The Master of Phoenix Hall by Jennifer Wilde Read Free Book Online

hardwood that shone from years of beeswax rubbed into the grain. The furniture was simple too, hard, sturdy pieces of oak cut down to size, without the ornamental carving so prevalent in this Victorian age. The house was all bright and simple and comfortable, a place in which to live an uncomplicated, orderly life.
    Upstairs there were two bedrooms, one large, one small. I chose the larger one for myself. It looked out over the gardens, and far away, over the tops of the trees, one could see the gables of Phoenix Hall. On the lower floor there was a study with oak desk and bookcase, a small parlor and dining room and a compact little kitchen with a blue and white tiled fireplace, a huge black stove and a zinc drain board. A huge black iron pot hung in the fireplace and black cooking utensils hung neatly on the walls. There was a tiny bedroom next to the kitchen and Nan decided she would prefer it to the extra room upstairs.
    A door in the kitchen opened onto the stone steps that led to the cellar. It was very large, very cool down there, and so dark that we had to light a candle to see our way with. Unlike the rest of the house, it was cluttered and messy in the cellar. On the shelves were hundreds of jars of pickles and preserves and other foods, all neatly labeled, but strands of silky cobwebs stretched over them, and dust coated the tightly sealed jars. On the floor were stacks of jars, pots, boxes, old discarded tools, a broken spinning wheel, a litter of all the things there was not room for upstairs.
    The cellar was as large as the lower floor of the house, and it had a musty, unpleasant odor I did not recognize. There was something I did not like about the place, something creepy and indefinable. I felt the cold dampness of the place and sensed something wrong, something I could not put a finger on. Nan stood on the bottom step, holding the candle. It flickered and spluttered, casting wild shadows over the walls.
    â€œI don’t like this place,” she said.
    â€œSo you feel it, too?” I replied. “Something—wrong.”
    â€œLet’s go up, Miss Angel. I feel a chill.”
    â€œWhat’s that odor, Nan?”
    â€œI don’t know. I only know it’s not right.”
    I felt something like fear, standing there on the earth floor, and I tried to laugh at myself, knowing it was foolish to feel this way. The cellar was messy, it smelled bad, but there was nothing wrong. Or was there? The place seemed so incongruous with the neat, bright rooms upstairs.
    I stepped over to one wall and looked at the opaque brown jugs sitting beside some tiny wooden boxes that contained what looked like dried grasses and roots. I assumed they were some of my aunt’s herbs, but the odor of them was acrid and bitter. Several small jars contained a cloudy green liquid and there were skull and crossbones scratched on the surface of the glass.
    â€œPoison,” I said. “All kinds of poison.”
    â€œPoison!” Nan cried.
    â€œAll kinds of it. I suppose my aunt made it.”
    â€œWhatever for?” Nan asked, shivering.
    â€œWhy—for insects, I suppose, or rodents. Perhaps she sold it to the farmers.”
    â€œLet’s hurry, Miss Angel,” Nan pleaded.
    We went back upstairs into the sunny brightness of the kitchen. Nan closed the cellar door, and I was resolved to buy a lock and chain to put on it. There was no apparent reason for the distaste I felt for the cellar, and yet I felt it, strongly. Nan had felt it, too.
    â€œLet’s go out in back,” I said. “I could use the fresh air.”
    The gardens in the back of the house were neat, the beds lined with gleaming white shells, a flagstone path leading from the back door to the grey stone well. An old oaken bucket dangled by its rope, and I dipped it into the water and pulled it up. I ladled out some of the water and tasted it. It was incredibly cold, deliciously fresh. There was a neat small smokehouse