The People in the Lake

by E Randall Floyd

  But when he came home the second time, things began to unravel. He grew sullen, distant. His mood swings became more frequent and increasingly violent. He even hit her once. On top of her fear of Earl physically, he started drinking way too much and hanging out with the wrong friends, some of them old buddies he had met while doing his residency at the Medical College of Georgia in Augusta.

  When she found out he had been running around on her, Laura realized only a clean break would heal the pain and emptiness. By the time Bit came along, Laura knew it was over.

  ⸙

  LAURA SLOWED WHEN she entered the city limits of Dahlonega. According to Brad’s instructions, the lake house was only a few miles north of town near an even smaller hamlet called Greeley.

  At the first traffic light she checked the GPS map on her Smart phone: "Continue on State Highway 7 for ten miles,” the pleasant automated voice instructed, “then turn left at Greeley on to Yonah Trail.”

  She relaxed as she drove through Dahlonega, admiring its quaintness and old-town flavor. Even in the rain, the popular little tourist town exuded a cheery glow. Holiday wreaths and bows adorned the jagged rows of restaurants and small shops lining Main Street, while string of garish-colored lights dangled from streetlamps.

  She passed the handsome, historic red brick courthouse, waved to a group of bearded musicians huddled under umbrellas strumming guitars and banjos in the rain.

  ⸙

  OUTSIDE TOWN, the narrow road grew increasingly steeper with each passing mile, wilder and more harrowing.

  She slowed to thirty-five miles per hour, mindful of the twisting curves and sharp drop-offs. Soon she found herself engulfed in a deep spruce and hemlock forest that pressed in on both sides, broken here and there by abandoned cornfields and lonely, tumble-down shacks and trailers.

  When she checked the gas gauge, she was shocked to see it down to less than a quarter of a tank. She should have filled up back in Dahlonega. If she didn’t come to a station soon, she’d have to turn around and go back.

  ⸙

  THE ROAD TWISTED for another couple of miles, gradually climbing higher and higher. Breathtaking views of the green-forested mountains fanned out in all directions, overshadowed by tumbling, iron-gray clouds. Sparkling waterfalls cascaded in the distance, flanked by steep, white-granite cliff faces that gleamed white and chalky in the rain.

  But all Laura could think about was running out of gas on this isolated, rain-swept mountain road.

  At the last possible second, she rounded a curve and spotted a hand-lettered roadside sign near an overlook: Chief’s Roadside Service.

  Relieved, Laura pulled into a gravel parking lot outside an old combination country store and filling station. She grabbed her umbrella, hopped out and sloshed through the mud over to an old-fashioned red pump.

  Cash Only, Pay Inside, a sign taped to the antique pump read.

  “Damn,” Laura muttered to herself.

  She glanced inside the Jeep, saw that Bit was still fast asleep under the blanket. She smiled. So much for having to go to the bathroom. She thought about waking her up, but decided against it because she was sleeping so hard. Instead, she grabbed her pocketbook and dashed across the parking lot to the store.

  ⸙

  INSIDE, THE LITTLE STORE looked more like an old-timey country museum than a convenience shop. Vintage tin posters and outdated calendars adorned cobwebbed walls, along with frayed mule harnesses, chipped and rusting plows, corn-cob pipes and metal wash pots. Stashed in wooden bins were faceless corn-husk dolls, knotted walking sticks and sage brooms that reminded Laura of the kind used by her great-grandmother down on the farm near Macon.

  The place reeked of age and oil and old diesel fumes mixed with rotten fruit and wood smoke. Long, sagging shelves lined each side of the unpainted wooden counter, crammed with jarred preserves, candies, dusty bottles of syrup, clay jugs and various items she couldn’t readily identify. Washboards, knick-knacks, quilts, hand-made bird feeders and baskets of locally produced handicrafts lay heaped in piles strewn about the store. It was as if whoever stocked the place had simply given up and tossed the products where they lay.

  Next to a pot-bellied stove, Laura’s eyes rested on more baskets of crude, faceless dolls, some made of apple, others of straw with silk ribbons twisted into the shape of bonnets.

  “Lookin' fer somethin'?”

  Startled, Laura spun around and saw a wispy, bone-thin man perched on top of an old-fashioned soft drink machine in a shadowed corner of the store. The man’s legs were drawn up under his chin in a way that reminded Laura of a chicken. He had an odd, gourd-shaped head—not unlike the decorative, hand-carved gourds gathering dust in his store. And across the top of his sharp, slanted nose rested a pair of thick, clouded glasses held together by electrical tape. He wore dirty gray coveralls over a torn plaid shirt slathered in grime. Fresh, brown tobacco stains oozed from the corners of his thin lips.

  “Yes, please,” Laura replied, unsettled at the sight of the odd little man. “I need some gas.”

  The old man dragged the back of one hand across his mouth and wiped away a clump of brown spittle. “That's what most folks stop in here for. You got cash?”

  “Of course,” Laura replied. She reached inside her pocketbook and pulled out two twenties. “Would you please fill it up? It’s the green Jeep.” She nodded in the direction of the single red pump.

  “Lonnie!” the old man yelled toward the back room. “Put down what you’re doin' and git on out here, we got a lady that needs gas!”

  Moments later a slouching brute with arms the size of tree limbs shuffled in through the curtained back door. He wore a thick red beard and stood at least six-four. An oily black denim shirt clung to his massive chest, and on top of his square head rested a faded baseball cap that read, We’re Here to Serve.

  “Lonnie here'll take care of you,” the little man squawked.

  “Thank you.” She watched the hulking assistant lumber past her toward the door. Something about the big man gave her the creeps. It wasn’t just his appearance, either. As he moved past her, she caught an odd smell—an indescribable stench, like something dug up out of a trash pit—or maybe even a graveyard.

  “You can pay me over at the register,” the scrawny little man called out. He hopped off the old drink box and waddled over to an ancient cash register. He rang up forty dollars. “Anything else?” he asked. “If not, we’re fixin’ to close on account of the storm.”

  “Storm?” Laura inquired, a note of concern in her voice.

  “Yep, radio says a big ol' gully-washer’s blowin' in later tonight.” His thin lips curled back in a partial smile, revealing crooked rows of black teeth and rotting gums. “Good thing you caught me open jes' when you did.”

  At that moment the door creaked open and in walked a pleasant-looking man dressed in pleated khakis and a navy corduroy jacket over a red turtleneck sweater. He looked about fifty, had nice eyes and sported a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard.

  Behind him stood Bit.

  ⸙

  “I THINK SHE BELONGS to you,” the man said to Laura.

  As he smiled, Laura noticed the stranger had soft blue eyes that twinkled in the dim light cast by the single bulb dangling from the low ceiling. “She was standing outside by your car in the rain. That’s a little dangerous, don't you think?”

  “Yes, thank you, she’s my daughter,” Laura gushed apologetically. “She was asleep when I came inside to get gas. I didn’t intend to be more than a minute.”

  The man flashed another handsome smile. “I understand,” he said smoothly in an accent that seemed oddly out of place. "But these days you can't be too careful."

  The screen door squeaked open and the brute called Lonnie shuffled in. He tromped silently across the store and disappeared through the curtains into the back room. The scrawny little man at the cash register perked up and said to Laura, “You’re set to go now. He’s all done pumping your gas. Forty dollars even
.”

  “Thank you,” Laura said quickly. She gave him the money, grabbed Bit’s hand and started for the door.

  “Don’t you want a receipt?” the little man chirped.

  “No thank you,” Laura replied, continuing toward the door.

  The engaging stranger stepped aside and pushed open the screen door for her. “Up here on vacation?” he asked casually.

  Laura halted. She was struck by the man’s charming manner and the friendly tone of his voice.

  “Yes," she said cautiously. "My brother-in-law has a house on Bear Gap Lake.” She hesitated. “He’s loaned it to my husband and me for a few weeks.”

  "Bear Gap, huh." The man seemed to be processing that information, as if possibly wondering where the missing husband might be. “It’s beautiful up there this time of year, especially on the water." His blue eyes continued to dazzle Laura. "But it does get lonely, now that the leaf season is over and all the tourists are gone. You’ll have it all alone up there this time of year.”

  “We don't mind.”

  The attendant piped up, “Folks, we’re fixin' to close. Unless you want to buy somethin' else, you can go do your pow-wowing outside.”

  “Hold your horses, Chief,” the stranger said to the old man. He winked at Laura and said, “Don’t let Chief give you the wrong impression about the locals up here. We’re not all cast rejects from Deliverance.”

  Laura smiled.

  “Actually,” he continued, “I think you'll find most of us rather friendly. Some of us are even civilized."

  “Of course,” Laura said, moving toward the door.

  The stranger followed her. “As for Lonnie,” he continued, lowering his voice. “If you ever need your car worked on, or anything mechanical repaired, he’s your man. You wouldn’t know it by his looks, but Lonnie's like a Harvard surgeon with pliers and a wrench.”

  “I’ll definitely keep that in mind."

  She popped open her umbrella and led Bit out of the stuffy old store toward the Jeep. She put Bit in the back seat, buckled her up and went around to her side.

  Before she could shut the door, the stranger leaned in and said, “By the way, my name’s Whit. Whit Anderson.”

  He stuck out his hand but Laura held back. She got a whiff of pleasant cologne.

  “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Anderson,” Laura replied cooly. “I'm Laura Drake—Mrs. Laura Drake.”

  “Mrs. Laura Drake. Nice name,” he said. Rain drops clung to the bristles of his beard, giving him a raw, sexy look. “Well, Mrs. Laura Drake, if you need anything while you’re up here, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call on me. I’m in the Greeley phone book.”

  Laura recognized Greeley as the name of the hamlet near Bear Gap. "Thank you, I'll keep that in mind," she replied, anxious to get going.

  Whit Anderson shifted, but didn’t seem to mind the rain. In fact, Laura thought, he even felt oddly comfortable standing in the open with raindrops beading off his expensive-looking corduroy jacket.

  Before turning and walking away, he glanced in the back at Bit and waved. “Goodbye, Bit. Nice meeting you.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Anderson,” Bit said, waving back.

  Laura watched Whit Anderson go back inside the store, then glanced across the parking lot and saw a dark green Jaguar. It was an old model, an XKE in mint condition, much like one her father had driven back in the late sixties. Laura noticed it had Florida MD license plates.

  So, Laura concluded, our handsome Mister Whit Anderson likes exotic sports cars.

  And he's actually a doctor.

  “Mom, didn’t you forget?” Bit asked urgently from the back seat. “I’ve really got to go to the bathroom,”

  “Of course, honey,” Laura stammered, quickly starting the Jeep. “We’re almost there.”

  The thought of going back inside the old store caused her spine to tingle. She couldn’t imagine Bit going to the bathroom inside that place—that is, assuming they even had one.

  Before pulling out, she glanced across the parking lot and noticed a small, boarded-over shed. A hand-scrawled sign out front read: “Hot Boiled Peanuts. $2 dollars a bag

  Her mouth began to water. How long had it been since she had gotten into a bag of good boiled peanuts? Maybe on the way back she’d stop in, assuming the place was open.

  She put the car in gear and drove away.

  Chapter Four

  A FEW MINUTES LATER, Laura clicked on her directional device.

  “Follow Highway 7 two more miles, then turn left onto an unmarked gravel road. Continue for another mile, then turn left again onto Yonah Trail.”

  The GPS was right on the money. Two miles outside the tiny town of Greeley—a one stop-crossroads with a general store, church, bank, feed store and miniscule police station—they came to a small gravel road and turned left. Rounding another curve Laura slowed when she came to a clearing and glimpsed the lake for the first time.

  “There it is,” Laura said to Bit. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Bit sat up, pressed her face against the window. “Looks yucky to me,” she grumped.

  In the rain, the water did look dull and gray. Greenish mists swirled across the flat surface, giving Bear Gap Lake an eerie, abandoned and almost forlorn look. On the far shore, barely visible in the hissing rain, a ring of dark mountains pressed close to the edge of the water.

  “It’ll look nicer tomorrow when the sun’s out,” Laura promised.

  A short distance later they came to a cracked wooden sign on the left. It was nailed crookedly to a post. It read: Yonah Trail.

  Laura did a double-take when she saw the road. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered aloud.

  Bit unbuckled her seatbelt and stared out the window. “Mom, are you sure this is the right road?”

  Laura swallowed hard. “I'm afraid so, sweetheart.”

  “We’ll never make it.”

  Yonah Trail was more like a path—narrow, rutted, oozing with slick, clotted mud. Thick clusters of rhododendron and laurel shrouded against the shoulders. Overhead, massive spruce branches interlocked, creating a gloomy, cathedral effect that undoubtedly prevented any trace of sunlight from ever touching these patch of dark woods.

  Laura surveyed the situation. “Well, too late to turn back now,” she surmised.

  She shifted into four-wheel-drive, gripped the steering wheel hard and swung left. The Jeep churned through the muck, spinning and groaning and sliding. Laura wondered what would happen if she should encounter another vehicle heading her way.

  ⸙

  A QUARTER OF A MILE later they came to a small wooden bridge that arched menacingly across a rain-swollen creek bursting at the banks.

  Laura froze, her knuckles bone-white against the wheel. The narrow, rickety bridge was one thing. But crossing a raging, frothing stream was something else.

  As far back as she could remember, Laura had battled an unnatural fear of deep, running water. While most of her friends partied their way through high school each summer at the beach, Laura always managed to find excuses to stay behind. In college, rather than tropical vacations to Cancun or Aruba, she preferred trips to the mountains or deserts out west.

  Now here she was, confronted by her worst fear: a wild, swollen creek with only a skimpy wooden bridge between her and deep water.

  Bit reached forward and gave her mother a reassuring tap on the shoulder. "You can do it, Mom. I know you can."

  "Thanks, sweetie," Laura said bravely.

  Only she wasn't feeling so bravely.

  Here goes.

  She eased up on the brake and the Jeep rumbled slowly onto the creaking bridge. She gripped the steering wheel hard, too hard, maybe, and kept her eyes focused on the opposite side. Any second she expected to hear the snap of boards cracking, then feel the Jeep go sliding off into the creek. She could almost feel the cold, black waters closing in over her head, hear the frantic screams of her daughter gurgling her last words as wicked, serpentine currents dragged
their flailing bodies down, down, down into the swirling abyss...

  "Yay! You did it, Mom!"

  Only when Laura heard her daughter's triumphant shriek did Laura realize they were across. Heaving a deep sigh, she gunned the Jeep straight ahead.

  About a hundred yards later, the trail rounded a bend then widened into a normal two-lane gravel road.

  ⸙

  AS THE JEEP crunched down the rain-slapped road, they passed several cottages and chalet-styled houses set back in the woods. Most had that special rustic look that only the very wealthy could afford.

  Laura saw no sign of life, nor had she expected to because the houses were already shut down for the winter. She could almost hear Danny saying: "I hope you like privacy. Nobody goes up there this time of year. You'll have it all by yourselves."

  Laura thought it strange that Danny's words were almost the same as those uttered by the handsome doctor from Miami back at the creepy old store.

  The road rounded another bend then came to a dead end. A private driveway veered to the left, and at the end of the drive they laid eyes on a sprawling, contemporary-style chalet surrounded by massive evergreens and billowing clusters of mountain laurel. The house had a sloping slate roof, stone foundation and a huge rock chimney jutting up one side.

  A small sign in the yard read: Danny’s Place. A nearby sign warned: Trespassers: if you can read this sign, I already have you zeroed in...

  The directional device came on and informed them: “You have reached your destination.”

  “Is this it?” Bit asked.

  “I guess so.”

  "Wow," Bit said. She made a clucking sound with her tongue. "Way cool,”

  “Yeah,” Laura said. “Way cool.”

  Chapter Five