The House on Black Lake

by Blackwell, Anastasia

  Our hosts have given up any attempt at maintaining the playful banter. Ruth moves to the far edge of the plank, and when Ramey grabs the rope near her feet she visibly cringes and stiffens into a statuesque position—like she’s made of wax.

  “I’m taking her in,” Ramey says. His dark eyes narrow to mere slits beneath his furrowed brow. He licks spittle from cracked lips and clenches his jaw as he takes the oar from Ruth’s flaccid hand. Against the force of a strong undercurrent he guides the craft inside an empty boat garage, where we disembark in potent silence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE HOUSE ON THE ISLAND

  THE FAÇADE OF THE IMPOSING TWO-STORY VICTORIAN RADIATES A golden light through its dormer windows, as if the dwelling itself were expecting guests. We ascend the stairs and step onto a whitewashed porch, with peeling paint that sloughs off and crackles under the weight of our feet. Worn rattan patio furniture with faded and tattered cushions are scattered about, and overhead baskets of desiccated flowers hang from the rafters. A disheveled bird’s nest clings to a rotting beam, now the home of a family of long-legged spiders. Not quite what I had in mind when I envisioned a trip to paradise.

  Ruth withdraws a key from her pocket and tries to shove it into the lock, but her hand shakes so badly she has trouble inserting it.

  “Give me the key,” Ramey says. He comes up from behind, springs the bolt and turns the weathered brass knob. The door opens with a deep moan of surrender, releasing a faint smell of rot and decay. We follow the Sandeleys into the cold embrace of an old-fashioned parlor. It is deathly quiet inside, except for the steady rhythm of a clock’s pendulum.

  “I’ll get the heat going,” Ramey says, and heads to the back of the house.

  The illumination observed from the outside is not apparent on the interior of the residence. The parlor is dimly lit by a corner lamp topped with a skewed parchment shade, vaguely highlighting a back wall lined with shelves stacked with old books and bric-a-brac. A grand piano stands in the middle of the room, with yellowed sheet music laid out. It appears many years have passed since someone caressed the ivory keys and stirred the felted hammers inside the dusty ebony veneer.

  “Don’t touch,” I warn Sammy as he reaches out to pick up a ceramic pig with its head buried in a slop bucket that is set amongst a collection of rosy-cheeked animal figurines. “We don’t want to break anything.”

  “Look, Mommy, you’re a weird little girl and I’m a monster baby.” Sammy moves to a man-sized gilded mirror resting against the wall behind the piano, where he makes faces in the warped glass.

  “We’re not here to play,” I say, and avert my eyes from the ghastly reflection.

  “Let me settle you into your bedrooms,” Ruth says.

  We follow her to a staircase set into the back wall of the parlor, and up a stairway that feels off-kilter, like our movement is being resisted by more than the force of gravity. A single bulb dangling from an electrical cord in the stairwell ceiling flickers madly above us. At the top of the second floor, we tread along a wide corridor with scarred oak floors and catch glimpses of neglected children’s rooms through partially open doors.

  “Here is yours, Sammy.”

  The room we enter is centered with a bed in the shape of a race car, covered with a faded and stained spread. A wide eyed, grinning marionette with tangled strings sits on a bureau in the corner of the room, surrounded by a collection of model airplanes. One of the planes has dive-bombed to the floor and lies in ruins. I suppress the desire to exclaim to Sammy about his good luck in sleeping in a car tonight. Instead I squeeze his hand and share a private wink that helps to dispel the gloom.

  Ruth halts before a set of double doors at the end of the hallway and clasps onto the cut-glass doorknob. We wait patiently, but she doesn’t move. Instead, she turns abruptly while lifting a hand to press fingers against her temple.

  “Let’s go back downstairs. I want to show you the kitchen,” she says and rushes down the hallway.

  “Are you all right?” I ask as we descend the stairs.

  “Fine,” she says, and shoves open a swinging door.

  “You seem upset.”

  “The migraine’s kicked in, that’s all.”

  We enter a kitchen with outdated appliances, lined with paned windows and no curtains. Ruth crosses the room to the sink and turns on the tap. The spigot creaks and sputters and throws out a rusty liquid before running clear. She splashes her face with water and seems to fight back tears.

  “I brought banana bread, fresh squeezed orange juice, instant coffee and cream for breakfast.” She wipes her face with a dish towel, then places the contents of the paper bag inside the empty refrigerator.

  “Ruth... whose house is this?”

  “It’s ours, of course, dear.”

  She takes a flyswatter and insect repellent from under the sink and begins to spray and swat at flies feeding off a bowl of rotting fruit on the center island.

  “Get away, you horrible creatures,” she squeals.

  “You’ve got heat,” Ramey says as he enters the kitchen.

  “I left your suitcase in the corner of the master bedroom. I tried to open the window to let in some fresh air, but it’s been screwed shut.

  “Have you ever played an accordion, Sam?” Ramey moves to a corner alcove in the breakfast nook to draw down an old instrument. “You open the bellows and push down on the buttons as you close. Air blows against the metal reeds and that creates the sound.” His demonstration creates a dreadful noise, like that of an animal being slaughtered. “Here, Sammy, you try it.”

  “Put that awful thing away,” Ruth cries out. She pinches her face into a grimace and cups her hands against her ears. “Degenerates play those things, men with monkeys on leashes and old drunks dancing with women in polka-dot skirts.” She roughly grabs the instrument from Sam and shoves it back onto the shelf.

  “What’s wrong, dear?” Ramey asks in a calm tone that carries a trace of something darker.

  “I don’t like it, that’s all,” Ruth retorts and clobbers the dying insects with her fly-swatter.

  “Maybe another day, Sam; we’ve got all week.”

  He moves to Ruth, wraps an arm around her waist and draws back her hair to kiss the nape of her neck. “I need to get you to bed; it’s getting late.”

  His affectionate gesture seems to calm Ruth, as she ceases the frenetic swatting. “I got them—they’re all dead.”

  She uses a dishrag to wipe up the flies and returns the swatter and repellant back to the cupboard.

  “If you missed any, they’ve warned the others and fled the island. Come dear, it’s time we go home,” Ramey says and takes Ruth by the arm to lead her out of the kitchen.

  “There’s no cell service in the enclave and the land lines are temporarily out. The animals chew through them from time to time. Repairmen are scheduled for tomorrow,” Ruth says as we follow the couple back through the house to the front porch. “I’ll return in the morning to take you back to meet the children. We’ll have lunch at the clubhouse.”

  We embrace at the door, and watch our hosts set off down the path leading to the boathouse. “Let’s go to bed, honey. It’s been a very long day.” Sam returns my weary smile and takes my hand to turn back inside the house.

  As I am about to close the door I catch a glimpse of a sight that sends a lush thrill through my body.

  At the base of the path, I watch Ramey slide his hand down to the hollow of Ruth’s bare spine. He glances back to catch my clandestine gaze and bestows a smile that steals glimmers of light from the stars. Then they disappear into the vaporous mist that shrouds the lake.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE HOME OF THE HAUNTED

  TETHERED TO BEDPOSTS WITH STRAP AND CHAIN, THE LEATHER cuffs chafe cruelly into my wrists as I struggle to balance myself on the slippery satin coverlet. Face to wall, the rigid boning of the tightly cinched corset makes me pant and gasp for air. I gaze behind me and see, in the corner of my eye, th
e tip of the red-hot branding iron. He tells me to steady myself, to hold still to take the brand. Time slows and seconds drift into the eternal. soon I shall be marked in a manner that can never be erased, his insignia burned into my skin in a place chosen by him and unknown to me until the moment the iron takes the flesh. No gold, no diamond, no priest, no witness shall be evidence of this—our sacred vow in our holy chamber, except for the two who shall be one. The honeymoon will commence shortly, yet the ceremony will not be finished. Many days will pass before I take the same pleasure with him—both marked and the sacrament complete.

  I wrench against the restraints as the burning brand takes my flesh and scream through the pain. “We’re one... now we’re one...”

  THERE IS A LOUD SLAM!

  I awaken, sit upright in the bed, and listen. A sound comes from outside the house, like a baby or small child crying.

  “Sammy, did you hear that?”

  My son sleeps soundly beside me and I don’t want to wake him. I cast aside the covers, slip from the bed and depart the room. The ominous silence is broken by the sound of a clock chiming a new hour as I move through the house to the kitchen. I cross the dusky space to a bank of drawers below the center island, where I rummage until I find myself a nice sharp butcher knife. A faint scratching comes from outside a warped window in the breakfast nook. It sounds like whatever makes the noise is on the porch outside the alcove. My heart races madly, but I gather the courage to cross the room and peer into the darkness, beyond my frightened reflection in the glass.

  A shadow darts, glowing yellow eyes inside an emaciated face. The skeletal figure of a young cat saunters, stepping gingerly across a fallen grate, and stops beneath the window to stare up at me, twitching its tail. With a high-pitched cry it springs onto the ledge, peers through the window with hungry eyes, and lifts a paw to furtively scratch against the glass. It lets out a prolonged low whimper and bares tiny sharp teeth. The shrunken kitten looks as starved for love as it is for sustenance, and its dire need gives it a cruel look not seen in pets I have nurtured in the past.

  I take the cream and banana bread from the refrigerator, mix a bit of each in a bowl, and slide the sweet mixture onto the ledge. The eager little thing presses her paw down on the lip and dips her head to take a sip of the sweet broth. The movement flips it over, spilling the contents, and the bowl shatters. The kitten leaps off the ledge to lap up what is left and then scrambles into the dense ivy encroaching the veranda.

  The window is hopelessly warped and the rusted latch stuck, so I leave it ajar and exit the kitchen with my knife in hand. I catch a whiff of something burnt, the smell of sulfur from a lit match or a singed electrical cord, as I cross the parlor to the stairwell. The long tail of what must be an enormous rat disappears into the corner near the gilded mirror, as I watch my dwarfed image vanish inside the staircase.

  The dangling bulb shatters and glass rain falls upon me as I move up the staircase. Darkness descends and the faint glow from the lamp in the parlor throws a vision of my shadow. I wipe away the slivers as I step along the dark corridor and crush the remnants into the scarred wood planks. The floorboards lend an eerie note to the profound silence. My footsteps echo, as though there are other feet walking closely behind me, footsteps very different from my bare feet—heavy shoes, the lumbering gait of a very large man! A jot of terror spikes the verve to twist and lunge with knife poised to strike. But the hallway is empty. The smiling faces of an international display of dolls stare out a partially open bedroom door. Inside the room, I notice one of the twin beds is mussed along the edge, as though someone was seated on the side facing the door.

  The master bedroom door has no lock—it only holds a space for a key. I set my knife on the nightstand and move to the corner to drag an old railway trunk from where it is tucked beneath the window and shove it against the door. With the room well secured, I lean down to pull the covers to Sammy’s chin and kiss his flushed cheek.

  The moon shines a pool of suffused light through the corner window and affords a muted rosy glow to the stuffy room. I move to the window, pull aside the frayed lace curtains and survey the grounds below. It is quiet, almost oppressively so. There are no signs of movement or activity outside. The moon seems to have grown in the waning hours and now looks as if painted an un-heavenly crimson. It glows through the gnarled branches of a massive old oak tree with a heavy rope tied around its trunk, peaking through the still leaves—a voyeuristic spy for some otherworldly god.

  I am terribly sleepy and my head throbs and there is something dreamlike about all of this. I feel I might, at any moment, awaken in a featherbed splayed out on Egyptian cotton beneath a down comforter encased in silk, and look out a window dressed in festoons and jabots overlooking city lights—my husband sprawled beside me, the dog’s heavy torso squishing my toes, and my darling babies fast asleep in their beds.

  There is a touch of the wicked in the full moon of a midsummer’s night. They say the spirit and soul awaken with the forces of nature and unleash closeted secrets and desires, best left locked safely away where they belong. Perhaps that is why I am filled with these terrors and mysterious feelings, and this unquenchable longing, an unbearable desire to feed my hungry heart.

  But that is not all of it. There is more. Something inside this house terrifies me. A presence.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SILENT CRIES

  MOMMY, I’M BLEEDING. I’M BLEEDING MOMMY.”

  “Calm down, Sammy. I’ll get a damp towel.” I clear our breakfast dishes from the table and move to the sink, where I run cold water over a dishrag. “Hold this towel over your nose and squeeze tight.

  “A starving kitten appeared on the porch last night. I’m going to leave out our leftover food in case it returns to be fed.” I empty the remaining milk and banana bread into a bowl and place it on the edge of the breakfast table near the warped window. “We’ll be gone when the little cat returns, because I’ve decided we’re moving out of the house. Ruth will arrive soon to row us back to meet the children. You can rest on the bed upstairs while I pack.”

  “Is this house haunted, Mom?”

  “There is no such thing as a haunted house,” I say and take his hand. “They are just stories people make up. It’s sometimes fun to be scared when you’re in a safe place.”

  I guide Sam upstairs to the master bedroom, help him recline on the bed and prop him up with pillows. “Keep the damp rag squeezed tight and lie still. It won’t take me long to pack up and straighten the room.”

  A picture hangs above the iron headboard of the bed. It is a pen-and-ink drawing of a man curled into a fetal position inside a jail cell. The wretched soul appears unaware the door to his barred cage is wide open.

  “I’ll ask Ruth to find us a nice hotel in the village,” I tell Sam, as I pack up yesterday’s clothing and move the railroad trunk back to its place in the corner. “I’m taking the suitcase downstairs,” I say, and exit the room.

  The interior of the house no longer holds the sense of foreboding of the previous night. It now appears sadly faded with age and neglect. I open the front door, step outside, and am met by a gush of delicious fresh air that makes me nearly giddy with delight. The black shroud of night has dissolved to an electric blue sky, and a dazzling morning sun now dominates the overhead landscape. I stifle the urge to wave as I watch flocks of birds swoop down to form a configuration resembling a ceremonial welcome.

  A hand presses against my lower back.

  “Sammy dear, you scared me. What are you doing out here? I told you to lie down on the bed.”

  “It’s spooky up there,” Sam says in a nasal voice from under the wet rag.

  “Good morning,” Ruth calls from the pathway leading up to the house. She wears a floral sundress with a full skirt that flutters in the morning breeze. Her porcelain skin is scrubbed clean of make-up, and she looks fresh and radiant. “What happened to Sammy? And what are you doing standing outside with your suitcase?”

  �
��He had a nose bleed. He has them occasionally. I’ve decided the house is too remote and isolated for a child and for me too, as far as that’s concerned. I’d be happy to find a local hotel, if you could recommend one,” I say, and pick up my bag for emphasis.

  “You don’t have to do that.” Her face clouds in the uneasy moment and she appears stymied for a response, but quickly breaks into a warm smile. “You can stay at our house, if you don’t mind the pull-out couch in the basement. All the bedrooms are being used.”

  “Thanks. Sammy would like that.” I look down to Sam for his confirmation and am relieved to see he has taken the cloth from his nose and seems fully recovered.

  “Ruth, I saw an emaciated kitten on the porch last night. I’m concerned about the poor creature.”

  “It’s probably feral. They sometimes sleep in crannies of the rowboats and get stranded when they leave the boat to look for food.” Ruth turns and walks down the stairs to the path.

  “The children are waiting,” she calls back to us. “You can throw the rag in the trash bin next to the boat garage.”

  We follow Ruth along the same path we walked last night, but daylight reveals an entirely different picture. The island is an overgrown Eden, lush and boldly vibrant, with patches of jungle-like growth around its perimeter. At the dock the playful noises of birds and insects join the lull of splashing water, and butterflies flutter among the wildflowers. The stunning lake spreads out before us, breathtakingly picturesque. Difficult to believe this pristine scene transforms to a sinister image, when day turns to night.

  “Ramey said you needed life jackets. He stored them under the seat.” Ruth steps into the rowboat, takes my suitcase, and helps Sammy and me down into the boat.

  “If I seem a bit sluggish this morning, it’s because I was up half the night. The late rowboat ride really got Ramey going. Did you and Sammy sleep well?”