House of Bones by Graham Masterton Read Free Book Online Page A

forward he realized that the man was neither alive nor dead. It was a statue, an incredibly lifelike statue, with a face carved out of polished ivory.
    John reached out and touched the statue’s chest and under the sheets it was hard and unyielding. He knocked it and it sounded like wood. He was relieved, but all the same the statue was so realistic that he still found it unnerving.
    Lucy came in. “I’ve looked in all of the other bedrooms,” she said. “I haven’t found anything except a lot of old furniture.”
    â€œLook at this,” said John.
    Lucy stared at the statue, startled. “He’s not—?”
    â€œNo, it’s made out of wood, that’s all. But it scared me to death when I first took the sheet off.”
    â€œIsn’t it
strange
?” said Lucy, touching its forehead with her fingertips. “I mean, who would want to make a statue like this, and then leave it lying in a bed?”
    â€œI don’t know. This whole place is strange. I keep thinking I’m seeing things.”
    Lucy covered up the statue’s face and John replaced the blanket as he had found it. “Let’s take a look at the other rooms. Then we’d better think about getting back to the office.”
    They went into the master bedroom, which had its own bathroom and a balcony overlooking the back garden. There were no beds in here, but only the impressions in the brown carpet where beds had once been, and a few oddly-shaped stains, like a map of Greece. The back garden was as overgrown and derelict as the front. A stone angel stood on top of a leaf-cluttered fountain, with part of her left wing missing. A half-collapsed shed was tangled with dried-up wisteria.
    â€œIt’s funny, isn’t it?” said Lucy. “This house is so abandoned and yet I still get the feeling that somebody lives here. I mean, I feel like I’m
trespassing
.”
    They checked two smaller bedrooms, both of which were damp and sad. In one of them, the pale green paper was peeling off the wall and there was afurry grey growth up by the ceiling. In the other, a picture of Jesus hung over the bed, all the colour faded out of it by damp and sunlight.
    Under the window stood a small bookcase. There were six or seven little china figurines on it, ballet dancers. Every one of them had its head broken off. On the shelf below there were several copies of the
Reader’s Digest
and the carcass of a Bible with half of its pages torn out.
    The bed was covered with an old pink quilt, in which John was sure that he could still see the impression of somebody’s body. It was as if they might have been lying here only a few moments ago. He laid his hand on the indentation but it wasn’t warm. All the same, he had the strongest feeling that they weren’t alone in the house.
    â€œLet’s go,” said Lucy. “There isn’t anybody here. Not unless you count our wooden friend in the bedroom.”
    â€œWe haven’t tried the attic yet. Nor the cellar.”
    â€œI don’t think I want to, either. Come on, John, or else I’m going to be late.”
    They walked along the upstairs corridor back towards the landing. As they did so, however, John thought that he heard a strange dragging noise coming along the corridor behind them, and he suddenly stopped and turned around.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” asked Lucy.
    â€œI don’t know … I thought I heard something.”
    Lucy frowned back along the corridor. “There’s nobody there. It must have been your heart beating.”
    They continued towards the stairs, but as soon as they did so, John heard the noise again, closer this time, as if something was softly hurrying up behind them, intent on catching them before they could turn around. He stopped again, and Lucy stopped, too.
    â€œI heard it,” she said, in a voice as white as paper.
    John hesitated for a moment, listening. The corridor