Lineage

by Hart, Joe

  “Don’t buy this place. There’s nothing for you here.”

  Without another word, John rose and retreated to the driveway, where he climbed into the rusted Ranger, gunned the engine to life, and left dual plumes of dust behind in the wake of the truck.

  Lance watched as the vehicle disappeared behind the thick row of trees lining the driveway before turning back to the choppy lake. Instead of trying to interpret the old man’s cryptic words, Lance brushed them off as sentimental remnants from a time before him. No matter how promising or bright the future sometimes seemed to be, the past had its own way of holding onto people, at times letting out some slack for them to run, but always making sure they knew that they were tethered.

  Lance gazed at the horizon and tried to make out the distant shore he knew was there but couldn’t see. Words began to form in his mind and a corner of the veil was lifted slightly. A shape beneath tried to show itself. It was as if the story wanted him to find it but was limited, chained just beyond the reach of his imagination. Nonetheless, he seized the moment and formed the words into a sentence.

  His eyes searched for them, but his heart knew better. The waking hours were the worst, the moments when he would drift up from sleep and reach for her or listen for the sounds of laughter. Instead, there was silence, a vacuum, and then the crashing slam of reality settling down on him.

  “They’re dead, but he’s still there,” Lance said to the water. It lapped at the shore but said nothing back. Lance stood, his back cracking as he turned and walked across the yard to where Carrie waited near the rear end of her Tahoe. Lance noticed that she was smiling her too-large smile again, but in spite of himself, he felt his own face reflect her expression as he stopped a few feet away.

  “I’ll take it.”

  Chapter 7

  “What need I fear of thee?

  But yet I’ll make assurance double sure,

  And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live;

  That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies,

  And sleep in spite of thunder.”

  —William Shakespeare

  “Where the hell is the tinfoil?” Lance said to the empty kitchen. He tore through the last grocery bag on the floor, and when the oblong box didn’t present itself, he stood up in exasperation. He knew he had purchased it earlier on his trip into town. He remembered putting it in the cart. Hell, he remembered seeing it in the back of the car when he loaded the groceries. So where was it?

  He turned in a slow circle, observing the rest of the kitchen as he searched for a place the foil could have concealed itself. There were still several boxes stacked in one corner marked Kitchen that he hadn’t gotten unpacked yet; although, for only officially moving in the day before, he felt quite happy with the progress.

  The prior two weeks had been a whirlwind of activity. From making an offer to the seller—who had immediately accepted it despite it being well below market value for a property on Superior—to assuring Andy that everything would work out for the best to finally closing and the subsequent unpacking of the necessities. Lance felt as if his body and mind had been stretched, taken apart, and re-formed without all the pieces. He mentally made a note to himself never to move again, no matter how terrible the writer’s block.

  A corner of the blue-and-silver tinfoil box peeked from behind a gallon of milk on the floor as Lance bent to retrieve a bag of potatoes.

  “Gotcha, ya bastard,” Lance said as he grabbed the end of the box and pulled it from its hiding space. The sun had begun to set behind the trees on the west side of the house, and the red light threw long shadows across the floor of the kitchen.

  Lance prepared a celebratory dinner of fresh grilled salmon, baby red potatoes, and asparagus. A bottle of wine sat open on the counter, from which he poured and refilled several glasses as his dinner came together. He began to hum a song he had heard earlier under his breath as he cooked. By the time he took his food onto the patio overlooking the lake, his head was pleasantly light from the Merlot. He watched as the light suffused onto the calm water within the bay and stained it a shimmering red. The rocks that poked from the surface of the water were ringed in shadow, and a large ship moved without sound toward a port, half a mile out from shore. Lance searched his memories for another view that rivaled this moment and could find none.

  As the sun finally relinquished its hold on the day and slipped fully below the horizon, the bay became a charcoal painting of what it looked like only minutes before. Lance sat back from the table and his now-empty plate to sip the last vestiges of his wine. He considered for a moment opening the other bottle he had bought in town, but dismissed it almost immediately. He couldn’t be hung-over tomorrow. Tomorrow he would begin to write. He already had a small table positioned in the glass alcove, his computer screen set up on top and the tower below on the floor. In the morning he would rise, eat a quick breakfast, and sit down to begin carving out the idea that still hovered at the back of his mind.

  Over the past two weeks the story had come and gone as he traveled back and forth between Stony Bay and Ardent Hills. At some moments he felt as if he could sit down and punch out the entire outline, while at others he struggled to remember the basic plot. At those times the ideas that sprang into his head seemed childish and unrefined, so unlike his regular work. As much as he hated to admit it, he could only link the story’s appearance with one thing: the house. He had even tested the unsaid theory without truly acknowledging what he was doing. As he drove away from the house one afternoon after meeting Carrie there for one last walk-through, he had tried to keep the story at the foremost of his thoughts. But slowly, as the miles stretched out behind him it dulled. Then it dimmed until it was an insubstantial idea without a purpose, like an empty plastic bag carried by a rogue wind.

  Well, we find out tomorrow if this place is really my muse, or not, Lance thought, as the last of his wine disappeared from his glass and a loon gave a melancholy cry that echoed like a question across the bay.

  He placed the leftover helping of salmon in the refrigerator and stretched. His back ached from unpacking box after box throughout the house, and the wine made his eyelids feel heavy beyond their weight.

  He snapped off the light, making a silent promise to do the dirty dishes on the counter in the morning. His feet shuffled across the wood floor with harsh rasping sounds. For a moment Lance had an overwhelming sense of dread settle over him, and he struggled to put his finger on the source. His left foot slid over the floor and the sound registered in his ears. Scraping footsteps. He picked his feet up so his socks didn’t whisper against the floor as he neared the stairway and the door at its base.

  Lance stopped and stared at the door set into the wall. His eyes had flickered to it many times during the day as he moved about the house, the memory of looking through the keyhole fresh in his mind. He took a step toward it, his hand reaching out to the iron doorknob—he could already feel the coolness of it in his hand—but stopped. He let his arm fall to his side.

  “Not on the first night. That’s just rude,” he said, the wine mustering levity he didn’t know he had. He turned and jogged up the stairs to the second level and got ready for bed in the small bathroom off the walkway.

  He had settled into the smaller of the two guest rooms on the second floor. For some reason the master had felt too large and empty with its huge bay windows overlooking the lake. For lack of a better description, it seemed lonely. The irony wasn’t lost on him as he regarded where he was in comparison with the city he’d left.

  A simple bed frame with a new mattress and fresh sheets welcomed him. His eyes wandered the dark room, trying to pick out familiar shapes—his two suitcases near the doorway, a small dresser that had yet to be filled, and the table he’d placed near the head of the bed. He lay down and listened intently for any sounds he might hear, as sleep began to pull at his mind, making his thoughts elongate and re-form like putty in the sun. Only the occasional snap of settling wood below him and the soli
tary drip of water in the kitchen sink met his ears.

  The last thing he heard as his eyes finally shut with exhaustion was a loon—he was sure it was the same one he had heard earlier—wailing its call across the bay one last time as the moon floated, heavy and sodden with its silvery light, over the lake.

  Lance awoke as if he had been shaken. His eyes blinked open and he stared at the ceiling of the bedroom. For an instant he struggled to remember where he was, his mind racing back to where he had fallen asleep, and then the realization that something had actually woken him became a certainty. His eyes shifted to the doorway.

  A figure stood there, a deeper shade of darkness.

  Lance sucked a breath in and blinked as he sat up in the bed. The doorway was empty, the rectangle showing him nothing more than the bare landing and the banister beyond. He listened, trying to hear over the sudden bass pounding of his heart on his eardrums. His muscles felt alive with the adrenaline that ran through them. He was about to climb out of bed when he heard what he had been listening for: the soft tread of someone stepping off the stairway and into the living room beneath him. Lance leapt off the mattress and crept to the banister overlooking the house below, crouching as he peered through the wooden railings.

  Moonlight flooded the house with its gray touch. He could make out almost every surface by the light that streamed in through the uncurtained windows. He watched for movement and listened again as he tried to steady his breathing.

  The unmistakable sounds of footsteps padded out of the kitchen to his right and headed toward the front entry. Lance stood and moved down the stairs, all the while keeping his eyes locked on the foyer, where the footsteps had gone. When he reached the bottom of the stairway, he paused and listened again for nearly a minute. The house ate up his hearing with quiet, as he made his way across the floor and began to flip switches for the chandeliers overhead. When he reached the entryway, he cautiously peered around the corner. It was deserted. Everything was just as he had left it and the heavy front door, which he expected to be wide-open, was shut.

  A small fire extinguisher hung from the wall across from him. He pulled it from its hook and hefted it, trying to figure out how it could best be used to bludgeon an intruder.

  He made his way through the rest of the house, checking closets and looking behind furniture. After inspecting the entryway, he flipped open both locks on the front door and opened it, revealing the shadowy yard. He watched for movement before flicking on the outdoor floodlight, bathing the surrounding vicinity in a urine-colored hue. He heard no scrambling feet or yells of alarm in the yard, and after another sweeping look, he shut the door and flipped off the light.

  The rest of the house revealed nothing out of place and no shadowy figures hiding in any corners. Lance stood for a time in the kitchen, wondering if he should call the local police, but after further consideration, he decided against it. What would they do that he hadn’t just done? And since he was a newcomer to the community he didn’t want rumors flying around that the “big city” author had been scared to death on his first night away from his metropolitan life.

  The thought of the small town having a laugh at his nerves presented a simple answer to the night’s events. It was a hazing. A town like the one that lay to the south was bound to be a conduit for rumors. As Lance walked back through the house flipping one light switch off after another, he became sure of it. Some locals, most likely kids, probably thought it would be funny to welcome an outsider into the fold with a little scare tactic, and he had an idea of whom he might talk to in the morning about the little visitation. A practical joke was one thing, but breaking and entering was quite another. Anger bloomed in his chest as he flipped off the last light, bathing the house in darkness once again. He breathed in and out, trying to quell the thoughts of rage that flooded his mind, and he almost didn’t notice the spot on the floor as he walked to the stairs.

  It was a dull silver color and over three feet in length. It had an oblong, splattered shape, as if someone had tossed a large iridescent jellyfish over the upstairs railing and let it explode on the wooden floor. Lance knelt beside the spot and inspected it. The grain pattern in the floor beneath it was visible, and when he ran his hand over it, there was no change in texture. He looked up and stared at the moon hanging over the lake. Feeling as if he were still being pranked, Lance strode to the window and inspected the glass at the height and angle that the light shone through. There was no distortion or discrepancy in the glass that he could see or feel, but when he turned, he noticed his bulk was blocking out the spot on the floor. When he moved to the side, the spot returned.

  Frowning in the darkness, he returned to the spot and looked closely at the stain. There were tendrils and drops of what looked like liquid extending out from the main body of the splotch toward the windows.

  Lance stood and shrugged his shoulders while shaking his head, and made a mental note to examine it in the morning. When he turned toward the stairs, the dark outline of the door stood there to meet him. It was the one place he had neglected to check in his search earlier.

  With resolve, he stepped to the door and grasped the cold doorknob in his right hand. Without hesitation, he twisted the handle as hard as he could. The black iron not only refused to turn but it remained completely immotile, without the slightest hint of movement. Lance grunted, anger rising like a wave inside him, as he strained against the knob. The handle dug into the palm of his hand, chilling the bones beneath the meat and skin. It was like trying to flip a train off its tracks by wrenching at its hitch.

  He let go and exhaled the breath he had been holding. His hand burned and he could see the white imprint of the knob in his skin. “Fuck you,” Lance said, and walked up the stairs to his bedroom.

  As he lay there in the darkness, his thoughts swirling around him, he listened for sounds throughout the house. The eastern horizon had begun to brighten when he finally shut his eyes, and below him, the stain on the floor faded from sight with the dawning of the day.

  A pounding threaded its way through Lance’s ears and prodded his sleeping brain. There was a pause of silence in which he began to drift off again, thinking that the sound had been part of the sleeping world, but it was short-lived as it repeated itself, making his eyelids flutter open. For a moment his sleep-addled mind mistook the pounding for footsteps and the memory of the night before returned to him. He lifted himself onto an elbow and looked around the room. The noise from below began again, and this time he recognized the sound of a fist connecting with the front door. The blows became harder and more drawn out, as if the person attached to the fist was becoming impatient.

  “Coming!” Lance yelled, as he placed his feet on the cool floor and searched for the sweats he wore the night before.

  After dressing and descending from the bedroom, he examined the general vicinity where the moonlit stain had been in the night. The oak planks were smooth and unblemished.

  The knocking resumed again and he hurried to the front door, throwing it open to the sunlit yard and the old caretaker that stood on the stoop. At the sight of John standing there, the same anger that had risen during the early-morning hours lit inside him once again. Lance felt his jaw tighten and his brow draw down.

  “Where’s the fire?” Lance said before he could stop himself. John looked at him, and one end of his mouth rankled up as though he had tasted something sour.

  “Just checking to see if you still want me to take care of the grounds, or if you’ll be doing it yourself.”

  “I don’t know, did you happen to loan out your keys to anyone recently?” Lance looked for some sign of surprise or panic on the old man’s face, but his searching went unrewarded.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I had a visitor last night. Someone was in the house, and all the doors and windows were locked when I checked them. If you have a problem with me buying the property, Mr. Hanrahan, just tell me.” John’s eyes squinted at Lance beneath the brim of his
dirty baseball hat, and for the first time Lance noticed the faint smell of liquor.

  “My keys are right where they’re supposed to be and I’ve never let anyone else use them. I’m not here to argue. You want the grass cut or not?”

  Lance weighed his options as he stared at the caretaker. For some reason he didn’t think the other man was lying, but he couldn’t be sure. He looked over John’s shoulder at the swaying grass and thought about his computer waiting in the alcove behind him.

  “Yeah, cut it. And the front windows need to be washed too. There’s some bird shit or something on the glass.” Lance swung the door shut harder than he intended to and leaned against the wall. He watched through the window beside the door as John walked across the lawn to a small storage shed tucked beneath the trees on the far side of the yard.

  Lance turned and made his way to the kitchen, and grabbed an apple from the fridge. As he chewed at the fruit, he walked to the atrium and gazed out at the lake, which was a deep blue and as flat as the glass he looked through.

  After chucking the apple core in a nearby trashcan, he sat at his computer and opened a new Word document. As he organized his thoughts, his fingers floated over the keys with an eagerness he had missed in the past two months. The opening words came to him and he began to type, just as the sound of a lawn mower chugging into life resounded through the house.

  Lance stopped typing and turned his head toward the kitchen window. He could see John sitting astride a fairly new riding lawn mower as grass clippings flew in a torrent from beneath the deck. Lance turned back to the computer and tried to regain his focus. The words came in bits and spurts as he hacked them out onto the screen. The sound of the mower running outside slid across his nerves like a cheese grater and kept throwing off his focus. As the gaps in typing became longer and longer, he found himself glancing over his shoulder at the place on the floor where the stain had been and he pictured it, floating there in the darkness.