Witch Water by Edward Lee Read Free Book Online

there? Fanshawe
wondered.
    He walked around front, then paused to stand
a moment, taking closer notice of the old inn’s architectural
style, which he guessed would be called some manner of “Georgian,”
for England’s King George. The imposing cross-gable made the basic
structure seem even more classically timeworn; it gave the
sprawling mansion the form of an uncapitalized “t.” The building’s
roof segments were steeped at uncommonly high angles. Fanshawe
thought himself a modernist when it came to architecture, yet,
since he’d come here, he’d grown more and more fond of all this
historical archaicism. This used to be a family house, a
patriarch’s, he reminded himself; hadn’t Baxter referred to
Wraxall as an upstanding resident? Talk about going downhill
fast.
    He mused over what life must have been like
so many years ago. Cutting your own woodslats, digging your own
wells, chopping wood every day of your life… Evidently, Jacob
Wraxall had been the equivalent of a wealthy country squire; hence,
it had been his personal taste behind the mansion’s layout. But…an
occultist? Someone who believed he was a warlock? If he
believed that, then surely he believed in the Devil. Fanshawe
wondered what went on behind these baronial walls when the rest of
the town slept unaware.
    A large double glass door had been
installed, but the rest of the building’s front face couldn’t have
appeared more authentic. A pillared portico surrounded the entire
house, while narrow lancet windows marked the second story; of the
third, Fanshawe noted small circular windows marking the hallway,
and wide bow-windows set into the faces of the extending
cross-gables. The gable he peered at now would offer a “peeper” a
bull’s eye view of the Travelodge and some of the Back Street upper
windows. Thank God I didn’t get THAT room…
    A stunning, multi-colored dusk bloomed
behind him when went back inside. The inn stood cozily quiet, save
only for the methodic ticking of an ancient grandfather clock. He
sighed happily; the lengthy walk had helped him unwind just as he’d
hoped. Now, a meal might be in order. He walked down the silent
hall, stopped for a moment, then went on. He knew he’d been about
to re-enter the display cove containing the bizarre looking-glass,
but…
    Why do that? Why remind myself? The
idea made about as much sense as an alcoholic looking at ad signs
pasted in the window of a liquor store.
    But I’m NOT an alcoholic, he
asserted. Across from the cove, the sign reminded him: SQUIRE’S
PUB; then a quick peek inside showed him that the bar was empty
save for—
    Abbie…
    And there she was.
    Fanshawe felt a butterfly in his
stomach.
    “Hi, Stew!”
    He looked to the bar to be confronted by a
smile that hit his eyes like a strong, white light. God, she’s
beautiful… He tried to seem casual as he approached the modest
bar but instead felt hopelessly nervous. “Hi, Abbie. I meant to
come in for a drink earlier but the place was packed.”
    She was putting up glasses in an overhead
rack. “Oh, I know, and that was some crew. The New England
Phenomenology Society have their annual conference here every
year.”
    Fanshawe winced. “The Phenoma— what Society?”
    “Phenomenology,” Abbie chuckled.
    “What is that? ”
    “They explained it to me a dozen times but I
still don’t know. Some kind of philosophy. They’re mostly
professors from Ivy League colleges.”
    Fanshawe nodded. “Now that you mention it,
they did look like a bunch of professors—”
    She made an expression of incredulity.
“Yeah, but they drink like a bunch of students. If we had a
chandelier in here, those guys would be swinging from it—party
animals, I’ll tell ya. I’m not complaining—they tip great—but it’s
not easy getting hit on by a couple dozen sixty-year-old
eggheads.”
    Fanshawe tried to think of something clever
to say but stalled when Abbie placed another glass in the overhead
rack. Her posture when