by Cailyn Lloyd
He decided the book was the critical clue. Within lay the answers to all his questions.
Answers that would be forthcoming when he completed the translation.
Thirty-Two
Dressed in bib overalls and a greasy Purina cap, Tom wandered woods and fields around the house. He was, after all, the caretaker and that was his job. Watch the house. Keep strangers and the curious away. Allow no harm to befall the place. He had grown tired of the responsibility though. While he had little temporal awareness, it seemed years and years had gone by, and an endless future here stretched ahead of him. It felt more like a sentence than a job.
Tom heard a car with a faulty muffler approach and knew who it was at once. He wandered over to the old logging trail and watched a teen park his car out of sight on the disused forest road. The kid stepped out of the car and looked about furtively. Tall and thin in stature, his clothes hung loosely on his frame. He looked a bit like a scarecrow, and that was the name Tom had given him. He was a frequent visitor.
Scarecrow grabbed a rifle and walked into the trees, stalking the forest for small game. Armed with a .22, a powerful scope, and a keen eye, he felled small animals—often rabbits and squirrels—maiming and killing them out of what appeared to be pure malice.
When he seemed to be in good spirits, a final shot to the head finished his brutal work. Otherwise, he left the injured animals to be devoured by other predators. Today, he looked angry and miserable and hadn’t stirred up so much as a mouse.
Breaking through dense brush, Scarecrow stopped and stared at the MacKenzie house. Tom imagined he saw that old beam and plaster mansion as a vision out of a horror movie. It looked empty too. No visible lights, no cars in the drive; Tom knew they were gone for the day. The kid slowly raised his rifle toward the house and put his eye to the scope. Those panes of leaded glass had to be tempting targets.
Tom approached, trying to rustle the brush and make noise, or better yet, materialize and scare the shit out the little bastard.
Lowering the rifle, the kid turned, eyes narrowed, but there was little evidence of fear in them. Tom, feeling sleek and grey, sidled through the woods, leading him away from the house.
The boy crouched and stalked him like an animal. He raised the rifle, brought the scope to his eye, and fired two quick shots. Tom fell out of sight in the underbrush, waiting, gathering his energy for the big shock.
Scarecrow approached carefully and, as he stepped forward to deliver the killing shot, Tom willed himself to materialize out of the brush and reared up over his head with a terrible howl, yelling, “Little bastard!”
The kid yelped as he jumped back in fright. Dropped the rifle, lost his footing, stumbled, and scooted backwards on his ass into the brush.
Tom snatched a pitchfork out of the ether and jabbed the tines at the boy with clear menace.
Rolling and struggling to scramble away, Scarecrow ran headlong through the brush. Lost a shoe but barely slowed, thrashing through briers, scratching his arms.
Tom gave chase but the kid never looked back. He kept running until he reached his car, dove in, and locked the doors, still shaking in abject terror, looking like he had just seen a ghost.
Tom laughed.
That was fun; Scarecrow would have a hell of a story to tell—if anyone believed him.
Tom watched the little bastard gun the engine and careen backwards down the road, scattering gravel and dirt, leaving his gun and shoe behind. Tom laughed in a preternatural way, quite certain he’d never see that troublemaker again.
Standing in the woods, he looked with empty longing toward his old property. The house had burnt down years ago. The fields had run wild, reverting to wild prairie and woodland. He had no family and had willed the land to the Kettle Moraine State Forest to preserve the natural character of the property. He never imagined they would get it so soon.
He turned and wandered toward Elizabeth’s house.
Whoa!
The house seemed to be glowing slightly. The roof shimmered an iridescent green, especially around the central chimney. He closed his eyes and shook his head. Looked again, but the aura was still there. In all his time here, he’d never seen anything like it. The cause seemed obvious. The people in the house had opened that disused room and now the roof was glowing.
Whatever it was, it felt like an omen.
Nothing good would come of this.
Thirty-Three
As night fell over Lost Arrow, Lucas walked into the White Birch and sat at his usual stool at the far corner of the bar. Two older men sat in the middle, talking to Jake, the bartender. The place was otherwise empty, but the usual crowd would wander in soon. Each night here was similar, a constancy Lucas found reassuring. He had become one of the regulars and like most of them, he hunted and fished, drank heavily, pissed and moaned about life, his wife, and politics in a daily ritual that often ran past midnight. It was November, he was growing a beard.
Behind a feigned mask of composure, Lucas was a churning mess of despair and self-flagellation. Somehow, he had lost control of his life. He didn’t understand why he spent so much time with these drunks. Or Murphy. He hadn’t slept with her though she was openly available. He was attracted to her raw seductive manner, her movements fluid and sexy. Still, she wasn’t terribly refined. A small internal voice suggested he was better than this, that a relationship with her was beneath him. Besides, he was married, though that seemed less and less relevant as of late.
Most days, he wandered the woods around the house with a bow or sat on the lake in the Alumacraft. He otherwise whiled away the hours at the White Birch with Bruce, Murphy, Andy and other interchangeable characters, and too much alcohol.
Much of his malaise stemmed from remorse, an inner dialogue that ran incessantly. Nate’s accident was his fault; of that he was certain. He’d left Nate alone that day and therefore, the blame fell on him. Simple cause and effect. Nate would have been fine had he stayed home and so Lucas wallowed in unrelenting guilt as a result. Lucas saw no reason to discuss the issue, so he ignored Laura and her persistent nagging about it.
He also imagined a darker outcome. If he had he stayed home, he may have been injured or killed in the explosion. Instead, he was fine and Nate was in a coma. It had a name—survivor’s guilt—but giving it a name did not ease the haunting burden he felt.
Worst of all, the trip had been a waste of time. Shepherd had no answers and they might not be forthcoming for months. The book was worthless if Nate remained in a coma anyway. Lucas had often been abrupt and dismissive of Nate’s ideas, but beneath that overt brotherly contempt lay a deep, abiding love and admiration for his brother. He felt Nate slipping away, and he would never forgive himself if he didn’t recover.
Some of his malaise stemmed from the incongruous events of that day.
Why had Laura warned Nate?
Nate, be careful, okay?
Ashley had pulled him aside and related the story of Laura’s seizure and ramblings in the mall. What did it mean? Had she foreseen the accident? He didn’t believe in any of that nonsense, but reflecting further, he too wondered why Laura hadn’t been more emphatic in her warning. How did she know? Did she have something to do with it? Lucas recognized these thoughts as irrational, but they continued to nag him.
He knew this: lately, her every word grated on his nerves. She sounded more and more abrasive as she poked and prodded him to talk, to seek help, to open up. At least no one at the White Birch bothered him beyond a brief inquiry into Nate’s condition. Nevertheless, some deeper connection remained—perhaps the only reason he hadn’t slept with Murphy.
Yet.
He was wary of Laura, sensing something dark and sinister about her and yet, he couldn’t believe he was thinking that way. It was paranoid and irrational. He didn’t believe in the paranormal, to him a world inhabited by angels and devils, good and evil, heaven and hell, a big scary God—superstitious nonsense for which Lucas had no use. So why was he thinking that way
?
He didn’t know.
And he couldn’t stop.
Thirty-Four
Laura laid Leah down for a nap with a kiss on the forehead and stood in the hallway, wondering what to do next. At least two hours of silence lay ahead and silence it was, not peace and quiet—that respite for people who led busy lives. Her life had become accursed with silence, a void that grew larger every day and seemed amplified by the huge house.
She walked to her bedroom and donned a white dobok, tied the red belt around her waist, and jogged down the stairs to the Hall. First, she performed a stretching routine, then pushed the furniture from the center of the room. Laura practiced her Palgwe forms, a Taekwondo technique of fighting an imaginary opponent in precise steps.
Stand to attention. Turn right and punch, step and snap-kick. Turn left, punch, step, snap-kick…
She practiced the forms a couple times a week. She missed her classes and needed to find a local dojang to complete her training for her black belt. After forty minutes, she was tired and sweating profusely. Laura took a quick shower and dressed in black sweats. Leah remained asleep.
Back in the Hall, she sat at the Steinway and played scales and simple progressions to loosen her fingers.
The brisk sunny days of October had yielded to the dull grey skies of November. The last holdout leaves fell from the trees, and days grew ever shorter. Canadian winds brought snow squalls from the north, leaving barren patchy white landscapes behind. For Laura, it had been a sad and faceless passage of time. Nate remained in a coma. Ashley hadn’t spoken to her since. Lucas had all but deserted her. He spent his mornings outdoors hunting or chopping wood, trekking every afternoon to the White Birch and drinking until late—except on the days he drove south to visit Nate. She had gone once, but Lucas had been silent the entire trip, and Ashley had left without a word when Laura arrived.
Lucas looked gaunt and pale. He had quit shaving and had several weeks of ragged growth. Laura knew he was in pain and had been sympathetic the first few weeks, knowing time was the only cure, but her sympathy had soured to anger and resentment. She was in pain too. She loved Nate, couldn’t stand to see him in a bed, unmoving, almost lifeless. Lucas was curt when they talked and refused to discuss their failing relationship. They hadn’t made love in over a month, and she had lain awake nights next to him, almost aching with need. He pushed her away when she tried to touch him with various ironic excuses: “I’m tired. I have a headache. Not tonight.”
Laura wondered if he was seeing someone at the White Birch, but he had never given her reason to doubt him. She began to live her life apart from Lucas. Perhaps ignoring him would draw him back. She moved a single bed into Leah’s room and slept there, made meals on her own schedule, came and went as she pleased.
She doted on Leah, playing and having adult conversations, Leah’s big eyes intent as if she understood every word. Perhaps she did. They had a routine. She and Leah ate breakfast, then walked if the weather permitted. If not, they played indoors. Leah napped for a few hours every afternoon and would sit quietly in her play area engrossed in her toys while Laura worked with her glass, did forms, or played the piano.
She had sold two lamps on Etsy and had orders for two more. Dana called most days and they chatted about many things, including Lucas. Dana too had found him aloof when they spoke.
All of these things had the desired result of taking her mind off the pain she felt over the loss of Lucas’s companionship, Nate’s absence, and the apparent end of her friendship with Ashley.
It was the Sunday before Thanksgiving, and Laura had thought about a turkey, but she didn’t see Lucas sitting down to a holiday dinner. He would probably go to the White Birch and watch football, and that would leave just her and Leah. The thought of spending Thanksgiving alone with Leah set upon her with deep and longing sadness. Maybe she should visit Dana.
She played a simple chord sequence, breaking into dreamy variations, losing herself to the music. Her progressions morphed into complex patterns with an aggressive edge. She could disappear into the chords but also vent her frustrations.
Her phone rang. Laura stopped and looked at the screen. It was Dana. After the initial small talk, Dana said, “I was wondering if you’d mind if I came to visit for a few days, maybe even a week?”
“No, I’d love it,” Laura said, almost desperate for meaningful company, but she detected a tone. “Dana, is anything wrong?”
“Oh nothing…”
Dead silence.
She then realized Dana was gone. Looked at the phone. Yep, another dropped call. The signal out here was iffy—not that anyone called her anyway. A moment later, the phone rang.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Dana? What’s the matter?”
Still silent. Laura checked her phone again. Still there. Finally, Dana said, “My communications professor hit on me last week. Pretty blatantly. I told him no—I was polite—I thought I was, anyway. I just got my last exam returned with a failing grade. There was nothing wrong with it, Mom. Nothing!” Dana was almost yelling. “I may have to retake the fucking class!”
Laura clenched her fist. “How does that shit still happen? What’s the little bastard’s name—”
“No, Mom, you can’t go off on him. I’m appealing. In the meantime, is it okay if I come to visit?”
“Of course. When are you coming?”
“Tuesday.”
“I can’t wait to see you.”
Laura hung up and sat staring into space. She had to clean the house, and with Dana coming for Thanksgiving, she would do a turkey, stuffing, the works. Dana couldn’t have called at a better time. Lucas could go to the bar; she no longer cared. She, Dana, and Leah would have a Thanksgiving feast.
Laura then remembered the Pampered Chef party at Brenda Anson’s that night. She contemplated canceling but decided against it. Dana or no Dana, she needed to get out of the house and meet people, and a Pampered Chef party seemed like a good place to start. Laura ran to Anson’s General Store frequently for odd items—butter, half and half, eggs—and she often lingered there, chatting with Carol. One day, in passing, Laura mentioned the need for a babysitter to Carol.
Carol had said, “You could ask my daughter. She’s laid off and I know she’s looking for something to do. You’ll have to bring her to town, though. I know Brenda won’t go anywhere near your house.”
Laura was hesitant to leave Leah with a relative stranger.
Carol may have sensed her reluctance. “Brenda’s hosting a Pampered Chef party day after tomorrow. You’re welcome to come. You can meet my daughter and see the house.”
“I’d love to.” Though Laura wondered about being asked. Lost Arrow hadn’t otherwise been particularly welcoming.
“There’ll be a few women your age as well.”
“That sounds wonderful. I do need to get out more.”
“I’d say. Your social calendar is a bit thin judging by the amount of time you spend here.” She smiled and patted Laura on the hand.
It sounded like a good opportunity to meet some of the women from town and to find a babysitter. She needed help with Leah so she could attend auctions, pick up glass supplies, or just get out of the house for a while.
A knife fell to the floor in the kitchen and clattered on the tile. Laura stood and trudged to the kitchen, picked the knife up, and set it back on the counter. A moment later, a door slammed somewhere upstairs.
“Mrs. Moskopf! Or whatever you are, knock it off!” Laura yelled to the empty room. This nonsense with the knives had started a few days before. It wasn’t scary. It was annoying. More and more, she thought about leaving and returning to Illinois. Lucas scoffed at the idea.
Neglect his wife? No problem. Leave the house? Never.
She loved Lucas, wasn’t seriously contemplating divorce, but she couldn’t stand being ignored much longer. He rebuffed her every effort to talk and mend things. Maybe she needed bolder action to grab his attention, but that was cynical, a
nd in a moment of candor, Laura realized she was becoming cynical about many things. Occasionally, she wondered about Ashley. She’d written a conciliatory letter a few weeks after Nate’s accident, but Ashley hadn’t answered.
Now this nonsense with the knives and the doors. Were they trying to tell her something?
It was good Dana was coming to visit, and good she was going to a Pampered Chef party. She needed to return to a more mindful existence.
Thirty-Five
Brenda Anson’s house was three doors down from the store. It looked like a small Cape Cod, but the porch light didn’t illuminate much of the house, especially in the dense fog. Laura was inexplicably nervous. She could still drive by and go home, but she forced herself to stop. She walked up to the house, lugging Leah on her left hip, a diaper bag and purse hanging from her right shoulder.
Carol opened the door, wearing navy-blue stretch pants, a dingy white sweater, and a big smile. To her left, in a brightly lit living room, a young woman hurriedly picked up toys scattered about the brown carpet.
“Brenda! Laura MacKenzie’s here,” Carol bellowed.
Laura set Leah on her feet and took off her coat as Brenda rushed to the hallway, smoothing wrinkles from her stretch pants. She looked much like Carol; thick and heavy set, her hair jet black, face pasty white, though her eyes were brighter, not as puffy as her mother’s. Two young boys, perhaps four and six years old, trailed shyly behind. Two other women sat in the living room in animated conversation, pausing to give Laura a quick appraisal.
After introductions, Laura followed Brenda into the living room. Leah dropped to her knees and crawled to a pile of toys. The boys plopped down next to her and began playing. Laura smiled, but the boys only stared at her. Laura sighed and sat in a small brown armchair so she could see the front door and the guests as they arrived. The room itself was subdued in color, mostly tans and browns, but enlivened with an abundance of plants; spiders, philodendrons, and ferns.
