The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror Read Online Free PDF

struck here.
    And once in the kitchen—sunny yellows and copper, a round white table in the center, a cloth calendar by the fridge—she had to force herself to believe it had really happened while she spun a swift tale of being forced off the road by a speeding truck.
    Heather swore piously she’d never drive that way, and Keith was all for forming a lynch party instantly. The concern made her feel good, made her smile, albeit somewhat weakly.
    “Mother,” Heather said then as she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Dr. Pepper, “would you please tell Keith that my room is off limits to little boys? He keeps going in there without my permission. And I wouldn’t give it to him anyway, even if you said to.”
    “Mom,” Keith said, sitting at the table and folding his arms over his chest, “would you please tell Heather than I don’t take orders from anyone named after a weed?”
    “Mother!”
    She sat, took the soda, and drained half the can. A glance around the room to be sure the walls weren’t cracked, the windows were still intact, and she drank the rest without taking a breath, held out her hand until Heather gave her another. A belch rose, and instead of stifling it she let it out, loudly, crudely, and both her children gaped before starting to laugh.
    Normal, she thought; thank god, it’s all normal.
    Then, with her hands cupped around the can, she listened as they told her about their day, about the way Keith’s truly dumb friends—who called themselves the Mohawk Gang—had been absolute pests from the moment she’d left for work, how Heather was getting too snotty just because she was almost fourteen and thought she was a big deal, and how they were going to have to learn to ski next winter because otherwise they were completely and totally going to be the invisible man if they didn’t.
    “That’s nice,” she said, grinning. “And when did you find time to straighten up the house, like you were supposed to?”
    Keith looked at her as if she were crazy, and Heather only rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
    “Sorry,” she said, “I must have lost my mind. It looks all right, anyway, I guess.”
    “Mother,” Heather said, “are you going out tonight?”
    When she nodded she couldn’t help noticing their reaction—Keith’s gaze went blank for the briefest of moments, and Heather’s eyes narrowed just as long.
    But she knew it wasn’t the date that bothered them, it was the man taking her on it. Clark Davermain was not exactly the hit with the kids he thought he was.
    On the other hand, if it had been Doug, they would have personally carried her up the bathroom, scrubbed her back, washed her hair, and made sure she had washed thoroughly behind her ears.
    Well, maybe not quite that bad, and they really didn’t hate Clark at all. They were polite, and they conversed, and they laughed quietly at his jokes. And she blinked with the realization that what they were doing was tolerating him. For her sake. Because they thought she cared for him.
    Oh, Christ, she thought, this is a hell of a thing.
    And when a light push of wind rattled the screen door, it was all she could do not to scream in their faces.
    3
    The two-story colonial three doors down from the Depot Tavern was, on that Friday afternoon, darkly immersed in shade that seemed too much like winter shadow clinging to the maples towering over the building. It looked like a normal Deerford residence— white, a house-long porch complete with rocking chairs and a padded bench-swing, the windows flanked by dark green shutters, with cream shades with braided pulls, and white filmy curtains permanently tied back; it looked normal except for the narrow pine-plank sign on the gaslight post at the end of the slate walk, a sign with “The Antique Bazaar” burned into it in lettering the owners supposed looked like Old English. The entire first floor had been transformed into a shop, various polished bits and sets of furniture,