“You live here?”
“No. A few hours away. It’s all right, but I’ve been coming here for years over the summers. My grandma lives across the lake,” I told him, and he moved closer. “How about you? Lived here long?”
“I moved here two years ago. From Boston.”
I laughed, a glittery girl sound, and I snapped my mouth shut, suddenly aware how juvenile I sounded. “That’s quite the change. Do you miss your friends?”
“I do. We talked for a while, on the phone. I visited once, then the calls stopped. You know how it is,” he said, but I really didn’t. I just nodded, like I was an expert at losing friends.
“I have to leave mine every summer. That’s hard, but at least I get to go back to them when it’s time for school. But… almost every year, something has changed. One of them has a boyfriend, or the other cut her hair drastically. Or I missed some huge event, and they talk about it all the time, almost forgetting that I wasn’t even involved.” I clammed up, wondering why I was talking so much. Clark didn’t seem to mind.
He was listening intently, and I was aware of how close we were to each other. He jostled his knees wider, and his leg brushed against mine, once, twice, three times. My face felt crimson, and I was grateful for the dark ambience.
“I totally get that, Jess. You’re really cool,” he told me, smiling as he said it. I didn’t smell beer or cigarettes on him, and I appreciated his character.
“You’re cool too, Clark,” I said, wondering if the words really came out of my lips. His hand slid over, and our fingers touched. I thought I was going to die.
“Gotta run. Five-O,” one of the boys shouted, and I pointed behind us to see flashlights bobbing in the dark night.
“Jess, we have to move now. If Dad finds out we were here, he’ll kill us.” Zoe came beside me, glanced at Clark, and grabbed my arm, pulling me away. She tossed her beer can at the fire, and when I looked for Clark, he was already gone.
July 13th – 2020
It was a group of teenagers, and for a second, I figured I might spot myself sitting beside Clark on the picnic table, sixteen-year-old Zoe off to the side drinking her first beer. But as I approached, they paused and turned to me. John was there, and he tugged gently on my arm.
“Let’s not ruin these kids’ fun by being adults near them,” he said.
“You’re right. It just reminded me of another time in my life.”
“Wait. One of these kids works for me, and I have a big job tomorrow. Let me go see if he’s available tomorrow morning.” John left me by the water, and I watched him head over the sand to the group of eight. I noticed two girls, and the guys were all in black, overdressed for the heat. He handed something to one of the guys, and they gripped hands for a lingering moment before John turned and came back.
“He good for the job?” I asked, and John nodded.
“Good kid. Gets mixed in some bad things, I think, but giving him gainful employment might help. I usually try to hire kids like him, ones from tough neighborhoods who could use a break. I find they always work harder than the kids that grew up with money, if that makes sense.” John turned around, and I was relieved. We’d already come a long way, and I was wearing down.
“Total sense.”
We were walking the now familiar pathway heading to Cloud Lake Cabins, and it was dark. A lot of the homes and cabins had their porch lights on, some with yard lights, and it added a surprising clarity to the walk. There were dozens of lights around the lake; a couple of boats still moved slowly through the water. Someone was playing loud eighties music and singing horribly, and it made me laugh.
“Tell me about New York,” John said, ending the silent spell between us.
“Where do I start? It’s a wonderful place. I like the amount of people always around. It makes me feel faceless,” I said.
“And you want that?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m just another living, breathing body among the others, and no one stares at me or bothers me, they just let me be. I exist there like I don’t feel I could anywhere else.” Had I said too much? I wasn’t normally one to open up so freely.
“And is it enough to just exist?”
His question hit me. I turned it over to him. “I haven’t really thought about it. Should we strive for more?”
“I don’t know. Look, I’m only a guy who’s renting an old cabin at a crappy summer destination, trying to do enough renovations on the locals’ homes to tide me through next winter, so I may not know what I’m talking about. But there has to be more than just existing. You need to be happy, fulfilled, joyful. You know what I mean?” John stumbled on an aboveground root, and I caught his arm. “Thanks.”
“I guess I understand what you’re saying. I’d rather be out of the limelight, any way you look at it,” I admitted.
“No delusions of grandeur growing up?” he asked.
Growing up. I wanted to tell him I almost hadn’t made it, that I’d nearly had my life ripped from me. There was no “growing up” stage. I went from a kid to a scared young woman in the span of a breath for me, a week to the outside world. “Nothing like that,” I said.
“What are you passionate about?” John asked.
“You’re cramming it all in tonight, aren’t you?” I laughed, and he joined me.
“If you’re only here for a few days, I need to bogart all your time. Will you answer me?” he asked softly.
“Sure. I love bad nineties movies and have a penchant for pad Thai and long walks on the beach.” I couldn’t hold back the sarcasm on the last one.
“I’m being serious,” he said. “What really gets your spirit going? Is it journalism? Writing? Do you want to write books? Novels? Non-fiction?”
Could I tell him about my fascination with abductions? I glanced over, and he was so endearing. Calm, collected, handsome. “This is going to sound stupid, but…”
“But what?” he prodded.
“I have a little obsession with the unknown.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve read nearly every book on alien abductions, watched all the documentaries, seen all the debate from each side of believers and naysayers, and I find it all extremely interesting.” It was strange to tell someone this. My family knew about it, and my dad didn’t agree with it. He thought it was a transference of my anger against Peter Martin to the mystical, the unexplainable… aliens.
John let out a low whistle. “That is interesting, I have to admit. Why?”
I wasn’t going to go that deep with this guy and didn’t want him to know I was from here, or basically from here. “I spotted lights once, when I was a girl. It was amazing, scary, and exhilarating at the same time.”
“Tell me.”
“I was fourteen, at the lake… the one in Connecticut,” I lied. “It was hot, sticky, like most days that summer, not far off this one, if I’m being honest.” We kept walking, now past the run-down units, and we were near the expansive two-stories with path lighting and crackling firepits, where too much wine was being consumed and Cuban cigars were being smoked. I wondered what it was like to have these rich people’s lives. Did it really make them any happier than everyone else?
“And you saw a ship?” John asked without a hint of mocking.
“I’m not sure. I can still remember the smell, like sulphur, strong and sudden. I froze…” I stopped walking, and I stared up to the sky, catching a twinkling satellite high above.
“What happened?”
I didn’t remember. That was the last thing I saw… until my dad was calling my name. “Nothing. I snapped out of it, and it was gone. Nothing to see.”
“And you think it was a UFO?” he asked.
I shrugged and moved forward. “I’m not sure, but it was strange. Ever since that moment, I’ve been pursuing it, you know… not academically or anything. Just an interest of mine.”
“Do you believe?” he asked quietly.
Someone shot a firework over the lake. A d
eep red bloom spread across the sky, reflecting into the water, and the abrupt noise made my heart race. Another exploded, then another.
John and I stood there on the path, the water lapping gently against the beach, and we watched the lights over Cloud Lake.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“It is.”
We didn’t talk for a few minutes, while the display went off. Eventually, John broke the silence again. “You didn’t answer my question.”
I looked him in the eyes, and answered truthfully. “I don’t know.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. Let’s get you home. It’s getting late.”
The lights stopped, and the music ceased playing across the water, and it felt like most of the porch lights turned off at the same time. A dozen families calling it a night simultaneously. It was quite spectacular timing.
We arrived at Cabin Ten, and I glanced over at the unit beside me. Dan’s truck was still gone, and the lights were off inside. I silently hoped that Clare was all right. I’d check on her in the morning.
“Well, here we are,” John said, walking me to the door.
My porch light cast a long shadow behind John, and I fought the urge to run inside and slam the door shut. I tried to think if I’d taken a pill that afternoon and couldn’t recall. His hand reached for mine, and he held it. Did he want to come in? I was so terrible at this whole thing. I knew I should never have invited him over.
“Thanks for a wonderful time. And for cooking for me. I better get to bed. Big day tomorrow,” I told him.
He nodded and pulled me in, kissing my cheek. “I have to be up early too. Thanks for everything. Have a good night.” And when he was almost at his car, he turned and asked, “Still up for that boat ride Wednesday?”
I’d forgotten all about that already. “Of course. It’ll be fun.” I used my key and entered the unit, closing the door before locking the deadbolt and pressing my back against it.
My head was hurting again, and I drank two glasses of water before plopping onto the couch. It was only ten thirty, but it felt like two in the morning. There was no way I was getting to sleep yet. I was too wound up from finding Carly, remembering the beach like it was yesterday. I closed my eyes and could almost feel Clark’s finger touch mine.
I thought about turning the TV on. It felt like so long since I’d watched anything, and I fumbled around looking for the remote. The older flat screen flicked on at the press of a button, and I searched for something resembling news. It came a few channels later. A man in a cheap blue suit, and a woman with too much blush and a frozen expression, talked about some festival going on in Bangor before going to the weather. The weatherman, a young man in a bow tie, told the audience it was going to be hot for the next few days, complete with a smiley-face sun graphic.
“Get on with it already,” I muttered when it went to commercials.
My gaze drifted to the book on the table, and I stood up, my legs suddenly almost too tired to bear my weight. They’re Among Us, written by Oscar Neville. I flipped to the end flap, catching an image of a white-haired man. His eyes were almost familiar, but I didn’t know the name. I assumed I’d read a book by him at some point in my life.
I flipped to the front flap and read the blurb out loud.
Cloud Lake, a peaceful community in central Maine, only hours from civilization, is a hot spot for alien interaction. For decades, there have been extra-terrestrial sightings above the many sprawling fields, and over the iconic Cloud Lake itself.
The locals live under the active skies, and most don’t even believe what so many claim to have witnessed.
They’re Among Us is a testimony of a small-town inhabitant, a man who was there in the sixties when the sightings first occurred, and who was also present in eighty-seven when another influx hit and two residents went missing. He was a spectator in two thousand and one as well, when an abduction was blamed on a local man.
Oscar Neville will tell stories of faith, belief, and the Grays.
UFOs are real. Abductions are occurring. Cloud Lake is the epicenter.
I wanted to flip through the book, but I knew I’d see my name, my real name, Jessica Carver, plastered inside. I suspected they’d have the photo of me holding my fish, and the public shots of when I was found, disheveled and confused, sickly and skinnier than I’d ever been. I closed my eyes again, fighting the whirlwind of emotions coursing through me. I pictured myself but could only see Carly Miller’s frail body in my mind’s eye, my dad rushing toward her, calling my name.
“In other news, missing Cloud Lake teenager Carly Miller has been found by a sightseeing tourist, and after an extensive trip to County General, has been returned to the care of her loving family. Her parents have publicly expressed their thanks to whoever returned their child, but the local sheriff says the case is far from over.” There was a picture of Carly, probably the one they’d been circulating for the entire week while searching for her.
The shot cut to McCrae being filmed outside his office. “Whoever did this will get caught. We’re testing all of Carly’s clothing, hair, under her nails. We will find the perp and bring justice to this little girl and her family.”
McCrae’s eyes burned fiercely in his statement, and I hoped they did find evidence. I also hoped I hadn’t disrupted any proof by carrying her from the site.
The camera switched to the news anchor team in Bangor. The female anchor was shaking her head in disbelief. “We’re so happy this little girl has made it home, and our prayers are with her and her family for a quick recovery.”
I flicked the TV off; my head was spinning. I shoved the book away and went to get ready for bed. The whole time, I was trying to fight the urge to pick up the hardcover and dive in. What the hell did this Oscar Neville know about my experience?
I folded into bed a few minutes later, closed my eyes, and found sleep came easier than expected.
July 14th – 2020
The eggs fried in the pan, and since there was no toaster in the unit, I slid them off onto an old ceramic plate and dropped a slice of bread on the frying pan, flipping it a minute later. It was my grandma’s old way of making toast, but she always did so after frying bacon. She said it gave the toast an edge that no toaster could, and she’d proceed to add a dollop of butter, saying no topping could beat it.
I grinned as I thought about her in her kitchen, wearing the same blue apron with white daisies on it year after year, no matter how many my dad bought her. It became a running joke, where he’d give her a new one every summer on her birthday, and she’d gush over it, kiss him on the cheek, and proceed to hang the new item into a closet full of them. I wondered what had happened to all those aprons, encased in their plastic, after all these years.
The curtains were closed, and I leaned over the sink to open them, seeing a gray overcast day outside. It never failed. A string of hot days, followed by a muggy rainy one. I expected a nasty storm and hoped my low-end tent would keep me dry tonight.
I packed up all the supplies I’d bought at the feed store, and it was a sad little pile. I’d brought a change of clothing and a sweater, knowing the nights could turn cold if it was raining. But for today, I threw on a pair of black pants, flats with no socks, and a peach blouse. I made sure I appeared like the journalist I was before heading out the door, because I was going to make an impromptu stop at the town council this morning to speak to them about the Summer Kick-Off event this coming Thursday.
Once everything was in the trunk of my car, I headed out, noticing Dan’s truck in the parking spot of the cabin beside mine. It was after nine, and other families were out and about, some familiar by now, though I hadn’t spoken to any of them other than in passing. I decided to chat with some visitors about the rumors surrounding Cloud Lake before I left, which gave a comprehensive perspective to the article. It would be good to have other thoughts on the talk of Grays and UFOs circulating around town. I knew the looks I’d get when asking about it, the tilted heads, the half s
miles saying “really?”, but it was all part of the job.
Rain drizzled from the thick gray clouds above, and I rolled my window down as it fell. Once I was on the main road heading to town, I opened it all the way, taking a deep breath of ozone and corn. The stalks here were already nearing six feet, and I glanced into the center of this field, seeing a scarecrow flapping on a post. I knew there were better devices these days, but there was something enduring about the sight of a straw man watching over the corn, protecting it.
My phone rang, my dad’s number appearing on my nav screen. Ten different thoughts entered my head at the same time, but instead of trying to sort through them, I took the call.
“Dad!” I said a little too enthusiastically.
“Cloud Lake?” His voice was husky, as if he’d just woken up. I knew he wouldn’t have. He was an early bird, always up by six, paper read by seven, and by now, he’d have finished his morning walk.
“I know what you’re going to say…”
“Do you?” His voice was louder now, but still controlled. “You know how I’m going to tell you how Cloud Lake nearly killed you? How I know every inch of the damned town because I scoured it endlessly for a week? How you were broken by what happened, and how I blame that place for causing us to never have the relationship we were heading toward? That I lie awake at night, picturing his smug face, wishing I’d seen the signs so I could go back and kill him before he did anything?”
“Dad, stop!” I shouted, and he did. “It’s not Cloud Lake’s fault, and I’ve told you, I had my suspicions about Peter Martin. It was my fault for not telling you, telling an adult.”
“None of it was your fault, honey. None of it. How many times do I have to tell you?” Dad asked.
I sighed out a breath of sour air. “I know, Dad. I know.”
“Zoe tells me you’re there for a story. About UFO sightings. When are you going to get over this? This dream of lights and aliens? You know your mind manifested those ideas to take you out of his power, to explain it in a way that wasn’t real, so you didn’t have to face the truth. How many therapists have told you that?” I could hear the pain in his voice. It had been years since we’d talked about that summer, and saying these things out loud was too much for the man.
Lights Over Cloud Lake Page 13