Rockinghorse Read Online Free PDF Page A

around the area—or the entire state. The planter had hired an architect out of Savannah and given the man his head. And the architect’s adaptations of classic style had produced some rather odd effects.
    The home contained one hundred and sixty-six windows, all tall and restrained. Cast ironwork had been used for balustrades. Inside, the thirty-six rooms were large, the halls expansive. Three sets of spiraling, swirling stairs, each set containing two hundred and twenty-two steps, each set running from ground level to the attic. More bathrooms had been added as decades marched over decades, but the huge water tanks on top of the mansion still remained. There was an all-white ballroom with glistening white tiles and white marble mantels.
    The attic, larger than that of many plantation homes, was filled with dark corners and hidden tucks and hideaways and escape routes. There were six massive columns at the front of the home, which had verandas on all four sides. The curved driveway leading to the plantation home was osage-lined, and the lawn was thick with boxwoods and great walnut and oak trees. The grounds contained three gardens, now mostly unkempt and ragged, which were filled with weeping cherry and weeping willows, all shaded by English laurel, mimosas, and crepe myrtle.
    While their parents roamed the old home, Jackie and Johnny sat on the east side of the home.
    â€œYou ever seen so much old crap in all your life?” Jackie asked.
    He was unusually silent, not electing to reply to her question.
    â€œYou gone deaf?” she asked.
    â€œNo,” he said slowly. “I just don’t like this place, Jackie. I mean, I really don’t like this place.”
    â€œDon’t let Mom or Dad hear you say that,” she cautioned.
    â€œOh, I won’t. But I can’t help the way I feel, can I?”
    â€œI guess not, Johnny. I don’t like this place, either,” she confessed.
    â€œWhy?” he pressed her.
    â€œI don’t know. It’s something . . . no, there is some thing about this place—the whole place. Grounds, everything. I can’t put it into words.”
    â€œThat’s me. I can’t, either.”
    â€œI heard that horse nickering, Johnny. And it was coming from the house.”
    â€œI know, Jackie,” his reply was soft. “I heard it, too.”
    * * *
    â€œThere is no way,” Tracy said. “No way I can get all these rooms cleaned up and redecorated in three and a half months.”
    Looking around him, Lucas silently thought a full crew couldn’t do it in three and a half years. But he kept those thoughts just that.
    â€œThirty-six rooms,” Tracy bitched softly. “I didn’t count the bathrooms. Did you, Lucas?”
    â€œHell, no! I got lost three times in this place.”
    She covered her mouth and suppressed a giggle.
    â€œThey’s them that say the place is haunted,” the voice came from behind the man and wife.
    The voice spun them around, Tracy’s heart pounding, the blood draining from her face. Lucas felt fear wash over him, old fear, leaving him almost physically ill.
    The man that stood before the couple—and how did he manage to move so quietly?—could have been forty years old, could have been eighty years old. He was dressed in overalls and a patched, dirty blue-denim work shirt. His hair was long and dirty, hanging down to his shoulders, and he had a full shaggy beard peppered with gray and white. His eyes were small and mean-looking.
    â€œScared ya, huh?” he said, then laughed in a high-pitched voice. “Wal, don’t neither of you pay no nevermind to my prowlin’ around. I been livin’ here for a long, long time. I know my way around this place.”
    â€œYou . . . live here?” Tracy asked, finally finding her voice.
    â€œYep.”
    Lucas struggled to remember the caretaker’s name. It finally came to him. “You’re Lige Manning . . .