The House on Black Lake

by Blackwell, Anastasia

  “I do. But not for photographs.”

  “I was hoping for a souvenir, something to remind me of you when I return home.”

  “You have enough,” he says, and clenches his jaw while a dark thought appears to cross his face.

  “Ramey, what does your tattoo mean?”

  “Why does a bunch of dancing fairies remind you of my backside?”

  He turns and lifts up his T-shirt. His shorts hang low enough that the symbols are easily visible.

  “In One Man Lie All The Mysteries Of The Universe.”

  “What about woman?”

  “It’s all the same.”

  He leans down to whisper in my ear.

  “Meet me later behind the house.”

  “It won’t happen. I quit taking clandestine encounters when I graduated high school.”

  “I’ll watch for you,” he says with a beguiling gleam, and turns to walk to a table loaded with pyrotechnics, where Roger and the other men are huddled.

  “Mom, you should see all the fireworks Ramey bought for us,” Sammy says as he runs toward me with Rand at his side.

  “Why don’t you boys get something to eat before they pack up the supplies? I’ll join you after I check on Rand’s mother.”

  The boys run off, and I cross the grounds to where Ruth lies sprawled out on a tattered wicker lounge.

  “Where are Luna and Mondie?” I ask as I approach.

  “Who gives a shit?” Her eyelids droop and she speaks in a heavy slur.

  “Lizzie’s quite a talented ballerina. Did you perform when you were a girl?”

  “I danced. Then I quit. My dad couldn’t afford the shoes.”

  She takes a drink from a plastic wine glass and the red liquid drips down her chin onto her ruffled white halter-top.

  There is a loud swish and I look up to see the sky explode in beautiful hues of blue and violet, followed by tiny sparks of lights cascading through the dark sky, burning out moments before they reach the ground.

  “It’s just a test. Stay clear of the launching area,” Roger announces.

  When I turn back, I see Ruth has dropped her empty glass and passed out. Her bejeweled sandals hang limply from perfectly manicured toenails. Two women chat at a table nearby and I ask them to keep an eye on her. I depart the veranda and move around the back of the house, to the wooded area where the shed is hidden.

  “André, are you still here...” I call out.

  The ladder is covered in dirt and mildew and is heavy and cumbersome, but after a few tries, I am able to position it below the window. When it is secured beneath the sill, I ascend to the window, shove it open, and lower myself down the wall through cobwebs filled with mummified insects and onto the floor.

  It is dim inside; the soot-covered window the only source of light. The dank space is strangely quiet. As my eyes adjust, a workbench takes shape against the wall, littered with tools and gadgets, pieces of wood, metal containers and an assortment of scraps.

  Aligned along the far edge of the carpenter’s table are three spherical objects. The flashes from a new firework explosion momentarily draw light into the room, illuminating the empty eye sockets and wide open jaws of a trio of human skulls.

  There is the sound of feet climbing up the ladder rungs outside the shed. “You didn’t start without me, did you?” Ramey asks as he pops his head in the window. He lowers himself inside and slides to the ground.

  “So, you found old Schlotter’s souvenirs, eh?”

  He dusts himself off and shoves a hand into his back pocket.

  “Want a hit of opium?” he asks, while removing a thin hand-rolled cigarette and gold lighter. He lights it, inhales deeply, and blows out smoke that transforms the air in the room to a pale translucent blue.

  “You’re out of control, Ramey. You need to get help.”

  He takes another hit and releases the smoke as he speaks.

  “No, sweetheart, you’ve got it all wrong. You are under control and need my help.”

  I move to unlock the door.

  “Don’t you want to hear the story?”

  “I want to hear the truth.”

  “Okay, I’ll give it to you. Hope you can stomach it.” There is a gleam in his eyes, a joy in the telling of something awful, like a young boy who has heard a terrible tale and can’t wait to share it.

  “His wife found him here enjoying his keepsakes early one spring morning, before church on Easter Sunday. She had no idea what was inside. He’d kept his collection to himself. She grabbed the kids and took off in a boat across the lake, never to return. She didn’t come back to retrieve the grand piano she paid a fortune to dismantle, carry by boat, and rebuild in the house. She didn’t turn off the stove before she left, or clean up the breakfast dishes. She left him to his mistresses.” Ramey glides his fingertips across a skull.

  “Where did they come from? Who are they?”

  “They were native girls who worked as servants in his house. Even his death has not released them.”

  Ramey’s last few words are muffled by a loud blast, shrieks of a rocket, and the screams of the children.

  “I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “Why would I make up stories about my own flesh and blood, a man who carried my DNA?”

  “How are you related?”

  “He was my uncle. My mother’s brother.”

  “Who told you this horror story?”

  “When I was a teenager, Georgie and I would row out to the island to get some of Schlotter’s homemade brew. When he was entirely pissed, he’d tell us the stories and then pass out. He said he didn’t enjoy the strangling; it was a means to an end. Power was the aphrodisiac for him, to control another human being completely. He brought prostitutes to the island when the servants were gone.”

  “I’ve been told the island is a Native American burial ground. I would assume he dug the skulls out of his garden.”

  “There is no garden on this island.”

  Ramey draws a deep last hit and smiles at me through a veil of blue smoke.

  “Why did he kill himself?”

  “Loneliness.” He drops the opium cigarette and snuffs it out with the heel of his boot.

  “I’m going back to see the fireworks.”

  “But I’m not done with you yet.”

  “Someone is going to notice we’re both gone. What would Ruth think if she found us here together?”

  “I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about anything.”

  He takes a thick piece of rope from the workbench and stretches it between his hands.

  A firecracker explodes, followed by the sound of loud hisses and pops.

  “Tie my hands, Alexandra.”

  “You’re acting crazy, Ramey, and I’m tired of your sadistic games. You need to grow up and find more meaningful ways to amuse yourself.”

  “How do you define crazy, and how do you decide what’s good or bad unless you’ve tried it? Fuck it, baby, someone did a real number on you. Whose rules do you live by? Who tells you what is right and wrong. Who tells you how you should live your life or how you should feel about anything. Is it you, baby? Or is it your parents, your husband, your priest or some fucking magistrate? Don’t judge me until you can ask those questions of yourself and be completely honest.”

  There are no answers to his questions and no words worthy of one. There is only the light from the brilliant explosions reflected inside his eyes and the streaks of gold dancing in his hair. The warlock has once again placed a spell on me, and I’m loath to find a magic potion to vanquish it. So I melt into an enticement I cannot refuse.

  “Have you ever experienced what it feels like to have complete power over another human being, over a man?”

  “I have only experienced loving a man to create life, and of having it taken from me. I don’t wish complete power over another. It sickens me, the thought of it. I don’t want to become one of the demons who suck life from others to empower themselves.”

  �
��The only way to free yourself is to understand what drives your suppressors. I want you to experience the feeling. It is my parting gift. You can do whatever you desire with me; you have all the power. Complete control. Take the rope.”

  He offers me the long piece of thick braided cotton.

  “Take it, Alexandra.”

  We stand silent, eyes locked, frozen. The tension in this miserable repository for the damned is excruciating.

  “It’s time you were freed. From this day forward you are not subject to censorship or control by a ruler, government or authority. Your rights are not restricted. You walk outside the prison a free woman. You are now the vanquisher. You hold the power.”

  “All right, I will play your little game. If it means I have a chance to redeem my life. Or at least that I might liberate myself from you.”

  I accept the twisted rope from his hands and tighten the slack. The feeling is indescribable—the surge of adrenaline breathtaking, exquisite.

  “Tie my wrists.”

  He holds my eyes, brings his hands together, and offers them for me to bind.

  There is a pounding on the door, and a hysterical child’s voice screams, “Daddy”.

  “It’s Lizzie,” Ramey says. He drops the ligature and moves to unlatch the door. “Lock it behind me,” he tells me and slips outside.

  “Daddy, where have you been? We’ve been searching for you everywhere,” I hear Lizzie shriek as he departs. “Mommy got up from her chair and fell down and hurt her knee. When Luna tried to help Mommy, she called her a bitch. Then, Mondie hit Mommy with her purse and screamed bad words in French. Mommy says you don’t love her and are going to kick her out of the house and she’ll never see us again.”

  “Calm down, Elizabeth. I’ll take care of everything.” His voice fades as they move farther away.

  A fireball explodes as I step outside the confine, followed by a rainbow of brilliant flashes. Moving onto the lawn, I see the bonfire has died and most of the guests are packing up their supplies. An oppressive darkness has settled in, the fog has crept from the lake, and the red moon is muted with a veil of swirling clouds.

  “Where are the children?” I ask one of the men from Roger Sandeley’s feast who is packing up the remainder of the firecrackers.

  “Off playing hide-and-seek.”

  “Are the au pairs with them?”

  “Sorry, I don’t know,” he says. He tapes the cardboard box and turns away from me.

  The faint sound of children’s voices comes from the back of the house. I follow the narrow trail, and hear branches breaking inside the tangled overgrowth reaching up to the worn gutters.

  “Who’s there? Come out now, I’ve found you,” I say and peer inside.

  A grinning Eggie emerges from the brush. He thrusts his red ball at me as he scrambles down the path.

  “Eggie, what did you leave inside the bushes? What is that sound?” A fierce explosion drowns my words and sends me reeling. In the stunning aftermath of the blast, I hear the crackle of burning leaves and watch in horror as the dried foliage along the base of the house begins to burn, and the fire catches the vines and rides up the ivy.

  “Sammy... where are you?” I scream, and turn to run.

  “For God’s sake, Alexandra, what the hell is going on?” Ramey shouts while crossing the lawn.

  “The house is on fire!”

  “Calm down. I’ll get a hose from the boat garage.”

  “No. It’s impossible. The entire side is already in flames. We have to get everyone off the island. Where are the children—where is Sammy? I have to find him. Give orders for the guests to leave immediately.”

  “Jesus Christ...” Ramey says, looking up at the blaze shooting over the roof. “Holy shit!”

  “I’ve got to find Sammy!” I turn and run to the rear of the house, calling his name.

  Amanda crawls out of a thicket of bushes in the backyard, followed by the bronzed lifeguard from the clubhouse. “It smells like something is burning. What’s going on?”

  “Where is Sammy?”

  “I haven’t seen him since they started playing hide-and-seek. Oh my God... the house is on fire.”

  “Tell everyone to get into their rafts. I’m going inside to look for my son.”

  “But Mrs. Brighton, you can’t go in there. Half of it is already in flames.”

  “I have to find my child!”

  “Mrs. Brighton, where is Samuel?” Gabrielle shouts as she sprints across the lawn.

  “Why don’t you know where he is? It’s your job to watch over the children in your charge.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, with tears streaming down her cheeks. “The other children are all down at the dock. They haven’t seen him since the game started.

  “You can’t go inside...” she calls after me.

  A rush of terror drives me up the stairs. I hear panicky cries of guests as they run from the grounds to the lake. Turning back, I see, beyond the trees, the faint outline of rafts in the water filled with those who have already fled the island—and I hate them for their security in flight.

  I heave myself through clouds of smoke and intense heat into the long shadows and ghoulish light of the flames. Through the haze I see vague silhouettes of filmy objects and lumps of furniture. Hungry flares crawl from open hallways and lick their way to where the grand piano billows fire from its gut. I call for my son while moving through the charred ruins to the kitchen.

  A swift kick draws me inside an inferno of devastation. The linoleum floor burns the carcass of a dead rat, sucking it down into a charred circle below the crumbling shelf where Egan Schlotter’s accordion melts.

  “Alexandra, what are you doing?” Ramey exclaims as he comes up from behind me. “Get the hell out of this house.”

  “Where is my baby, Ramey? I can’t find my baby.”

  There is an explosion of shattering glass, and an influx of rushing air whips up the blaze.

  “Let’s get out of here.” He takes my arm in a fierce clench and leads me back to the entrance.

  “But I haven’t checked upstairs.”

  “If you go upstairs, you’ll never make it back down,” he says and guides me toward a clear passage.

  The entire structure is now aflame. Flares flick madly out the shattered upstairs windows. Embers, like thousands of fireflies, start fresh fires in nearby trees and bushes, and the buildings on the perimeter have also begun to burn.

  “I checked the dock before I came to retrieve you,” he says, and leads me to a spot near the path where the air is clear and the sounds of destruction muffled.

  “Sammy’s not there. No one has seen him since the kids began playing hide-and-seek.”

  “What does that mean, Ramey?”

  He peers at me through red-rimmed eyes and his sadness breaks my heart. The lines etching his deathly pallid skin, the anguish in the furrowed brow, and the hollow cheeks beneath his sharp cheekbones all speak a solemn truth. They are evidence of my darkest fear, an unspeakable realization tainted and made bitterer by the source of the reflection. As the grim truth strangles me I see the light in his eyes dim and take on the flat glare of a dead fish.

  “Are you telling me Sammy has drowned? Is that what you’re telling me? Answer me! Are you telling me I have lost the only thing in the world that matters?”

  I don’t wait for his answer. Because I cannot bear to hear the words. Instead, I turn and run toward the lake.

  “Let go of me...” I scream as he sprints after me and grabs me roughly around the waist.

  “You wanted to see the monster freed from the cage. Well, here it is; here’s your monster,” I shriek, and turn to spew my venom in the face of the demon who lured me on this cursed journey.

  “I am the mother who has lost her child. Do you want me now, Ramey? Do you want to fuck me now?”

  “You can’t stay here any longer. You’ll die if you do.”

  “I want to go back. I want to cross over the line of time. I can save
him if I go back. Please God, send me back,” I wail to the roaring inferno.

  “The line of time is the one thing that cannot be crossed.” Ramey’s last words are muffled by an explosion in a bank of trees.

  “Pull yourself together, or you’ll cross another line of time you wish you hadn’t.”

  “You don’t understand. I have no self and I have no life. There is nothing left. It’s all gone. My life ended the day I met you. I made love to my husband that night and pretended he was you. Nine months to the day I gave birth and my face became that of a freak.”

  “Alexandra, that’s not what—”

  “I curse the day I met you and I rue the day I knelt at the shrine—” I struggle to continue but my throat has frozen and my face gone slack, lip hanging, eyelid drooping, open, drooling, back to the gruesome mask. I gouge clawed fingers, bow my head, turn and run toward the flames.

  He calls after me, but I have left his world forever. I’m done with it. I have entered the empty place between life and the afterlife. Voices call me from inside the crackling conflagration, beckoning me to join them. I suck the smoke into my lungs, inhaling deeply. It won’t be long before Sammy and I are reunited. I will be there to welcome him when he crosses over. Soon we will be joined for eternity.

  The dense smoke swallows me up and I move through space—light, empty and disconnected. I stretch out my arms like the blind or the living dead, waving, weaving, and seeking the stability of the railing. It is there for me, mysteriously, as though sensing my desire, helping me to inch my way up the decrepit stairs to the ash-covered porch. Slipping and sliding, swirling in a world of gray matter and unbearable heat, I weave back and forth, like the most forlorn and lost of spirits, until I give in to the roar, the rush, and fall to the floor.

  A vaporous, long-limbed beauty with flowing dark hair appears at the front door. It surely must be my guardian, my cousin Paget. “Paget, help me. I’ve lost my darling boy. Help me find him. Lead me through the door!”

  Spirits materialize behind her and inside the dark eyes of the departed I see sorrow and pity, but no recognition that they hold my beloved amongst them. Paget floats in and out of my vision and a filmy trail of her seeps from the dwelling as she thrusts out a hand in warning, then turns and vanishes with the others inside the hellish deathtrap. A message is all that is left of my dear cousin—words that float through the thunderous crackle of a burning world: