"Perhaps you should go to a specialist in New Orleans."

"I've been to specialists. None of them are worth a damn. It's a curse, I tell you. No medicine will help me."

"That's not true, Mrs. Tate. I think--"

"You think? Listen to her, Jeanne. She thinks. What arrogance. Are you a doctor already?"

"No, but . ."

"But nothing," she said. "Jeanne, get me one of those pills. At least they keep me from suffering."

"Okay, Mother." Aunt Jeanne looked at me and then got up. The moment she left the room, Mrs. Tate seemed to have a surge of new energy. She leaned toward me, her eyes small dark beads. "Tell me about your mother. Quickly."

I explained again what had happened to Jean and why Mammy had returned to the bayou.

The story apparently pleased her. She smiled and sat back. "It's true," she said. "She is responsible, and more will happen until she . ."

"Until she what?"

"Drowns, just as my son drowned," she said bitterly.

Before my eyes, her face seemed to shrivel and grow haggard with the impact of her hate. The sight of this transformation sent a hot flash through my spine. Bitterly I met her eyes. "That's a horrible thing to say. You're not just sick in your body; you're sick in your mind. Daddy was right. You're twisted up inside, and your hatred has turned you into this . . . creature!" I cried and got up.

"Pearl!" Aunt Jeanne said, returning. "What happened? Mother, what did you say?"

"Just the truth," she muttered. "Give me the pill." I ran from the room, my heart thumping, my face burning with anger and fear.

Aunt Jeanne caught up with me on the gallery steps. "Pearl, wait! Please! You mustn't listen to her, Pearl. She's not well."

"No, she isn't. She's so full of meanness and hate, it's eating her alive," I said. "I was hoping, praying, that for some reason Mommy would have come to you. She always liked you, but I can see why she would stay away," I said looking back through the front door.

"She might still call me, Pearl."

"I'm returning to Cypress Woods," I said. "That's where she was last."

"Cypress Woods? Oh, dear. I hope she'll be all right. The poor thing. There's nothing worse than losing a child. Look what it did to my mother," she added and I softened. She was right. There was no excuse for Gladys Tate's viciousness, but it was understandable that she would think the world had been cruel to her.

"Come on back inside, Pearl. She'll calm down and go to sleep, and you and I will be able to visit."

"Thank you, Aunt Jeanne, but I would just be on pins and needles thinking about Pierre and Mommy and Daddy."

"But what can you do at Cypress Woods?"

"Wait, hope, keep searching," I said. "I'll drive by the shack again and see if she's gone back there, and then I'll return to Cypress Woods."

"I'd go searching with you, but I can't leave my mother just yet," she explained.

"I'll be all right, Aunt Jeanne."

"My mother's going to return to her own home tomorrow. Then you can come and stay with me, okay? If you want, I'll ride around with you, too."

"I'll see." I was praying that I wouldn't have to be here tomorrow. "Thank you." We hugged, and I went to my car. She stood on the gallery, her arms folded, smiling hopefully at me. I saw the butler approach her and heard him say, "Mrs. Tate wants to see you immediately, ma'am."

Aunt Jeanne waved, and I got into the car and drove away, understanding a little more about the turmoil and unhappiness my mother had endured while she was a part of the Tate family.

At first the shack didn't look any different. I thought the path through the overgrown weeds might be more trampled, but I couldn't be sure. The front door, however, was now dangling, the top hinge having been broken off, and when I entered the shack, I gasped in shock. The remaining old furniture had been overturned and tossed about like toy furniture. The legs of the sofa were cracked, as were the arms of the rocker. There were marks on the wall where a chair had been slammed against it.

The kitchen was worse. The table had been overturned, and the cypress floorboards were cracked and splintered. The woodstove had been pulled away from the wall and the shelves above it smashed.

Tags: V.C. Andrews Landry Horror
Source: readsnovelonline.net