by Joe Hart
Harold flipped through another album, his brow wrinkled in concentration. Mary shifted from foot to foot and gave a shrug as Lance looked at her, as if to say, It was worth a shot.
“This is the only other article I have on the disappearance,” Harold said as he handed the new album to Lance.
The column of print offset to the side of the page was just a few paragraphs, but that was not what held Lance’s gaze as his eyes widened in shock.
A black-and-white picture was pasted next to it. He could see light colored hair hanging carelessly over the man’s forehead and an easy smile on his face, the picture obviously one from a happy time in his life. The eyes twinkled at Lance through over forty years of time as he stared at Gerald Rhinelander, the main character from his novel.
The storm had relented somewhat by the time they were back on the highway, headed toward Lance’s house. The rain sprinkled without a break, keeping the wipers at a steady rhythm on the Land Rover’s windshield. The sky remained dark overhead, and had even deepened with the coming afternoon. The waves still rolled over one another on the lake whenever Lance caught a glimpse of them as they drove in silence along the narrow highway.
He’d tried to conceal his surprise at the sight of Gerald’s photo, but both Mary and Harold had noticed. He recovered as quick as he could, telling Harold that the man looked like someone he used to know for an instant. Shortly thereafter, Mary had excused them both, saying that they had another appointment to get to. As an afterthought, Lance left his cell-phone number with the historical director in case he came across anything else that might be of importance. The moment they were in the car, Lance explained what had happened. Mary’s thoughtful silence only added weight to the heavy feeling that had settled over him with each turn his life had taken recently. They hadn’t spoken since leaving town, and Lance didn’t feel like talking anymore. His fingers rested lightly on the wheel and he tried to keep his breathing in time with the stroke of the wipers.
After a while, Mary turned toward him. “What do you think it means?”
Lance sighed. “I don’t know. That I am going nuts?”
“I would say it’s the contrary. That photo proves it.”
Lance looked over at her, and then back to the road. “What do you mean?”
“It’s simple. You saw this man in your imagination, right down to the very last detail, but had never seen a picture of him before. You even went so far as to put him in your novel. He also worked for your grandfather’s company.”
“So.”
“So, there’s a connection. If there was none, then I would say you might be hallucinating. But there is.”
“What you’re saying is, I’m seeing and writing about someone who’s been missing for over forty years, most likely dead.” He paused, letting the idea that had been lurking in the background of his mind for several days finally ease into the light of actual words. “You’re saying I’m seeing a ghost.”
Mary frowned but nodded almost imperceptibly.
The hang-up that he’d already gone over a dozen times came spewing out before he could stop it. “Then why did I see you too?”
Mary jerked a little, as if he had raised a hand to strike her. Her posture stiffened and her frown deepened. “What do you mean?”
“Before I came to town the first day when we met, I saw you in something that was almost a vision. I was imagining my story—at least that’s what I thought it was at the time—and I saw you. You were the man’s wife who died in the car crash—Gerald’s wife.” Lance watched her face, analyzing how she absorbed the fact he had been keeping from her.
She turned toward the window, and stared at the passing trees. “I don’t know what that means, but it’s not what you think,” she finally said.
“No?”
“No, it’s not. Just because the other people you’ve seen are dead doesn’t mean I’m going to be.” There it was. Out in the open. The irrational fear wrapped in such an outlandish idea that he had shoved it aside over and over again since he had seen his father’s grinning visage in the restaurant the night before.
The driveway to the house approached on their right and Lance turned into it. The vehicle slid beneath the canopy of trees beginning to turn the colors of autumn, beautiful and stark in the gray light of the afternoon storm. The house came into view and Lance pulled to a stop behind Mary’s small Honda Civic. He put the shifter into park and sat back in his seat, listening to the rain whisper on the roof above them.
“You don’t have to feel bad about not seeing me anymore, I won’t hold it against you,” Lance said after a while. Heaviness formed by their combined breathing, fog beginning to creep up the edges of the windows. He saw Mary look over at him, a sharp turning of her head.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because who would want this? You haven’t even known me for more than a few weeks and I’ve already led you down one insane road after another.”
She leaned closer to him, across the center console. “What did you see when you imagined me for the first time, before we met?” she asked.
Lance turned toward her. She was close. Almost as close as they had been the night before on the beach, but the darkness had robbed him of his vision and of her beauty. He looked at her eyes and said the first thing that came to his mind.
“I thought you were beautiful. Alive and so happy. Like nothing could ever hurt you. You were the sum of more than anything I’d ever seen.”
A beat of time, and then she closed the distance between them. Her lips found his before he’d had a chance to lean in. They were cool and soft, and they pressed against his mouth with an honest sweetness he hadn’t known existed. Then they were gone, and she leaned back into her seat, a bemused expression on her face.
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes never leaving his.
“For what?” he said, a little breathless.
“For being who I thought you were,” she said. He had almost no time to let this absorb before she grasped the door handle and let the sound of the storm interrupt the moment.
“Will you be okay here alone?” she asked, genuine concern flashing across her face.
It took him only a second to answer. “Yeah, just fine. I should get some writing done.”
She nodded. “Call me if anything happens. And even if it doesn’t.”
He smiled. She stepped into the rain and slammed the door behind her. He watched her run to her car and jump inside. He didn’t move until the Honda’s taillights had faded completely from view down the drive. His head swiveled toward the house. It stood in the gloom, a mass of stone, impassive to the thoughts and questions that he hurled at it. He examined the windows, half expecting to see someone looking back at him, but nothing stood there. Only darkness and the edges of a few motionless drapes.
He felt as if he could sit in the car for the remainder of the day, the inner workings of his brain keeping him lashed there, content with the faint taste of Mary’s lips that still lingered on his own. After a few minutes, he rousted himself and exited the SUV. The cold points of rain needled him through his shirt, and he hurried to the front door and stepped inside.
Everything lay just as he’d left it. He didn’t really know what he’d expected—objects dangling from the ceiling, a message written in blood on the wall? He made his way across the foyer and into the main area of the house, throwing a look at the bathroom door as he went through. It still stood open; nothing had shut it in his absence. The alcove shone with raindrops that refused to run from the curved glass panes. Two ships were meeting far out in the lake, their sizes dwarfed by distance, and although he knew that they were in no danger of colliding, it still looked as if they would. He paused before his computer, watching the ships cross paths, expecting a great up-thrust of impact and a concussion of sound—even here in the house—of rending steel and the screams of those on board.
The two ships became one on the undulating water, their silhouettes melding into something gre
ater than both of them. Then they began to part, their familiar shapes chugging onward, perhaps to destinations each had just departed.
Lance breathed out the air he had held while the two ships were passing. Why did he always do this, imagine the worst? But it was an old question. One he had answered before, over and over. He knew why. He could refuse it no more than a sail could the wind. It was imprinted on him and flowed from him in his writing, his thoughts, and his actions. Always expecting the worst, and never letting anyone close enough to see the true horror that was his life.
He sighed. “Self-pity hour is over. Get to work,” he said, as he sat before the computer and brought his novel up on the screen.
The next few hours passed serenely. The storm remained like an unwanted houseguest, fussing over the roof with renewed vigor and lightning as it grew darker. The tapping of the keyboard was the only sound that filled the room, but Lance’s ears remained alert to any other noises from elsewhere in the house. He paused from time to time, telling himself that he was doing anything other than listening for something moving in the rooms behind him.
The lake had fallen away into a void outside the windows when he finally stopped typing. He sat back and ran through the last pages he had written. They were good. The story sang along on its own now. He only channeled it into words, and despite everything that had happened, it felt so good to feel them flowing as well as they were.
He stood from the computer after saving his work, and went to the kitchen. His stomach grumbled, and even though the only things that stood out to him were the makings of a cold turkey sandwich, he gladly threw the portions together and ate heartily at the counter.
His mind wandered as he ate. There had to be a reasonable explanation for everything. Perhaps the stress of the writer’s block and the subsequent release after moving here were at last catching up with him. Maybe the things he’d seen over the last weeks, right down to the nightly visitations, had been the resultant products of anxiety. The thought troubled him, but it did so much less than the alternative. Either way, the question of whether or not to call Dr. Tyler had been answered. He needed help. He made the decision to call the doctor in the morning, as he popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth and washed it down with a mouthful of cold water.
Weariness that had gone unnoticed until he stooped to put the leftover turkey and mustard away in the fridge settled over him. He yawned, his jaw cracking as he shuffled out of the kitchen and into the living room.
He had gotten halfway to the stairs when something stopped him. It wasn’t a sound, he hadn’t heard anything other than the brushing of his own socked feet on the wood floor. It wasn’t movement, either. He scanned the walkway above him just to make sure that he remained alone, then turned around. The windows behind him were emotionless black eyes that opened unto the yard he could not see. If someone lurked beyond the panes of glass, they were invisible to him now.
He stood that way for a while, something tilting inside him, just outside of his reach, as if a priceless vase were tipping on a stand, ready to pitch onto the hard floor of his psyche. He breathed deeply, but the sense of unease didn’t let up; if anything, it increased, rising another notch in intensity. Run! the voice inside his head screamed, and he felt his legs straining to obey the command. He swallowed and turned again toward the stairway, blinking away the shuddering pulse of his heart in his eyes.
The door was open.
It yawned at him from across the room like a gaping mouth, the darkness inside complete as if a sheet of midnight had been hung just inside the doorway. The horrible, immovable door was open. Lance staggered back, feeling returning to his numb legs. He stared at the perfect darkness of the room until it seemed to swirl and move. Or had it actually moved? He remembered the dark shifting through the keyhole on the tour of the house, the blackness stirring like dust motes as something moved through them.
The door creaked open another inch, reminding Lance of a flytrap widening its jaws as an unsuspecting insect hovered nearby. He felt it then. The divide before him, like a swooning height not to be looked down upon but felt in its immeasurable depth.
He could walk away now. Leave the house, his belongings, his story and drive into the night. He might never write again. He knew the writer’s block would return the moment he left the drive of the house, and would continue to thicken as the miles fell away behind him. He would never write again. The thought seemed too large to fit in his mind. But he would be safe from whatever presence resided here.
He hesitated only a split second before he crossed the distance to the doorway.
Cool air that held a faint musky odor flowed from it, like a mushroom that had sat inside a plastic bag too long. Lance peered into the room, trying to discern if anything waited beyond the line of light. His body thrummed with adrenaline, making his hand shake as he cautiously reached inside the doorway and felt for a light switch on the wall. He expected something cold and wet to grasp his hand, and that’s when he would lose his mind. The fright would be too much for him to bear and his circuits would simply overload. Instead, his hand slid along the smooth wall without meeting any switches or other hindrances.
He pulled his hand back and dropped it to his side. The thought of just stepping into the room to look for a light crossed his mind, and he flung it away in revulsion. He turned from the doorway and walked to the stairs, throwing a look over his shoulder every few steps.
It took him only a few seconds to bound up the stairs to his room, where the shotgun lay. He held it up and flicked the flashlight on. A satisfying jet of white light erupted from the end, and Lance walked back down to the room, prodding at the darkness with the beam.
The room wasn’t deep, no more than ten feet from the doorway to the far wall, which looked to be unfinished stone. As he neared the threshold, Lance shone the light into the crack where the door hinged into the room. Nothing peered back at him from the crevice. He had almost stepped into the room when he stopped. He turned and grabbed a nearby box of books that he hadn’t had the chance to unpack yet. Placing the box directly in the doorway like a wedge, Lance stepped around it and began to sweep the room with the light.
The room ran farther down the edge of the house than he expected, almost twenty feet. An object at the far end grabbed his attention, and his finger tightened on the trigger. When he looked closer, he realized that the form was a chair of sorts. As he approached, swinging the gun and light in all directions to assure he was truly alone, the chair began to take on detail. It looked to be made out of stainless steel. Its shape resembled a fat capital H with its bottom filled in. It had no back for a seated person to rest against, only the two flat armrests. Its bottom was bolted in place, heavy lags disappearing into the wood floor. Two steel shackles were attached to the front of the base, their mouths open, awaiting a meal. Lance shone the light upon the armrests and saw another two shackles bolted there.
“What the fuck?” he whispered. He stepped to the back of the chair, sidling around it, his face held in a wrinkled grimace. There were no other features in the room save the chair. The walls as well as the floors were bare. He scanned the ceiling and confirmed that there were no light fixtures.
Before he’d realized it, he had circumnavigated the chair and had come to rest where he’d started. Lance looked toward the door. It hadn’t moved, but something caught his eyes as he swung the light back toward the chair. The floor. He retreated a few steps and swung the beam back and forth. The wood looked darker around the chair, almost black compared to the rest of the house’s deeper bronze. A feeling began to form in his stomach, like a cold-water pipe had burst there.
Lance moved his light farther away from the chair. The floor’s color lightened. He walked to the far end of the room. The floor darkened directly behind the chair. Lance licked his lips, an idea taking shape. He felt his heart slam harder within the confines of his chest. He knelt behind the chair, laying the shotgun beside him. Slowly, he leaned forward, bringing his f
ace closer to the floor.
His nose was an inch away from the wood when he smelled it—the distinct tang of rust and copper. He sat up, wondering if he’d imagined it. The thought hadn’t seemed possible, but now he actually smelled it—blood. The wood around the chair was stained with blood. The wood had gathered it there, sucking it thirstily, and somehow held its faint but unmistakable aroma for as long as the door had been shut. Years, at least.
A sound broke his reverie. He sat up, looking toward the door, his ears perked and his eyes wide. The doorway called to him with its light, beckoning him to leave.
The sound came again, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen. It had been the soft noise of air escaping the restrictions of a throat. A sigh. Pleasurable almost. But the worst part of hearing the sound again wasn’t its cause, it was its location.
The sigh had come from inside the room.
Lance swallowed a knot forming in his throat and turned his head toward the far corner, where the gun’s light shone on a pair of bloodless bare feet. They were facing away from him, toward the corner, as if their owner had been sent there for punishment. Lance tried swallowing again and realized all of his saliva had evaporated from his mouth. He felt his hands touching the hard stock of the shotgun, his eyes never leaving the feet. The gun slipped into his hands and he raised it, sliding the light up the form that stood in the corner.
The feet were attached to equally pale legs lined with blue veins, and above them were the sagging buttocks of an old man. As he rose to his feet, Lance could see the sharp line of the man’s spine, the gun shaking in white-knuckled hands. Stooped shoulders rested below a scrawny, wrinkled neck. The head was almost hairless, just a few wisps of white visible in the powerful beam’s throw.
The naked man sighed again as Lance took a careful step backward. With the sound of Lance’s foot touching the floor, the figure in the corner began to turn its head, its face coming into view. The eyes were blue, but below them, all normality fled. The man’s nose and upper lip had been hacked away, leaving an aborted stump of gristle with two black holes still visible. The teeth stood out abnormally white in the harsh glare of the flashlight, and a mixture of sinewy scars meshed the gum line. The thing finally turned toward him fully, its skin hanging off withered musculature and a shriveled snub of a penis poked at the air amidst a nest of white pubic hair. His grandfather’s ghost took an ungainly step toward him, and Lance saw that a malicious smile had spread across the dead, ravaged tissue of its face.
