Wilson slowly pulled up the gravel drive. "You don't do house calls," he informed his friend, who had finally put down his DS and stared up at the ominous house.
"I do when the house in question belongs to the one and only Renata Rollins." House was practically giddy, which was a big deal for him.
"Who?" The name was lost on Wilson.
"Only the greatest gothic horror writer of our time. She's like Poe and Lovecraft's little mistake."
"Right, great." This knowledge only added to Wilson's disinterest in entering the creepy old House that loomed before them. "Why don't I just wait out here."
"Oh come on. Do you know how few people have ever had the chance to actually meet Renata Rollins?" House couldn't believe his ears.
"Why didn't you ask one of them to come?" Wilson pulled a newspaper off the back seat.
"Wimp." House taunted.
"Yep." Wilson eagerly agreed.
"Why do I bother taking you anywhere?" House got out of the car slowly.
"Beats me." Wilson shrugged and checked out the headlines.
"Oh fine. But you better be here when I get back." House hobbled along the dirt path that lead to the front porch. "And you're buying dinner," he called back over his shoulder.
"If it means I don't have to go into the really creepy house to meet the really creepy patient, I can live with that."
House slowly mounted the three, warped steps to the porch. This would have been a lot more fun with Wilson at his side, but whatever. He was a loner. He liked being alone. He pulled the antique doorbell, alone, and he liked it, or so he tried to convince himself.
He leaned over and tried to peer in the window while he waited, but the curtains were pulled shut and all he could see was that they were made of a heavy velvet.
"Can I help you?" A surprisingly happy looking woman stood before him. House had really expected some sort of skeletal figure dressed all in black, but the short, plump red head was wearing a brightly colored, flowing caftan.
"Dr. Gregory House, here to see Renata Rollins." He reached in his pocket. His camera phone was ready. He knew she wouldn't allow a picture to be taken, so he'd have to act fast, when the moment arrived.
"You're not the one we called." She frowned at him. "One moment." The woman left him standing on the porch as she swung the door shut.
Once he was convinced she was out of sight, he tried the door. Surprisingly it was unlocked. He really wasn't expecting that. He smiled back at Wilson, then walked in.
The inside of the house was much like the outside, spooky by design. A heavy dust hung over every surface, but the house did not feel dirty, just neglected. A large oil painting hung at the landing straight ahead, where the stairs stopped and turned direction.
It had to be Renata Rollins. She was just as he pictured her, dark haired, deep, mysterious eyes, impeccably put together.
His view became blocked by the planet like presence of the woman who'd opened the door, and then slammed it in his face. "I did not let you in."
"You didn't lock me out either." House replied, eying her up, making his judgment.
She was not a woman to tangle with, strong and sturdy, and used to dealing with difficult personalities. She wouldn't roll over and play dead for him.
"Wait in the parlor. Do you think you can do that without getting lost?" She eyed him angrily. He had clearly disrupted her perfectly run household.
"I think I can, but if you have a map..." he was glad she huffed off, because he didn't really know what else he might say.
He followed her plodding figure into the room whose window he'd tried to look in from the porch. He recognized the drapes right away. They were much more ornate on this side, but the pattern was basically the same. "Nice curtains," he said to her back as she left him.
He heard the key turning in the door, and when he tried it, it was locked. He pulled out his mobile and hit 1.
"What?" Wilson's annoyed voice answered after seeing the name on the screen.
"She locked me in a room." House said, more amused than anything.
"Renata Rollins locked you in a room?" Wilson tried to process this. "Maybe she wants to have her wicked way with you." Even his voice was rolling it's eyes.
"More likely she wants to suck out my soul and use it to keep her young." House laughed.
"Oooh, did you find a big painting of her looking all old and decrepit?"
"I thought you didn't like horror novels."
"It was a movie." Wilson protested. He'd seen the Portrait of Dorian Grey when he was a boy. It was on late night television. It scared the shit out of him.
House hung up the phone without another word. He was staring at the most amazing Stravarius he'd ever seen. It was sitting on top of an antique Ningbo wedding cabinet.
"Do you play, Dr. House?" A cool, reserved voice came from behind him. He hadn't heard the door open and spun to face her. It was a face he'd seen before. It was the face in the painting. She had to be Renata's daughter.
"A little." House had only ever toyed with the violin, as a boy, when he was going through his Sherlock Holmes phase, but he wasn't going to tell her all that.
"Perhaps you could play for me sometime." There was a sadness about her that he found unsettling. It must be her mother's illness getting to her. Or perhaps Renata was her grandmother. That seemed like it could be right.
"I'd really like to see your grandmother now." He assessed her carefully. She was younger than him, but not by much. Her face held the knowledge of age, but still had a youthful glow to it that pointed to a well lived life. She was pretty, in a cold, unapproachable way. Not his type at all, but Wilson would probably do her, in a pinch.
The woman laughed, a lifeless, empty sort of laugh.
"Not your grandmother?" House really had thought he'd added the ages right.
"No, not my grandmother." The woman smiled at him coolly.
"Well, she is expecting me." House's mind was working double time. Maybe great grandmother?
"No, she wasn't." She walked over to a roll top desk and pulled out a neatly stuffed folder. "I don't think this was a good idea." She looked anxious, like a frightened rabbit, unsure which way to run as two bright, blinding headlights came down on her.
"Well, I'm the best doctor at Princeton Plainsboro, so she SHOULD have called me." House's ego was slightly bruised. Cameron had taken the call, and informed House about the case. If they weren't expecting him, who the hell did they think they were getting?
"Your reputation is well known, Dr. House." She almost smiled a genuine smile at him, but she couldn't quite seem to pull it off. "But you can't help us. You must leave." She hurried him toward the door.
"Can't I at least meet her? I'm a huge fan." House felt his opportunity slipping away.
"Another time perhaps. She's not feeling well today." House looked over her shoulder, wondering what she found so facinating that she kept glancing that way. He saw nothing.
"Well, then, you're in luck." He dug his heels in, refusing to be shoved away. "I just so happen to be a doctor. What a coinicidence." He tried to make his large frame as unthreatening as possible. It wasn't easy. She was a rather petite woman.
"Please, Dr. House." She looked over her shoulder in time to see the other woman bring in a tray of tea. "Thank you Cora, but Dr. House was just leaving." She gave him a bit of a shove.
House looked at both women carefully, then allowed himself to be shown to the door without futher protest. Something was going on in this house, and he was going to find out what, but he felt sure that right now, he should leave.
"Thank you for coming Dr. House." The woman with chocolate brown eyes looked at him pleadingly. He couldn't tell exactly what he was expected to see. She looked away too soon.
"That was fast." Wilson looked up from the paper as House dropped into the passenger seat.
"I didn't even get to meet her," House huffed.
"What?"
House stared at the old Victorian mansion as Wilson started up the car. His hand dropped quickly on Wilson's arm. "This is your fault."
"My fault?"
"You were supposed to be my wing man."
"Wing man?" Wilson looked at House with humor as he drove off.
The heavy brocade curtain in the middle upstairs window fell back into place as the car vanished down the long gravel path. House looked back a moment too late to notice.
The car stopped suddenly. "What did you do that for?" Wilson hadn't been the one to stop it, and was now glaring at House, whose hand was on the emergency break.
"Something's going on in that house and I want to know what it is."
"Yeah, well, I want to go get a Philly Cheese Steak at Ralph's, so..." He struggled to push House's hand off the break. House let go, and darted out of the car. Wilson groaned and rolled down his window. "I'm not waiting here for you." He hoped that threat would knock some sense into his friend, but he should have known better.
"Fine." House barely turned to acknowledge his friend. He had a mystery to solve. After a month without a case, a month of Cuddy breathing down his neck, a month of nothing but snot nosed kids and bitchy mothers, he finally had a real mystery on his hands. He wasn't about to let it slip by.
House was surprisingly agile as he slipped around the back of the house, darting from bush to bush to remain unseen. The handful of Vicodin he tossed down his throat just before exiting Wilson's car probably had something to do with it.
He was not surprised to find all the doors and windows of the first floor locked. There was, however, a lucky break in one of the basement windows. One gentle bang with rubber end of his cane and the glass shattered.