Silverwood

by Betsy Streeter

  “Nah, I’ll catch you at book club later.”

  “Fine,” Earl says, and marches out the door. The bells tinkle.

  Ted watches him go. Rose knits. The squares of sunlight have shifted partway across the floor.

  Mrs. Woods turns the camera over in her hand. She scrapes some of the dried mud off the case with her thumbnail.

  “Did you check the grocery store? This is her shopping day, isn’t it?” she asks.

  Earl exhales. “Yes, Eleanor, I looked over all the usual spots. Posey’s nowhere to be found. It’s not like her to wander off. I’m told this thing was found down by the lake, so I looked there, too. No sign of her anywhere.”

  Earl looks down. “Sure would help if we could see what’s on that camera. Ol’ Posey filmed nonstop.”

  “I might have just the person who can help us,” Mrs. Woods says, looking up. “Helen?” she calls.

  No answer.

  “I’ll be right back.” Mrs. Woods gets up and crosses to the rear of the lobby, toward the kitchen. “Helen? I’ve got a hacking project for you.”

  A distant voice, and then footsteps pounding down the main staircase. How can one teenager make the sound of a herd of startled buffalo.

  Helen emerges into the lobby as Mrs. Woods returns.

  “Earl, this is Helen. She and her mom and brother are staying here.”

  “Howdy, Helen,” Earl says.

  “Hello.” Helen looks down at the camera.

  “Miss Helen is adept at working with electronics, aren’t you, dear,” Mrs. Woods says.

  “Sure,” says Helen. That’s two words the teenager has contributed to the conversation. She’s still looking at the camera.

  Earl picks it up and extends it out to her. “Helen, I’d be much obliged if you might extract the videos from this here camera; its owner went missing down by the lake and we’re searching for clues. She was real fond of using this camera all the time, so we’re hopeful there’s some useful footage on here. That is, if it’s not irreparably damaged.”

  Helen takes the camera. That lake again. What is it with the lake? She pushes a piece of straight black hair back behind her ear.

  “Okay.” That’s three words.

  Helen sits down cross-legged right there, in the middle of the rug, leaving everyone else left standing up. Earl waits a couple of beats, large hands clasped in front of him.

  “Well then… ” Earl says.

  Another, younger kid, scoots into the room out of nowhere, hair as white as the girl’s is black. He sits next to her and leans in, the two of them murmuring.

  Mrs. Woods clears her throat loudly and glowers down at the boy, who looks up.

  “Henry, this is Earl. Earl, Henry Silverwood.”

  “Hello Henry,” Earl says.

  Henry looks up at Earl as if just realizing he is there. “Hello,” he says.

  “Earl can I offer you some tea?” Mrs. Woods says.

  “Why certainly,” Earl says, and they move off toward the kitchen.

  Daniel watches Helen through the panes of glass separating the front porch from the lobby.

  “He likes you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “He does. He’s looking. He’s on the porch.”

  “Henry, shut up. You’re stupid. He’s too old for me. He’s seventeen or something.”

  “Whatever.”

  Helen pops the camera back together and hits the play button. Nothing yet. She snaps it back open, jabs at a couple more things, adds a bit that she had left sitting on the rug, and closes it again. This time the tiny screen lights up.

  “Here we go,” Helen says.

  The lake in the distance is blurry, but easily recognizable. For about the first minute there is no sound on the recording, but then it kicks in and they can make out the rustling of feet in broken branches and leaves on the ground.

  Helen, Henry, Earl, Daniel and Mrs. Woods lean close together over the tiny screen lying face up on the antique dining table. Helen turns the volume up to maximum.

  The lake shakes around in the frame like it’s on a rollercoaster as the cameraperson, presumably Posey Van Buren, moves through the trees over the rough terrain.

  And then, a tiny, breathless voice: “Ah, here you are.”

  The angle lowers a bit and the camera becomes still, as if Posey has taken a seat. The image zooms in a little, and a little more. She’s filming the lake.

  A white shape appears at the edge. It looks like an egret or a duck, maybe, coming in for a landing. Except, it’s too big, and too round, and it’s got no wings.

  The video zooms in more, revealing that the white thing is not a bird at all, but a man. A stocky man, now standing about waist-high in the water.

  “Whatcha doing, Posey?” Earl says. “Watching people swim or something?”

  The roundish man in the water walks forward, slowly. No fishing rod or swim goggles are apparent, although it would be hard to say at this distance. Why is Posey shooting from so far away?

  A short, sharp gasp of breath, and the camera points at the ground. The view veers around crazily and then finds the man again. Now, he’s up to his neck, still walking forward.

  “Oh!” Posey cries, and the camera view drops to the ground again. The screen dissolves into a series of blurred lines, a bit of the sky, and then the dark shapes of tall trees. The sound muffles, as if someone has a hand over the microphone. Scratching sounds, a tiny voice crying out.

  And then, the splatting sound of the camera hitting the muddy ground. And a crunching, like a boot crushing it into pieces. Then, nothing. That’s the end of the video.

  The group looks up from the camera at each other.

  “Well, they’re here,” Earl says, breathing in deeply.

  “Who?” Mrs. Woods asks. “Who’s here?”

  “It was foretold,” says Earl. “I tried to warn you. And now they’ve got Miss Posey. That’s all there is to it.”

  Helen and Henry exchange a look. Is this guy serious? He seems like he’s serious.

  “They don’t want us to know,” Earl continues. “That lake, it’s got powers. Just like Posey said. Powers to make people kill themselves. He looks straight at Henry. “Thousands of people. All into the lake. No reason. I’m telling you, there’s a spell on that lake. You must stay away from the lake.” He puts up an index finger, and displays it to each member of the group in turn. “You be warned. Stay away from the lake.”

  Earl turns and rushes out into the lobby of the hotel. “I thank you kindly, Miss Helen, Eleanor. I must be going.”

  “Earl, did you want Posey’s camera?” Mrs. Woods calls after him. But Earl has already left.

  Daniel watches Earl step over Clarence the dog and galumph out the front door. Daniel looks down at the notebook in his hands, the one with a name on each page in his uncle’s handwriting.

  Who are these people? And why was Mr. Brush recording their names? How did he even know their names? Daniel runs his fingers over the outlined shape on the back of the book again, the circle with a square in the middle. Just like those coins he played with as a child.

  “What do you mean, you have to go?” Henry asks.

  “Just what I said, Henry, I have to go,” Kate says to her son. “Not for very long. Hopefully. I hope not long. But I have to.”

  “But why? Why now?” asks Henry. The tone of his voice is rising. He runs his finger along the edge of his sketchbook. Last night, he drew a picture of his mom, of Kate, walking into the lake. Just like all the other people: never to be seen again. He can’t tell if it’s just a fear, something creeping out of his mind, or if he should take the image literally. He has a sinking feeling he should be taking it literally—especially after seeing Posey’s video.

  “We’re going with you,” Henry says.

  “No, no you’re not, you’re staying here.” Kate paces back and forth. She stops and faces her son. “You’re both staying here. You understand?”

  “Understand what?” Helen asks,
standing in the doorway.

  “Mom says she has to go,” Henry says, his voice cracking. “Away.” Those are words that neither of these children want to hear again as long as they live. So many times they have been told, “I have to go, I’ll be back. Take care of yourselves.”Again and again, never sure what is going to happen, whether they will see their mom again or if they will find themselves living on the streets like urchins.

  “Not for very long,” Kate says. It’s of those things a mother says to reassure her children. She has no idea what it actually means. Kate, too, is so tired of uttering these same words. She knows her children have heard them enough times that they have become meaningless. Worse, they have become painful.

  “And we’re going with her,” Henry says.

  “Where?” Helen asks.

  “You’re not going with me,” Kate says. This conversation is going in circles. “You both have to stay here, with Mrs. Woods. Her job is to keep you safe. This is very important. Promise me you will stay in the hotel until I get back. Both of you.” She looks back and forth at her two children.

  “Where are you going, mom?” Helen says, insistently, stepping forward.

  “I can’t tell you that,” Kate says.

  “That’s a stupid answer,” Helen says. “Are we just supposed to sit here? You say you have to go—somewhere. But you can’t tell us. Why? Why do we have to stay here? Who is this Mrs. Woods lady anyway? Why should we even trust her?”

  “Mrs. Woods knows how to protect you,” Kate says.

  “Oh, protect us, but not you, mom. You have to go.” Helen feels her face growing red, her throat tightening. “And where have you been, anyway? I thought you weren’t supposed to be bounty hunting now.”

  “I think I know where your father is,” Kate blurts.

  “Oh here we go again, with the old tried-and-true ‘where’s Dad?’ routine,” Helen yells. “Always. That’s the trump card. Whenever we need a justification, you say it’s because you think you know where Dad is. Oh, maybe Dad is around the next corner. Maybe he’s over here. Or over there. Hey, maybe he’s under here!” Helen grabs a pillow off the bed and flings it across the room.

  “You know what I think?” Helen screams. “I think Dad is gone. I think you’re in denial. We’re never going to see him. I think we’re just running around for no reason. You don’t have the slightest idea where he is. All these stupid messages? Who knows where they’re coming from. The whole thing is just… a bunch of crap. That’s what it is. You don’t know anything, mom.”

  Kate takes a couple of breaths. Helen is right. Kate doesn’t know anything. Least of all, how to talk down this new, flammable version of her daughter.

  “Not everything is going to be explained to you right this minute, young lady,” Mrs. Woods says, appearing in the doorway where Helen had been before she started flinging pillows.

  Helen whirls around. “Great, here’s our babysitter. Well, babysitter, I’m going out now, so don’t try to stop me.”

  Helen stomps out the door, past Mrs. Woods, and out of the conversation. A few seconds later the front door of the hotel slams shut.

  “Mom,” Henry says, quietly.

  Kate looks down at her son. How long until he becomes flammable, too. Just a couple of years, probably.

  “What is it, Henry.”

  “Mom, if you find Dad… when you find Dad, you have to tell him that Uncle Chris is there, okay? He’s… still alive. He’s in a Tromindox. Mom?”

  “Okay Henry, I’ll tell him.”

  Helen stomps down the middle of the main street of Brokeneck. She crunches the gravel under her boots. She wishes she could smash the whole town flat. Who cares if she stays in the hotel? Who cares what happens? What difference does it make? The only thing that’s clear is that nobody, nobody around here has a clue what’s going on. And she’s supposed to just do what she’s told, and sit there in some musty old building with some old bat that she doesn’t know, waiting around for her mom to come home. Shoot, they could have kept sitting around doing nothing in the city. Why come here? Why come listen to some old man ramble on about a magic lake?

  After a few minutes of angry intense walking, the intense heat of the sun begins to beat down on Helen’s shoulders and back. She veers up onto the shaded walkway that runs across the gold rush-era storefronts. Droplets of sweat run down her neck. The wood planks creak under her feet. They also creak under the paws of Clarence, who has followed her.

  Helen lets the dog catch up and looks down at him.

  “What are we doing here, Clarence?”

  Clarence ambles up and shoves his face into her hand. His cold nose is a nice relief from the heat.

  She scratches his head and flops his ears around. “Nobody knows, dog. We’re just driving around, visiting every idiotic town in the West, that’s what we’re doing.”

  Clarence considers this; then he cruises over and flops down in the nearest doorway. His tags jingle as they hit the deck.

  The carved wooden sign on this particular door, embellished with bits of gold paint and what looks like a dusting of glitter, reads: “Gifted Florence.”

  “You looking to get a psychic reading, old Clarence?” Helen asks. “Maybe Florence here can tell you if you were a Pug in a former life or something.” She peers into the window, but the velvet curtains are closed.

  “Or, maybe she can tell me when I’ll get out of this idiotic town,” Helen sighs.

  As if in response, the door creaks open. Clarence lifts his nose in the air, the way a large dog does to take stock of a situation entirely through smell, without having to move too much. The odor of incense bursts out and whacks Helen in the face.

  “Wow,” Helen says, blinking. “That’s some strong perfume in there.”

  She pushes the door open farther, standing on the outside of Clarence and leaning forward to try and make out shapes in the darkness. She can see a match being lit and moving downward onto the top of a very large candle that illuminates the immediate space with an orange-red glow.

  “Come on in,” a well-worn voice says.

  Helen steps over Clarence and across the threshold. Shapes and colors slowly present themselves from the darkness: rich fabrics, fringe, a really old lamp, and a really old lady.

  “Hello,” the lady says, shaking out the match.

  “Are you Florence?” Helen asks.

  “Yes, I am,” Florence says. Her voice is surprisingly smooth.

  “Are you gifted?”

  “Most people seem to think so. Have a seat.”

  By now, Helen can make out a mustard-yellow floral sofa to her left. She shuffles sideways between the sofa and a knee-high coffee table and sits down. Florence’s kindly face with almond-shaped eyes appears amongst a forest of carvings, fabrics, and incense smoke. Clarence has morphed into a dog-shaped silhouette against the harsh sunlight outside.

  “I’m Helen,” Helen says.

  “I know.”

  Helen rolls her eyes. “Because I told you.”

  Florence smiles. “The whole town knows who you are, Helen. That’s not news. No special powers needed there.” Florence waves her hands in the air to signify pretend magic spells. Her bracelets jingle and the flame in the candle bends away for a moment before straightening.

  Then Florence leans forward. “Tell me about the dreams.”

  Helen considers this for a moment. Everyone has dreams. Everyone has troublesome dreams. So this isn’t really psychic, either. It’s a leading question, meant to get you talking. Give away facts about yourself so they can be fed back to you.

  “I don’t have any dreams,” Helen says.

  “Of course you do,” Florence says. “Everyone does. Yours though, yours have special properties, I think. That is, until recently. What changed, Helen?”

  We’re still talking in generalities here. Helen remains unimpressed. Clarence rests his head on his front paws and goes to sleep.

  “Look,” Florence says, “I don’t really care wh
at you think of the things I say. I don’t care if you believe that I’m psychic. I just know that sometimes, I get an inkling of something, and some times, it’s helpful to someone. So I ask questions. That’s it. Got it?”

  Boy, this lady is kind of hard-nosed for a psychic who wears scarves and burns incense.

  “Okay,” Helen says.

  “Now, tell me about the dreams. Not the old ones, with the visitors. Tell me about the new ones. Your dreams have changed, haven’t they?”

  “Yes, they have.”

  Florence picks up a tiny teacup, and pours herself some tea. “There used to be others in your dreams, didn’t there? Where do you suppose they went?”

  “I don’t know,” Helen says. “I worry sometimes that… ” she stops.

  “That what?”

  “That my mom might have killed them,” Helen says. She looks across at the old face, waiting for some reaction.

  “She hasn’t,” Florence states matter-of-factly.

  Oh okay, now we say something reassuring, because that’s how you keep ‘em coming back if you’re a psychic. If you tell people they’re dying of cancer, they won’t be a repeat customer.

  “How do you know that?” Helen asks.

  “Tell me about the new dreams, Helen.”

  “Okay, fine. In the new dreams, there’s this house. And I try to get in, and the doorknob comes off in my hand. And then I get pulled away. That’s about it.”

  “Is there a sound?”

  “In the dream?”

  “Yes. Is there a sound? This is important.”

  Helen considers for a moment. “Yes, there’s a sound. It’s like… a gurgly sound. Like I’m… ”

  “Underwater?” Florence asks.

  “Yeah, maybe. Maybe it’s water. Now that you mention it.”

  “Well,” Florence says, leaning back into the mountain of embroidered cushions behind her. “Well.”

  “What?” Helen says.

  “You know, a lot of people come to psychics to talk to the dead, or they hope for a message from the great beyond, or something like that. They believe that out there somewhere, there’s a message for them. And they need me to help them get the message. You know, from old Grandpa telling them where the money is hidden, or everything is going to be okay, or I was murdered, what have you.”