At Fear's Altar Read Online Free PDF Page A

he saw Paula’s expression instantly soften. She crouched down in front of him, placed her hand over his.
    “How long has this been happening?”
    “I think I want to go lie down.”
    She was silent for awhile. “Okay, Dad, let’s get you inside.” Paula tried to help him up. “Where’s your cane?”
    “Out there somewhere,” he mumbled, pointing to nowhere in particular. Colin felt his arm being draped across his daughter’s shoulders. She let out a grunt while attempting to hoist him to his feet. They lumbered conjoined up the driveway, into the cottage. The girls were stationed at the Formica table, lunching as wordlessly as vow-bound zealots.
    “Eh, everything’s okay,” Colin called as he was escorted past the kitchen. “It’s all okay, girls.”
    Paula laid him out on the bed. The aged mattress cradled him like a great sling.
    “I want you to lie here for a while,” said Paula. “I’m going to bring you your lunch. Make sure you drink the lemonade.”
    He grimaced. “Never cared for it. Too tart.”
    “I’ll bring you some ice water then. Rest.”
    She stranded him in his stuffy cell, with its alarm clock ticking like an endlessly clucking tongue, and all its shaming signs of his laziness such as the strands of cobweb that prospered on the upper walls, the ergs of dust piled against the floor moulding. Colin rested his hands upon his growling belly, did his utmost to rein in his breathing until his trunk became a bellows, cycling the airflow in a reassuringly steady rhythm. Colin hoped to maintain this calming exercise for a good long while, but the heat was becoming stifling. He realized that he had not freed himself from his puffer vest, and the standing fan in the corner was not on.
    It was just after he reluctantly listed himself up to peel off his vest and long-sleeved shirt that Colin noticed the alteration to the room.
    His nightstand was always kept clear of all but three items: his alarm clock with its punitive ticking, a small reading lamp, and his favourite photograph of Beverly, which was displayed in a special frame he’d made from cut reeds bolstered with shellac.
    Discovering that someone had switched Beverly’s picture stunned him initially, but then infuriated him.
    “What’s the matter?” Paula’s voice was unexpected, but Colin was too upset to be startled. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
    He lifted a bent finger to the frame and asked “Who is that?” When his question met with a protracted silence, Colin assumed Paula had not heard him. “Who changed this picture?”
    His daughter’s expression, when Colin finally looked to the doorway, was one of fear, with a soupçon of heartache. She was holding a plate in one hand, a water glass in the other. “You know who that is.” Her voice was thin and deadened. “That’s Mom.”
    “It’s not! It is not her! Look!” He jutted the frame toward Paula, wagging it as though it were a bone being used to tempt a dog. “Look!” he repeated.
    “I did look, Dad. Who do you see in that picture?”
    “A stranger, that’s who I see, a stranger!”
    “It’s Mom.” She was practically whispering now. She entered the room and handed Colin the glass of ice water without comment. Colin drank gratefully, greedily. He was only dimly aware of the picture frame being tugged from his grip. Paula set the plate down beside the photograph and helped Colin remove his vest and shirt. “You want the fan on?” she asked.
    “Please.”
    She snapped it on and departed.
    Colin exhaled when the manufactured breeze passed over him. He took up the plate and bit into the sandwich. The flavour exploded in his mouth. Colin closed his eyes, savouring the sense of rightness that was slowly being restored. He stopped chewing, questioning whether he had the courage to glance at the picture again.
    He did, furtively. When he noticed that the familiar delicate contours of Beverly’s face he stared intently at the picture, he sighed. It was her.
    ‘Of