’s going to die.”

“Maybe he won’t,” I answered.

“Oh, no. He’s going to die. You can smell it.”

“Smell what?”

“That’s why Mr. Skala is keeping watch. Uncle says we have to be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“You have to be quick, very quick, and you can’t just use anything. It has to be silver. So that’s why he carries the knife. It’s silver plated.”

“What’s silver plated?”

“The knife! The pearl-handled Mikov switchblade knife. So when it happens—” She made a slicing motion over her heart.

“The doctor won’t let that happen.”

“That is very odd, Will—the way you talk about him. ‘The doctor.’ All whispery and fearful—like you’re talking about God.”

“I just meant if there’s any way he can help it, he won’t just let him die.” I confided to her the most striking thing about that most striking scene in the sickroom—the tears in the monstrumologist’s eyes.

“I’ve never seen him cry—ever. He’s come close before”—I am a mote of dust—“but it was always for himself. I think he loves Dr. Chanler very much.”

“Do you? I don’t. I don’t think he loves him at all.”

“Well, I don’t think you know him at all.” I was becoming angry.

“And I don’t think you know anything at all,” she shot back. Her eyes sparkled with delight. “Fell into the Danube by accident! He jumped off and nearly drowned.

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