The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror Read Free

angry red, and a thin line of blood trickled down over one knuckle. A palm ran gently over his sides to test for broken ribs. He blinked once and hard, and shook his head vigorously before realizing that the heat had returned and sweat was already breaking out under his arms. The yard had been scoured clear, and dead branches were piled in a huddle on the garage’s far side.
    Maggie was beneath her oak, grazing.
    The trees were still.
    “Jesus,” he whispered, and struggled awkwardly to his feet, dusted himself off, and stared at the sky. There were no storm clouds that he could see, no thunder he could hear; only the sun heading west and the humidity’s clinging haze.
    “Jesus, what the hell was that?”
    Maggie raised her head, shook her mane, snapped her tail at a fly.
    When he felt he could take a step without falling, he walked clumsily to the fence and leaned heavily against it, watching the calm buckskin shift from spot to spot in search of the perfect meal. There was no indication she was still disturbed, and when he called to her, she only lifted her head, shook it, and snapped at a green leaf spiraling out a tree.
    He grunted, more than willing to believe it had all been a hallucination brought about by the week-long heat wave; more than willing, and virtually praying, until he saw the divots Maggie had tossed aside in her inexplicable rage, and felt the dull pain in his thighs and side where the rocks and branches had struck him.
    The only plausible explanation was the arrival of a new frontal system; here in the eastern foothills of the Appalachians it wasn’t unusual for abrupt, powerful winds to sweep through minutes ahead of a changing weather pattern. And though they were often preceded by impressive cloud formations, neither was it odd for a front to barrel through out of a perfectly clear sky.
    He checked the mare again and decided that that answer was just as good as any. Just as good, and it would have to do.
    A brisk shake of his shoulders as he recalled the knifing cold, and he exhaled as loudly as he could in forced relief. The aching subsided. The stinging on his hands faded until he could ignore it. He strode to the back door, opened it, and stepped inside without turning.
    Just as good, but he didn’t like it.
    * * *
    The kitchen was the smallest room in the house, with just enough space for a table by the back window, and the appliances, counters, and cupboards, none of which were more than six years old. To the immediate right a doorway opened onto a cluttered study/office lined with bookshelves, and he glanced in without entering, wincing guiltily at the drafting table by the window.
    He supposed he ought to get to work. The ostensible purpose of the ride had been to sweep his head clear of conflicting ideas, to settle on the design so he could take care of it the instant he walked back through the door. The trip, however, had taken longer than he’d planned, and the incident with the wind made him a little jumpy. No sense trying anything now. He’d have to calm himself a bit more, no question about it; and no, he answered a small nagging at the back of his head, I’m not procrastinating.
    A quick grin; he was a liar.
    The water ran disturbingly cold when he turned on the faucet, and he waited a second before he rinsed out his mouth, spitting, grimacing at the blood that swirled down the drain. A tentative prod found a loose tooth on the right side; another rinse, and the bleeding stopped. Then he washed his hands without soap, and dried them on a succession of plain paper towels. After taking a can of beer from the refrigerator, he walked stiffly down an unlighted hallway to the large front room that swung away to his right, twenty feet square, a cathedral ceiling, and a gallery off of which opened four doors.
    The walls were paneled in white pine, the fireplace on the west wall was made of fitted stone; the floor was pegged and bare, except for a worn throw in front of each of two