Robert Desmond - House of Evil

"Blast it, Nadalee, if you can't make up your mind to come in here to your bed, at least turn off that bright light out there so that I can get some rest," Newton growled out from the darkened interior of the bedroom, the tone of his voice no less wrathful now than when he had left her alone in the front room of the cottage three hours earlier.

"I'll be in there in a minute, honey," the ravishingly beautiful girl assured. With a deep sigh of fatigue, she opened the linen closet at the end of the hallway and took out her nightgown, reflecting one last time, though less clearly now, on the strange events that had taken place that day. Maybe everything was not as bad as it seemed, she debated sleepily… Perhaps she was just exaggerating everything in her mind and was being a silly little girl, exactly as Newton had said earlier. Maybe her physical and emotional needs were not really the same as those of a fully mature woman, were in reality nothing more than the selfish flights of adolescent fancy of a girl who was only eighteen… even though she was married and temporarily isolated from friends and fun. Maybe, despite everything she had felt to the contrary that day, maybe she really was being silly and too emotional. It could be that her gloomy conclusions lately about the circumstances at Quail Lake, as well as those concerning her marriage to Newton, were no less absurdly melodramatic than the distressing theatrics of those frustrated old maids and divorcees whose entanglements in spicy fictional situations were the very meat of the risque novels she had borrowed so furtively from her grandfather's naughty collection… After all, it had been two years ago when she read them, when she was only barely sixteen, and now she was older, married, a housewife with a husband to look after and a good-paying job that required responsibility. Naturally she had more common sense now and there was no doubt that the sensational plights of those women in the books would seem like utter nonsense to her if she cared to read them again at this point in her life. She felt oddly relieved now that she had acquitted herself of her own indictment, because above all, it was important to her to be herself for Newton.

A few moments later, Nadalee was cuddling up tightly to the pillow she held in her arms, the covers pulled up over her ears, her young body slowly unwinding from the pressure of her experience that afternoon and at home that evening. Unconsciousness rose like a welcome tide of darkness throughout her whole being, gradually obscuring the last pictures in her mind of Mr. Blackwell's penis jerking obscenely in his trousers and of the big German Shepherd's furry sheath…

The next morning, a little after seven o'clock, Nadalee felt buoyantly happy and fresh as she bounced briskly along the springy forest path on her way to work at the Blackwell house. She was about fifteen minutes early and she was glad of it. The beautiful young redhead's spirits bubbled over at the majestic splendor all around her, her large green eyes brilliant with wonder as she tried to look everywhere at once and drink everything in simultaneously. It was one of those special mornings and she wished she could say hello to somebody or somehow embrace the air.

There was a cool exhilarating breeze breathing in mildly from somewhere out on the lake… cool yet pleasantly warm as though the wind were coming only from out where the diffused image of the sun was mirrored like an immense white beacon blazing in the stupendous green of the water. She could see long luminous white clouds trailing their own reflections across the glassy surface of the lake. To her, they seemed to be wisps of smoke drifting away from the raging bonfire of sunshine out in the middle. Then, suddenly, she saw a trout flash upward out of the water, a silver streak of iridescent grace that fell back with a splash and was marked by rippling circles of blue-green that widened outward, winking little lights where the sun sparked on their tiny crests. It was all so wondrous, so calm and familiar, she thought almost religiously; it was like an ideal world God had created somewhere else and then, for some unknown reason, had decided to place here in the midst of the harsher reality of the regular world. Oh, if only Newton were here with her now, she wished, fighting down the sudden desire to run ahead and search for him in the tool shack or the garage where he usually worked mornings.

Newton was the real reason why she was in such high spirits this morning. When she had risen this morning, she had expected him to show at least the lingering traces of his anger from last night but instead he had been almost cheerful at breakfast. He had not given any explanation for this wonderful difference in his behavior except to say that he had been doing what he mysteriously referred to as "some hard thinking that morning". Then, just before he left for work, he had surprised her by stopping at the doorway to kiss and hold her for a long blissful moment. She remembered now with a glow of radiant happiness just how astonished and thrilled she had been as she watched him disappear into the forest, so much so that her fears and doubts about their relationship had become meaningless to her in an instant and then the future had seemed to change in that instant from dismal blankness to a bright hope in her mind. Oh, anything, she would do anything! she resolved as she bounded along the same winding trail that he had taken earlier that morning, if only Newton would continue to show her such love and let her know that she was more important to him as a person than merely a female who cooked and cleaned his house, would someday probably bear him the son he wanted.

Two minutes later, Nadalee entered the Blackwell house through the kitchen door at the back and was confronted by Dolores Blackwell herself. The young maid stood silently for a moment, gazing at the thirty-five year-old woman who was leaning back against the long counter next to the stove where John, the chef, was busy preparing what seemed to be a particularly elaborate breakfast. Nadalee had been afraid of Mrs. Blackwell since taking the job and had never been able to pinpoint just why.

"Well, good morning, Nadalee," Dolores greeted. "Aren't you a bit early?"

"Yes, Mrs. Blackwell," Nadalee said, "but there were some rooms upstairs I didn't have time to clean yesterday… so I wanted to get an early start this morning."

"Don't worry about that right now, darling. I want you to work in the main living room and to spruce up the dining area this morning," the attractive older woman instructed. "Some of our special friends from San Francisco are driving up for a party George and I are giving the day after tomorrow, and of course we'd like everything to be just right for them."

"Oh, I'll work extra hard and polish the silver and everything," Nadalee assured with enthusiasm.

"I knew you'd understand, darling," Dolores smiled, nodding her head up and down as she spoke. "But make certain not to forget to straighten up our bedroom as usual this afternoon… Come up just after your lunch about the time you ordinarily do."

The young housewife opened her lips impetuously to ask what she should do after that and then swallowed the question as she remembered that Braun always relayed Mrs. Blackwell's orders to her in the afternoon. Not knowing what to do, Nadalee remained rooted to where she stood, waiting for the other woman to say something or dismiss her, whatever. But Dolores Blackwell said nothing and turned away to whisper something to the thin, rickety looking grey-haired chef beside her.

Nadalee took advantage of the opportunity to take her first long look at George Blackwell's wife. She was slightly surprised when she saw that Dolores was even more strikingly attractive than she had at first thought that first day at the airport. The woman was a honey-haired blonde with inviting blue eyes and a lush body of eye-pleasing proportions. Her mouth was small and her red lips seemed to pout in a way that suggested chronic boredom. Nadalee recalled the story that Mr. Blackwell had told on the drive up to Quail Lake from San Francisco, how some years ago he had gone to New York City to conclude a big business deal and had met Dolores one night at a stockbroker's dinner party. Recently divorced from her last husband, the blonde had been employed as a successful, high-priced fashion model in the big city. She and George had both been free to make the most of the strong attraction they had for each other. Then, after a few dates, they had decided that they were perfectly matched and had flown west for a brief wedding ceremony in Las Vegas, followed by three wild weeks of gambling and drinking to celebrate the fact that they had found each other.