The Dreadful Tale of Prosper Redding (The Dreadful Tale of Prosper Redding #1)(13)

The unpolished floors creaked under my bare feet. Once my nose got past the sweet smells of the crisp outside air and the herbs and flowers hung up to dry over the desk, new stenches blossomed. Dust, mold, and sour milk. A single red leaf scurried across the unpolished floor, dancing with a loose newspaper clipping around the stained woven rug.

What was this place? Where was this place?

I didn’t notice them before, not when everything in the small space seemed to be piled onto something else. But the next breeze forced its way through the window, and I saw where the small cutout article had come from. There were rows of them tacked up across the wall, over one of the beds. I hugged the copper pot to my chest as I took a few steps forward. The wind ruffled them, and they rose and fell together as one, making it look like the walls were breathing. Mixed in with the articles were photographs, dozens of them, but not of the stranger or anyone in his family.

Oh no, they were pictures of my family.

Photoshoots from magazines. A super-stalkerish picture of me and Prue from last year’s Founder’s Day, just before I was pushed off the school float into the mud. Five years’ worth of family Christmas cards. Even snaps of Mom and Dad when they were younger—only a few years older than me.





REDDING FAMILY SETS NEW RECORD


ONE FAMILY’S FORTUNE IS A TOWN’S TREASURE





THE COTTAGE OF REDHOOD




All the newspaper and magazine clippings were either about someone in our family, the Cottage, or Redhood.

I crawled onto the unmade bed to get a closer look. Just to the right of them, pushed to the edge of it all like an afterthought, were drawings. Prints. All black-and-white, maybe ink—no, I recognized what they were now. The Redhood Museum had some just like these. They were colonial engravings. Only these didn’t depict happy little settlers planting crops or raising families. These engravings were almost creepier than seeing a photo of my grandmother back in her beauty-queen days. Men and women in bonnets and hats and long dresses and black coats stood around a fire, their arms raised. In another, a woman was huddled over a book, one hand clutching a broomstick.

I reached up and pulled one off the wall. Dread ran down my spine like a claw. The people in that drawing were hanging from a tree branch like dead geese, ropes wrapped around their necks. And…I pulled the others down frantically, spreading them out over the bed in disbelief. In every single one was this little devil with horns, a spiked tail, a pitchfork, and bat wings.

My eyes drifted back up, landing on the handwritten family tree at the center of the mass of shivering articles. It started all the way back at Honor Redding. The red line that snaked down the center of it ended at my name.

Frantic, I searched the room for a phone or computer, something I could use to try to get in touch with my parents. I found none.

Of course. If I had been kidnapped, they wouldn’t want to give me any sort of means to escape. Sweat slid between my shoulder blades, leaving a trail of goose bumps behind it. Panicky noises rose in my throat, squeaking out a little with each breath. Even worse, the smell of rotten eggs was back. It was thick enough that I could taste it on my tongue.

I looked for my coat, my shoes, anything that would have helped me escape or at least figure out where I was. But just when I had given up and had one foot dangling out of the window, I heard the girl.

“—it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life!” Her voice was hoarse, like she was on the edge of tears. A random burst of thoughts fired off in my mind, trying to figure out where I had heard those exact same words before.

I reached for the small metal doorknob, and I was twisting it open before my brain could stop me. One deep breath in, and I stepped out into the dark hallway.

And it was dark. Long and narrow too, with only a sliver of light peeking through the black curtains hanging over the window at the opposite end of the hall. I felt something soft tickle my cheek and jerked back away from it, stumbling foot over foot. I flapped my arms, trying to keep my balance, but I only got more tangled in the long white cobwebs that drifted down from the ceiling.

“—Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name?”

I saw her then. Unfortunately, I saw the rest of the hall too. The walls and doors were decorated with axes and bloodstained swords, all pointing in the direction of the coffin and the girl standing in front of it. She was shaking her fist in the direction of the gleaming bones of a skeleton, and the thing was staring straight back from black, eyeless sockets. Its jaw was unhinged, and the bottom row of teeth hung open, as if it had been shocked into a scream.

“I have given you my soul!” the girl continued, dropping her voice into a low, dangerous growl. “Leave me my name!”

She flung herself onto the ground, almost bringing the skeleton down with her. Then, after a moment of silence, she sighed and stood, muttering, “No, too much…” and got herself back in front of the coffin, like she was going to go through it all over again. She flicked her hand, and it almost seemed like…

No. I was imagining things. The skeleton’s jaw didn’t clack shut. Its hand didn’t come up under its chin, like it was contemplating her. In any case, I had no idea how she could have missed the idiot in the flaming orange shirt, tangled up to his neck in cobwebs, still holding a copper pot.

“Uh, a little help here?” I gasped, twisting to get away from the humongous spider hanging from the ceiling.