Dark Corner Read Free Page A

water.
    "I'll get some water for you" David went through the
doorway at the end of the hall, into the kitchen. He found a
large bowl in a cabinet, filled it with tap water, and set it on
the tile floor. King drank greedily.
    The kitchen was basic: it had a gas range, Formica countertops, a pine dinette table. A Polaroid photo was pinned
against the refrigerator with a magnet: his father, clad in fishing gear and standing on the deck of a boat, showing off his
catch of the day, a large, gleaming bass.
    Dad died on a fishing trip like that ...
    David's breath caught in his throat. He left the kitchen to
explore the rest of the house.
    On the second level, there were five rooms: a master bedroom, a guest room, another bedroom, another bathroom,
and an office. One look inside the office confirmed that this
was where Richard Hunter had spent most of his time, because the other rooms lacked any distinctive mark of his personality.
    Two large windows, veiled with half-open venetian blinds,
admitted afternoon sunshine. Oak bookcases lined the walls;
the shelves were packed with tomes-his father's works, and many others. A large oak desk stood along the far wall, a
black leather chair in front.

    From his research, David learned that his father had written at least three of his novels while sitting at this desk. An
IBM Selectric typewriter sat in the middle of the desk, like a
museum relic. His father had composed his work only on
typewriters, never on computers. A jar full of sharp pencils
stood to the left of the typewriter, and a rubber coaster lay on
the right, marred with a coffee stain. His father would drink
coffee continuously as he hammered out his prose.
    At David's town house in Atlanta, he had arranged his
desk similarly: writing implements on the left, a coaster on
the right, and a computer, instead of a typewriter, in the center.
    He settled into the chair. He was the same height as his
father, six-foot-one, and he found the angle of the chair and
desk comfortable. Perhaps he would set up his own computer in this room, right here.
    "This is where the great man worked," David said. His
voice seemed loud, and he laughed, uneasily. The office was
so quiet and still that he might have been sealed inside an
airtight cell.
    He noticed that a framed photograph lay on the corner of
the desk, facedown. He picked it up. It was an old picture of
David, at maybe three years of age, his mother, and his father. All of them had afros, and wide grins.
    He was shocked to find that his father had kept this family photo close at hand. This gave him something new to
think about. Had his father missed the family life he had
once had?
    He looked around. No additional clues jumped out at
him yet.
    David yawned. He'd driven over nine hours and needed to
take a nap. Thinking about this stuff was tiring him out.
    Before leaving, he opened the blinds of the window nearest the desk, to see what kind of view the office provided. He saw a vista of rolling green hills, deep forests, and, perched
on a hilltop in the distance, a sprawling antebellum mansion,
a remnant of the old South.

    Coldness tapped the base of his spine.
    He didn't understand why looking at the house made him
feel cold. He could not remember ever seeing the mansion,
though surely it had been there when he'd visited the town as
a teenager.
    Someone should tear down that place, he thought, suddenly
and irrationally. It should be demolished-
    The door burst open, and David almost screamed.
    It was only King. The dog dashed inside and leapt onto
David, tail wagging.
    "Okay, okay, I know, your bladder is full now and you
need to pee" David stroked the dog's neck. "Come on, let's
go outside."
    David looked out the window one last time. The chill returned, skipping along his spine like an icy finger.
    Hurriedly, he left and shut the door.
    Outside, while King cavorted across the yard, David
began to unload the trailer. Although he was exhausted, he