If There Be Thorns (Dollanganger 3) - Page 91

Wine cellar. Didn't sound nearly as good as the attic. Wasn't nearly as scary, but it was very cold and dark down here.

John Amos began brushing away spiderwebs, then he shoved old furniture aside, and finally came to a board door that was very hard to open. "Now you go in and peek through the little door at the bottom of that door over there," he said. "We used to have a stray kitten your grandmother took in, but it

disappeared shortly after you started coming over here. She had me cut this little door in the larger one so the cat could come and go when it wanted to."

With the flashlight held beneath his chin he looked like something dead and dug up. Didn't trust him not to slam the door shut behind me, and I'd never be able to wiggle through that little kitty door.

"No. You go in the wine cellar first," I ordered like Malcolm would. For a moment he didn't move. Maybe he thought I might slam the door behind him. Then he gave me a long look before he went slowly into the wine cellar. He put the flashlight on one of the wine racks while he tugged and tugged at the back rack holding many bottles of dusty ole wine bottles.

Finally it creaked open. Smelled bad in there. I held my nose and stared, and then stared some more. John Amos held his flashlight high so I could see the two women prisoners better.

Oh, oh. Momma, Grandmother --how pitiful my momma looked, lying on the damp concrete with her head held on my grandmother's lap. Both of them raised their hands to shield their eyes from the bright light come so suddenly into their dark evil cell. I could barely see, it was so dim.

"Who is it?" asked my momma weakly. "Chris, is that you? Have you found us?"

Was my momma blind now? How could she think John Amos was my daddy? If my momma went blind and crazy too, would God think that enough punishment?

My grandmother spoke up. "John, I know that's you. You let us out of here this minute. Do you hear me--let us out immediately."

John Amos laughed.

I didn't know what to do, but Malcolm came in my brain and told me. "You give me the key, John Amos," I ordered sternly. "You go up the stairs and let me give the prisoners their bread and water."

Wonder why he obeyed? Did he really think I was as strong as Malcolm? I watched until he was out of sight, then I ran to bolt another door so he couldn't sneak up behind me.

Feeling more like Malcolm than like Bart, I crept on my hands and knees, shoving along the silver tray with its half loaf of bread, and its silver pitcher of water. It didn't seem to me funny to be serving prison meals from a silver tray, for that's the way my grandmother always did things, elegantly.

Big door was shut now. It appeared only another of the wine shelves full of dusty old bottles. Flat on my stomach I reached under the lower shelf and opened the little door that would swing inward, or outward-- wonder why the kitten liked it back in the darkest part?

"Bread, water," I said in a hard gruff voice and quickly shoved in the tray. I slammed the little door shut and picked up a brick to wedge it so they couldn't see me if they pushed.

I stayed to spy on them. I heard my mother moaning, and crying out for Chris. Then she surprised me. "Momma, where has Momma gone, Chris? It's been so long since she visited us, months, months, and the twins don't grow,"

"Cathy, Cathy, my poor darling, stop thinking about the past," said my grandmother. "Please hold on, eat and drink to keep up your strength. Chris will come to save us both."

"Cory, stop playing that same tune over and over. I'm so tired of your lyrics. Why do you write such sad songs? The night will

end, it will. Chris, tell Cory the day will begin soon."

I heard sobs then. From my grandmother?

"Oh, my God!" she cried. "Is this the way it's going to end? Can't I do anything right? This time I was so sure I could work it out. Please, God, don't let me fail all of them, please." I listened to her pray out loud. Praying for my mother to get well, for her son to come and find them before it was too late. Over and over she said the same words as my mother asked crazy questions.

I sat and listened for a long time. Legs got cramped and uncomfortable, got old and weary inside, like I was locked up in there with them, crazy too, hungry, hurting, dying.

"Goin now," I said in a whisper. "Don't like this place."

Nobody was home and it was dark. Now I could run to the refrigerator and steal the food. I was stuffing in another ham slice when Madame Marisha opened the door from the garage and stalked into the kitchen. "Good evening, Bart," she said. "Where's your father and Jory?"

I shrugged. Nobody told me nothin. Didn't know why Daddy and Jory would go off and leave Cindy alone with me. Then Emma was calling out from another room. "Hello, Madame Marisha. Dr. Sheffield told me you were due here any moment. I'm sorry you went to so much trouble. Once I knew Cathy had disappeared, I couldn't stay away. I have to know what's happened to her, and she was so sick, so feverish, I should have known better than to leave her." Then Emma saw me. "Bart! You wicked little boy. How dare you add to your father's worries by disappearing too. You are a bad boy, and I'll bet my life you know something about where your mother is!"

Both old women glared at me. Hating me with their mean-mean eyes. I ran. Ran from knowing soon I'd be crying and I couldn't let anybody see me cry-- now that I had to act just like Malcolm--the heartless.

The Search

. The night was not fit for man nor beast. It was raining like when Noah was building his ark. The wind howled and shrieked and was trying to tell us something, like wild music that would destroy your brain. I kept pace with Dad, though that wasn't easy since I'd yet to grow legs as long as his. His hands were balled into fists. I fisted mine too, ready to do battle beside him when the need arose.

"Jory," said Dad, striding on without pausing, "how often does Bart come over here?" We'd reached the black iron gates by this time, then he leaned to speak into the box which sent his voice into the house.

Tags: V.C. Andrews Dollanganger Horror
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