Read Crying Child for Free Online

more details—a fireplace, opposite the door, and a peculiar structure on the right-hand curve of the wall. I had wondered why the stairs ended on this, the fourth floor, when the tower clearly boasted at least one additional story. The structure I saw was an iron spiral staircase, like the ones you sometimes see in the stacks of old libraries. So that was how you got to the top floor of the tower. Someone must have liked his privacy. But of all the stupid things to have in a child’s room! I had had experience with stairs of this type, and I knew they were extremely slippery. The solid iron knobs on the banisters were an additional hazard if someone should slip.

    But then, I reminded myself, old-fashioned houses were dangerous places for children. The fireplaces, despite screens and constant attendance, must have caused many injuries.
    The glow from the window was brighter now, a lovely luminous light; the moon must be almost full. I looked at the window. And saw something looking back at me from outside.
    I didn’t have to remember that the window was forty feet above the ground, on a flat wall; I didn’t have to tell myself that nothing human could have reached it. I retreated, with speed. It’s a wonder I didn’t break my neck. I went down the stairs like a rocket and I didn’t stop until I had passed through the door at the bottom and slammed it shut behind me.
    I stood there gasping and wheezing, with my back flat up against the door as if I had to press on it to hold it shut. There was nothing behind it—no pressure, no presence. The corridor where I stood was carpeted in soft blue, there were shaded lights and a small table with a mirror above it and a bouquet of wax flowers…. I recognized the corridor, the first-floor hall that led from the parlor to a small morning room at the back of the house. From another corridor to my left came the seductive odor of roasting chicken; and from the parlor came a voice, calling my name.
    I pushed myself away from the door.

    “Yes, it’s me,” I said. “Coming, Mary.”
    I was back in the real world, back through the Looking Glass.
    II
    Ran wasn’t home by seven, so we ate without him. By the time dinner was over I felt like a turkey being stuffed for Thanksgiving. I had the absurd feeling that Mrs. Willard might take the spoon out of my hand and feed me if I didn’t finish everything she put in front of me. When she finally agreed that we had eaten enough I wasn’t sure I could get out of my chair.
    After she and Mary went upstairs, I subsided into a chair in the parlor to recuperate. This was a lovely room, with a big bay window along one side and a beautiful paneled fireplace. Furniture design is not my field, but I knew that some of the pieces were valuable antiques. The heavy embroidered material of the draperies looked like eighteenth-century designs. Above all, it was a pleasant room. The soft rose and green and blue of the draperies were restful to the eyes, and so were the simple lines of the furniture. The dark wood surfaces gleamed; Mrs. Willard hadn’t been fooling when she said she could handle this place.
    After my busy day and abundant dinner Ishould have been sleepy, but for obvious reasons I found myself increasingly restless. The lamplight cast a mellow glow, the velvet chair was very comfortable, but the copy ofVogue I had picked up didn’t hold my attention, not even the ad layouts. Pictures and text seemed horribly slick and superficial and fake. I knew why I was ill at ease. I was trying hard not to think about the problem, not yet. Preconceptions are fatal to common sense, and fatally easy to fall into. I had enough prejudices to begin with; but at least I knew they were prejudices, unlike some smart-aleck doctors…
    I threw the magazine down with a snort of disgust. There were rows of books in the white-painted shelves flanking the fireplace. It was a good collection—classics, old and new, with a sprinkling of thrillers and science