The Ice House
by Ray Ouellette
Copyright October 22, 2015 (U.S. Copyright Office)
Any resemblance of any fictional character in this novel to any actual person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Regency Hunt Club, The Ice House, and Southfield, New York, are fictional and any resemblance to any actual place is also purely coincidental.
Acknowledgment: I would like to thank my son Tristan for his computer work in getting this novel published and for the cover design. This book is dedicated to him.
All rights to this book belong to Sunshine Books, Inc., 997 Blanding Blvd., Orange Park, Florida
Books by Ray Ouellette:
Time Trash
The Ice House
The Koblymen (formerly entitled The Ghosts of Prospector's Peak) (coming soon)
Five Pack: Five Totally Unique Short Stories
CHAPTER 1
Stars moved imperceptibly, making their nightly silent circuit around Polaris, the North Star. Orion, the hunter, had set hours before, in twilight, taking his hunting companion Sirius below the horizon, leaving the night sky as peaceful as the city of Danvers beneath it.
A light June breeze blew in from the Atlantic, cooling the town on the north shore of Boston, where Frank Tilton lived. Anyone who awoke at this early hour would have been lulled back to sleep by the crickets' tranquilizing chorus and by fireflies, viewed through any uncovered window, practicing their chemical magic in the air. If it had been the end of the 18th instead of the early years of the 21st century, a town crier might have been strolling the quiet streets announcing that 'All is well.'
Only a barely noticeable fidget or subtle change in Frank's sleep-softened facial features would have given any indication that all was not well. That is until he was awakened by his own scream, a scream that started low, deep within him, and grew in intensity until the crickets fell silent and the fireflies ceased flashing and the dying of the scream itself left the night absolutely still.
Frank bolted upright in bed, his sweat drenched body still trembling, his eyes widened with fear as they tried to focus on some familiar object in his darkened room to reassure himself that he was safe in his own home.
It seemed that his mind had chosen this night to offer up a nightmare scripted from the archives of mankind's greatest fears. He had dreamed of his own death. Not a peaceful death with the spirits of long-departed loved ones meeting and comforting and guiding him, but rather, of the forcible tearing out of his soul from his living body. He had felt himself propelled through a brilliantly-lit tunnel and heard muffled voices calling, "Mr. Lowell! Do you hear us? Stay with us Mr. Lowell."
In his dream an increasing feeling of panic made him summon his will power. He flailed and clawed his way free of what he felt was enclosing him. Then he rushed along the brilliant tunnel again, this time in the opposite direction. He slammed back into his body becoming soul and body once again.
He remained on the edge of his bed, like a man who has fallen off a cliff, and has landed on an outcropping a thousand feet from the ground, safe for now, hoping that nothing additional will happen. As his heartbeat gradually slowed., he wanted nothing more than to turn on the light. If it had been a choice between taking his next few breaths or the light, the light would have won.
He rushed over to the switch. His eyes slammed shut against the brightness, the pupils still fully open, a combination of the darkness and the fear. Gradually his eyes grew accustomed to the light and he was able to open them. As the pupils constricted in the light, the blue color surrounding them took on its normal size. He grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face and brown hair, looked himself over, then sat down on the edge of his bed again.
"Christ," he said aloud, to draw upon the comfort obtained from hearing a voice, even if it was his own. “What a dream!". He put his fingers on his wrist to measure his heartbeat and found that it had returned to almost normal. He felt grateful to be in shape. If he hadn't been, that dream, he thought, would have probably finished him off in spite of the fact that he was only 27 years old.
Despite the warmth of the night, Frank felt chilled. His T-shirt was soaked with sweat, fear sweat. He wrinkled his nose, pulling off the shirt and tossing it aside, then staggered into the bathroom, his legs still shaky from the effects of the nightmare, and turned on the shower, letting the full blast of warm water do its work, restoring warmth to a body that felt chilled like death.
He went over the dream in his mind. People should try to remember their dreams he had heard somewhere. Dreams had significance he learned in Psych 101, back in college. They revealed what went on in parts of the mind that a person was only slightly aware of or not aware of at all. He tried to recall and had no difficulty. Unlike the usual dream that quickly fades from consciousness, this seemed more like an actual occurrence. Although he was able to remember the sequence of events, his visual memory of them was not completely clear, especially the part with the voices calling, 'Mr. Lowell, do you hear us? Stay with us." This part was a visual blur, like looking through a bathtub's frosted glass panel. Audibly it was not much better, like the poor sound quality on early cylinder records of Edison's invention. But the words, as distorted as they had been, were definitely those he remembered.
He decided to banish the dream from his mind. It would never happen again anyway. He had never had the same dream twice in his life as far as he could remember. He got up and went to the kitchen for a drink. The pop and fizz as he opened the cola were comforting sounds. He sat down to relax at the kitchen table, his feet up on one of the other chairs, and he tried to think of things other than the dream. He thought about his job. Back came thoughts of the dream. He thought about his girlfriend Allison. He wondered if he would be able to talk to her about the dream or would she even care, being obsessed as usual with her own matters. Back came images of the dream. He thought about his car that he had wanted to get a tune-up on for weeks but always found something more immediately commanding of his pay, like rent and food. He wondered how long he could stall off the tune-up. Back came images of the dream.
He tried thinking about a woman he worked with, or worked near anyway, Lynn Beverly whose work station was near his. He had been considering trying to get more of a conversation going than just 'Good morning' or talking about the news. Or a light joke? Maybe he could ask her what she thought of the dream. The thought of this appealed to him. He admired her since she arrived at the accounting firm and liked her voice, her hair, the way she dressed, and her smile. Back came thoughts of the dream.
He gave up, went into the living room, sat down in the recliner, cranked the foot rest up, and just let his mind take the direction that it wanted to take. He was too tired to fight it anymore. His gaze drifted around the room. It fixed on the window and the darkness beyond. The fireflies were back and had a hypnotic effect on him and along with the gentle sounds of the night they lulled him to sleep. Would the dream come back again that night?
CHAPTER 2
Frank watched Lynn Beverly sitting at her desk. She stirred her coffee while trying not to start her work day one minute sooner than required, absentmindedly pushing around some paperwork on her desk.
Lynn seemed deep in some daydream until the minute hand struggled up to the top of the clock face and announced that it was 9:00, bringing her out of it. As her eyes focused she realized that her stare was directed right at Frank who was at his work area across from hers. She looked away. Then she looked back challengingly and said, "I wasn't staring you know!"
He smiled. "I know. The same thing happens to me. At a restaurant or on a bus. I'll wake up from a daydream and realize I'm looking right at someone and they think I've been staring.” He shook his head. “What can you say? It's emba
rrassing" He smiled again and added, "So...why were you staring anyway?" She put back on her challenging look. "Just kidding," he said, putting his hands up in feigned defense.
She softened, the look in her eyes seconding her smile. He didn't tell her that he had been looking into those green eyes for at least five minutes before she came to. When he had realized that she was in a daydream, he took the opportunity to look over the features that he could only give a glance to when she was conscious. The glow from her clear complexion gave her a constant look of a photo in soft focus. Her blond hair, still slightly windblown from her commute into the Boston accounting firm, looked all the more attractive for the stray strand here and there. Her legs were crossed. During the daydream he had followed the shapely line of the leg that was most visible, slowly examining every inch of it up to where it disappeared beneath her skirt.
Frank wasn't sure but figured she must be around 25 or so. She didn't have the disillusioned look that his much older brother and sister had, or even that of late baby boomers, decades older than he was, forced to accept a steadily decreasing likelihood of achieving the American dream that their parents had taken for granted. She had a clear-eyed look and the suggestion of a life that had not yet suffered significant disappointment. Also absent was the cynical tone he had sensed in older women and men too. Her hair which was parted off center was brushed diagonally across the forehead and pulled back behind one ear. A splash of light freckles crossed her nose and the upper part of her cheeks.
The atmosphere was informal at the accounting firm. No 'Everything in its place', but a huge amount of work, devotion and productivity was required of the employees. and 100% accuracy was demanded of them in their work. Any item that might contribute to that accuracy was tolerated.
Some people in the firm had an uncluttered work area, as spartan as a monk's cell. This was their way of inspiring themselves to achieve the perfection required in an accounting firm.
Others, despite the informal policy of the firm, had a work area that was military in its neatness. Objects were there in quantity but were squared away in orderly fashion. No books out of line, and photos on the wall were not the least bit crooked. Their method for attaining exactness in their work was to extend the structurally rigid neatness of their area into their work
Then there was Lynn's and Frank's areas. Words that you wouldn't use to describe their areas were spartan, or military. Lynn's desk and area was a depository for every imaginable item that might relax her mind to enable it too achieve that exactness that was necessary in accounting Among them was a poster of a Monet lily pond, pots of colorful flowers, a jar full of jelly beans and a jar full of colored marbles. There was an ion generator in a corner putting out relaxing negatively charged ions. One item wasn't intended to relax her or enable her to achieve exactness. It was an 8X10 photo of her cousin Karen who had drowned when they were kids. She kept the photo nearby to inspire her to always do her best because she was living her life for Karen too, since Karen never got a chance to make it to adulthood and achieve anything.
Frank's additions to his area included a college banner, an inflated blimp with the message on it reading "Johnny wet his bed again this morning," a small collection of coasters from various bars and pubs, and a reprint of an old anti-drug poster showing two brains which Frank had re-captioned. The caption, over the first brain, still read, "This is your brain," but over the second brain,Frank had crossed out the words 'This is your brain on drugs' and replaced them with the word "fired" which was followed by, 'This is your brain if it makes an error in a client's account.'
Frank wondered what it might be like if he hadn't fallen into a four year relationship with an old school mate, Allison Crossfield. Years after graduation they had re-met at a Danvers High School reunion where Allison had been someone else's date. It had been great for quite awhile but deteriorated into habit more than a relationship and had dragged on, an unspoken expectation that every upcoming weekend would be spent together, that there would be no one else. He let it continue, unable to face the consequences he had always incurred when he disappointed her in some way, her display of being devastated, or the anger she'd hurl at him, like at any time in the past when he allowed himself the liberty of drifting just a bit away from her. No, it was just not possible right now.
Frank thought back to the office New Years Eve party. Lynn was there on the other side of the room with a guy that looked like he had never seen the real world outside of a prep school and later the Ivy League, then his daddy's law firm. There was some kind of embroidered shield above the pocket of his blazer. Frank never got close enough to read it but he imagined it had the Harvard motto on it, or that the guy's car had a Dartmouth University sticker on it. Frank guessed that this guy's name had to be something like Brad or Conrad and entertained the thought that it might be fun to maneuver Allison over there so that he could see if it resulted in some sort of introduction. Lynn seemed to be getting along fine with her date but when midnight made its noisy arrival, Frank felt a sense of relief when he saw Lynn and her date exchange little more than a smile and a short kiss.
Allison attacked Frank with a bear hug and a long alcohol-inspired kiss accompanied by a low moaning mmmmmm from time to time. Her knee moved up and down slowly against the inside of Frank's thigh and he concentrated more on what was happening between his legs and less on the other side of the room, but an occasional glance over there made him wonder what would happen if places could be exchanged. Allison was great at driving him crazy, at inspiring those can't wait to get in bed thoughts, but when it was over, there was always that feeling that she had shut off too soon, had not let it get out of control, the 'there I've done my duty' attitude, that came across, a sort of 'that takes care of that until next time' atmosphere. It had been so long since there had been anyone else that he couldn't remember. If that was the way things were with others, a resigned "that must be all there is so I guess I should be satisfied'. Maybe this is as good as it gets. And then there were the comments from male acquaintances, those 'what do you have to do to get a woman like that' remarks that made it all the more difficult to even think about a change.
But now, Lynn had come out of her daydream and it was time to work, time to return to stolen glimpses. They settled down to their accounting projects.
Before his mind became totally involved for the day in his projects he glanced at Lynn one more time to she if she'd catch him. She saw the glance but before she could kid him about staring, he said, "Lynn, have you ever had a bad nightmare?" She parted her lips to speak but he continued. "I mean one that was so bad that it made you feel bad all day. One that had an effect on you that just hung on?” She looked like she was thinking back, trying to recall one. Frank continued. “I had one hell of a nightmare last night. You ever have one like that?" Lynn was about to answer when the supervisor entered the area. It would give her time to think. She pointed at the clock and silently formed her lips to say "Later?" Frank nodded.
During the workday they didn't see much of each other, being involved with different projects and different clients. Their work kept them in different parts of the building from each other most of the time and when one of them did return to the work station, the other wasn't there. Breaks came at different times too.
Staring at her material for a corporate account, Lynn's mind drifted to Frank's question. "Did you ever have a dream that stayed with you all day?" he had asked, or something like that.
She decided to devote some time on the next break to thinking about that question. She definitely wanted to have an answer for him, a chance at longer conversation. She had also wanted to get to know him better than just the usual "Good morning," or "Nice day." She gave up on concentrating on her account and tried to remember if she had a bad dream that bothered her all day.
CHAPTER 3
Frank and Lynn arrived back at their cubicles at the end of the work day. They gave each other a fatigued look and Lynn said, "Frank, I've been thinking. I d
id have a dream when I was a teenager, a recurring dream."
Heading for the elevator, Lynn elaborated. "I used to have a dream whenever I'd lie down after school. Sometimes I'd feel real tired and lie down for a few hours to recover. It made me give up sleeping in the afternoon because of the way I'd feel when I awoke.” The elevator door opened and a few people exited. Lynn continued. “It was an overwhelming feeling of depression and futility, like it was useless to try anything because life was meaningless. And I only had this feeling after sleeping in the afternoon. Strange, huh? I don't remember the dreams, actually, only the feeling I had afterward."
Frank nodded, encouraging her, and she continued. "So I guess it's not really a recurring dream is it? It's more like a recurring feeling." She smiled. "So, does that qualify as a nightmare that affected me after awakening?"
They crammed into the front of the elevator stuffing themselves into the few cubic feet that was available in the mass exodus from the building, and they put their talk on hold. Twenty floors later they were catapulted out by the swarm behind them. They made their way to the side of the corridor and waited for the crowd to pass, then picked up their conversation as if there hadn't been a five minute interruption.
"Maybe it was the dreams that caused the feeling," suggested Frank. "Or maybe sleeping in the afternoon just doesn't agree with you." Averting his gaze, he tentatively said, "Are you in a rush to get anywhere? How about joining me for a drink, okay, and we can talk more about it. I can tell you more about my dream and you can tell me more about the recurring dream of yours. There's a pub a couple of blocks down Commonwealth." Frank was talking a storm, not wanting to stop, not wanting to get to the possible negative answer he didn't want to hear. After all it was another work day tomorrow, another early morning, another commute. "Do you like pubs? It's got a British atmosphere. Dart boards, pint glasses hanging above the bar..."
The Ice House Page 1