The Howling Man Read Online Free PDF

He knew--he'd known if for a long time. A boy . . .
    The man had fallen onto the bed. His hands reached for the bottle, but it was empty.
    "It's good," the man said. "Ask your questions. But don't ask them of me. Go away now. Go back to your room!"
    Robert wondered if his friend were ill, but he felt too strange to be with anyone. He opened the door and hurried back to his room.
    And as he lay down, his brain hurt with the new thoughts. He had learned many wonderful things this night. He could almost identify the feeling that gnawed at the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of Miss Gentilbelle .
    Robert did not sleep before the first signs of dawn appeared. And then he dreamed of dead puppies and dead birds.
    They were whispering something to him.
    "Why, Roberta," said Miss Gentilbelle, in a soft, shocked voice. "You haven't worn your scent this morning. Did you forget it?"
    "Yes."
    "A pity. There's nothing like the essence of blossoms to put a touch of freshness about everything."
    "I'm sorry."
    "I should be displeased if you were to forget your scent again. It's not ladylike to go about smelling of your flesh."
    "Yes, Mother."
    Miss Gentilbelle munched her toast slowly and looked into Robert's flushed face.
    "Roberta, do you feel quite well?"
    "Yes."
    Miss Gentilbelle put her hand to Robert's forehead. "You do seem somewhat feverish. I think we will dispense with today's lesson in Jeanne d'Arc. Immediately following your criticism on the Buxtehude you will go to bed."
    The breakfast was finished in silence as Miss Gentilbelle read a book. Then they went into the living room.
    Robert hated the music. It sounded in the faded room like the crunch of shoes on gravel, and the bass notes were all dissolved into an ugly roar.
    They listened for one hour without speaking, and Robert moved only to change the records.
    "Now, then, Roberta," Miss Gentilbelle said. "Would you agree with Mr. Locke that Buxtehude in these works surpasses the bulk of Bach's organ music?"
    Robert shook his head. He knew he would have to answer. "I think Mr. Locke is right."
    And then it struck him that he had actually lied before, many times. But perhaps he never knew before that he disliked music.
    "Very good. No need to continue. The facts are self-evident. Go to your room and undress. Dinner will be prepared at twelve-thirty."
    Robert curtsied and began to walk to the stairway.
    "Oh, Roberta."
    "Yes, Mother?"
    "Did you by any chance see Mr. Franklin last night?"
    Robert's throat went dry. It was difficult to hold on to his thoughts. "No, Mother, I did not."
    "You know you should never see that evil man, don't you? You must always avoid him, never speak a word to him. You remember when I told you that, don't you?"
    "Yes, Mother."
    "You disobeyed me once. You would never dream of doing that again, would you, Roberta?"
    "No, Mother."
    "Very good. Retire to your room and be dressed for dinner by twelve."
    Robert went up the stairs slowly, for he could not see them. Tears welled in his eyes and burned them, and he thought he would never reach the top.
    When he went into his room he saw Margaret for a moment and then she was gone.
    He sat on the bed and proceeded to remove his clothes. They were dainty clothes, thin and worn, demanding of great care. He took them off lightly with a touch and looked at each garment for a long time.
    The patent leather shoes, the pink stockings, the pale yellow dress--he laid them neatly on the sofa and looked at them. Then, when all the clothes had been removed, he went to the mirror and looked into it.
    Robert didn't know what he saw and he shook his head. Nothing seemed clear; one moment he felt like shouting and another, like going to sleep. Then he became frightened and leapt into the large easy chair, where he drew his legs and arms about him. He sat whimpering softly, with his eyes open, dreaming.
    A little bird flew out of a corner and fluttered its wings at him. Margaret's wing, the one Miss Gentilbelle had cut off,