The House on Black Lake (4 page)

“We need life—”

“I’ll save you if you fall in the lake, sweetheart. I’ve caught bigger fish than you.” He thrusts a foot against the dock and hoists himself up to grab me around the waist and draw me into boat. The rank smell of his body and the swell of his biceps cause me to recoil, lose my balance, and fall backwards. The skin of my ankle is ripped open by the sharp buckle of my suitcase as I land on the plank beside Sammy.

“Careful. You’re not on solid ground any longer. You okay?”

“Fine,” I say, and watch a stream of blood flow from the cut and soak into the porous wood beneath my feet.

“Hold on, Samuel, we’re launching.” Ramey reaches out to untie the thick braided rope securing the vessel to the pier.

“Wait for me!” Ruth calls out. She carries a paper bag and a pile of blankets, and her pants billow behind as she weaves down the path.

“Let’s see how far you can jump, Baby,” Ramey calls to her.

Ruth struggles to reach the dock as we drift out into the lake. With her mane of red hair flapping and limbs flailing, she looks like an exotic maimed bird. Her high-pitched cries grow fainter as we are carried away from the shore, and for a moment I fear he will actually leave his wife behind.

“Should we see how far she can leap?” he asks with a boyish grin that belies his wicked game. “You get one chance.” He gathers up a length of rope to drag the boat back with such force I think it might splinter into a thousand sticks of kindling.

Ruth makes a perilous leap into the boat and throws the ancient vessel into a wild tizzy. She plants herself astride Ramey’s lap and wraps her arms around his shoulders.

“Perfect landing,” she coos and slides her hips forward.

“Move your sweet ass, dear. You’re blocking my view.”

He takes two oars from beneath the bench. “Let’s see if you remember how to row, Ruthie. I don’t want to spend the night spinning in circles like last time. Follow my lead and move in sync. I’ll do the rest.”

“I don’t want to row,” Ruth whines as she hands me the bag and blankets and adjusts herself on the seat.

“Quiet. Do what I say or I’ll tie you to the bow and give you a good flogging.” Ramey winks at Sam to reassure him it’s all in jest, and then leans forward to thrust his oar deep into the water.

“Whatever you say, Captain Blackbeard. As long as you promise to keep me in your cabin as your love slave afterwards,” she says and joins him in rowing.

“I’ll give you what you deserve later, if you’re a good girl,” he says with a devilish smile and a private glance in my direction.

The boat skims along the glassy surface into the heart of the lake. Darkness surrounds us, the only guiding light provided from above. The sky appears unnatural, surreal, like a piece of black cloth dotted with millions of pinpoints of light that when ripped away will reveal the entirety of the universe.

“Sammy, look, there’s a falling star—make a wish, but don’t tell.”

“I know what I wish for,” Ruth says, an enigmatic look crossing her face.

“What’s that?” Ramey asks.

“I can’t tell, or I won’t receive my wish,” she says in a hushed tone.

“Well, I hope whatever it is won’t cost me a fortune,” he replies, and they both turn away to look into the lake as silence creeps in and quiets the nocturnal creatures.

“Mommy, I’m cold.”

I unfold one of the blankets, wrap it around Sammy and embrace the soft bundle.

“Over there.” Ruth points towards the shore. “Beyond the trees, where there’s a faint halo of light through a turret—that’s the summer estate of Ramey’s uncle Roger. She pauses as a dark thought seems to cross her face. “His Tudor mansion is designed in the manner of a medieval castle. When Ramey’s father died he gave all his business interests to Roger to manage until he dies, then Ramey takes control. Roger owns nearly half of Montreal in land and real estate. His family was one of the earliest settlers.”

“My dear, you can row or talk, but you can’t do both at the same time, because when you do we keep veering off to the right.” He wraps an arm around her shoulder and lowers his lips to her ear. “The faster you row, the quicker we’ll get home for what you requested,” he says in a whisper that would bring shivers of delight to the most hardened and dried out.

“Look, Sammy, a firefly.” I point to a streak of light flittering above Ramey’s shoulder. Sam perks up and appears enthralled by the wobbling ball of light.

“Did you know fireflies are actually flying beetles, Sam?” Ramey reaches over his head, captures the firefly in his hand, and holds it out for Sammy to see. The bug flitters in his palm for a moment and then flies away.

“Their lights are mating calls. The male sends out a distinctive set of light flashes to find females of the same species, who flash back the same sequence. Sometimes a female firefly will get real hungry and send out a mimic, the flash of a female from a different species, to attract one of their males. And then, when he arrives to mate with her, she eats him alive. They’re a lot like humans, the fireflies.”

He catches Ruth’s eyes while a sly smile flits recklessly across his face. “They don’t usually venture this far from the land; it must have been hiding in the boat.”

Ruth turns abruptly away from him, lowers her chin, and rolls her eyes with a haughty sniff. They become curiously quiet, rowing in silence, with gazes focused on a spot far in the distance. Their abrupt emotional distance causes me to be seized with panic as I realize we are far from shore and I see no signs of habitation along the rugged shoreline.

Ramey observes me intensely for a moment, as if tracking my fear, then shifts his attention to my son.

“Ever been fishin’, Sam?”

Sammy shakes his head.

“Later in the week, I’ll take you out to catch trout. The lake is loaded with them. I like to use worm bait. My sons and I get up early in the morning to dig up the night crawlers. We put them in cans with fresh dirt and take them down to the dock to catch the fish at their first feed. They love the sweet taste of the crawler, even though they’re cold blooded.”

“How much have you had to drink today?”

Ruth’s voice carries a creeping irritation and a measure of twisted distain that seems to suck the blood from her face and draw dark circles into the hollows beneath her eyes.

“Not enough, dear. Why do you ask?”

“Mommy, look. There is the house on the island,” Sammy says and points straight ahead.

Through a silvery mist the silhouette of a house looms in the distance. As we row closer an icy blast sweeps over us and delivers waves of chills deep to the bone.

“Pick up your pace, Ruth, the last quarter-mile is a tougher row.” He raises his voice over the shrill wail of a sharp wind that has kicked up in the last few yards.

The architecture becomes more distinct as we near the shore. It appears to be a dilapidated Victorian, built on an island not much larger than itself. No other buildings are visible from our vantage point, and the dock at the island’s perimeter looks deserted.

“Sammy, look at the size of the house we’re to stay in. How do you think they were they able to build such an elaborate structure on an island so many years ago?”

The false note of my exclamation fails to bring a response from Sam. He stares ahead without expression, and his skin looks unusually pale, almost translucent. His brown eyes, always deep, yet rarely forthcoming, are as oblique as the dark water beneath us. I squeeze his frigid hand, hold him tightly against my side, and try my best to ward off the creeping dread.

Our hosts have given up any attempt at maintaining the playful banter. Ruth moves to the far edge of the plank, and when Ramey grabs the rope near her feet she visibly cringes and stiffens into a statuesque position—like she’s made of wax.

“I’m taking her in,” Ramey says. His dark eyes narrow to mere slits beneath his furrowed brow. He licks spittle from cracked lips and clenches his jaw as he takes the oar from Ruth’s flaccid hand. Against the force of a strong undercurrent he guides the craft inside an empty boat garage, where we disembark in potent silence.

T
HE FAÇADE OF THE IMPOSING TWO-STORY
V
ICTORIAN RADIATES A
golden light through its dormer windows, as if the dwelling itself were expecting guests. We ascend the stairs and step onto a whitewashed porch, with peeling paint that sloughs off and crackles under the weight of our feet. Worn rattan patio furniture with faded and tattered cushions are scattered about, and overhead baskets of desiccated flowers hang from the rafters. A disheveled bird’s nest clings to a rotting beam, now the home of a family of long-legged spiders. Not quite what I had in mind when I envisioned a trip to paradise.

Ruth withdraws a key from her pocket and tries to shove it into the lock, but her hand shakes so badly she has trouble inserting it.

“Give me the key,” Ramey says. He comes up from behind, springs the bolt and turns the weathered brass knob. The door opens with a deep moan of surrender, releasing a faint smell of rot and decay. We follow the Sandeleys into the cold embrace of an old-fashioned parlor. It is deathly quiet inside, except for the steady rhythm of a clock’s pendulum.

“I’ll get the heat going,” Ramey says, and heads to the back of the house.

The illumination observed from the outside is not apparent on the interior of the residence. The parlor is dimly lit by a corner lamp topped with a skewed parchment shade, vaguely highlighting a back wall lined with shelves stacked with old books and bric-a-brac. A grand piano stands in the middle of the room, with yellowed sheet music laid out. It appears many years have passed since someone caressed the ivory keys and stirred the felted hammers inside the dusty ebony veneer.

“Don’t touch,” I warn Sammy as he reaches out to pick up a ceramic pig with its head buried in a slop bucket that is set amongst a collection of rosy-cheeked animal figurines. “We don’t want to break anything.”

“Look, Mommy, you’re a weird little girl and I’m a monster baby.” Sammy moves to a man-sized gilded mirror resting against the wall behind the piano, where he makes faces in the warped glass.

“We’re not here to play,” I say, and avert my eyes from the ghastly reflection.

“Let me settle you into your bedrooms,” Ruth says.

We follow her to a staircase set into the back wall of the parlor, and up a stairway that feels off-kilter, like our movement is being resisted by more than the force of gravity. A single bulb dangling from an electrical cord in the stairwell ceiling flickers madly above us. At the top of the second floor, we tread along a wide corridor with scarred oak floors and catch glimpses of neglected children’s rooms through partially open doors.

“Here is yours, Sammy.”

The room we enter is centered with a bed in the shape of a race car, covered with a faded and stained spread. A wide eyed, grinning marionette with tangled strings sits on a bureau in the corner of the room, surrounded by a collection of model airplanes. One of the planes has dive-bombed to the floor and lies in ruins. I suppress the desire to exclaim to Sammy about his good luck in sleeping in a car tonight. Instead I squeeze his hand and share a private wink that helps to dispel the gloom.

Ruth halts before a set of double doors at the end of the hallway and clasps onto the cut-glass doorknob. We wait patiently, but she doesn’t move. Instead, she turns abruptly while lifting a hand to press fingers against her temple.

“Let’s go back downstairs. I want to show you the kitchen,” she says and rushes down the hallway.

“Are you all right?” I ask as we descend the stairs.

“Fine,” she says, and shoves open a swinging door.

“You seem upset.”

“The migraine’s kicked in, that’s all.”

We enter a kitchen with outdated appliances, lined with paned windows and no curtains. Ruth crosses the room to the sink and turns on the tap. The spigot creaks and sputters and throws out a rusty liquid before running clear. She splashes her face with water and seems to fight back tears.