The High House Read Online Free

and realized he could not see the ceiling, which was hidden by the mist.
    As he proceeded down what seemed an endless way, the thought occurred to him that he should turn back, lest he miss his father. He did so at once and found he had traveled farther than he would have believed. When he finally arrived back at the Green Door, he found a figure standing there, half-hidden by the fog.
    He ran forward, expecting his sire, then stopped short when he saw the Bobby, his face a smooth nothing save for a crescent-moon grin.
    Carter backed away in horror, but when he turned to run, his path was blocked by a man clad in black, who seized him at once, bound him by the hands, and threw him over his shoulder.
    The Bobby approached. The grin had given way to the kindly face he had worn in the yard. Smiling, he searched Carter’s pockets until he found the bronze ring. As he held the keys, they dulled in his pale hands. “Thank you, boy,” he rasped. “You have given us a great gift.”
    Carter cried out, but the man holding him thrust a gag over his mouth.
    “Should we lock the door?” the man asked.
    The Bobby grinned. “No. Leave Anderson a clue. He will suffer all the more for it.”
    For what seemed to Carter like hours, his abductors carried him through endless halls, up winding stairs, then down others, through rooms great and small, until he thought they must surely be traveling in circles; no house could be this large. Yet on they went, past bookcases with shelves carved like serpents and nightstands sculpted like dragons. Carter was carried facing backward, so he could not see their direction of travel, but only where they had gone. So miserable was he that his disobedience had brought disaster, he did not think to memorize his path until it was too late.
    The men began a long descent, down a stairway woven in shadows and spiderwebs, that creaked in protest at every step; ebon carvings of angels of darkness stood in alcoves to the sides—proud, arrogant, their wings like vultures, their hawk noses cruel. Carter whimpered and closed his eyes.
    That stair seemed to go on indefinitely; they passed dozens of landings lit by green gaslights in braziers carved as skulls. Carter only once caught sight of the Bobby during that time, his face blank, ghastly in the eldritch glow.
    At last they came to a four-paneled door formed of black marble. The Bobby drew out a long, rusted key, though not from the bronze ring, and unlocked it.
    “In you go and in you stay,” he said, taking the gag from Carter’s mouth and the rope from his wrists. “This is the Room of Horrors. You will never leave it.”
    With rough hands, they cast him into the darkness, skinning his knees as he slid across the hard floor. He flung himself, too late, back at the door; the lock clicked shut before he ever touched it. Through the heavy marble he did not even hear the men depart. He beat upon the door with his small fists, until he heard an odd, scraping sound behind him.
    He turned to face it and screamed.
    A ghost stood before him, wrapped in insubstantial white, chains fastened to its gossamer arms. It moaned as it approached, like wind blowing through rafters. Carter backed against the marble, paralyzed with terror. The specter drew near and abruptly thrust its face three inches away from Carter’s own, its mouth and eyes gaping darkness. The boy screamed and bolted, feet pounding against bare boards, fleeing through utter blackness.
    He smashed against something hard, and fell back, dazed and weeping, trembling like a fawn. Gradually, he recovered himself, controlled his sobbing, and sat up. No matter how he strained his eyes, he could detect no trace of light.
    A low growling rose at his left ear. He leapt to his feet and ran again.
    Hours later found him cringing in a corner. He could run no more; he had been pursued through every waking moment by visions and monsters, some visible, others hidden in the night. He had no more tears for crying; he