money she had bought the little store and refurnished the living quarters in the rear. Up to lately, she had made a fair living for herself and Nath, but the war had knocked everything so topsy-turvy that now things were harder to get than to sell.
“It’s a real dollar just the same,” she said, smoothing out the bill. “Twice as much as the store took in today.”
“For you,” said Nath, “and I can get you more if you’ll let me. Over to Yocum’s.”
“I know. Mr. Yocum phoned me twice; the last time to say you wouldn’t be home.”
“Did, eh?” said Nath with a scowl.
“Say, Nath, perhaps if you could stay steady over at Yocum’s, it might be a good thing. Because that way I could go off to one of those high-paying war jobs and leave you fixed to finish school.”
“I don’t know,” said Nath doubtfully; “it calls for thinking. Anyways, I got to beat it now, mom.”
“Run along,” she said. “But if you don’t turn up tonight, remember I’ll know why.”
Twenty abandoned roads wander vaguely from the Fries-burg Pike through Oxhead Woods, but only one ends at the Yocum Farm tarn. Nath knew he could find the way by day, but what about coming back after dark? He struck into the road he sought, moss-grown and hollowed out like a trough between banks from which sprang a tangle of laurel and holly. Arriving at a fork in reverse, he stopped to break a bush and bar the wrong way back. He did this several times, but twice he had to retrace his steps to correct a mistake. Abruptly he descended into a region where beeches, oaks and giant gums mingled their boughs high above the lesser growth so thickly that they blotted out the sky. The air turned dank, and a moment later he caught the gleam of water.
He noticed a strange indentation on the left, a sort of triangular trench that looked as if a plow had been dragged along on its side, only no plow could have passed through such thick cover. The next moment he came to a rotted bridge, jumped a ragged black hole and stopped, halted by a sudden recollection. He faced about and there it was, just as Pete had said—no Red House, but a monster beech whose branches stretched across a pitch-black pool. The sight filled him with rage, and clawing up a clod, he hurled it at the pool. The water made a gulping sound and its widest oily ripple took on the look of a sardonic grin. He felt ashamed and hurried on. With startling suddenness, the narrow path widened into the flat platform at the base of the ramp. He didn’t look for Meg or anybody else; he just went to the barn and got to work. Presently Pete came out with his stool and settled down.
“Late today,” he remarked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” said Nath. “I had to go home first, didn’t I?”
“So you did,” said Pete, “but I’d forgot.”
Nath gave him a steady look. “I came across Oxhead Woods.”
“Did ye now?” said Pete blandly. “Sure, sure, that would be quickest—daytimes.”
“Or any other time,” said Nath with a short laugh.
“Think so?” said Pete. “Then happen you’d like to try staying to supper again.”
“Sure would if I’m asked,” said Nath promptly.
“So be it,’” said Peter, sliding off his stool.
As he toddled off, Nath had the feeling of having issued a challenge that had been glady accepted. He finished washed and passed into the kitchen, where Meg was seated near a window doing her homework. She seemed pleased to see him, but somehow surprised, as if she hadn’t expected him to stay for supper. In everything except the variety of food, the meal took exactly the course of the evening before. When Lottie left the main house, Pete hitched back his chair and Ellen and Meg went to sit near the fire. But Meg looked worried, as if it distressed her that Nath should make no move to go. He stood with feet slightly straddled, a nervous smile tugging at his lips.
“Well, Mr. Pete,” he said, “what about it?”
Pete eyed him up and down unsmilingly. “What about what?”
“That jumpity house you were telling about,” said Nath. “Was it painted red or did it grow that way?”
Ellen raised her head and Meg gave a quick gasp. Pete alone showed no sign of surprise, but he was silent so long that Nath began to think he wasn’t going to answer. When he did, his voice had the slithery sound of a snake rustling through grass.
“No, sir. Where would be the sense in painting Jersey redstone red? When you dig it out, like up to Burden Hill, it’s so soft you can slice it with a knife, but air cures it same as smoke cures ham. The longer redstone stands the harder it turns, wax to the touch, but flint to the pick. That ain’t all. It takes on more than the color of blood. It weds itself block to block and vein to vein. If you was to blow up one of them old stone houses, it would rise in one piece, fall in one piece and stay in one piece. Nor fire nor rust can’t destroy ’em. I’ve known ’em to ring with the birth cries of generations, laugh with the voices of forgotten children and groans of uncounted dead.”
“And scream,” said Nath. “Don’t forget the screams.”
Again there was silence, one of those silences that turn doubly heavy for every second they last. Meg’s lips fluttered as if she wanted to cry, but didn’t dare. Ellen swayed backward and forward, her hands tight-locked in her lap. In the fitful light from the fire, Pete seemed not even to breathe. Night, rolling in through the eastern windows, packed the corners with tall shadows that took the shape of thugs itching to club the fire to death. Nath felt proud. He had called the old coot’s bluff and now he could go. Straight across Oxhead Woods.
“Sit down.” It was a whisper so low that for an instant it gave the illusion of having come from one of the tall shadows. Nath veered slowly, as if his head were being pulled around with strings. Pete’s eyes laid hold of him. How could he ever have thought they were small? They bent his knees. They made him sit down.
“It was you mentioned screams,” resumed Pete’s whisper. Suddenly he hawked loudly and spat. It was as though he had fired a gun. Meg burst into tears, Ellen uttered a sharp cry and Nath felt sick because here was where he ought to laugh, and he couldn’t. “Enough!” commanded Pete in his natural voice. “You women cease your caterwauling or git to bed and leave us men to talk.”
Meg choked back her sobs; she was afraid to listen, yet more afraid of missing a word. Ellen straightened and gripped the arms of her chair; nobody was going to get her to move. Nath let the breath out of his aching lungs; he hadn’t known he was holding it. Pete hitched himself forward and doubled his hands over the head of his cane.
“A Snell built the Red House,” he said, “so far back there ain’t no record. Snells has entered over its threshold and went out through the funeral door at the back since the beginning of local time. But until the coming of Hubert Snell, no question come up as to whether the Snells owned the house or the house owned them. Sounds unreasonable for a house to own a man, yet it ain’t. Everybody can name houses as owns the folks inside. But the Red House went far beyond the likes of that. When it finished soaking up blood, it—”
Ellen stood up, her arms close to her sides and her fists so tight that the knuckles showed whiter than her face. “Pete,” she begged in a rasping voice, “what for? Just to tie this boy to your side? Can’t you hold him with the money instead? Can’t you?”
