by Smith, T. W.
For sale? Really? He had not seen a sign at the street.
He went to the nearest window and cupped his hands at the pane. He saw a very large room leading into a dining nook (overlooking the lake), and the beginnings of a kitchen to the right. The hardwood floors stretched long from the front to the back, still shiny from their last buffing. There was no furniture or belongings. The house was vacant—a big empty shell.
Great. The chance that his perfect plan would work had now been reduced by fifty percent.
He looked back up the driveway. So far, so good—nothing was stumbling down after him. He listened for shuffling footfalls but only heard brief wisps of wind from the direction of the lake.
Rounding the corner of the house, he entered the back yard and confirmed what he already suspected: an empty boat dock.
Of course. Why would there be a boat when nobody lives here?
The water near was green, but out there in the vast deep it was sapphire blue. Pristine. Free from the intrusions of speedboats, skiers, and fishermen—a gigantic mass of endless calm and beauty. Lake Lanier was manmade—in the 1950s, he believed—people had succumbed their land and homes to the government for its creation. Old-timers often spoke of the houses and roads still out there under all that water.
And now those roads have travelers again.
He looked to the right and saw the beginnings of another cove but he could not see a dock from here.
Instead of going back to the top of the driveway and risk being seen, Will cut through the woods, and down a ravine to make his way to the second house. Though the driveways practically merged at the top, the houses were a good distance apart—easily more than the length of a football field. The other property was at a much higher elevation too, but his journey started with a descent. Getting there was slow going, as he did everything he could to muffle his footsteps through the leaves and fauna of the thick forest floor.
Ticks, Copperheads, and Water Moccasins, oh my.
He tried to pick up his pace when beginning the ascent through knee-high kudzu. But the climb was deceptive, uneven, and so steep in places that he worried he might have to get on all fours and climb vines of the pesky groundcover. The last thing he wanted to do was plunge his hands into that deep green unknown. It was bad enough that the cords at his feet felt like hands gripping his ankles, sucking him down into their verdant quicksand. But as he scaled closer to the driveway the kudzu dissipated, and soon the ground leveled and grass began. When he reached the concrete, he was only halfway to the house—but at least he was on flat surface and could walk normally, quietly. The front porch was in view, large urns on each side of the door with geraniums blooming. No other signs of life.
As he got closer, he saw that this house was much larger than the other, obscuring his view of the lake. Other than the flowers, there were other indicators of ownership—a water hose fixture, garden sculpture, and a decorative sign hanging on the front door.
He went to the garage first. Peering through the half-door windowpanes, he saw that there were two cars in there—a white Mercedes, and a silver Lexus SUV. The garage was neat and organized. No evidence of struggle. The door was locked.
As he crossed the stone path leading to the front door, his gaze returned to the driveway. Nothing was coming as far as he could see, the concrete winding down and then uphill before the trees obscured his vision.
At the front door he cupped his hands and put his face up to a sidelight. Again, shiny hardwood floors led into a grand room toward large windows with lake views. French doors, dividing the windows would no doubt lead to a deck overlooking the lake. The furniture and decorating was dated, but tasteful—a large flat-screen television centered in a massive entertainment cabinet before the sitting area. The floor plan was open, and there was a kitchen and dining space divided by a counter with barstools to the right. Everything was neat and orderly, just absent of life.
He reached for the front door knob and was completely surprised to find that he could turn it.
The easiest way to rid a house of the creatures was to make loud noise and lead them to you, rather than being surprised by them later. Will was hesitant to do this for two reasons: One, living alone in a neighborhood infested with them, there was always the chance outsiders would hear and be waiting for your exit, or worse—trap you. And two, having survived so long in silence any noise was jarring to him, disrupting his semblance of order—a perceived control he hesitated forfeiting. Instead, he preferred going slow and clearing every room meticulously. This home was isolated, spacious, and brightly lit. He would have no difficulty securing it on his own terms—assuring his safety and not revealing his presence. Should problems arise, he would tackle them as he encountered them.
He entered the house, closed the door and locked it.
There was a slight sweetness to the air—a lavender scent mingled with something else, citrus maybe. It was not unpleasant, the footprint of distant house cleanings or the owner’s perfume perhaps. He let his finger graze a sofa table has he crossed to the French doors overlooking the lake.
The view was magnificent. The mid-afternoon sun blazing with delicious heat above a grand body of water that stretched for miles. Beyond the vast, overgrown backyard, at the edge of the terrestrial property was an overlook—a large wooden deck with a fire pit, Adirondack-style furnishings, faded umbrellas, and a small cabana. In the center, the deck railings opened up to steps descending to a long pier and boathouse.
That’s my ride.
The boathouse was tiny from this distance, but he imagined up close it would match the scale of everything else he had seen so far. These people had money. He was certain that there would be a very nice boat there. A boat he knew absolutely nothing about… but that would come later.
The basement came first—like his, it was partially sub-level, finished, the stairs carpeted. He used his flashlight as his eyes adjusted to the light from the windows. The staircase opened to a recreation room, complete with a pool table, a television, and bar. Every room he had seen so far was eerily well kept, as if the owners had left but the maid service had continued. There was dust, of course, but everything else was neat and orderly—a rack of balls perfectly placed on the green, magazines stacked on a coffee table, television remotes in a caddy.
He passed through the room to a closed door and knocked softly, listening for any signs of sound from the other side. Nothing. The door opened to a bedroom, a guest suite with its own bathroom. There were tasteful prints hanging above the bed and a small, framed photograph of an older couple on the dresser. The man was at the helm of a boat and the woman had her arms wrapped around him, smiling large, windblown hair disheveled.
The bathroom held little but the basics for overnight guests—toothpaste, unopened toothbrushes, soap, lotion. There were neatly folded towels, washcloths, and a bathmat in the linen closet. He pulled the shower curtain to reveal a modestly sized tub, shower gel and a back scrubber on a stainless steel caddy.
He left the doors open as he crossed back through the recreation room to a door on the other side. He turned off the flashlight, his eyes now accustomed to the natural light. Every room, including the bathroom, had at least one window with a view of the backyard and lake.
This would be a nice place to live. Off the beaten path, untouched by the dead or marauders, possible escape by boat…
A fantasy really—his home had become a dark, empty tomb in the woods. This home was much brighter, obscured from the road by foliage, but clear and open in back with its expensive lake views and the bright sun that accompanied them. Deeper still, the cleanliness and order spoke to him and his affliction. He and the dogs had turned their home into a sty, forsaking neatness for silent survival, sacrificing minute pleasures for another day of life, defecating in closed rooms and bathing from buckets.
Sure, the lake is closer, but there is no fence. And who says the lake is a failsafe retreat? Where would you go? If sound and activity draw them, then would
it not draw them here too? Don’t be seduced, Will. This place is no different than your own, only cleaner. And eventually, like Brian says—like YOU know—they’ll find you anywhere.
He reached the door on the opposite side of the room, listened, tapped lightly, and then opened it. This room was darker, its only window coming from the panes of a door that led to a small patio out back. There was an easel and canvas in the center of the room—dry smears of paint on a pallet perched atop the stool before it. He circled the easel and saw the beginnings of a lake vista on the canvas, either sunset or sunrise. There was a lone sailboat, forever floating, tiny wisps of water breaking on its bow.
Will turned from the painting and saw a worktable on one of the walls—nothing elaborate, mainly paints and solvents, jars with brushes, scrapers, a few screwdrivers, a hammer, and a manual staple gun. Hanging above the table were empty frames of various sizes. Tucked away below were rolls of canvas. The room still had a slight chemical smell, one of acrylic paints and turpentine.
I wonder which of you enjoyed doing this. Very nice setup you got here.
There was another small bathroom off of this room—with a large, deep sink for washing brushes. A hall veered off and Will followed it, turning the flashlight back on as there were no more windows. The hallway ended in the final room of the basement level.
It was a storage room—a large storage room. There were at least ten shelving units lining the walls with some freestanding in between. One was dedicated to cleaning supplies—window cleaners, toilet cleaners, counter cleaners, dusters, laundry detergents, vacuum cleaner bags; and another to household supplies—light bulbs, extensions cords, tapes, glues, twines and rope. The shelves were tall and loaded to the brim, organized with the professionalism of a retail merchandiser. Will followed the shelves along the wall and turned the corner. The next one he came to was bottled water, so many cases of the stuff that he couldn’t count, and sodas, and juice..
His hand was shaking now. The next three shelving units were edible dry goods—cereals, instant potatoes, pasta, rice, beans, nuts, flour, sugar, salt, spices, chips, crackers, and more. The next three units were canned and jarred goods, meats, fruits, vegetables, sauces, pickles, puddings…
It was overwhelming. The next was pet supplies, predominantly food, including case upon case of cans and several 40 lb. bags of the dry stuff.
In the center of the room, the remaining two freestanding units were dedicated to beer and wine. He knew very little about wine, other than indulging in the occasional bottle of Merlot—but before him now was a wide variety of names he had never heard of, most he couldn’t even pronounce.
And the beer…
God, the beer…
There were cases of it—everything from domestic light to imported stouts, and a wide selection of lagers and ales in between.
The mere abundance of what was before him was staggering. He felt like he was hyperventilating, his head spinning to the brink of blacking out. Had not everything been so neatly organized—rows and stacks of cans, boxes, jars, and bags, all label-front and arranged by someone with a mind perhaps as obsessive as his own—he might have lost consciousness. But recognizing the meticulous workings of a kindred spirit brought a big grin to his face, keeping him alert and aware.
That, and the hunger.
Will put the flashlight in his mouth, grabbed a Snapple Ginger-Peach Tea and a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. He went back upstairs. The basement was clear.
This was the first time he had ever taken a break before being certain a house was secure—but anticipating what delicious goodness was inside the containers in his hands was making his stomach roll. He crossed quickly to the kitchen and opened drawers until he located a manual can-opener; this was easy as every drawer was as neatly organized as the shelves in the basement—one for silverware, one for metal kitchen tools, one for wooden kitchen tools, and so on.
He opened the can and the smell that enveloped him was heavenly. What was in the can was a gelatinous mess that he would have never considered eating months ago; today it was filet mignon. His stomach growled audibly. He was salivating.
Rocko and Lola. I have to take some of this home tonight.
He started with a small bite—no sense in making himself sick. It tasted a little bland, but he didn’t mind. He opened the Snapple and took a swig. The beef stew was pale in comparison to this ultra-sweet nectar. Will had to force himself not to down the whole bottle.
He turned toward the refrigerator. On it was a child’s drawing with crayons. It was scribble mostly, but he could make out a house, a lake, a boat, and the sun. Across the top in crooked script read: We love you, Gran and Grandy.
Will placed the drink on the counter, and with can and fork in hand crossed to the door that he knew led to the garage. He rapped a few times on the door before opening it. The garage was empty, much darker as its only light was from the panes on the exterior side entry and the two evenly spaced rectangular windows on both garage doors. He took two steps down into the room, passing a rack where three umbrellas hung, and went around the Lexus toward the Mercedes. There was a tool bench on the wall closest to the Mercedes, perfectly neat, everything in its place—whether hanging on the wall rack, or spaced evenly in different sized jars on the counter.
On two shelving units—the same brand as those in the basement—there were automobile necessities—jumper cables, windshield cleaner, antifreeze, motor oil, a tire pressure gage, and other items of the same ilk.
Way to go, Grandy. Now where do you keep your lawnmower stuff?
Will shined the flashlight under both cars—just in case.
You never know…
He left the garage and locked it.
He crossed to the great room again, exchanging the empty beef stew can for his machete on the counter, and continued further into the rooms on the other side of the kitchen. The first was a formal living room where he found plush patterned Garbo chairs, matching drapes, and a contemporary coffee table with a large, retro model of a sailboat on it—also, a white suede couch, and a curio cabinet filled with antique Roseville pottery.
Frank would have loved this.
There was absolutely nothing in this beautiful room of use to him, but he longed to lie on that sofa and sleep for a while.
Next was a formal dining room. Again, there were exquisite furnishings—lush, floor-to-ceiling drapes, a large mahogany table centered under a West Indies-themed chandelier with metal palm fronds and amber globes, a china hutch at one end of the table, and dry sink at the other corner, both filled with tarnished silver—
Grandy would not approve.
—and another curio cabinet housing a Waterford crystal collection.
Nice. Nothing. Clear.
The dining room connected back to the kitchen and he turned right and into the final room on this side of the house. It was a large laundry and mudroom. To his left were the washer and dryer. A shelf above contained many of the cleaning supplies he had seen in the basement storeroom, an iron—cord neatly wrapped around its base, and a box of light bulbs. In the corner was an ironing board, hanging to the left of an exterior half-door, windows letting in light. To the right was a coat rack sporting small and large hooks. On one of the small hooks hung a ring of keys with a small flotation device attached.
Bingo.
Will crossed to the door, expecting at any second for a rotten face to smear itself up against the panes. There was nothing outside it. But along another sidewalk leading left and down to the boat dock, he saw a shed large enough to house not only a riding lawn-mower, but an abundance of yard implements, and God knows what else.
Later.
He made sure the door was locked and went back into the kitchen.
So far, so good—two levels of the home were secure without any encounters. He retrieved his Snapple from the counter and went to the entertainment cabinet in the grand room. A large, flat screen TV was in an open section. In the cabinet to the right was a Blu-ray pla
yer and several shelves of DVDs. In the cabinet to the left was a CD player and CDs. Both were alphabetized and Will’s eyes scanned through the CDs—Petula Clark, Perry Como, Doris Day, Stan Getz, Benny Goodman, Vince Guaraldi, Connie Francis…
Years ago, he and Frank had converted all of their CDs to digital, donating the hard copies, and saving the data on backup hard drives and the cloud. He had hoped to have access when mobile in the camper by using the car charger, his phone, and headphones. But was the cloud still in operation? He was certain that those servers, wherever they were housed, would run on electricity as well. Surely they were gone too. All his music and photos lost.
Modern technology.
Most of these titles were more than a generation before him, but he had admired the music of his parents—and saw much of it represented here. None of this was essential, but the camper had a CD player and he so missed hearing music. Music, he felt, would keep him sane—help retain some kind of cognitive stability. Isn’t that why they played classical music in mental health institutions? Regardless, if he could transport a boatload of stuff from this house, there was room for a few CDs.
He closed the cabinet and went to the stairs leading to the final level of the house. He climbed them slowly, hesitant, knowing that the remainder of the bedrooms were upstairs. Bedrooms were where people preferred to die. And though he had heard not a single sound other than himself since arrival, everything had seemed too easy, as if the whole thing was a trap. There was so much here for him. It really was as Brian had said in his dream, the Mother Lode—too good to be true.
There has to be a catch.
At the top of the stairway he encountered that familiar smell, the sickly-sweet, scent of decay that he grown accustomed to when confronting the dead. It was faint though, not immediate. A long hallway extended before him, six open doors, one closed. The hall was well lit from a large window above the front door in the foyer.
To the left was a bathroom, empty. To the right was a child’s room, empty also, but Will entered and made sure that there was nothing in the closet. The room was far too neat for a child and he deduced that it was for visiting grandchildren. There was a desk, a mug for pencils and pens, a ceramic lamp, drum-shaped, with the silhouette of the Spirit of 1776 on it. On the other side of the bed was a bookcase with a variety of children’s titles—again alphabetized—and a framed picture of a grinning girl with bleach-blond pigtails and a gap where her front teeth should be. She was sitting atop the shoulders of a handsome, shirtless man at the beach. The man could pass for late-forties but Will sensed he was a little older.