The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror Read Free Page A

armchairs and a long, three-cushioned sofa that faced the raised slate hearth. A walnut stereo cabinet stood in the far corner, its four speakers wall-mounted below the gallery’s level. Old newspapers and magazines lay in a tilting pile beside the fireplace, and here too a number of shelves nearly filled with books.
    Shades of brown, shadows of gold, a spot here and there of deep red and dark green. Even the draperies over the wide front window were splotched with the hues of the woodland outside.
    It seemed spare, not for frequent company, and apparent even to him that he was the only one in the house.
    A long drink, a longer sigh, and he walked over to the stereo. It was time, he thought, for a little culture, an uplifting of the spirit.
    A jumble of cassettes lay beside a dusty tape deck, and he plucked one up without looking at the label, fitted it, and stepped back to the center of the room. The speakers hissed. He set the beer can on the floor and raised his hands just in time to begin conducting the opening theme of Lux Radio Theater, then glowered theatrically as the medley deepened into the pounding of The FBI in Peace and War, grinned at Fibber McGee and Molly. By the time he had guided the Lone Ranger through the William Tell Overture, he was laughing.
    “Ah, Douglas,” he said as he turned off the tape and retrieved his beer, “you were born too late. You could’ve been a star, the greatest maestro of the airwaves.”
    If he didn’t feel entirely at ease then, he felt considerably better than when he’d walked in. The cassettes were hastily shoved into a stack that tipped over the moment he turned away, and he stood there a second before deciding that his passion for old radio shows was not to be sated this afternoon. This wasn’t the time to listen to a gravel-throated Rochester try to mollify Jack Benny.
    He pulled the drawstring to open the draperies, turned a leather chair around, and sat down to watch the world.
    There was no sign of the windstorm.
    He wondered if he ought to call Judy or Liz and tell them about it, changed his mind because no doubt it had done the same to the town. Besides, Judy would be opening the tavern about now, and Liz would be at her county seat office, juggling court cases and muttering about the way some judges still looked at women lawyers. She didn’t need to waste a minute while he told her he was frightened.
    “You’re a coward,” he told himself then, knowing full well she’d be glad to hear his voice. “And you’re not frightened, you’re just plain dumb.”
    Or unsettled. Anyone would be, even Captain Marvel.
    Ten minutes later, the beer forgotten and warming in his hand, he started when he thought he saw someone staring in at him through the window.
    i didn’t murder him
    he’s still dead
    i did not murder him
    but he’s still dead, you killed him
    He almost bolted, then sagged back again when the face receded into the sunlight that had him squinting.
    he’s dead
    His reflection, nothing more—a man’s round face tanned and pleasantly lined, thick auburn hair beginning to show traces of grey at the temples; a small mouth, small nose, eyes in contrast just a shadow too large.
    He touched a steady finger to his chin; the reflection did the same. Simon says do this, he thought, and put the beer can on the floor.
    you killed him
    “Shit,” he muttered, and without warning he was once again a wide-eyed twenty-four, living in Seattle. He had just completed a major project, not his first by any means, and had come racing home from the office, the wunderkind architect, hired right out of college. He’d rushed to the eighth-floor apartment he shared with his fiancée Ellen, two hours before he was due.
    He called out cheerfully when he entered, stopped and dropped his briefcase when he heard muffled noises in the bedroom. Another call, no response, and he hurried, heart abruptly leaden. She was there, but she was not waiting; she was in their king-sized bed