Lineage: A Supernatural Thriller

by Joe Hart

  “Shit,” he said, as he pushed himself away from the table and exited out of the Word document without saving it. He pondered changing into different clothes, but instead, grabbed his wallet along with the Land Rover’s keys off the shelf in the entry and locked the front door behind him as he left the house.

  The air had begun to heat into a balmy mixture of bright light and oppressive humidity as Lance climbed behind the wheel and started the vehicle. He looked in his rearview mirror as he pulled past the turnabout and headed down the drive.

  John still sat hunched over in the seat of the lawn mower, his hat pulled down to shade his aging eyes. Lance didn’t see him look up as the SUV curved with the driveway, soon hidden from sight behind the thick growth of trees.

  Lance’s mind crept back over the events of the past few weeks as he drove, trying to string them together into some semblance of reason. He had heard a voice speaking his name just after setting foot in the house. The door to the storage room seemed to be welded shut with God knew what inside, and someone had been there with him in the house last night, he was sure of it. The memory of the figure standing motionless in the dark outside his door washed over him, and he felt goose bumps follow in its wake.

  “Get a grip,” he said quietly. He felt the urge to call Dr. Tyler and tell him about the happenings, but he was afraid the psychologist would be concerned about the stability of his mind and of the emotions that ruled it. If he called, it wouldn’t surprise him if the doctor drove straight here just to see him in person, and he didn’t need that. Not now. He needed to focus on his writing and stop worrying about kids playing pranks, or his own overactive imagination.

  Lance curved the SUV around the last bend and Stony Bay’s main drag came into view. Seeing the small town always lifted his spirits, and over the past weeks he had become attached to the friendliness of its inhabitants and the quaintness that permeated the streets and buildings.

  Without bothering to signal, he pulled into an empty parking space outside the local grocery store and shut the car off. Several couples passed him on the sidewalk, offering smiles and nods as he made his way to the entrance.

  Cool air pushed at his face as the doors slid open, and he began to walk unhurriedly toward the coffee aisle.

  “Musta forgot something,” a thin voice to his left said as he passed the fresh vegetable stand. A white-haired woman wearing an immaculate red apron leaned against a pallet of assorted boxed fruits. Her lined face was lit with a warming smile that Lance assumed was reserved for anyone who happened to be within speaking distance. He recognized her from the day before when he’d stopped for supplies.

  “Yeah, coffee. I can’t go a morning without it,” Lance said, smiling back. The woman strode closer to him in such a way that belied her apparent age. For just a second, He could see the young woman she used to be, and he figured in her heyday she had turned more than one head.

  “Rotten stuff … I drink a pot every morning myself. Course it’s more sugar and creme than coffee.” The woman punctuated her smile with a cackle fit for a grandmother, which Lance was sure she must be. She held out her hand. “I’m Josie, I own the place. You must be the one that bought our local mansion.”

  Lance laughed and nodded as he shook the old woman’s surprisingly strong hand. “Guilty. I’m Lance. You guys have a great town here.”

  “It’s something, especially in the summer. Now stick around for January and you’ll have other things to say about it. You get settled in up there yet?”

  “Yeah, slow but sure,” Lance said, as he noticed a woman with dark hair walking through a nearby aisle. She disappeared behind a display of cereal before he could catch a glimpse of her face.

  “Anything specific bring you to our neck of the woods?” Josie continued.

  Lance forced his eyes from searching for the woman and back to the business owner. “I’m actually writing a book.”

  “Really? Well, if you need any help with anything as far as history goes, just let my husband know; he’s the local director of the historical society. He could tell you anything about the area, as well as Minnesota in general.” Josie leaned in closer as she lowered her voice. “Just be forewarned: once you get him talking, you can’t shut him up.”

  Lance laughed and glanced around the edge of the store, trying to spot where the woman had gone, but saw no one else except a stock boy idly straightening jars of peanut butter. “Thanks very much, I might just take him up on that,” Lance said, moving toward the smell of roasted coffee beans. Josie smiled and waved as she went back to examining a tray of bananas.

  He walked closer to the coffee aisle, all the while watching the rest of the store for movement. A small deli counter and eating area were tucked at the rear of the store, and when he spotted the dark-haired woman sitting alone at one of the booths, his stomach felt as if he had hit an air pocket while on a plane.

  Mary read from a book and was spooning what looked like clam chowder out of a Styrofoam bowl. Her hair was again tucked behind her ear, and for some reason Lance marveled at how small and delicate she looked sitting there by herself. He began to walk toward her but paused, wondering if she was waiting for someone. He hadn’t seen a ring on her finger in the bookstore, but she might be a woman who didn’t wear one regularly. In his mind he could see her husband or boyfriend, a tall man in a woolen shirt—a logger or a fishing guide perhaps. He’d come strolling in any minute, sit down across from her, and reach out to hold her hand, just like he wanted to do right now.

  Mary glanced up from her book and noticed him staring at her. He smiled and raised a hand in what seemed like the most pathetic wave ever. Her face remained blank for a moment, and Lance’s mind began to tell him to duck behind the nearby coffee grinder and then belly-crawl the rest of the way out of the store. Recognition finally bloomed in her eyes and she waved back, allowing his legs to free themselves from the flight signals his brain continued to send. He walked as casually as he could to her booth and stopped, looking down at her.

  “Ah, the famous author,” she said, revealing very straight teeth within a teasing smile.

  “Yeah, sorry to bother you. I just noticed you sitting here and thought I’d say hi since you’re pretty much the only person I know in town.”

  Mary gestured at the opposite side of the booth. “Grab a coffee and sit down.”

  “No, I don’t want to interrupt your lunch.”

  “I’m just reading. It’s a great book, but sometimes it’s actually good to interact with another human being. I normally spend all my time with books anyway.”

  Lance laughed, liking her smile more each time he saw it. “If you insist,” he said, sliding into the Formica seat across from her, mentally noting he was doing just what he had envisioned minutes before. He looked down at her left hand, which sat splayed on the table next to her soup. Her fingers were long and thin, and best of all, no ring adorned any of them.

  “So, rumor has it that you’ve moved into the big place up north.”

  Lance nodded. “Yeah, just got unloaded yesterday. I forgot how much work moving is; probably wouldn’t have done it if I remembered.”

  “Well, it’s good someone’s using the place. It’s too nice of a location to sit empty year round.”

  Lance leaned forward. “Do you know anything about the place? Like how long it’s been there, or why it’s been empty for so long?”

  Mary smiled as she sat back in her seat, her eyes looking off in thought. “Well, my dad and I moved here when I was seven, after my mom died. He was a department-store manager in St. Paul, but his true love was books. His lifelong dream was to open a bookstore in a small town, and I think when he lost my mom he decided he shouldn’t wait any longer.

  “Your place was always a topic among the kids in town. Sometimes I would hear about groups of older kids going up there to poke around or break into the old place—I’m guessing just to scare themselves silly. You know how there’s always a place that everyone knows about, that�
�s dubbed the haunted house? Well, your place was it for this town. Not that anything ever really happened there; the kids who went there for thrills or to make out never disappeared, nothing that exciting. It was just the local spook house.” Mary shrugged and laughed, as though the memory perhaps hadn’t only involved other kids her age. Lance realized that she had given him a small window to look through into her life, and at the moment she was infinitely more interesting than his curiosity about the estate.

  “I’m sorry you lost your mom so young, that’s tough for anyone, and it’s worse when you’re a kid.” He smiled halfheartedly, pushing back dark thoughts that had begun to surface. When he looked at Mary, he saw her posture stiffen a little, but her voice remained steady when she spoke again.

  “You lost one of your parents too, didn’t you?” Her question threw him off guard and she must have seen it, because she leaned forward with concern in her eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep my bounds. I can just tell sometimes.”

  Lance shook his head in dismissal and smiled weakly. “My mom disappeared when I was young and my father wasn’t that nice to me. It’s not one of the things I put in my interviews or on my jacket covers.”

  They sat silently for a few minutes, each wading through thoughts and absorbing what had been said. Finally, Mary broke the silence as she checked her watch and began to gather her things.

  “I’ve got to get back to the store. The owner’s a real pain in the ass.” Lance considered asking if her father was still alive but thought better of it, considering that she had already mentioned the death of her mother. “Thanks for sitting with me, it was nice.”

  “Yeah, thanks for letting me invade your lunch,” he said.

  She smiled and turned to throw her empty soup container away, and before Lance could stop himself, the words that were echoing in his mind slid off his tongue and into open air.

  “Would you like to have dinner some night? I don’t want to seem like a creep, but I like talking with you.” Outwardly he tried to keep his face and body language neutral, while inside his guts writhed in nervous agony.

  Mary paused at the garbage, letting the Styrofoam bowl drop from her hand. Her face was obscured by her dark hair and Lance had the urge to push it back so he could see her expression. She turned her head and looked at him curiously, as if he had asked her an extremely difficult math problem.

  “I’ll think about it” was all she said before turning and walking out of the deli and around a nearby aisle. Lance stood where he was, running over the words he had used to make sure he hadn’t said anything offensive during their conversation. When their exchange became a muddled mess in his head, he sighed and followed Mary’s path to the coffee, wondering all the while if he would ever be able to work up the courage to speak to her again.

  The yard came into view as he rounded the last curve of the driveway. The house stood monolithic and as intimidating as ever, but it didn’t hold his attention for long.

  The grass had been manicured within an inch of the ground and Lance couldn’t see a single stray clipping on the surface of the lawn. The bushes on the edges of the clearing had been shaped into neat corners, but there was no sign of the man responsible for the work.

  As he walked up to the front door, Lance marveled at the amount of work John had accomplished in his brief absence. He could only conclude that year upon year of familiarity with the grounds and tasks at hand had streamlined the process for the old man.

  The house was quiet and the click of the lock in the front door rebounded back to him like a shout in a cave. Lance carried the small bag of groceries to the kitchen and placed the items into their rightful places in the nearly bare cupboards. He set a pot of coffee brewing, the lacework pain of a caffeine headache beginning to tighten in the back of his skull.

  When his mug was full of the steaming brew, he sauntered out to the front windows overlooking the lake. A bank of clouds, thousands of feet high, hung above the northern edge of the shoreline. He could see the mottled reflection of the storm on the surface of the water, short spikes of lightning arcing through it every so often. The light began to fade from the sky, throwing the shadows of the house into elongated phantoms.

  A loud bang issued from behind the closed door a few yards behind him.

  Coffee slopped over the rim of his cup, painfully searing the skin on his forearm as his body jolted with surprise. He spun and stared at the door as the seconds stretched into minutes. His eyes began to water because of his refusal to look away from the door, or even to blink. He waited. Slowly, a sound returned. It rumbled and grew in volume until it hit a crescendo with another bang, this time above the house.

  “Thunder,” Lance said out loud in the hopes of calming himself with his own voice. He looked at the door for a few more minutes, a cavalcade of disturbing ideas prancing down the main street of his imagination like a demon parade.

  He turned from the door and sat down with his back to it, at his computer desk. He could see the last escaping rays of sun cutting through the edges of the storm as they reflected off the surface of the lake. Gradually, they were extinguished and a dirty sheet of light settled across all he saw.

  The computer screen before him lit up with a new Word document, the whiteness of the page blinding in the storm’s dusk beyond. He focused his thoughts until they became a laser within his mind. The familiar feeling of the story’s path opening before him was overwhelming. The plot began to unroll like a carpet before his character’s feet, and details that had been fuzzy only days ago were now sharper than the edge of a razor.

  Lance breathed in, set his fingers on the keyboard, and began to let the world inside him flow onto the page.

  It was six in the evening when he paused long enough to glance at the clock in the kitchen. The storm had raged over and around the house like something alive yearning to pry its way inside. Light rain still fell, the drops from the darkened sky rippling the face of Superior in all directions.

  Lance arched his back and was rewarded with several muffled emanations from his aching spine. There were two chapters and twenty-two pages of words before him on the screen. Not bad, he thought, as his stomach issued a gurgle of hunger and his bladder felt close to tearing. His own sensations were normally background noise when his writing flowed well. He recalled different occasions in the past when trying to finish a novel, the ending rushing up to him, the call of nature and his thirst the only things that could divert him from his keyboard for a few moments.

  His recent session had been a new level as far as immersion in the story was concerned. He had never felt so close to a character, nor had the plot been so clear before. His nerves thrummed with excitement even after nearly six hours of work, and the compulsion to continue called to him above the complaints of his body.

  Reluctantly he saved the draft, hesitating when the request to name the document appeared. He typed two words and closed the page, exhaling a sigh of contentment between his lips.

  He stretched again, and went to relieve himself in the downstairs bathroom. When he finished, the hunger pangs that had been slight earlier took on a life of their own and commanded food immediately. He rummaged through the refrigerator until he had cobbled a meal together from leftovers. He ate in silence at the small counter in the kitchen, listening to the patter of rain on the nearby alcove and relishing the sense of creation that washed over him in warm waves. The story was good. Better than he had guessed it would be. He now felt no guilt in asking Andy to give him space and time to produce something grand. He felt triumphant—his talent hadn’t died two months ago as he had feared. It lived and breathed in the pages he had written that afternoon.

  After finishing his overdue dinner and cleaning the few dishes scattered on the counter, a crushing fatigue draped across his shoulders and all his thoughts began to revolve around the bed waiting upstairs.

  His cell phone chirped at him from his nightstand above, its electronic cry like a bird being crushed beneath a hea
vy boot. Lance didn’t hurry to answer it. Instead, he slowed, hoping whoever wanted to speak with him would give up and try again in the morning.

  Without bothering to brush his teeth, he walked into the room near the top of the stairs and undressed. The sheets on the bed were cool and welcoming as he slid beneath them. A peace he hadn’t felt in weeks fell over him, and as he slipped into dreams of his story, his characters started speaking, their words comforting like the sounds of home.

  He walked down the stairs of the house. He could see the living area below him. It looked very wrong for some reason. The floors were no longer darkly stained oak. Instead, they were burgundy.

  Lance stepped on each stair, each new tread feeling strangely more wet than the last. He could see someone sitting on a chair facing the lake. A storm was blowing across the water toward the house; spires of lightning and twisting clouds suggested high winds, but the house neither creaked nor groaned with the assault of the tempest outside. He could see the man was holding his face in his hands, as if he were abhorred at the sight of the approaching storm. Lance could imagine the man’s face frozen in a soundless exclamation, a dark O where his mouth should be.

  “Who are you?” Lance heard himself ask.

  The man didn’t turn toward him or even flinch at the sound of his voice. Lance wondered if he was homeless and had somehow wandered inside to escape the rain that would surely be falling soon.

  The man’s arms jumped and his head twitched oddly. Lance stopped at the base of the stairs and stared at the now-jerking man before him. He suddenly realized that the man was naked, and Lance could see sinuous muscle ripple and writhe below the pale surface of the man’s skin as his arms worked back and forth, driving the hands at their ends in work Lance couldn’t see.

  “Are you all right? Do you need help?” Lance asked.