Thornwood House Read Online Free PDF Page B

universe of dust in my haste to encounter something I recognised. Then, to my relief, I spied the hilltop dwelling we’d passed earlier.
    Pulling over, I buzzed open the window and looked up the hill. The little weatherboard bungalow looked abandoned, but I noticed potential signs of life: two cars parked out front, and droopy singlets flapping on a clothesline.
    I got out and dragged aside the gate, drinking in the wildflower-scented air. Cicadas screamed in the roadside grass, bullfrogs chorused in the distance. The only other sounds were the tick of the car’s overheated motor and the whisper of windblown leaves.
    I drove up the track, pulling in behind the other vehicles. One of the cars was an immaculately restored vintage peacock-blueValiant. The car next to it was an ancient Holden ute with bald tyres and cracked windscreen, its battered body half-eaten by rust.
    I made a beeline for the bungalow. Paint peeled from its battered flanks. None of the windows wore curtains. The roofing iron had buckled up on one side like a sardine tin. Only the rampant grapevine shading the front door saved it from being a total loss; the broad leaves drank in the intense sunlight, swamping the entryway in cool green shadows.
    As I climbed the stairs, a dog barked somewhere inside.
    ‘Pipe down, Alma,’ growled a voice, and the barking stopped.
    The screen door clattered open. A tall scarecrow-like man stepped onto the verandah. He was perhaps sixty, with a halo of receding snow-white hair. His shabby workpants were stained black, his flannelette shirt threadbare. One lens of his glasses was patched with duct tape.
    ‘Sorry to intrude,’ I said, ‘but we’ve gotten ourselves a bit lost.’
    ‘What’re you after?’ the man asked.
    ‘I’m looking for a property called Thornwood. The address says it’s on Briarfield Road, but I’ve driven back and forth and can’t seem to find it.’
    While I spoke, the screen door creaked again and a second man peered out. He was nearly identical to the other man, only taller, thinner. His jeans were rolled to the knee over skinny legs and bony bare feet. His sparse white hair stood on end, and his face was frozen into an expression of bewilderment. He studied me uncertainly.
    ‘What’s going on?’ he rasped, and I recognised the voice that had quieted the dog.
    ‘It’s all right, old mate,’ the first man said. ‘She’s lost.’
    ‘What’s she after?
    A pause. ‘Thornwood.’
    The taller man flinched and shot me a startled look. Without another word, he jerked back into the shadowy doorway and vanished inside.
    ‘No one lives at Thornwood,’ the first man told me. His tone had changed, his words more clipped. ‘The house has been empty for years. You sure you got the right property?’
    ‘Yes.’
    The man regarded me with narrowed eyes, perhaps hoping for further explanation. When none was forthcoming, he stepped closer, peering down his nose with evident suspicion.
    ‘You’ve come too far. Thornwood’s on Old Briarfield Road, but that’s not on any of the maps. You see that hill up there?’ He pointed to a steep knoll behind the house, its base crowded with ironbark trees, its bare peak a mass of boulders. ‘Thornwood’s on the other side. Y’see that glint in the distance through the trees? That’ll be the homestead’s roof.’
    I squinted, but saw only endless grey trunks and glittering, sun-spangled leaves. I looked back at the man. He was still frowning at the hillside, which gave me the chance to observe him at close range. His features were sharp, his skin leathery; his wispy ash-white hair seemed to have a mind of its own. It might once have been a friendly face, but time had soured it; frown lines bracketed his mouth and his cheeks were creviced. From behind the tape on his glasses peeped a ridge of scar tissue.
    ‘It’s only a half-hour walk from here,’ he was saying, ‘but a couple of miles by road. Just head back towards town. Old Briarfield