She said he had a long thick beard that flowed down across his barrel-like chest. He was dressed in shabby overalls and wore a red cap. With one swift move, Bit said, the big, pale man with the crooked axe reached down, snatched the dead carcass of the rabbit from the jaws of the yapping dog and consumed what was left of it in a single gulp.
Most chilling of all, when the big man finished devouring the rabbit, he swung his massive head around toward Bit and glared at her. It was then that she noticed that half of the man’s face was missing—as if torn off in some tragic accident. Instead of a mouth, there was only a bloody cavity that gaped unnaturally wide. A single eye remained, she explained, a bloody bulb protruding from a blackened socket that burned like fire. As that one eye glared at her, the man's shredded lips parted even wider in a cruel, misshapen grin. A globby mixture of blood and entrails oozed from the gaping hole that was once the pale man's mouth, dripping down onto his whiskers and splattering his gargantuan chest and belly. For one heart-stopping moment, Bit thought the brooding monster with the rabbit guts flowing past his shredded lips was coming for her.
"I was so scared, Mama, so very, very scared. He kept standing there with the rabbit's blood pouring out of his mouth, grinning at me with that awful black eye, and he was twitching all over, kind of like a big, ragged puppet, then he took a step toward me, Mama, he was coming and I was so scared. I wanted to cry, to scream, but I couldn't make a sound, Mama, no sound came out of mouth..."
Suddenly, she continued, a boy had stepped out of the bushes—a boy not much older than herself. He was tall and thin and as pale as the big man with the axe. He was barefooted and wearing a pair of grimy overalls and sported a thick crop of bristly, red hair. He stood between the big man and Bit, fists curled and clenched in silent defiance. Both spoke in a curious accent that Bit found difficult to understand, but it was clear enough that the thin young boy with the wild red mane and wadded fists was trying to protect her from the much bigger man.
“Then he was gone, Mama, all at once he was gone, both of them, the big man and the boy, just gone.” She halted, drew in a deep breath and wheezed: "They just disappeared, Mama."
"Oh, baby," Laura moaned, cradling her weeping daughter in her arms. "Why didn't you tell that to Phyllis and me earlier?"
Choking back tears, Bit said, "I didn't want to get Lord Nelson in any trouble. It wasn't his fault."
"It wasn't anybody's fault," was all Laura could think of to say as she continued to rock her baby back and forth in her arms.
Later in bed, the last thing Bit told her mother before drifting off to sleep, was that the red-haired boy she had seen in the forest, the one who had saved her from the horrible man with the big axe and bloody face, was one of the same boys she had seen down on the beach two nights before.
All through the crashing storm that night, as she cuddled close to her sleeping daughter beneath a stack of quilts piled high on her big brass bed, a singular thought kept tormenting Laura: what kind of nightmarish monster had Bit encountered out there in the woods?
Chapter Sixteen
NEXT MORNING, LAURA rose early and dressed. She went into the kitchen, made a pot of coffee and checked her Smartphone for messages. There were a couple of texts, but nothing from Brad. Oh, well, if stupid texts got through, then at least they still had a signal.
At eight-fifteen, Laura went quietly up to check on Bit. When she saw that she was still sound asleep, she slipped back downstairs and pulled on a coat and scarf. She stood at the door several seconds, thinking hard. Was she doing the right thing?
It didn’t matter, she reasoned. She had to have answers. She went outside, shutting and locking the door behind her. If she hurried, she'd be back long before her daughter awoke.
After carefully checking to make sure the door was locked, Laura crossed the yard, still wet from last night's rain, and strode briskly down the path leading into the forest.
The sun had been up for at least an hour, but the breeze that blew in off the lake penetrated Laura's coat. Overhead, tree branches rattled and scraped, and the wind made moaning noises as it whistled through the boughs.
⸙
IT DIDN'T TAKE HER long—less than twenty minutes, in fact—to reach Phyllis's cozy little house on the other side of the cove.
From the outside, it looked just like the kind of place she imagined Phyllis would live. Built of white cedar logs with a sturdy rock foundation and sloping slate roof, the house looked perfect in that setting, perched on the side of a gentle slope over-planted with a blanket of red berries and surrounded by a hand-hewn rail fence.
Laura noticed a fine vegetable garden on one side and an orchard of maturing fruit trees on the other. Behind the house, a densely wooded forest stretched toward the mountains.
Laura heard Lord Nelson's familiar frantic barking behind the front door long before she crossed Phyllis’s yard and started up the front steps.
She was halfway up the porch when she heard Phyllis’s voice calming the little pooch down and saw the front door swing open. Phyllis stood in the doorway, thick gray curls shrouding her smooth round face like a cloud. She wore work clothes—gloves, old jeans, a thick flannel shirt and a red cardigan sweater looped across her shoulders. A pair of mud-speckled glasses dangled from her neck.
“Laura, dear. What a pleasant surprise,” Phyllis said, wiping her hands on an old cloth. The woman’s clear blue eyes twinkled in the early morning sunlight. Warm, sweet smells wafted from inside the house.
“Hello, Phyllis. I hope I’m not disturbing you this early.”
“Nonsense.” Phyllis cracked. She brushed a stray hair out of her eyes. A couple of black smudges decorated her face—dirt, Laura accurately surmised. “I've been up since daylight working in the garden. Goodness, I must look a mess.” She stuffed the dirty rag in a pocket. “Would you like to come inside? You look like you could use a hot cup of tea.”
“Thank you,” Laura said gratefully. “That would be wonderful.”
As she held the door open for Laura, she asked: “And just where is that darling little daughter of yours this morning?”
“Back at the house asleep. I can’t stay long.”
Laura entered a spacious living room with wide-plank floors, flat log walls and a soaring cathedral ceiling. She saw no stairs, so assumed it was only one story. Sweet and savory smells filled the house.
“I was just about to go out back to the garden again and pick some red cabbage,” Phyllis said.
“Please don't let me hold you up,” Laura apologized. “Should I come back another time?”
“No, no, of course not. This is perfect. Just make yourself at home, my dear. I’ll run in the kitchen and put on the kettle. Won’t be but a jiff.”
With Phyllis out of the room, Laura marveled at the elderly woman’s taste in décor. Handsome wooden bookcases lined every wall, interspersed with paintings, sketches, posters, old clocks and what looked like a row of vintage photographs. The furniture was worn but comfortably elegant—surprisingly so—for such a rustic setting. A pair of matching wingchairs made of stubbed and cracked brown leather flanked a plush green sofa. Stacks of academic journals, books and various notebooks lay on top of a handsome, hand-made wooden coffee table. A thick Oriental carpet separated the sitting area from a massive stone fireplace. Stacks of rough-cut firewood towered precariously on either side of the hearth.
Laura examined closely a long row of framed diplomas, certificates and awards: 1969 Professor of the Year; 1973 Professor of the Year; PhD in History from Tulane; Masters of Science from the University of St. Andrews, Scotland. A series of mostly black-and-white photographs portraying Phyllis at various stages through the years—high school, college, various poses in academic regalia, even one in a bikini on the French Riviera—drew her inspection.
In one frame she noticed a much younger version of Phyllis linked arm-in-arm with a handsome, scholarly looking man with round John Lennon glasses, a curly black ponytail and matching beard
. Both were smiling and holding up their fingers in the fashionable peace sign of the time.
“That was Edgar, my late husband,” Phyllis said, smiling as she entered the room holding a tray of tea and cookies. “We were married for thirty-five years. He was a great man—scientist, researcher and husband. He was on the verge of discovering a serum that would slow the spread of cancer cells when—surprise, surprise—they discovered a clot of bad cells in his own lymphatic system. Poor dear died six months later on his sixty-fourth birthday. One year shy of collecting Social Security.”
“I’m so sorry,” Laura replied, not sure whether Phyllis had intended the remark about Social Security to be funny.
Phyllis shoved a pile of magazines out of the way and placed the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “No need to feel sorry. My Edgar lived a long, productive life, and he enjoyed it to the end. What I miss—what I still miss—is the travel we had planned. Peru, Alaska, the Orient. He was fond of faraway places and looked forward to traveling the world when he retired. But the poor dear never got the chance. Always shut in that smelly old laboratory. I always said he smelled like embalming fluid when he came home. Well, he’s in a happier place now.” She poured the tea. “Sugar or milk?”
“Both, please,” Laura said.
“Good girl, that’s the way I like it, too.” Phyllis dropped a teaspoon of sugar in Laura’s cup and a dash of milk, then did the same with hers. “Cheers,” she said, plopping down on the sofa next to Laura.
“Cheers,” Laura replied.
Phyllis settled back. "Now then, where were we?" Before Laura could remind her, Phyllis quickly asked: "But first I want to know all about Bit. How is she this morning? That was quite an adventure she had yesterday."
Laura shook her head. “That’s kind of what I came over to talk to you about."
Phyllis stared at Laura over the rim of her teacup. “I take it the poor dear hasn't gotten over that awful ordeal in the forest yesterday. Is that it?”
Laura fidgeted uncomfortably on the sofa. She started to tell her about Bit’s bizarre encounter with the strange boy and the big man with the axe but didn't. Instead, she shook her head and said, "I'm afraid so. She's still pretty upset."
Phyllis slurped at her tea. "Well, these things happen, my dear. Whatever it was, she'll get over it."
While in the kitchen, Phyllis had brushed back her wild bangs and wiped some of the dirt from her forehead. But a few smudges remained to mar the woman's otherwise perfectly unblemished face. Laura noticed a reddish stain on the back of Phyllis's hand, and another on the top of one of her boots. “Now then, what brings you over to my neck of the woods so early in the morning?”
Laura took another sip of tea, straightened. “Actually, there is something I’d like to talk to you about. It’s nothing, really, and you’ll probably think I’m insane for even bringing it up.”
Phyllis thought quietly. "Nonsense. Whatever's on your mind, I seriously doubt you're insane. Remember, you’re talking to an old history professor who's been around the block a time or two. You can't imagine the range of tales I’ve heard over the years.” Phyllis finished her tea, set the cup down on the tray. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s troubling you.”
⸙
LAURA CLEARED HER THROAT. “You’ve lived up here a long time,” she started. It was obvious she was struggling for words. “Have you ever heard any...well, the best way to describe it is, strange noises around here, especially late at night?”
Phyllis picked up a cookie and nibbled. “What kind of strange noises?”
Laura forced a nervous smile. “Like bells ringing. Out on the lake. My daughter and I have heard them three straight nights now. I know how crazy this must sound, but they seem to be coming from somewhere far out over the lake.”
“Bells, you say.”
Laura nodded. “The sound comes and goes, but it’s always at night. At times it's so loud we can't sleep,” she explained. “Do you know of any churches nearby? That's what it sounds like—church bells. Ringing. Clanging…" She caught herself and laughed. “You must think I'm stark raving mad.”
Phyllis finished the cookie, picked the crumbs off her sweater and flicked them away. “Not at all,” she said, pushing herself up from the sofa. “Come with me, I want to show you something.”
⸙
AS LAURA FOLLOWED the older woman down the narrow hallway, she realized for the first time how much taller—and bigger—Phyllis was. The woman's broad, square shoulders swelled out from her sweater like the pads on a middle linebacker. The faded blue jeans she wore barely concealed strong, muscular thighs and bulging calves that would have made an Olympic swimmer proud.
As they passed what looked like Phyllis's bedroom, Laura glanced in and noticed an elegant, four-poster bed and a black Kennedy rocking chair in the corner.
Phyllis saw Laura looking in and stopped. "My parents gave me that chair the year JFK was shot," she explained. "I was scheduled to start working as a high school intern at the White House on November 25, 1963. That was two days after he died in Dallas."
They passed several more rooms then entered a small, book-lined study. Stacks of old magazines and fading journals lay stacked against the walls. A weather-beaten wooden desk littered with papers and more journals sat next to a wide, open window facing the forest. Two old-fashioned battleship gray filing cabinets flanked the desk like twin lion guardians.
“I apologize for the mess,” she said, bending over and pulling open a drawer in her desk. “I’m working on a couple of books and, well, this is just the way I operate.”
“No, please don’t apologize," Laura said quickly. "This is exactly how I always imagined a history professor’s private study would look.”
“Oh, my, is it that bad?” she chuckled. “Remember, my dear: Chaos reigns supreme in the minds of the mad.”
"I used to teach myself."
Phyllis's thick gray eyebrows arched up. "You don't say."
Laura nodded. "English literature. Georgia State University. I was one year shy of tenure when I quit to stay home and raise my child."
"Lucky you. I mean, about having such a beautiful child. Not the tenure part. That time-honored ritual is no longer the holy grail it once was, what with gangs of crooks and thieves running our once-proud universities these days. And don't even get me started on the declining aptitude of the so-called students. Most of them have absolutely no business in a baccalaureate program. In my view, they should be mending air conditioners and tuning automobiles, vocations much more suited to their intellectual abilities."
Laura agreed but didn't come right out and say so. Writing, thinking and critical reasoning skills had become such a lost art among the YouTube generation that Laura and many of her colleagues had come to fear for the future of the nation.
That's why Laura found the professor's quirky idealism so refreshing. They were kindred spirits, in a sense, and Laura saw Phyllis as a soothing and oddly comforting presence, even though she'd only met her the day before. Now, here in the big woman's home surrounded by her life's work, she felt a curious sense of ease, a rare fondness for the kind but mildly eccentric professor.
"What kind of books?" Laura asked.
"Sorry?" Phyllis asked, obviously distracted as she rummaged through files.
"You said you were working on a couple of books. I hope you don’t mind my asking."
Phyllis gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "That's a complicated question to answer, my dear," she replied. "Authors usually share a cardinal ground rule: never, ever discuss book projects until the first royalty advance check has cleared the bank." She laughed softly. "However, in your case, I'll make an exception. One of my titles is purely academic, and I'll probably never make a dime off it. It's a biography, really, based on an ancient Mesopotamian king few people outside of academic circles have any reason to have ever heard of. Narim-Sin. Ring a bell?"
After thinking politely for a moment, Laura wound up shaking her
head.
"I didn't think so. No reason for you to, really. He lived more than four-thousand years ago in what is today called Iraq. Not far from Baghdad, in fact. I taught ancient history, you know. Mesopotamian history was my specialization. Well, anyway, Narim-Sin was the grandson of a powerful ruler named Sargon. But it’s Narim-Sin who my book really focuses on. It was he who really left the biggest mark on the history of that region. He saw himself as a god-king, you see—not that there was anything especially remarkable about that, because most of the early kings and emperors in that part of the world thought of themselves as gods on earth in one form or another. No, what made Narim-Sin so important, at least in my mind, is the fact that he was the first ruler in history to lord over what we might call a real, honest-to-god empire, long before Cyrus the Great or Alexander or any of those more famous kings."
Phyllis paused, plopped a lemon-flavored cough drop in her mouth. As she continued to talk, her eyes took on a faraway haze, as if she were actually drifting back through the dusty centuries to a time and place long forgotten to the world. "Narim-Sin was also a monster—a swaggering, two-legged monster who took profound pleasure in slaughtering anybody who stood in his way. What separates him from other genocidal rulers in the ancient world was style—the way he went about his bloody business of dispatching friend and foe alike. It was as if he were driven by some dark and cruel motivation, a special desire for mutilation. You might say he was the master-fiend of barbarism in an age when cruelty and depravity was the norm among kingpins. The Assyrians to the north who came along later admired Narim-Sin's tactics so much they copied his murderous style and embellished it to a barbaric level the world would not see again until the Nazis of the Twentieth Century and the Islamic terrorists known as ISIS of the Twenty-First."
Phyllis caught herself and paused. "Shame on me," she apologized, "for going on and on like that about some old dead king that matters little to the world today. I think you'll be much more interested in the second book I'm working on."
The People in the Lake Page 8
