The Lantern by Deborah Lawrenson Read Free Book Online

I’d been putting off. We had drained the old green swimming pool. Wet leaves had sunk like damp brown stars into the empty basin. I climbed down into the dirt. Fat scorpions lurked malevolently as I began to clear the stew of windblown twigs and sodden tangles of ivy, rotted petals, and grit. Underneath this soggy mess, as I suspected, there were ominous cracks in the concrete, which would explain why the water had seeped out over the course of the summer.
    My head improved, but pain was replaced by uneasiness.
    In the kitchen, I made myself a strong tea in the English way, letting it steep.
    The sun had emerged, quick and sharp. It seared into the wall, on one small patch, lifting layer after layer of surface tints, from cream to burnt brown; so mottled, hacked, knocked, replaced, corroded that the effect was of a decrepit fresco. It would be a bit of a shame to paint over it now, I was thinking; it was part of the fabric of the building’s history, like the various places in the house where the ghostly outlines remained of old doors now bricked up and plastered over. They were a fine counterpoint to the doors we found opened into new rooms that hadn’t seemed to exist.
    A shadow fell across the wall. I turned and saw a dark blur pass the glass in the door, announcing an arrival. I waited expectantly, but the seconds passed and no figure reappeared, no knock came.
    Sipping my tea too soon, I felt it scald the roof of my mouth. I put down the mug, went over to the door, and pulled it open. No one was there.
    I stepped outside. The little terrace was empty.
    “Hello? Who’s that?” I called down into the courtyard.
    All was quiet. I retreated, puzzled.
    Back inside the kitchen, a patch of weak sunlight flickered, making me jump. Perhaps all I had seen was the effect of sudden movement in the branches of the lilac at the entrance to the courtyard. Or a wisp of cloud, I told myself. But that did not alleviate the instinctive sense that someone was there outside, that I was being watched.
    I listened closely, detecting a rattling sound that might have come from the alleyway. Perhaps one of the shutters had loosed its moorings. I went over to the window over the sink, and peered down. Nothing unusual that I could see.
    I opened the back door and went out again. The courtyard was empty. Not a sound beyond the rustle of leaves. I was standing at the top of the stairs, about to turn and go in again, when a movement caught my eye farther down the garden, in the direction of the old pool. A scrap of gray-blue movement.
    Wrapping my sweater tighter, I ran down the steps and out of the courtyard, keeping my eyes on the spot. When I reached the pool, nothing was there. The abandoned orchard beyond was empty, too.
    I shivered again, this time with cold, and walked slowly around to the public path. The great hills were fringed by rain clouds. But there—
    There was a movement and a darker, blue-gray shape.
    I squinted. A figure? A woman in a long coat? I couldn’t be sure. It seemed oddly insubstantial.
    A blink and it was gone. I stood staring at the vanishing point on the path where it seemed to dive into the base of the hills, waiting for the apparition to reappear along the path and reveal itself.
    It did not reappear.
    E veryone wants answers and tidy conclusions, but in life they don’t always materialize. You settle for the best outcome you can manage, and accept that you can’t explain everything. The subconscious mind sometimes makes surreal connections, like the ones in dreams. Tricks of the light were all around. Look how the setting sun carved bloodred clefts in the hills that then turned to black rivulets.
    I shrugged and tried to regain my rationality as I went back to the house. What had happened to make me so anxious all of a sudden?
    Breathing deeply, feeling embarrassed by my overreaction, I walked slowly around, checking for any signs of disturbance. Nothing was out of place.
    On the kitchen table, my tea had