The Haunter Of The Threshold

by Edward Lee

  “But all those little hieroglyph thingies are different, aren’t they?” Hazel bid.

  “Yes. It looks like they’re more of them.” She looked to Horace, who stood huge, arms crossed. “This is fascinating work, Horace. And do I understand correctly that Henry Wilmarth asked you to make it?”

  “Ee-yuh, ‘tis true.” He glanced to Hazel as well. “And I just took five more out the kiln. ‘Tis why I wurn’t at Mr. Pickman’s shop today. I ‘spect he’s ruther displeased.”

  “Five more?” Hazel inquired. “But yesterday you said Henry changed his mind and didn’t order any more.”

  Horace nodded. “It were someone else. Strangest thing, tew. Found a letter in my mailbox this mornin’ ordering thirty-two more boxes, which was what Henry asked for at fust but then decided aginst.”

  “Who...was it?”

  Horace shrugged. “Durn’t know, letter weren’t signed, just said he represented Henry’s gemolergy friends and they wanted more boxes. Thought it were a mite foolish, a joke mebbe, until I opened another envelope inside that had five thousand bucks in it. Cash. Curn’t say no to five thousand bucks. Lord, I en’t never had that much money in my hand at once...ever.”

  Hazel and Sonia looked at each other. “How peculiar,” Sonia said. And Hazel, “But they just left the letter? No one knocked on the door to talk to you?”

  “New. Just left the letter’n cash in my box and left. No name on the letter or nuthin’.”

  “And this person said that ‘Henry’s friends’ want the boxes?” Sonia asked for clarification.

  “Um-hmm.”

  “A gemology club,” Hazel recalled from their conversation last night. “Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Ee-yuh.”

  “How curious.” Sonia pinched her chin. “Frank never said anything about Henry having an interest in gems.”

  “Yeah, but he and Frank are geometry professors, Sonia,” Hazel pointed out. “Cut gemstones are covered with facets comprised of geometric configurations, just like the gemstone Henry referred to as the ‘Shining Trapezohedron.’” Hazel’ eyes again beseeched Horace. “And Henry said the box is to store a gemstone, right?”

  “A crystal, he said.” Horace took the box back from Sonia. “I curn’t make much sense out’a any of it. Figure it’s just the man’s hobby, wants special display boxes for crystals. I durn’t ask questions ‘baout stuff I durn’t know. I just dew the work.”

  “This is quite a mystery,” Sonia said.

  Yeah, Hazel thought. It couldn’t have been FRANK who left the letter. Right now he’s up on the mountain in some ridiculous cottage. Hazel’s thoughts stalled. Or is he?

  Sonia rose, a bit awkwardly, and handed her purse to Hazel. “Horace, do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Please dew.” Horace led her to the cramped hall. “Sorry it’s so small in theer.”

  “I’ll be fine, thanks.”

  The narrow door clicked. At least it beats the outhouse, Hazel mused. Or going in the backyard. “At the very least, congratulations on your new work order.”

  “Thanks much. ‘Tis shuhly a lot of money someone left in my mailbox. Would ya like to see the others?”

  Hazel followed him into his small workroom. The air was warmer here, from the kiln. Sitting on a tray were five more freshly fired boxes. Horace showed her his technique, holding up a plastic version of the box—an “inside-out mold,” he called it and explained how he would first oil the plastic box, then apply clay around it, after which he pressed pre-made plastic template cards on each side and the lid; this pressed in the sequences of glyphs directly into the clay’s surface. The inside-out mold was then slipped out, and the clay shell fired in the kiln. “Pretty labor intensive,” Hazel remarked.

  “New, new, just the mold and templates. Once I got them right, the rest is a snap. Kind’a fun, actually.”

  Hazel looked more closely at the five new boxes and was astounded by how precise they each were. Several times, though, her eyes flicked to Horace’s crotch—his packed crotch—and she found that, now, she couldn’t have been any less interested in his sexual endowment. Knowing that she’d soon be making love to Sonia seemed to sweep her mind clean of all its dirt, of all those fetishes and paraphilias and kinks and perversions. Sonia is my cure... The idea of a sexual romp with this mountain of muscle named Horace, or with any man for that matter, seemed as boring as playing solitaire.

  Just then she heard a muffled cell phone ringing, not hers but Sonia’s. She pulled it out of her friend’s purse, saw that it was Frank calling, then said, “Excuse me a minute, Horace.”

  “Shuhly.”

  “Hi, Frank, it’s Hazel,” she answered, stepping back into the living room. “Sonia’s in the bathroom—”

  “Thank God,” came Frank’s odd reply.

  Hazel frowned. “What time tonight will you be back?”

  “Mmm. That’s the catch. I’ve found more of Henry’s work up here—it’s spellbinding, so—”

  “Frank,” she deliberated. “Answer the question. What time tonight will you be back?”

  A static pause. “It won’t be tonight, Hazel. Maybe tomorrow afternoon but I can’t even guarantee that. There’s just so much sheer data up here.”

  “That’s shitty, Frank!” she almost yelled. “Sonia’s pissed off enough as it is. You don’t get your ass back to the cabin tonight, you might not have a fiancé anymore.”

  “Listen, listen,” he sounded desperate yet enthralled. “Make her understand. This is important to me—”

  “It sounds like a crock of shit! She thinks you’ve got another woman up there with you!”

  “For God’s sake, that’s ridiculous.” Did he sound out of breath as well? “Sonia can fly off-the-handle sometimes, so I need you to do me a big favor—”

  Hazel’s teeth ground. “Don’t make me be the messenger, Frank!”

  “Just tell her, please. If I get on the phone with her, she’ll go off the deep end. So, please, Hazel just tell her that—”

  “Frank! Be a man and talk to her yourself. She’s in the bathroom, just wait a second and I’ll give her the phone.”

  “No, no, it’s very important. I’ve been reading all of Henry’s notes he stashed up here at the cottage. I think-I think he’s wrong. I think the theory can actually work.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about the theory, Frank,” Hazel snapped, then noticed Horace raise a brow in the other room. She scurried toward the small bathroom. “I’m passing the phone to Sonia in the bathroom right now. You tell her—”

  “No. Tell her for me. Tell her my cell phone died while we were talking.”

  “No! And don’t you dare hang up, you selfish, inconsiderate prick.”

  “You’re a peach, Hazel. I’ll make it up to you. If you could see this work up here, you’d understand—”

  “Don’t you dare—”

  Frank hung up before Hazel could get to the bathroom. She slumped in the hall, then returned to the living room. She’s gonna shit a brick when she hears about this...

  Sonia came out a minute later. Hazel dreaded what must come next. “Thanks for showing us the boxes, Horace. We’ve got to go now.”

  “Pleasure havin’ yew. Stop by any time.”

  Hazel scribbled her cell number and passed it to him. “Give me a call in a few days. We’d love to take you out to dinner or something.”

  “Why, thanks much, I will.”

  Back outside, Hazel opened the car door for Sonia, who looked shivery in repressed excitement. “All right, I’ve seen the box, so let’s go, ” and then Sonia couldn’t have looked more wanton over to Hazel.

  Hazel stalled at the driver’s door. This is NOT going to be easy.

  “Listen, Sonia...”

  “What?”

  “Um...”

  All those lascivious edges to Sonia’s expression dulled instantly. She knew something was askew. “What is it, Hazel? I’m not liking the vibes right now.”

  Hazel g
ulped. “When you were in the bathroom...Frank called. And I answered.”

  “Oh, good. What time did he say he’d be at Henry’s cabin?”

  Hazel’s flipflops shuffled in the grass. All the way down the driveway, though, there was only mud from last night’s rain. “He’s still at the cottage. He’s...not coming back tonight. Tomorrow afternoon maybe.”

  Sonia’s eyes suddenly possessed a glare that could cut stone. She took out her cellphone, dialed Frank’s number, then waited. Obviously Frank’s voice mail came on, not Frank himself.

  “Frank, it’s Sonia. What are you pulling? I will not be treated like this. What? You’re avoiding me? I’m too much of a pain in the ass to talk to? Well hear this: if you don’t call me back right away, I might just stick this engagement ring right up your ass.” Tears began to dot her cheeks. “You’re the one who wanted to be a father and right now my stomach’s sticking out like a pickle barrel from your kid. Call me back, or you’ll be sorry.” Then she hung up.

  The incident squelched Sonia’s previous horniness like a bucket of water on a campfire. Her glare cut into Hazel across the roof of the car.

  “I told him to wait for you but he wouldn’t,” Hazel said. “He was afraid you’d blow a gasket. He wanted me to tell you that his cell phone was dying.”

  Sonia wiped her eyes. Her silence was the most unpleasant aspect of the event.

  “I was rushing to the bathroom to give you the phone, but he hung up.”

  More tense moments ticked by. Wind chimes sang innocuously. Sonia remained silent, staring her ire out into the woods.

  “He said he found more of Henry’s work, important stuff,” Hazel added. “It got him all jazzed up, you know, that theory, the non-Euclidian stuff. I mean, the guy is an academician. He gets as excited about geometric principles as we get over the themes and variations of Moby Dick. ”

  Sonia’s disjointed glare grew even sharper. “Don’t you stick up for him!”

  “I’m not!” Hazel all but wailed. “I don’t even really like him; if I had my way, you wouldn’t even be with the jerk! I called him a selfish, inconsiderate prick!”

  If only traceably, Sonia smiled. “You’re sweet, Hazel. And I’m sorry you’re in the middle of this. But you know me—better than anyone probably: I need to be by myself for several hours—”

  No! Hazel’s thoughts screamed.

  “I’m too frazzled and, believe me, I won’t be very good company for awhile. I’m going to drive back to the cabin and just try to decompress from this, okay?”

  Hazel stared. “Sonia, please—”

  “I’m sorry I led you on, but that was before Frank pulled this move.” Sonia wiped her eyes, appeared to be straining not to fall apart. “Just let me be by myself for a little while.”

  “You’re going back to the cabin without me,” Hazel droned, her own tears threatening now.

  “I have to. Please understand; don’t be mad. But you know how I get. Whatshisname can drive you back later, okay? Or just call me in a few hours...”

  Hazel was teetering in place, staring over the car’s roof. “I’ll make you forget all about Frank.” She gulped. “I love you. Please–give me a ch–”

  “It’s best this way,” Sonia said through a choke. “Just...forgive me.”

  Sonia got into the car and drove away.

  Hazel felt like a circuit breaker that had just been thrown off. She stared through nothing as the Prius disappeared around the bend of trees. She wanted to scream, cry, and laugh all at the same time, but instead she remained mute in place, vibrating from the crushing disappointment. One inch away from my dream coming true...and Frank had to fuck it all up...

  She felt warped now, twisted; she felt as though pieces of her psyche had been cut off and absconded with. Always me, always me...

  The trailer door clacked again when Horace came out; he seemed hesitant. “Wurn’t listenin’ deliberate naow but couldn’t help but heer. Yew’re friend seems quite bent aout’a shape ‘baout somethin’.”

  “Yeah,” Hazel sighed, dabbed her tears.

  “And yew tew. Anythin’ I can dew?”

  Hazel flinched, gave a mauled smile. Shape up. “Just girl-talk, Horace. Young and dumb, that’s me. It’ll all be okay.”

  “Ee-yuh, I shuh hope so.”

  But would it really be okay?

  Horace came down the steps and surprised her by offering a glass of ice-water. “Heer. It’s turrible hot; yew’ll likely feel better after takin’ some’a this.”

  “You’re very thoughtful, Horace.” The cold water down her throat roused her; it focused her previous idea to something, all of a sudden, thrilling. Sonia’s in no condition to climb the summit...but I am... She looked up hopefully at the towering Horace. “Are you familiar with an old cottage built way up on top of the summit?”

  Horace mulled the thought. With his arms crossed, his biceps bulged to the size of baking potatoes. “If’n yew mean Whipple’s Peak, well, ee-yuh. I ‘member when I was a little shaver, my gram used to talk abaout it, tryin’ ta sceer me, I ‘spose. Said it were sittin’ right at the edge’a the cliff, and didn’t have no front door.” He pronounced “door” as doe-uh. “Said it were haunted and’d been there since before white men ever came heer.”

  “Built by Indians, in other words.”

  “New, ‘cos that’s what I asked’n she said Indians couldn’t’a built it ‘cos they didn’t know haow ta cut stone. See, my gram said the cottage was made’a gray blocks—granite.”

  Gray blocks, Hazel’s mind wandered. The Gray Cottage, that’s what Frank called it. “I’d like to go and see it, Horace. But...how do I get there?”

  Horace chuckled subtly. “Ah, well naow, see, I dun’t think it really exists, Hazel. Just a wive’s tale—”

  “Yeah, yeah, but let’s just say that it does exist,” she pressed him. “How would I go about looking for it?”

  The large man shrugged, then pointed high to the west. “En’t no other way but to just walk all’s the way up the summit, and I’d imagine it’d be half a day at least gettin’ up there. See all that mist?”

  Hazel’s eye followed the direction of his finger. It was just a tree-covered pinnacle, at least a half mile up. Mist? she thought. She strained her vision.

  “Foller the line up where there en’t no trees.”

  Now she saw it. There must’ve been a mudslide or avalanche of some kind, eons ago, for now she detected a swath against the summit’s most extreme rise covered only with brush, no trees. At the very top, as far as she could see, lay a blanket of pale mist.

  “But I wouldn’t go up there if’n I was yew,” Horace went on.

  “It’s like Sleepy Holler, and the Goat Man, yew know? Curn’t possibly be a stone cottage up there when ya think abaout it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Impossible to carry all them granite blocks up there.” Horace rubbed his chin. “A’course, my gram did say she saw it huh-self when she was young, though. So...who knows?”

  Interesting. Hazel kept her eyes on the distant smear of mist.

  “She said there was ‘sposed to be treasure in the cottage but she couldn’t get it on account she couldn’t get inside. Like I said, weren’t no door.”

  A stone cottage...with no door? Could Frank really be lying that intricately? Hazel didn’t think so. The cottage MUST exist; Henry even mentioned it in his suicide note. And Frank really IS there, right now.

  And if he isn’t back by tomorrow afternoon...I’m going to try to find it...

  “Strange tales ‘baout that cottage, I’ll say. But every place got a few sech tales.”

  “Urban legends, backwoods legends, they’re all the same,” Hazel remarked. “It’s part of human nature to tell stories but then I guess every story that’s ever existed is based in some way on fact.”

  “Ee-yuh. And heer’s somethin’ else, if’n yew wanna talk abaout strange.” His big hand touched her back and urged her toward the driveway. “Tell me what’c
ha think, but just walk up along the edge.”

  She saw what he meant; the entire driveway was a trough of mud from the rain. She’d walked gingerly along the forest’s rim.

  “Them prints there are mine,” he said, pointing to a track of large footprints going to the mailbox and then back to the trailer. “But naow...see thet?”

  They stood at the bulky mailbox. Footprints impressed in the mud came to, then from the box.

  “Tracks from whoever left you the envelope and money,” Hazel observed. She saw nothing odd about it.

  Horace held up a finger. “Stay along the edge’n yew’ll see.”

  She followed him farther past the driveway’s end, into the mud-splotched road itself; all the while, Horace’s finger pointed down at the tracks. With each print left by the mysterious deliverer, Horace counted out, “One, two, three...”

  What’s he driving at? Hazel wondered.

  “...thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three.”

  Horace and Hazel stopped. But so did the tracks, nearly in the middle of the road. The tire-tracks from Sonia’s car coursed well away from them and, hence, couldn’t have covered up any additional footprints.

  “Strange?” Horace asked.

  “Very strange,” she admitted, gazing at the termination of prints.

  Thirty-three steps in, and thirty-three steps back. Then... It was as though the person who’d delivered the envelope had appeared and then vanished into thin air.

  Between the footprints and the prospect of finding the Gray Cottage, Hazel hoped for enough mental diversion to forget about her almost-sex session with Sonia. It worked...for a while anyway. She passed on Horace’s offer for a ride, electing instead to walk back to town on the paved road. Dense pine and oak lined both sides of the way, breaking up only periodically to show small crackerbox houses stuck back at the ends of short driveways. As she walked, the day’s heat and humidity glazed her. Not even sure where I’m going. Several persons either sitting on front porches or fussing with shrubs waved casually at her. What did Sonia call this place? Hooterville? Ma and pa in rocking chairs, bumpkin women hanging clothes on the line. But she had to stop at the next house she came to: a county sheriff’s car sat parked there while the officer himself had his hands full keeping a quarreling couple apart.