The House on Black Lake

by Blackwell, Anastasia

  The HOUSE

  on

  BLACK LAKE

  by Anastasia Blackwell

  A Creative Revolution Publication

  Los Angeles San Francisco

  Text and photographs copyright © 2010 by Anastasia Blackwell

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of publisher.

  Creative Revolution Publications

  Los Angeles-San Francisco

  www.houseonblacklake.com

  First Paperback Edition: January 2010

  First Hardcover Edition: January 2010

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Blackwell, Anastasia

  The House on Black Lake: a novel/by Anastasia Blackwell - 1st ed. p. cm

  Summary: World weary Alexandra Brighton’s vacation on an exclusive private lake outside Montreal turns dangerous as she is lured into a sensual world of dark secrets and is compelled to make a dramatic transformation.

  ISBN 978-0-9825002-0-0

  ISBN 978-0-9825002-1-7

  (1. Gothic - fiction 3. Montreal - fiction. 4. Romance - fiction. 5. Canada - fiction. 6. Women’s - fiction. 7. Suspense - fiction) 1. Title.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I WISH TO ACKNOWLEDGE MY SONS, WHO ARE A CONSTANT SOURCE OF pride and encouragement. And to the many individuals—you know who you are—who provided support and inspiration for the characters and scenes in my book. Special thanks to Adam Marsh, developmental editor; Maggie Deslaurier, copy editor; Martha Dwyer, proofreader; David Wilson, photographer, and Robert Aulicino, who created the book cover and interior design.

  My gratitude to the creative team for The House on Black Lake’s trailer, as they were the first to breathe life into my story. Special credit to Fraser Bradshaw, cinematographer; Isaac Ebersole, producer, Jesse Spencer, editor; Peter Busboom, film composer, and cast: Morla Gorrondola, Benny Duskin, Wade Russell, and Tosh Yanez.

  Thanks to the staff at Trapeze Arts in Oakland, California. Especially Simon, Janene, and Stefan, as they were highly inspirational in leading me beyond my fear to fly into the unknown with unfettered abandon.

  Special recognition is offered to my sister, Kathleen, who assisted with the editing of film stills and led me through the dark hours before the dawn of a new chapter in my life. And to my late mother whose beautiful soul led her down the safe path and inspired mine to take another.

  Finally, I am grateful to you—the readers who dare to take the odyssey to Black Lake. I hope you enjoy the journey and are transformed and stirred to begin your own at book’s end.

  PRELUDE

  IN THE COURSE OF A HUMAN LIFE THERE IS OFTEN A DEFINING moment, a glimmer of time when everything changes and there is no turning back. Nearly thirteen years have passed since my fateful moment, yet its power remains.

  It was Christmas Eve and approaching dusk when we arrived at a holiday party at the edge of the desert. Candles in the snow along the stairway guided guests up to a magnificent dwelling perched on a bluff, overlooking a nearly alien landscape that seemed to stretch for an eternity. Inside the festive entrance hall my husband removed my long white coat and smoothed wrinkles from the matching dress.

  Our hostess drew aside velvet curtains at the rear of the vestibule and motioned for us to enter a darkened corridor. The mysterious passageway, illuminated by the glow of Venetian chandeliers, led to a Sistine-like rotunda where the music of Mozart reverberated from speakers in the rafters.

  In a shadowy corner, beyond where most of the guests congregated, I noticed a striking couple reclining on a burgundy divan. The man drew his hand along a willowy thigh and whispered in the ear of the stunning redhead. She turned to watch as my husband escorted me into the room, an enigmatic smile sweeping across her face, as if intended only for me.

  The woman’s seductive companion followed her gaze, and in the dazzling instant his eyes met mine something inside me awakened and bound me to him in a way I cannot explain.

  My idyllic life was shattered that night. Nine months to the day I gave birth to a son and suffered a disfiguring affliction. Desperate for a cure, I made a pilgrimage to St. Joseph’s Oratory, where the faithful are said to be healed. At the alter I made a vow: truth for beauty, a promise to follow my manifest destiny in return for an unmarked face. As my husband ushered me from the basilica, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a stained glass depiction of the Madonna and child. My cheek had begun to thaw—and now I had a price to pay.

  The ensuing years brought a second son and the collapse of my marriage. I soon became little more than a shadow hiding in the remnants of my former life. The more I pursued truth, the greater the resistance—until I gave up any notion of seeking a rightful path. My shattered existence was invaded by a wild terror and escaping its embrace became my sole ambition.

  I was besieged nightly by dreams of cataclysmic events and empty houses where I wandered as a lonely specter. One night I experienced an exceptionally powerful vision. I stood on a cliff overlooking a whitewashed city encased in iridescent fog. A slice of light shot through the mist and a diseased woman appeared to offer a trio of golden spheres. The eyes of the charismatic man in the desert burned through her sunken orbs.

  The dream left me with an unbearable desire for resolution. I knew it was a sign I must make the journey to see him again, if I was to survive.

  —AB

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  PART FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  PART SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  PICTURES FROM THE TRAILER OF THE HOUSE ON BLACK LAKE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE ARRIVAL

  THE CAB DRIVER IN THE SOILED STRIPED SHIRT DRAWS CIGARETTE smoke up his nose and leers at me from behind his filthy yellow taxicab. When the debauched little thing first approached me at curbside I told him I was waiting for a ride. But the truth: no one has set out to retrieve us. Not at this late hour, at the nearly deserted Montreal airport where apparently all the reputable cabbies have found their fares and left for the night. So my son and I stand alongside our shadows, marooned outside the international terminal.

  Inside the airport, the security guards lock the doors and switch off the overhead lights. The few remaining passengers have vanished now that the outside lights are
extinguished. A fierce panic has taken hold and I sorely regret my decision to take this journey. But there is no turning back.

  There is no exit.

  “Mommy, why can’t we take that man’s cab?”

  I want to tell Sammy that he looks like a derelict and will likely have our throats slit and pockets empty before the first mile registers on the meter. But I don’t want to frighten my child.

  The driver takes a quick last drag, tosses the butt over his shoulder, and saunters out from behind the vehicle. “Madame, as I told you,” he says in a heavy Quebecois accent, “there are no more cabs tonight. It looks like your ride is not coming. When I leave the terminal you will be left alone and stranded. Dangerous characters come here to do their drug dealings late into the night. Here, let me take your bag. What is your destination?” He picks up my suitcase and throws it inside his open trunk.

  “Excuse me, sir. But the bag stays with me.”

  “My name is Zito, Zito Zahn. I will take care of you.”

  “I told you we’re waiting for our ride.”

  “A limousine driver, engaged to pick up a woman and young child flying in from the states, departed at least an hour ago. I will take you to your destination.”

  He opens the back door and gestures for us to enter.

  “Let’s take the cab, Mommy. I’m tired.”

  “All right Mr. Zahn,” I say with a deep sigh of resignation.

  Ignoring his outstretched paw-like appendage I stoop inside, leading Sam with me. Lowering myself onto the cracked seat, I kick aside the assorted papers, candy wrappers, and God knows what else that litters the floor.

  “I would like you to take us to a house in a private enclave of summer homes on Black Lake. There is no number, only a landmark.”

  “What is the name?”

  “Sandeley.”

  “Oui. I know the place.”

  He takes a small recorder from the dashboard, shoves it between his legs, and turns up the volume of a French baritone.

  “Would you mind rolling up your window?”

  “Excusez-moi?” he asks, while withdrawing a stubby cigarette from a crumpled pack on the dash.

  “Never mind.”

  I draw Sammy tightly against me as the driver veers out of the airport and pulls onto the highway. He zigzags between lanes, jockeying for position in the freeway traffic, taunting drivers with a shaking fist as he passes. Cackling to himself and blowing smoke out the window, he trills his glottis along with the lusty man singing deep within his thighs.

  “Hold on,” he exclaims, and abruptly veers off the highway. Nothing is visible along this stretch of road, other than the cracked asphalt beneath the one working headlight and the ghoulish shadows that play along the narrow passage. It feels like we are twisting down a black hole into some godforsaken parallel universe where Zito-like creatures act out unimaginable perversities and abominations.

  “Mr. Zahn, would you please slow down? You’re frightening my son.”

  “But you Americans love your rides. I am giving you your amusement.”

  “Not all of us love the rides. Are you certain you are going in the right direction?”

  “Oui. I know the way to Black Lake. This is the shortcut, as you call it.”

  “I don’t see any signs or landmarks,” I say, and toss my wind-whipped hair aside while wiping a circle of fog from the window.

  “There are no signs. It is a private lake.” The whites of his eyes grow larger in the rearview mirror, as he traces the line of buttons down my sweater.

  “Mr. Zahn, please! Would you keep your eyes on the road? I don’t know how you can tell where you are going.”

  In the dim red illumination of the instrument dials I watch a tiny hand slither back to scratch and his moans join that of the singer between his thighs, who is now in the throes of an excruciating climax.

  “How much longer?”

  “Not too much longer, Madame... not too much...”

  He lets out a wild whoop, like a warrior about to bury his spear into an enemy, and thrusts his foot down on the accelerator. The car momentary takes flight, careens down a steep grade and lands in a pothole filled with water, splashing a muddy soup onto the windshield.

  “Welcome to Black Lake,” Zito says, and brings the cab to a screeching halt. He opens our door, and we step from the rotting cocoon onto a dark road with a canopy of brilliant stars and fresh air infused with lilac. A summer breeze scatters the last remnants of the dust as I lead Sammy towards the yellowish beam of the car’s headlight. Sheathed in a dense overgrowth of trees, the deserted road shows no signs of human habitation.

  “Where is the house?”

  “It lies at the base of the path, at the shore,” he tells me, and points to a flagstone trail bordered with trellised roses interspersed with sparkling lights.

  I hand him a few bills to cover his fare and turn with Sammy to cross the road.

  “Wait. Do not leave. I need to take you down...” he calls out, while taking something from his back pocket.

  “Pardon me?” I say, and search inside my purse for a sharp object.

  “I need to take down your time. When do you return to Montreal, to the airport? He removes a threadbare notebook from his pocket and takes the pen from my hand.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Zito will be there to greet you. Zito is always on time.”

  “That is not necessary. Mr. Sandeley will take care of my transportation.”

  “I know all the schedules. I will arrive just after sunrise for your return.” He replaces the notebook in his back pocket and hands me my fountain pen. “Bonne nuit,” he says with a salute. “I will meet you at dawn after the longest day.”

  Zito shuffles back to his cab and takes off with a lurch, vanishing into a cloud of pink-tinged dust like an apparition.

  CHAPTER TWO

  RUTH AND RAMEY SANDELEY

  “I HEAR DEMONS CRYING, MOMMY.”

  “Those are the crickets in the bush, darling. You’re not used to the sounds of the country. Look at the size and color of the moon—we don’t see red moons in the city. It’s less than a week until the solstice, the beginning of summer and the longest day of the year, the day the sun stands still. They say the dreams you have that night will come true.”

  The mirror of fiery brightness blesses a strange effect of light. A coppery halo illuminates a veil of brilliant stars and lends a mysterious otherworldliness to the landscape unfolding before us. I grasp the handle of my suitcase and take Sammy’s hand to lead him onto a footbridge straddling a stream cloaked with a jungle of vines and exotic flowers. The night is steamy and sultry, inky dark at the faint edges, and reeks of a potent floral perfume mixed with the stench of rot and freshly upturned earth. The wide open blossoms seem to watch us as we pass, while the churning water throws up a light mist, enshrouding us in shimmering dew.

  “I wonder how he knew.”

  “Who?”

  “Zito. I wonder how he knew we are scheduled to return the morning following the solstice.”

  We cross the aqueduct and step onto a brick walkway that meanders through a haunting terrain. A radiant light appears as we pass the first loop of the serpentine and I am taken by a delicious stab of excitement as a palatial estate materializes against the panorama of darkness.

  “The Sandeley’s house is magnificent. I’d like to spend our entire vacation lying on that big hammock on the front porch,” I say, and retrieve strands of my hair from moss dangling from a tree overhanging stairs that lead up to the stunning manor.

  It is eerily still as we begin our ascent: except for the melodies of cut-glass chimes swaying in the eaves of the patio, sounds nearly human, like the whispers of shared secrets.

  The front doors are flanked by stained-glass depictions of flying cherubs and illuminated by carriage lamps that have attracted a swarm of moths. Beneath their commotion, those that have beaten themselves to death against the glass lie in heaps on the floor. As we appr
oach, the blind creatures flutter helterskelter in our direction.

  “Get them away from me.” Sammy bends down to cover his face with his hands.

  “Don’t be frightened, darling. They can’t harm you,” I say and strike the door with the brass knocker. The faint sound of heels clicking briskly on a hard surface can be heard from within, a squeaky latch lifts and the door opens.

  Ruth Sandeley appears in the arched doorway with a glass of wine poised above her shoulder. Backlit by amber light that guilds her wild mane of red hair, and dressed in a crop-top revealing a tiny alabaster stomach and billowing pants, she looks stunning—but in a frightful way. Nothing like the woman I first met in the desert that drew stares of admiration in a roomful of beauties. Up close, framed by the harsh light of the carriage lamps, with blank eyes rimmed in mascara and pale rouged cheeks, Ruth reminds me of a discarded doll.

  “Welcome to Quebec, darlings. We were worried about you. Why are you so late, dear?”

  “Our flight from San Francisco was delayed, there was a mechanical problem in Chicago, then my bag was lost in Montreal and later found being carted out with the garbage.”

  “Come inside, but be careful. The floor is newly refinished—for the third time. They can’t seem to get the color right, how difficult can that be?” She makes a dramatic gesture with her hand, like the wave of an imaginary wand.

  “You’re about to trample in mud. Take off your shoes and carry them inside. There’s a bin by the kitchen door. Where in God’s name have you been?”

  “A lunatic cab driver took a shortcut and left us off on a muddy back road. I was afraid we might not make it here alive.”

  We enter an expansive foyer with grooved pillars and shiny dark hardwood floors accented with Oriental carpets. Candles, set amongst elaborate floral arrangements, fill the room with a sultry spice. The burning wicks throw flickering shadows up the aged brick walls, bringing to life a lineup of mounted big game animal heads with heavy jaws spread wide and razor-sharp teeth bared. A demure zebra with soft brown eyes is the only carcass in the group with its mouth stitched shut.