Lineage: A Supernatural Thriller

by Joe Hart

  Lance listened to the older man’s receding footsteps as he disappeared up the stairway, and then looked around the basement again. The stacks of boxes and stoic objects stood motionless. He turned his attention to the first ledger he had pulled from the box. On the first page a date of June 13, 1955, was written in the upper left-hand corner. Lance breathed, turned the page, and began to read.

  Lance looked up from the third ledger when he heard someone approaching down the stairs. Instead of Harold stepping in to the room as he expected, Mary’s face smiled brightly at him across the gloom of the basement.

  “I didn’t expect to see you,” Lance said as she approached the table. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, which accentuated her cheekbones and thin eyebrows. He couldn’t help but look at her lips and wonder if she would lean close to him again to press them to his own.

  “Harold stopped by the store a couple hours ago. Said you were down here poring over these,” she said, as she pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat down opposite him. A moment of disappointment ran through him at the lack of a kiss, but he pushed it aside, chiding himself for being immature. “Found anything so far?” she asked, peeking over the edge of the box.

  Lance sighed. “Yeah. Basically the ledgers have a daily account of current employees and a lot of meaningless information like what type of shipments were on each load and departure times. So far I haven’t really been able to figure out what the abbreviations for each of the employees mean.”

  Mary glanced at the ledger that lay open before Lance and flipped to the beginning, eyeing the page from where she sat. “You skipped ahead to Rhinelander’s time period, huh?”

  Lance nodded. “Yeah. He was hired in 1967. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. He’s listed in the ledgers until October of 1968, just like Harold said. Other than that, I can’t see anything strange.”

  Mary’s eyebrows scrunched together, and she inspected the box again. “What’s in the smaller box?” she asked, shifting her eyes back to Lance.

  Lance reached into the container and pulled the smaller box from within. “It’s a few newspaper clippings about the shipping company. There’s only two or three, actually.” He pulled the top off the box and pushed it across the table.

  Mary held the yellowing pieces of paper out and examined them. She turned the first one over, showing it to Lance. “That’s actually the first picture I’ve ever seen of your grandfather and grandmother. I’d heard the name of the company before, but never knew who really owned it or what happened to them.”

  Lance nodded. The photograph gracing the thin page from the local paper depicted three people standing before a docking bay and the flat calm of Superior beyond. Two of the people he immediately recognized. Annette looked almost like a different person, her hair flowing in golden waves and a smile on her nearly unlined face. She had been pretty, Lance thought as he looked at the photo. The man to her left wore a black mask over the lower part of his face, covering the damaged tissue underneath it, but there was no mistaking the eyes that burned in the picture. Lance had seen them only the night before, boring holes into him from the corner of the room by the light of the shotgun.

  This had been the only photo of Erwin Metzger that Lance had come across in the box. Erwin stood apart from his wife, like a statue hewn of the coldest stone. A rotund man with a paunchy smile on his face stood on the other side of Erwin, and was identified in the wording below the picture as Brian Ethridge, the mayor of Stony Bay at the time. The headline above the photo read Front Line Shipping Co: A growing powerhouse in the industry. The article went on to chronicle the accomplishments and endeavors the company had achieved so far. Nothing more than his grandfather’s and grandmother’s names were mentioned in the story.

  Mary placed the clipping back into the box after reading it and its brethren. The other two articles only briefly outlined the startup and the subsequent buyout of the shipping company after Erwin’s death. A few moments later they heard a thumping as Harold made his way down the stairs.

  Lance smelled the coffee before he ever saw the tray Harold carried. Mary cleared a spot on the table as the old man set the load down and began to pour cupfuls from a steaming pot.

  “Thought you could use a little pick-me-up,” he said, handing Lance a boiling cup of the black liquid. Lance thanked him and sipped the drink, suddenly aware of how tired he truly was. Mary pulled another chair close to the table and Harold sat at the end, crossing one leg over the other, a cup in one hand.

  “So, anything interesting so far?” Harold inquired, drinking from his brimming mug.

  Lance shook his head. “Nothing unusual, but I guess I didn’t expect anything. Can you explain the abbreviations for the employee lists to me?” he said, pushing the closest open ledger toward the older man.

  Harold squinted through his glasses at the pages before him. “Well, it’s fairly simple, actually. They didn’t get really complicated in the old days.” His finger slid along the top columns of the page. “These are just codes for information about the employees to the side here.” The old man’s hand traced the vertical edge of the page, the shadow of his hand passing over various names written in neat script. “The first column designates which position the employee held: DW is dock worker, SM is shipping mate, and so forth. OT is on time in regards to clock-in shifts for each position. IT is in transit, which means the person was part of a crew on a ship delivering a load somewhere. V is vacation time. HW is hourly wage, and the last column is for notes.”

  Lance scanned the page Harold had been looking at, and then flipped open the ledger to Gerald Rhinelander’s last week of entry dates. “What does ANN stand for?” Lance asked, sliding the ledger over to Harold and pointing at entries in the notes column. A full week’s worth of the abbreviation had been entered in line with Gerald’s name and then had ceased, along with the name itself.

  “Absent, no notice, I believe,” Harold said. At this, the historian reached across the table to where the tray lay and pulled an envelope that Lance hadn’t noticed from it. “I found this with the other documents about his disappearance. It was actually the photo his ex-wife provided for the police when she filed a missing-person report.”

  Lance opened the envelope and pulled a dull photograph from within. It had the odd colors and shades characteristic of a picture from the late sixties. Gerald stood leaning on the front fender of a classic Mustang, his smile radiating the happiness he must have been feeling at the time. The license plate read 189-GRR.

  “I remember him driving that car,” Harold said. “He was so proud of it. He bought it new off the line back in ’67. He said it was meant for him since it had his initials on the license plate.”

  Lance stared at the picture. The man leaning so casually on his machine. The sleek shape of the muscle car, its radiant blue color apparent even in the old photo.

  Lance remembered Harold’s description from before. Nothing had been touched in Gerald’s home, his wallet left behind as if he hadn’t planned on being gone long. It was as if he and his car had been picked up and pulled straight from the earth, plucked from existence without remorse.

  “What happened to his ex-wife?” Mary asked, her coffee untouched on the table before her.

  “She left town about a year after Gerald’s disappearance. I’m not sure what happened to her after that,” Harold answered.

  Lance looked around the basement. His spine hurt from sitting in the hard-backed chair, and despite the empty cup of coffee in front of him, he still felt his eyelids drooping.

  He rose from the table and began placing the ledgers into the box. “Would you mind if I took these home with me? I’d like to look through them a little more, if that’s possible.”

  Harold’s face only held a sliver of reserve before he smiled and nodded. “Go right ahead, they’re not doing any good sitting down here in the dark.”

  A few minutes later Lance slid the box into the back of the Land Rover while Mary stood a few p
aces away, leaning against her Honda. Harold had locked the door of the historical society and bustled off shortly thereafter, murmuring that Josie would be worrying about him. The failing fall sunlight still felt warm on Lance’s back as he shut the rear hatch of the SUV. Shadows were beginning to freckle the street, the outlines of cars and trees taking on sinister, elongated shapes. Lance stepped away from his car and looked at Mary.

  “So, anything you want to tell me?” Mary asked, raising her eyebrows at him.

  Lance frowned. “Like what?”

  “Like whatever’s been bothering you since I set foot in that basement? I could see it on your face between your questions earlier.” She paused, waiting. “You can tell me.”

  Lance looked away, toward the blank eyes of the building they had exited. He hadn’t realized his anxiety had been so transparent during their meeting in the basement. The events of the night before had taken their toll on him, and he realized now that he wasn’t in any shape to absorb what had happened while maintaining a steadfast façade.

  “I had a nightmare last night, that’s all,” Lance said, looking back at her.

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all,” he lied, hating every second of it. He watched Mary’s face for a challenge to what he’d said. In actuality, it hadn’t been a complete lie, just a half-truth, but he could live with it if it meant keeping Mary out of the reach of the cold hands that had grasped his flesh the night before.

  “Your father?” she inquired carefully. Mary could see Lance’s discomfort, and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”

  “No, it’s fine. I just don’t really feel up to talking about it,” Lance said. You’re doing it again, my friend. Push her away. You don’t know how to do anything else, the voice said, and he mentally screamed at it, effectively silencing it.

  Mary smiled and leaned close to him. He hugged her instead of pressing his lips against hers. She seemed confused, but hugged him back nonetheless.

  “I’ll call you,” Lance said, as he let her go and rounded the back of the Land Rover. Without looking back, he pulled away from the historical building, leaving Mary watching after him.

  Chapter 10

  “It’s easier to resist at the beginning than at the end.”

  —Leonardo da Vinci

  The fire crackled and spit in the center of the gazebo as Lance sat in the lawn chair and watched the light leech its final color from the lake. The shotgun rested a few feet away, leaning against the closest wall. An empty bottle of wine sat near the chair’s feet and a wineglass, almost as empty, hung suspended from Lance’s relaxed grip as he peered back down at one of the last ledgers from the box.

  After a time, he snapped it shut with an audible crack and tossed it with the others that had been piled haphazardly back in the box. Lance sighed and blinked at the deepening dark of the lake. His sight had taken on the fuzziness that wine always brought, and he could feel the beginnings of a headache that would properly introduce itself in the morning in the back of his neck. At the moment he didn’t care. He had spent another two hours poring over the ledgers, with nothing to show for it. The insane urge to feed all of the books to the glowing fire in the ring a few feet before him became almost irresistible.

  Instead, he drained the last of his wine and rose to unroll the sleeping bag he had brought down from the house earlier. He had made the decision to sleep in the gazebo after confirming with John that it had been built long after Erwin had been laid to rest. For some unknown reason, he felt he would be safe sleeping here, just out of reach of the things that no doubt waited for him in the house.

  The gazebo felt comfortably warm as he threw on another two pieces of wood to bank the fire for the night. When he eased his body into the heavy material of the sleeping bag, he felt the weariness that had hovered over him the entire day finally settle down and cover him completely in soft waves of exhaustion. Before he could forget, he pulled the shotgun from its resting place and laid it like a lover beside him on the floor. His head buzzed from the wine, and as he closed his eyes to the dancing light of the fire on the roof and walls, he wondered if any more dreams would disturb his sleep. It was a fleeting thought that was chased away almost at once by fatigue, but nonetheless, the last thing he heard as he slipped out of consciousness was his father’s voice: There’s nothing out there for you, boy.

  He awoke sometime later. His eyes opened and he almost said yes? As if a question had just been asked of him in the darkness. The fire had burned low, and only coals now radiated a pale red glow that illuminated the gazebo in pulsing shadow. When he turned his head toward the door, which he had locked tight upon entering, he felt the throb of the wine at the base of his skull.

  Lance pushed himself out of the sleeping bag and into a sitting position. He squinted at the darkness beyond the reflection of the dying fire in the glass and noticed a partial moon hanging over the lake. The stain would be there on the floor, shining in the moonlight. Would the door be open now, at this instant? Would something be standing there, looking out the window at him, if he turned his head just a little and looked over his shoulder?

  He shivered and stood, the cooling air of the fall night creeping through the cracks in the walls and pushing against the remnants of his fire. He stepped across the bare floor to the other side of the gazebo and grabbed a piece of wood from the stack near the door.

  He froze.

  Someone was standing in the water just off the shore.

  He could see the dark outline of a person against the shimmering calm of the lake’s surface. The moon threw just enough light for Lance to make out a head, shoulders, and arms that dangled in the frigid water.

  He stood there, staring at the figure, not wanting to look away in the event it faded from sight. He felt a blade of fear pass through his stomach. Just as he began to move closer to the glass to get a clearer view, an errant ember flared and obscured the view through the window with light. Lance turned, and in two bounds he had grabbed the shotgun from the floor and ripped the door open.

  The dew was cold, but Lance barely registered it. As he jogged toward the lapping shore, he fumbled with the flashlight on the end of the gun until a spear of white light abruptly pierced the shadows off to his left. He swung the gun around, his intent not to harm but to reveal what was there. The darkness fled before the beam, which glared off the lake’s face.

  Shoulders, so white they looked to be made of marble, and a blond head were just slipping beneath the ripples as his light flooded the area. Lance stopped and held the gun steady, pointed toward the place where the crown of hair had vanished. Nothing moved. There were no swirls or bubbles to indicate something had been there. Nothing.

  Without hesitating, he doubled back and dashed up the rise to the glowing gazebo, his breath beginning to burn in his lungs. The interior warmth of the structure felt wonderful on his bare skin, but he didn’t stop to enjoy it. After setting the shotgun down, he spun and began throwing log after log onto the fire. Soon, flames were dancing excitedly around their new dinner, licking the bark and stray fibers from the wood.

  He turned and knelt beside the shotgun, the idea in his mind stupid and rash, but nonetheless unavoidable, as if he were tipping down a steep hill, the skis beneath his feet gathering speed until there was no chance of stopping. His fingers fumbled at the fasteners on the light. How had Stub done that? He touched what felt like a flattened wing nut on one side of the light and twisted. That did it. The flashlight unhooked easily from the bottom of the gun and rested in his hand. He gave the fire one last look, and then jogged out of the gazebo, back into the cool darkness.

  As he neared the shoreline, already shivering as the air cut around him, he mentally prepared himself for what was to come. He tried to imagine what the water would feel like and how deep he would have to go, but then his feet were wet and all other thought left him.

  The water was hundreds of wasp stings on his bare legs. Soon, his thighs were under, and then
his waist. With another click of the flashlight, the beam spread out on the freezing water. Lance lowered it below the surface, testing whether its claim of waterproofing held true or not; he didn’t want to be stranded in inky darkness if it failed. He swung the light in an arc around him. The image of hotel pools at midnight came to him, their depths illuminated by their watertight bulbs. Satisfied with the light, Lance stepped farther out, his feet finding a few sharp rocks and the sludgy bottom, which squeezed between his toes.

  The water rippled near his chest, and he felt the lake bottom fall away. He’d reached the drop-off. His eyes sought the moon one last time as he breathed deeply in and out, in quick succession. With a lunging motion, he dove forward and kicked his body down.

  Even the cold that had enveloped his body—numbed it almost—didn’t prepare him for the sensation of the water closing over his head. The temptation to resurface tugged at him, but he swam down instead, pulling at the water in a breaststroke. The flashlight gave him short, indecipherable glimpses of the world around him. The bottom glided by a few feet beneath his stomach. He kicked several more times, and then pulled the light up in front of him.

  Silt, disturbed by his approach, obscured the first few feet around him. The bottom dropped away steadily at a forty-five-degree angle. He judged that the surface now sat at least twenty feet above his head.

  Something moved just outside the reach of the light, farther down the slope. Lance kicked ahead and glided over a small rise. On the other side sat a long row of large slimy boulders, their backs hunched toward the surface as if they had burrowed into the soft mud in an attempt to stay warm. Lance swam a few more feet, the air in his lungs turning acidic. He swung the light back and forth at the descending hill, trying to discern if something lay there that he had missed.