The Sound of a Scream by John Manning Page A

man, she thought, deep down. But his rigidity was a problem. How could he deny his son the professional mental help he so clearly needed?
    As she continued gazing out the window, Daphne saw someone else moving across the field. Walking, however, not riding a horse. The figure was far away, sometimes obscured by the tall yellow grass. It seemed to be a man. It might be Donovan, or another servant she hadn’t met. But as the figure kept approaching—walking, it seemed to Daphne, directly toward the windows of the study—she thought maybe it was Pete. The man wore a dark shirt and pants, and had a full head of white hair. Even from a distance, he seemed to resemble the master of the house.
    Had Mr. Witherspoon gone for a walk? But it seemed impossible. She had left him sitting in the parlor. This man, whoever he was, had come from some distance across the field. There was no way Pete, who had trouble walking, could have left the house, gone that far across the field, and then headed back. Only an hour and half—maybe even just an hour and fifteen minutes—had elapsed since Daphne had left him. But the more she watched the man approaching, the more he looked like Pete.
    He was close enough now that Daphne could see he carried something in his hands.
    She strained to see.
    Suddenly she made a little gasp.
    The man was carrying an ax.
    He kept walking closer. His shock of white hair, so much like Pete’s, seemed to glow in the bright sunlight.
    And now Daphne could see that he was smiling.
    She could see something else, too.
    His dark shirt wasn’t dark at all.
    It was a white shirt.
    A white shirt—drenched in blood!

SEVEN
    “Somebody, come quick!” Daphne shouted, leaping from her chair, sending several files scattering to the floor in the process, their papers fluttering in the air like giant butterflies. “Please, someone! You’ve got to help him!”
    She ran into the corridor. Boris moved toward her at a snail’s pace, his walk truly like that of the living dead. But Ashlee now appeared as well, and she sprinted past the butler to join Daphne in the doorway of the study.
    “What’s wrong? Daphne, what’s wrong? You look white as a sheet!”
    “Outside!” Daphne pointed toward the window. “Mr. Witherspoon! Outside! He’s hurt—bleeding!”
    “Pete?” Ashlee hurried into the room. “Where? But it can’t be Pete! I just left him in the dining room!”
    “But I saw him... .” Daphne stepped back into the room. “At least, it looked like him ... An older man ... bleeding ...”
    Her eyes searched beyond the windows in vain, however, for a sign of the bleeding, smiling man. There was nothing. The tall yellow grass in the field blew in the breeze undisturbed. No one was standing there any longer.
    “It looked like Mr. Witherspoon,” Daphne said, her voice low. “I swear it looked like him ... and his shirt was covered with blood.”
    “Oh, no, no,” came a voice.
    Daphne turned. Boris had reached the doorway now. He stood there, shaking his head. He had heard what Daphne had just said. And he looked terrified.
    “He’s returned,” the butler rasped in that eerie high voice of his.
    “Stop that, Boris,” Ashlee said. She smiled over at Daphne. “You must have imagined it, sweetie.”
    “Who does he mean?” Daphne asked. “Who does he mean has returned?”
    “Boris believes in all sorts of things. Don’t pay any attention to him,” Ashlee said, casting the butler a reprimanding look.
    “With all due respect, madam,” Boris said, “I’ve lived in this house much longer than you have, and I have seen things. Things that cannot be explained.”
    Daphne shuddered. “Do you mean ... ghosts?”
    “Call them what you will,” the butler told her, “but I know what I have seen. Just as you know what you have seen.”
    “Stop it, Boris,” Ashlee scolded. “Daphne’s just arrived here. Are you trying to frighten her?”
    The butler lifted his chin. “Just trying to be honest with