House of Fallen Trees

by Gina Ranalli

  Rory and Karen emerged from the vehicle and went around to the back of the Jeep to pull out their various bags. Saul stood beside the downed tree, his face thoughtful.

  A moment later the other two joined him and the three stood silent, gazing down at the old tree as if looking at a fresh grave. All around them, the forest was silent. Perhaps it too, was in mourning. She and Rory waited while Saul went and retrieved his own bags from the Jeep before coming back and leaping onto the dead tree in a single bound. He grinned down at them, his time of bereavement over, as though he’d paid his respects and was now moving on with his life.

  “Imagine climbing this old lady when she was still standing. Probably could have seen all the way into Idaho.”

  Then he hopped down the other side, a little boy excited to get on with the adventure. As she followed, Karen wondered why he seemed so enthusiastic all of a sudden, when he was clearly ambivalent about their final destination. When she questioned him, however, his response made as much sense as it could have.

  “I’m not thinking about the house,” he said. “I need to take a piss.”

  And with that he darted off into the woods.

  “You should have gone before we left The Lantern,” Rory called after him.

  Saul ignored him, disappearing behind a fat blue spruce.

  Shaking his head, Rory looked at Karen and said, “Kids, huh?”

  She smiled, glad to see the ride had improved his mood somewhat.

  A minute later, Saul emerged, yanking up his zipper. “Whew,” he said. “Damn beer.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The hike took over two hours, what with all the stumbling and climbing over more downed trees and wading through foliage allowed to grow wild for decades. Huge ferns and bramble bushes did their best to keep the trio from moving forward but move forward they did, Karen taking mental notes all the while.

  It was because she was paying such close attention to her surroundings that she noticed the crows at all. There seemed to be an abundance of them—roosting in the pines all around them, walking around on the ground just past the tree line. A few flapping by above them, taking off from one branch to land on another further up the road.

  She made a face, trying to recall what crows were symbolic of in literature. She couldn’t think of it off the top of her head, but had a feeling she might be able to use it if anything ever came of this tiny nugget of an idea for a new book. She’d have to remember to look up crows and their meaning on the Internet when they arrived at the house.

  Saul followed her gaze with his own. “Tricksters,” he said. “In Native-American folklore.”

  Surprised, Karen said, “Were you just reading my mind?”

  “I know that look you had on your face. I get the same look when I study blueprints.”

  “Ah. Well, there are a lot of them, huh? The crows, I mean.”

  “There’s a lot of everything the further away you get from people. Don’t be surprised if you see an elk or two. I once saw a whole herd of them grazing in a clearing a half mile or so behind the house. Lots of deer out here too. Once in a great while, you’ll get to see moose. Bobcats. Grizzlies.”

  Rory smacked him on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to him, Karen. This guy is so full of shit, his eyes are brown. You might see a deer. But probably, not including those crows, the most wildlife you’ll see are some squirrels, maybe a raccoon, or an opossum.”

  “Hawks and falcons, too,” Saul said. “And I did see the elk.”

  Rolling his eyes, Rory said, “Okay, okay. Maybe you’ll see an elk.”

  But Karen was hardly listening to the two of them bicker. Movement just beyond the tree line had caught her eye and it was definitely no crow. It was low to the ground, with red fur, a long bushy tail and a black snout.

  “What about dogs?” she asked.

  “Dogs?” the men said in unison. Then understanding cleared Saul’s face. He looked at Rory and said, “Dusty.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Rory nodded. “Dusty.”

  Karen watched the dog, barely visible in the shadows of the woods, trotting along, pacing them. “Dusty,” she repeated. “Male or female?”

  “Female,” Saul said. “She used to belong to an asshole in town named Richard Mallack. He had her for a good year and that dog never once saw the inside of his house. Kept her chained to a doghouse 24/7, every season, every kind of weather. His kids used to shoot BB guns at her. I was bitching about his treatment of that dog one night in The Lantern and Mike—the guy you met—got pissed off enough to go and snatch the dog from Mallack’s backyard. But, of course, she was skittish as all hell and not housebroken, which Mike was annoyed about. Anyway, he let her roam free and she just took off, came to live out here on her own where there are no people to torment her.”

  “Jesus,” Karen said. “The poor thing.”

  “Yeah, I tried to catch her a couple times myself, but no go. I don’t think she likes men much and I can’t say I blame her.”

  “And Dusty just lives out here? How does she eat?”

  “I guess she must hunt. Not sure,” Saul answered. “I suppose she might trek into town at night, get into trash cans and whatnot, but nobody ever sees her down there anymore.”

  Karen watched the dog as it kept pace with them, keeping a safe distance. She thought Dusty definitely had an air about her—she seemed ready to bolt at the slightest hint of danger.

  “One time,” Saul went on, “I was out in the woods and she damn near attacked me.”

  “Really?” Karen asked. “She seems so timid.”

  “She is. Problem was, some ruffian from in town must have had his way with her and then left her high and dry.” She looked at him, confused. Saul laughed. “She had a litter of pups. I was just wandering around like I do, minding my own business, and I got too close to where she’d hid ‘em. Get this—they were inside a hollowed out log.”

  “Wow.” Karen was impressed. “Is that where she lived?”

  He shrugged. “I guess it’s where she slept at the time. Eventually, when they were old enough, I gathered ‘em up and brought them into Indigo Bend with me. Found ‘em good homes.” Apparently Saul was able to read Karen’s face quite well by now because he quickly followed up with, “It was for the best. Can’t have a whole litter running around these woods. Something would have eaten them sooner or later. Not to mention they would have bred like rabbits, making the situation even worse.”

  She thought about that, then asked, “But what about Dusty? Didn’t she wonder where her babies went?”

  Saul smiled sadly. “I’m sure she did for a while. Not a lot you can do about that though.”

  Karen sighed. “She must have been worried sick. Thinking that a cougar or something got them.”

  “Okay,” Rory cut in. “Enough, you two. Animals don’t have the same emotions as people. You don’t have to get all teary eyed about her feelings.”

  Neither Saul nor Karen responded to this remark but they exchanged a knowing glance that said, shows what he knows. After a few minutes, the dog fell back, but continued to trail behind them for the rest of their journey. It wasn’t until they came into the clearing where the house was that she disappeared for destinations unknown. The house itself was a sight to behold.

  Karen’s breath caught in her chest when they stepped out of the brush and there it was, looming before them like the fossil of some prehistoric colossal beast. It seemed hugely out of place here in a vast green forest, the way London Bridge must have looked in the middle of the desert.

  “Home sweet home,” Rory smiled. “Not what you were expecting?”

  “It’s…” Karen started. “It’s a ship.”

  “Amazing, huh? The guy who built it was a captain and known to be quite eccentric.”

  The three of them moved forward across a long grown-over and mostly dissolved circular driveway, Karen with her head back, gawking up at the stern.

  “Amazing is one way to put it,” she agreed. “It looks like
a real ship.”

  “From the outside, it is a real ship,” Rory agreed. “But there are only a few rooms inside where the shape of the house is obvious.”

  Karen nodded, mute.

  “The guy’s name was Captain Frank Storm. Legend has it he was a pirate.”

  At this, she had to laugh. “In 1899 America? And people actually believe that?”

  “I don’t know if people believe it,” Rory said. “But I’m pretty sure they don’t disbelieve it either.”

  “Interesting,” Karen said. “And Frank Storm is a great character name. Surely it’s made up.”

  Neither man responded, already climbing up the rickety steps to the wide wraparound porch, which was built to look like a ship’s deck, the railings finely scrolled and weathered as if they’d spent many years at sea; water, wind, and sun sanding them down to a velvety softness.

  Saul saw her admiring the railings. “We’re gonna keep all that. Beautiful, huh?”

  “Very.”

  Unlocking the front door, Rory stepped aside, making a grand gesture with his hand. “All aboard.”

  Karen stepped over the threshold first, into darkness that was almost, though not quite, complete.

  “Light switch on the right,” Rory said, coming up behind her.

  She reached out, touching the wall with her fingers until they found the old-fashioned switch with two copper buttons. She had to push the top button hard to get it to depress and then the front room filled with an orangey glow, as if it had been lit suddenly by candles rather than electric lights.

  Moving into the room, Karen shivered. “A little drafty,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. The temperature change was odd though, as it felt colder inside than it had outside.

  Rory and Saul followed her in and Saul closed the door behind them. All three of them immediately set the bags they’d been lugging over their shoulders on the hardwood floor with sounds of relief.

  “You should’ve seen it when I had to bring tools up here,” Saul told her cheerfully. “Just about broke my damn back.”

  The foyer they were in was a relatively small room, coat racks hanging from one wall, a basket in the corner containing a single twisted mahogany cane and a black umbrella, a rubber mat on the floor beside it, most likely the place where Frank Storm had placed his boots after coming in from particularly wet or muddy adventures.

  “Is all this original?” Karen asked. It certainly looked original.

  “This stuff is, yeah,” Rory said. “The place came furnished, if you can believe that. Some of the stuff was crap though and we carted a lot of it out into the little barn at the back of the property.”

  “Stable,” Saul corrected him.

  “Whatever. But Sean and I really wanted to salvage as much of the Captain’s stuff as we could, thinking it would lend an air of authenticity to the B&B.”

  “Do you actually get tourists up here?” Karen asked.

  His face fell, as if this was a sore subject with him. “Not many at this point, but that’s because Fallen Trees doesn’t have much to offer yet. I’m working on that.”

  “Rory really will own Fallen Trees when all is said and done,” Saul said, giving Rory a pat on the back. “He’s a regular entrepreneur.”

  Karen smiled. “Very impressive.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see,” Rory said. “Let me show you the rest of the place.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The most extraordinary feature of the Captain’s bedroom was not the huge, wrap-around windows stretching from floor to ceiling. Nor was it the antique Persian rug decorating the floor, currently unprotected though Karen had no idea why. Nor did she care. Her attention was instead fixed on the mural painted on the ceiling above the historic four-poster bed.

  “It’s astounding,” she said quietly, as though she’d entered a church and did not wish to disturb the parishioners.

  “Yes, it is,” Rory agreed, standing beside her, his head bent back, his eyes shining with pride. “It’s his wife.”

  “He must have been heartbroken to lose her,” Karen said. “To paint her portrait on the ceiling above his bed. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “It may have been painted before her death,” Rory told her. “We’re not sure yet.”

  “Hmm.” Karen looked down at the large bed. It looked inviting, with its over-sized pillows and old-fashioned blue and white patchwork quilt. “May I?”

  “Be my guest.” Rory smiled.

  She gingerly sat on the bed. For some reason, she was afraid it would collapse beneath her due to its age but, of course, that was a ridiculous fear. Rory slept in it on a regular basis and it obviously held his weight.

  Sensing her trepidation, Rory said, “Relax. That bed is older than some of the trees in the forest. Probably made from trees in the forest. Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it’s delicate.”

  Returning his smile, she lay back, her head on the nearest pillow, eyes studying the mural above her. “She was a beautiful woman.”

  “She was,” he said. “Not my type, but beautiful nonetheless.”

  Chuckling politely at his joke, Karen made no reply. After a moment, she said, “Do you know who painted it?”

  “No,” Rory said. “It never occurred to me to try to find out. Maybe I should, huh?”

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Everything about this place has been so hard to track down. It’s like they were a family of ghosts. So little is known about them. Most of the townies either didn’t know they were out here or they didn’t want to know.”

  Karen looked at him. “Why do you suppose that was?”

  “No clue. Probably just afraid of eccentrics. That part hasn’t really changed much around here. The people in Fallen Trees don’t care much for different.”

  “Ah.” She thought about Sean then, wondering how he’d fit in with the townies. If he had fit in at all. Somehow, she doubted it.

  Rory consulted his watch. “Well, would you look at that. I think we can safely say the sun is past the yardarm. Up for a cocktail?”

  A cocktail sounded wonderful and Karen said as much. “But, I like this room. Mind if I hang out in here a little while longer?”

  “Not at all.” He smiled at her again and for a second, she thought it might actually be genuine. “Try not to fall asleep though. That bed is mighty comfy.”

  “Will do. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  Once Rory had left, Karen returned her full attention to the mural above the bed. Though cracked and fading in places, it had stood the test of time remarkably well, especially considering all the windows in this room. How had the sunlight not damaged it more?

  Maybe it never hit the ceiling in a way that it could, she thought, gazing into Mrs. Storm’s fierce blue eyes. It was still peculiar though. Almost as peculiar as having your wife’s portrait painted above your bed in the first place.

  The painting was of a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a high-collared cream dress. High cheekbones, full lips, her expression serious; perhaps even grim. Quite a stunning woman, as Karen had noted previously. Maybe somewhere around 30 years of age, though there were hints of growing crow’s feet and laugh lines. Age was hard to determine even in the clearest of portraits from that era.

  Karen put her hands behind her head and turned her attention to the windows and the spectacular view of the forest around them. Everything was green out there, except for the sky, which remained a dense, almost oppressive gray.

  It must be gorgeous here when the weather is clear, she thought. So much different than what I’m used to.

  She would have been content to continue ruminating on the beauty of her surroundings but her thoughts were interrupted when a thin shower of dust fell down onto her face, a few specks landing in her right eye.

  Flinching, she blinked furiously and rubbed the eye, about to get up and head to the bathroom to flush it out.

  But before she could, her lef
t eye naturally rolled up and she saw the painting of Mrs. Storm above. She stopped rubbing her eye and stared up at the ceiling.

  Either she was crazy or the fine, barely noticeable cracks in the paint had grown, becoming thicker—more obvious.

  “What the…?” She frowned, her irritated eye forgotten, and attempted to push herself up onto her elbows.

  She could barely move. Her arms, neck and legs worked fine but it was as though her back and buttocks had become glued to the bed. Instantly terrified, she cried out, struggling to sit up while above her the ceiling cracked further, the paint and plaster raining down on her, coating her entire body with white powder.

  Looking up, she saw that the wife of Captain Storm no longer looked grim, her eyes no longer vacantly staring into some unseen past.

  Mrs. Storm was now smiling, the faded intense blue eyes gazing directly down on Karen’s horrified, dust covered face.

  Karen’s whimpers blossomed into screams as the ceiling broke apart, larger and larger chunks of old wood and plaster crashed down on her…around her…bouncing off the bed and onto the floor with deafening thuds. She tried to protect her face, her eyes, while plaster dust choked off her screams and she found herself gagging despite the nearly paralyzing panic. It sounded as if the world was ending and then the mural began to peel free from the rest of the ceiling, as though it weren’t made of paint at all, but paper, like a poster cut into the shape of a woman from the waist up.

  It came down fast, blanketing Karen, Mrs. Storm’s smiling face pressed against her own, blocking out the light, and Karen discovered it wasn’t made of paper at all, but more of some sort of dark membranous skin which quickly spread, wrapping itself around her head and torso, tightening itself until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything at all except feel the frantic pounding of her heart…

  Blind.

  She was blind and suffocating. Still trying to scream, she kicked her legs, pushing against the mattress until she rolled off the bed and hit the floor, landing painfully on her left shoulder.