Like a cut that ran deep, the initial wound eventually healed over, but the throbbing pain beneath it remained -- debilitating him under the slightest pressure. He found no help from the world around him. When he ran into Halley on the street outside the library, quite by accident, she said almost nothing, but her words seethed with anger and blame.
"She's gone, Liam. You drove her way from all of us."
She left him in the middle of the street, sobbing into his hands.
# # #
He was not sure when he decided to return to the hotel, but it seemed inevitable once the idea occurred to him. It had been over a year since he had been there, and though the weather had become colder, he wanted to see where everything in his life had begun to fall apart. Perhaps if he stayed within that cabin again, walked those woods, he might be able to piece things back together and finally be able to move on. He was the only one who believed she loved him, that nothing could keep her from him, and he found the idea of her lying dead, undiscovered, far more comforting than the idea she had run away and had never loved him at all.
Autumn brought with it cold dark days, and the sky above Liam looked as though it was ready to crack open as he drove northward. There was something unsettling about the journey. Enough time had passed that he should barely remember the previous trip, yet he was lost in a stream of old memories: the way Marcia's legs emerged from her shorts at the fast food drive-through; her squinting eyes behind dark glasses. Each memory struck with the force of a hammer, and drove into his chest like a ten-inch nail. His head swam, and he found he had to concentrate upon the road. He prayed for focus to keep from losing control.
The narrow road to the cabin was hidden well by time, and he almost missed it in his stupor. It was no longer as smooth as he remembered -- potholes rattled the car's undercarriage as he drove over them. Debris blocked him frequently, and those branches he could not drive over or around he had to leave his car to clear. It was tiring work, and it slowed his progress considerably. When he did make it to the mud and gravel of the parking lot, only a single small light burned in the window of the main cabin.
Everything fell into total darkness when he turned off his headlights.
He half expected the main cabin door to be locked, but it swung open easily. Inside, the reception was dim from bulbs burnt out and not replaced. Those that remained flickered and made pale shadows that danced around the furniture. The activity board still stood in the corner, streaked and empty. No one was around, but a trail of muddy footprints marked the way through the door. Liam rang the familiar bell and waited. There was a dull thump from somewhere beyond the wall as though something had fallen, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps walking towards him.
Around the corner emerged a figure in coveralls, the name "Garfield" stitched above his breast. The wrinkles on the maintenance man's face were twisted into confusion and surprise when he saw Liam standing there, but if there was recognition, he kept it hidden.
"I called ahead. Cabin fourteen is supposed to be held for me."
The man laughed; his teeth the color of rotten corn. "I didn’t need to do too much holding. You're the only one here. Even the staff only comes occasionally now. Just to clear out the stragglers."
"I suppose you don’t get many visitors this time of year."
"No," the man said, and lowered the screwdriver held tight in his white-knuckled fist. "Not many at all."
He pulled the register book from beneath the desk and offered it up for a signature.
"Liam, huh? My name's Connor." He extended his hand. Liam shook it, but did not mention the different name on the man's coveralls. "I keep this place together. If you need anything, find me. I'm pretty much the only one up here with any regularity."
"That's good to know."
Connor did not respond, only stared, and Liam began to fidget. It was as though he was the first person the man had seen in months.
"Um . . . Is there a way to light the path to number fourteen?"
"Even if we had outdoor lights they'd be out this time of year. Wait here a minute. I'll get my coat and flashlight and take you over."
"I don’t want to be trouble."
"Don’t worry. I could use a walk; I've been inside alone all day. Give me a minute."
Connor disappeared into the back hallways again, and Liam could hear quiet cursing and the sound of boxes being moved.
Upon the wall, Liam noticed a painting that did not seem familiar, yet hardly looked new. It was a rather generic image of a forest, the kind of painting one might find for sale on the side of the road or at the back of a thrift shop. It did not seem out of place hanging in the cabin, however, as it bore an uncanny resemblance to the hotel retreat. Into the tree line a thin gravel path snuck, tiny amid the large trunks and leaves that surrounded it. The painting depicted a summer scene, with sunlight dappling the ground, possibly a slight breeze pushing the leaves. Upon closer inspection, Liam realized it was not a painting at all; instead, it was only the photograph of a painting. It wasn't even a good photograph -- part of the picture was faded, a light hazy spot the size of a coin near where the gravel path disappeared into the trees. The picture of the painting hung crooked on the wall and Liam tried to straighten it, but as soon as it was corrected it slid back out of place.
"I can't get that thing to stay," Connor said, newly emerged from behind the rear wall. "I think I'm going to have to take it down."
"It's a nice picture."
Connor pointed a scolding finger at Liam. "You don't have to lie to me. I’m not as ignorant as you think. I can tell crap when I see it and that is definitely crap."
Liam smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Connor tested the beam of the flashlight twice, and then pulled the key for number fourteen from the rack behind the desk.
"Let's go."
Once away from the cabin, the night closed in immediately. Connor's flashlight emitted a strong beam, but the light was swallowed by the darkness, and lit no more than a tiny circle upon the gravel path. Even the stars were hidden behind a layer of dense cloud, and Liam kept his eyes focused on the bouncing beam for fear of becoming lost.
"Are you a writer?"
"Pardon?"
"Are you one of those writer-types? The last time we had someone up here this late in the year was because they were a writer looking for some peace."
"No. I'm a teacher."
"You are?"
"Yes. No. I don't . . . I took some time off."
"Yeah," he said, and his voice trailed off. "I guess you would."
The two men walked the rest of the way in silence, and though he could not see them, Liam felt the trees squeeze closer to him in the dark. Their leaves whispered in the wind, and the noise they made sounded like words.
The way opened up into a clearing, and Connor's flashlight fell upon a wooden structure that took Liam's thoughts back over a year. It was as if no time had passed. The beam danced along the side of the cabin while Liam heard the sound of too many keys in the darkness. After a moment, there was the heavy click of a lock and lights came on, the whole area around the cabin was lit. Liam squinted a moment.
"Well, here's your key," Connor said. "If you need me, you know where I am." He then touched the brim of his cap and left.
Liam stood on the porch, suddenly terrified. It looked exactly the same inside, as if no one had been to the cabin after he had left. He felt the horror of discovering Marcia's disappearance as though it were fresh, as though it had happened mere moments before. His eyes grew warm and wet and he closed them and tried to drive the tears back. When he opened them again, he was disappointed to discover the cabin was still there.
Liam closed the door as he entered the place, the weight of memories pressing against him. Part of him wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go that was far enough.
The next day was going to be long, and he wanted to get as much sleep as possible. Surprisingly, the windowsill was still not repaired, gouged deeply from the
nail removal, but it was too late for Liam to do anything about it. The room felt damp, and he left the window open a few inches to keep from suffocating.
He was awakened in the middle of the night by a rattling noise that filled the room. In his daze Liam could not tell for a moment where it had come from, and when he realized its source he was too frightened to move. It was the sound of his bedroom door, trying to open. It shook, back and forth, as though pulled by invisible hands. He lay rigid, his mind working through its fever, slowly awakening, and he understood what a fool he was. He rose from bed and, with negligible resistance, closed the window. After a slightly longer moment, the door stopped moving and noise vanished.
Despite his best efforts, he was unable to fall back asleep. He tossed and turned, trying to find a few more hours, but it was useless. It was almost daybreak, he saw by his watch, and he rose and put on his coat. Outside, upon the porch, he would be able to determine just what he intended to do.
The temperature was much colder than he expected, but the chill only made him miss Marcia’s warmth more than he thought he could stand. He tried to picture her beside him, to visualize her face, her body, sitting there as she had the summer before while she listened to the night. He spoke aloud to the figment, hoping somehow in vain that his fabricated responses would bring her back to him, if only for a moment. He tried hard to believe, but he knew he was a fool. He could not bring back all that had gone with her.
The trees beyond the pale ring of light rustled together in the darkness -- just sounds in the blackness of night. He imagined he could hear words in their whispers, and he listened to them carefully. The noises were high like a woman's voice, and he tried to surrender his mind to them, to let go and see what words emerged. He closed his eyes and listened.
But he heard only one word.
"Liam."
It was Marcia's voice.
The wind in the trees blew stronger, and all the leaves rustled in a cacophony of noise. He stood, then stumbled backwards. He called out her name, momentarily stunned, but there was no reply from the blackness. He had not been prepared for the tricks his mind was playing, or for the feeling of aching loss they caused.
He returned to the warmth of the cabin, and lay upon the sofa, then rested his head as far back as possible until the tiny bones in his neck rubbed together. He stared at the ceiling, his whole body trembling from the shock, and tried to relax. He picked a point above him to focus on: a small dark flaw in the wood. He suddenly felt tired staring at the odd shape, and as his mind began to wander, he realized the flaw was a large fat fly that hung absolutely still. Sleep caught up with him without warning, and he slipped away into unconsciousness.
When he opened his eyes in the faint daylight, for a moment he wondered where he was, until he saw the fly, and tried to move.
Pain shot through his neck and into his head when he tried to lift it from the couch. Instead, he lay still, and waited for the kink to work itself out on its own. He didn't want to get up, didn't want to face another day. It had all been so hard -- the endless doubts, the loneliness, not knowing for sure if Marcia was alive or dead -- and he never wanted to move again from the couch. He didn't think he could go on any longer, and he covered his eyes with his arm.
The couch beneath him shifted, as though the weight of an unseen body was lifted.
Liam went cold. He forced himself to raise his head, despite the pain, and look around the cabin. There was no one there. The last of his sleep left him as he stared at the room and waited for movement. Without meaning to, a whisper slipped from his dry throat.
"Marcia?"
There was no answer.
Liam feared he was going crazy. He wanted her back so much he was imagining her everywhere. He shook his head, trying to get his bearings, and could feel his heart beating faster, threatening to burst through his chest. He sat up, and tried to calm himself and regain control. His head screamed at him, but he refused to listen. He only wanted to get outside, get moving, before everything collapsed upon him.
The cold weather created a very fine mist that floated inches above the ground and swirled around the wheels of the small motorized cart that sat parked in front of the cabin across from his, the cabin he still thought of as belonging to Halley and Ken. The place was dark, but its door opened slowly, and from inside emerged Connor, a metal tank strapped to his back and thick rubber gloves on his hands.
"Hey, how you doing?" he asked, waving his arm high. Liam hesitantly retuned the gesture. "What was so funny?"
"Pardon?"
"Weren't you laughing it up in there this morning? It sounded like a bunch of ducks going off. Quack! Quack!" Connor laughed, but Liam felt puzzled. "Ah well," he continued in a guarded tone, "maybe it really was some ducks. I can't tell the difference, anyhow."
"What are you doing in there?" Liam asked.
"Oh, with the tank? I do this every fall. It's cluster fly season. Every fall it’s the same thing. Hundreds of these big flies get into the cabins -- into the roofs, really, and stay there all winter long. Imagine it, thousands of those little buggers sitting up there, living out their lives totally unseen by you and me."
"I think I saw one in my cabin. It just hung there and didn't move."
"Yeah, that's probably one. Big and grey, right? I don't know why, but they aren't as jumpy as normal flies; it's like they're blind to everything -- or maybe they think they're already dead! Who knows? Anyway, this time of year they gather in all the roofs, so I go from cabin to cabin spraying them. When I'm done, I'll go through again and vacuum up the bodies."
Liam thought for a moment. "Do they . . ." He struggled for the right words, "Do they make any strange noises?"
Connor's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Just noises."
"No, they're usually pretty quiet, at least until spring. There's plenty of other things around here that sound weird though, but -- Jesus, what time is it?"
Liam checked his watch, but Connor did not wait for the results.
"Listen, I've got to go. The meter-reader was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. I've got to take him around." Connor threw his equipment into the back of the cart, then jumped into the driver's seat. "Have a good one!" he called out over the hum of the motor and sped off, dirt flying from beneath the wheels. Liam raised his arm in a half-hearted wave, but Connor was already gone.
The trees around the gravel trail, though leafless, still clung close enough together that there was a perceptible change in light immediately after Liam entered the forest. The ground was covered in places with a deep layer of fallen leaves -- soft and slippery underfoot -- that he sunk into with every step. He had to kick them away periodically to ensure he was still on the right path, but they clung tight to him, their wet waxy surfaces adhering to his shoes and turning them into a collage of browns and oranges.
The path however was remarkably exposed for the most part, as though it had been previously cleared of debris. It seemed odd, but not outside the realm of possibility that it was regularly maintained. After all, the paths through the woods were a big part of the resort's draw, and making sure they were accessible would be a top priority.
All around him, bare branches creaked in the cold morning breeze. The mist over the ground had all but cleared, though the air still felt damp. Liam's nose was already cold and beginning to drip, and he recovered his handkerchief to clear it.
The gravel path was the last place he had been with Marcia, yet he recognized nothing upon it. The emptiness of the woods in autumn, the bareness, cast everything in a cooler light. Liam knew the police had searched the area over and over, had combed it for any sign of Marcia -- they told him as much -- but they found no trace of her. But he didn't believe they tried hard enough. He spoke to them, knew what they thought. Once they were convinced she had left him and run away, they stopped looking for her body.
Liam knew something had happened to her, however; nothing else would keep her from him.
<
br /> The police didn't understand. The problems he and Marcia had were no more than what was to be expected in a healthy relationship -- deep down, he was certain she loved him. It was a skittish love, to be sure, and he was cautious, but it was as true a love as any he had ever experienced.
The cold damp of the overcast day eventually found its way into Liam's clothes and under his skin. He shivered, but kept walking, dragging his feet over the rocks on the soft ground, while he looked for the place where he and Marcia had last spoken to each other.
There were many paths snaking the woods, but he recognized none of them. The year and the changing seasons had transformed the path's landscape, and any landmark he still carried in his head had disappeared, replaced with a fallen tree or dark mat of leaves. He looked up, following the thick lines of trunks, to see the skeletal canopy high above, a latticework across the grey colorless sky. He sighed heavily, exhausted, and wondered what it was he was doing there. He ran his hands deep into his hair, trying to keep his head from collapsing.
Movement a few feet away startled him. The leaves along the path scattered, and there was the sound of twigs breaking. Liam stood absolutely still. Wind brushed his face as he watched the path. From the corner of his eye, a pale blur passed, and Liam's heart skipped a beat, then pounded in his chest as he squeezed out the only question he wanted to ask.
"Marcia?" he said, gripping his pouch to his side. "Marcia, is that you?"
The invisible thing said nothing, and slowly retreated along the path, disturbing the debris that Liam had already cleared. As he followed, he asked it questions he knew it could not answer.
"Marcia? Where are you?"
The disturbance kicked up leaves and debris as it moved away from him, and Liam chased after it. The ground moved quickly beneath him, the detritus of the forest slipping out from under his feet, but he stayed upright, too terrified to fall and lose the barely visible shape. Breath wheezed out of his lungs with every footfall, and he thought each step was going to be his last, and that he might never be able to tell Marcia again that he loved her. Then, he noticed something strange ahead of him.
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