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.In another room they found a dark, greasy mattress, surrounded by the detritus of countless ancient meals: empty tins of Spam and sardines, candy bar wrappers, crushed beer cans.One corner of the room appeared to have been used as an open latrine, with no attempt at sanitation or concealment.There were no paintings on any of the walls of the rooms, black-framed or otherwise.In fact, the only decorative works the walls displayed were endless frantic doodles in purple Magic Marker: a storm of squiggles and manic jagged lines that was disquieting to look at.“Jesus,” D’Agosta said.“What could Helen possibly have wanted here?”“It is exceedingly curious,” Pendergast replied, “especially considering that at the time of her visit, the Doane family was the pride of Sunflower.This decline into criminal madness happened much later.”Thunder rumbled ominously outside, accompanied by flashes of livid lightning through the shuttered windows.They descended into the basement, which, though less cluttered, showed signs of the same blizzard of lunatic destruction so evident on the first floor.After a thorough and fruitless search, they climbed to the second floor.Here the whirlwind of ruin was somewhat abated, although there were plenty of troubling signs.In what was clearly the son’s bedroom, one wall was almost completely covered in awards for academic excellence and distinguished community service—based on their dates, taking place over a year or two around the time of Helen Pendergast’s visit.The facing wall, however, was equally crowded with the desiccated heads of animals—pigs, dogs, rats—all hammered into the wood in the roughest manner possible, with no effort made to clean or even exsanguinate them: dried blood ran down in heavy streams from each mummified trophy onto those hammered in place below.The daughter’s room was even more creepy for showing a complete lack of personality: the only feature of note was a row of similarly bound red volumes in a bookshelf that was otherwise empty, save for an anthology of poetry.They gradually walked through the empty rooms, D’Agosta trying to make sense of the senselessness of it.At the very end of the hall, they came to a locked door.Pendergast slid out his lockpicking tools, jimmied the lock, and attempted to open the door.It wouldn’t budge.“There’s a first,” said D’Agosta.“If you will observe the upper doorjambs, my dear fellow, you’ll see that the door, in addition to being locked, has been screwed shut.” His hand fell from the knob.“We’ll return to this.Let’s take a look at the attic first.”The attics of the old house were a warren of tiny rooms packed under the eaves, full of moldy furniture and old luggage.They made a thorough inspection of the boxes and trunks, raising furious choking clouds of dust in the process, but found nothing more interesting than some musty old clothes, piles of newspapers sorted and stacked and tied with twine.Pendergast rummaged through an old toolbox and removed a screwdriver, slipping it into his pocket.“Let’s check the two towers,” he said, brushing dust from his black suit with evident distaste.“Then we’ll tackle the sealed room.”The towers were drafty columns of winding stairs and storage niches full of spiders, rat droppings, and piles of yellowing old books.Each tower staircase dead-ended into a tiny lookout room, with windows like the arrow slits of a castle, looking down over the lightning-troubled forest.D’Agosta found himself growing impatient.The house seemed to have little to offer them other than madness and riddles.Why had Helen Pendergast come here—if she’d come here at all?Finding nothing of interest in the towers, they returned to the main house and the sealed door.As D’Agosta held the light, Pendergast drew out two long screws.He turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.D’Agosta followed—and almost staggered backward in surprise.It was like stepping into a Fabergé egg.It was not a large room, but it seemed to D’Agosta jewel-like—filled with treasures that glowed with internal brilliance.The windows had been boarded over and nailed with canvas, leaving the interior almost hermetically preserved, every surface so lovingly polished that even a decade of abandonment could not dull the luster [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]