Dead Ends

by JT Ellison

  She floats, facedown, her brown hair a fan around her head. Her red sweater has a hole in it; She still wears her sneakers. The water is murky and shallow, reeds and stems poke up around the edges. Dragonflies flit among the stalks. The early morning air is chilly, crickets and cicadas rumble in the thicket. A lone frog cries his frustration. The trees stand guard over the scene, a gentle breeze passing through them, making them shiver and drop their leaves in horror at the sight below.

  A fly lights on her shoulder. I should call the police. I’ll have to take the car and drive out. There is no service here, which is why we chose it. No wireless, no cell service, no interruptions. Where is everyone? The silence is overwhelming. Why did it have to be me who found her? Why?

  I watch her bob there, the water holding her in its gentle embrace, kinder and better than anything she got from the rest of the world, and think, It couldn’t have ended any other way, and start to scream her name.

  There are five of us heading to the lake, a long-overdue get-together to commiserate, drink, and in general, catch up. Oh, we are supposed to be working—that’s what we’ve told our better halves. A working weekend with the girls. No Internet, no phones. We’ll be unreachable, in a small cabin in the woods, only the house and lake and laptops as our companions.

  Justifications abound.

  We have plans. (There is enough wine to drown a regiment.) We have an agenda. (I’ve brought all of my Harry Potter discs.) We’re going to alternate writing with business discussions. (We’re going to gossip until our lips bleed.)

  The better halves help us pack—most, at least; there’s one who stormed out and didn’t come back until after she was gone, so she left a note with the caretaker’s phone number, just in case—fill up our gas tanks, carry the bags to the car, kiss our pretty little heads goodbye, assure us they will be just fine, it is only three days, after all, and wave as we drive away.

  I remember thinking, It’s a retreat. It will be a few days to gossip and eat and drink and hopefully write. What can possibly go wrong?

  We meet up at a travel gas station on I-65 South. Five cars—that’s silly, so we park and all get into mine. No sense wasting all that gas; like I said, we’re writers, which means we’re all on a budget. I drive—I have control issues and anxiety issues and the idea of not having my own car on a road trip is enough to send me into paroxysms, so everyone agreed in advance that it will fall upon me to take the wheel. They’re good friends. They make it sound like it is their idea.

  The drive is four hours, south, into the mountains between Tennessee and Georgia. We stop for road trip supplies. We sing to the radio. There is the sharp scent of rum from the backseat—Ellie has her tiny flask out already. I glance in the rearview and to the side. Ellie, Tess, and Carter are in the backseat, Frances is up front with me.

  Ellie, Tess, Carter, Frances, and me. Rebecca. The dream team. The five musketeers. My besties, my team, my crowd, my peeps. The girls who get me through every high and low of my career, as I do for them. Everyone in town is jealous of our bond. We came into publishing around the same time, met at a local author event at the local bookstore, and have been thick as thieves since.

  I can’t imagine my life without any of them.

  It’s hard to believe that before the weekend is out, one of us will be dead.

  It is dark when we arrive, dusk, really, the sky a light gray, but the forest is thick around us and it’s dim enough that we have to break out flashlights to find the front door and the keys that were left by the owner for us. This is my fault, though no one wants to blame me. I took a wrong turn, and we got lost on top of this strange mountain, where the trees reach over the road and stop the perspective views we had from the highway. The GPS stopped working halfway up, as the rental company warned us would happen. The paper map they provided, though, is worthless. Later, we will find out the sign has fallen, rotted out from the heavy winter weather, but at the time, it is downright creepy driving up and down the small country roads trying to find our way in.

  That’s why I missed the house at the end of the lane.

  Once our supplies are hauled in from the car under cover of flashlight, we drink some of the wine and tell a few stories, but the mood is ruined by our late arrival, and eventually, we peel off, one by one, to the various bedrooms and nooks and Murphy beds responsible for our weekend rest. Carter and Francie take the bunk beds—they’ve always been in each other’s pockets and don’t mind sharing—and Tess claims the small room behind the kitchen. Ellie climbs the stairs to the loft. Once I straighten the kitchen and lock the doors, I head to the master suite, the biggest room, with the private bathroom. I am paying more than the others so I can have this privacy. They understand. I am not holding myself apart. I am simply uncomfortable around people for long, even my dearest friends.

  The sky is darker than anything I’ve ever seen. I pull the curtains, suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of someone being able to look in on me as I sleep. I hate first-floor bedrooms. Someone can watch, someone can climb right in while you’re sleeping and you wouldn’t ever know. On a second floor, or even a third, there are stairs that creak, hallways with floorboards that pop and crack, so no one can sneak up on you. When my floor, my bed, my most vulnerable self is accessible by anyone—

  Stop.

  Don’t do this.

  You’re safe.

  You’re fine.

  Quit acting like a child. There are no bogeymen in the woods waiting to take you away.

  But as I stand in my pajamas in front of the spotted mirror, brush my teeth and hair, the little voice that lives in my lower spine says, “You should have taken the loft.”

  I wake early (I never really slept) and decide a walk is in order. No one else is awake yet, though I hear small sounds from the loft, Ellie is dreaming.

  I leave through the back door. I press five feet into the brush down a tiny path, and a charming lake appears. There is a dock, canoes, seats. We saw none of this last night. The girls will be thrilled. I am already envisioning yoga on the faded wood, the cool night air caressing our unblemished skin. There is a path that I assume goes around the lake, which is rather small. Probably two miles around; I can see the other side. I know from the website there are four houses that share the acreage. I set off, grabbing a large stick to use as a shillelagh in case of snakes, or bears.

  Most of the path is choked by brush; no one has tended it. But after a few minutes, the track widens, and I walk freely. I’m beginning to feel the sun on my bare shoulders when I see it.

  There is a house at the end of the lane.

  We must have driven by it as we wound our way into the woods last night, because as the crow flies it’s on the opposite side of the lake, but it’s not in plain view. There is only one road, which means it’s either the first driveway or the last, but I wasn’t paying attention.

  The house is gargantuan. Symmetrical. Stately stone chimneys rise from either side, fronted by a three-peaked roof. Cream stone blocks are overlaid with crawling ivy; there are ten mullioned windows. A mansion in the middle of the woods. So incongruous! It is the kind of house people build to be admired, not to be hidden away. But it looks as if no one has lived there for a very long time.

  Maybe this land belonged to the owners of this majestic place, and they were forced to sell it off to pay the taxes. Or does that only happen in England? It is an English house, one that would suit the countryside in the Lake District or Devonshire perfectly. It is not what I’d expect in Rising Fawn, Georgia.

  I realize I am still, staring, one hand wound around the wrought iron gate. The gates themselves are huge, too, well above my head, and stand open in readiness.

  For what?

  Impressed, I drag myself away to finish my walk. There is much writing to be done, and I am pleasantly hungry. The house stands guard behind me, watching. Waiting.

  I turn at the curve of the lake. It sparkles serenely, catching the light above. The trees are a shroud, but the sun
is strong this early morning, and the water rises up to meet it happily.

  I feel good. This is going to be a fun few days. I love being with my friends, I love being in a new place. Yesterday’s frustrations are beat out of my body as my feet pound the path. I check my steps: 4,500. Excellent. Well on the way to my goal.

  I am so fixated on my wrist that I almost miss it.

  The sign is crooked, a pointed arrow, and weathered gray.

  Come See the Cave at Catwood

  Catwood?

  Is that the name of the house? Or the land here? And there is a cave? I love caves. I like how each one is a microcosm of the world, living unto itself, not at all concerned with the outer world. Like blood in a vein, doing its business regardless of the external forces driving it. Nourishing and restorative.

  I follow the tiny offshoot path deeper into the woods, mindful to check myself for ticks when I get back, though it’s early in the season, they might not be out yet. I don’t usually pick up ticks or mosquito bites, some odd, freak-of-nature genetic lottery that makes me untasty to the seeking bugs. But these long grasses are full of them, so check I must.

  Who was it that lived in a cave in Greek myth? Pan to the nymph of the Corycian Cave? Or am I thinking more of Plato and the allegory with which I’ve always been fascinated?

  I’m upon the cave with almost no warning. The mouth is jagged, the grass waist-high. There have been no visitors here for some time. It is untended, and that makes me sad. Perhaps an animal or two make a nest inside, but I sense great emptiness and loneliness. The disuse is a shame, really. It’s a perfectly good cave, and not at all far from the house and the lake. It feels friendly, as if it would like to be rediscovered.

  I step to the edge—I’m not so stupid as to go deep inside without supplies—and stick in my head, using the flashlight on my phone to assess the state of things. I see nothing to fear, so I move inside, carefully.

  The wind sounds different in here. The walls are cool and lined with lichen and moss. I imagine what it would be like to live in this quietude, day in and day out, alone, a hermit, and find the thought suits me. I’m a great romantic when it comes to the idea of solitude—I crave it, seek it out, and yet always find myself surrounded by people. I’ve never understood this.

  I stand in the darkness and breathe deeply.

  It is a good cave.

  Happy and sated, I walk back to the cabin. Ellie is making breakfast; there are mimosas and friends whom I love waiting for me. I will write a story for them, my friends, and do yoga with them on the dock, and feel the breeze rustle the leaves and our hair and fill us, and tonight we will drink wine and talk more about our dreams and our fears.

  And that is how our day goes.

  There is a hole in the side of the mountain. People are lined up to go inside. It is a cave, my cave, clearly, and it must be a very deep one, because all the people disappear inside but don’t come out again for a very long time.

  A natural wonder of the world.

  A small lady with wildly curly gray hair and blue cat eyes stands outside, waving the people in. I get in line. I move closer, ever closer, until I am face-to-face with the woman. Her pupils are vertical, her skin unlined. Her face is years younger than her body.

  “Leave your fear behind. It will only cost you a dime.”

  “But I have no money.”

  “Then give me your hand.”

  I do, anxious now. I need to get inside. I feel the wind begin, deep in the valley behind me, and I know I must be inside the cave when the wind comes or I will be in serious trouble.

  “Ah,” she says, standing over my hand, stroking and caressing. “You are one of us. You have been chosen. You may go inside.”

  I scurry in before she changes her mind so the wind will not get me. I am the last person in line. The woman steps to the entrance of the cave behind me, and screams.

  My hair stands on end. The pitch hits a note inside me and I want to wail and rend my clothes in response.

  Her cry carries into the valley, and the wind rushes faster to greet her. It is shrieking and screaming, moaning as it tries to get inside, wanting, so wanting. But she holds firm, standing with arms up and legs spread, a barrier between us and the soul stealer.

  I was in a hurricane once. The wind blew and blew, the trees bent sideways, the fences came down, and the birds were all killed because they were caught in the eye for hours and couldn’t land. Exhausted, they dropped like stones, and washed up on the beach a few days later, littering the sand with their plump, bloated bodies.

  I sense the birds in the wind, caught in the maelstrom. They are coming, closer and closer, and the old woman stands firm in the face of their fury and screams, “Catwood!” at them. We stand shoulder to shoulder in the cave, screaming the word with her. Chanting over and over.

  Catwood.

  Catwood.

  Catwood.

  The wind stops with an unearthly howl of anguish, gushing up against the invisible barrier the woman has cast between us. The birds drop dead at her feet, hundreds of them, all different kinds, and she lies down and dies with them.

  I come awake with a start. My heart is pounding in my chest, so hard it hurts, and I realize I’ve been screaming aloud, because Ellie is standing over the bed with her cell phone flashlight on saying, “Rebecca, Rebecca, it’s okay, it’s just a dream.”

  Oh God. It’s just a dream.

  But when are my dreams only dreams?

  “I’m okay, Ellie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s okay, sweetie.” She hugs me, and her breath smells like piña coladas, like the beach. “I had a strange one, too. Must be this cabin. So many creatives have stayed here, they left some of their crazy behind.”

  “What was yours about?”

  Her face drops. “Vera left me.”

  “Oh, that’s harsh. I hate dreams like that.”

  “No, I mean she left me, for real. She’s moving on. She took a job in Seattle, and didn’t invite me to come with.”

  “Oh, Ellie.” This explains the heavy drinking that’s been going on. I wrap my arms around her, and hold on tight, waiting for the tears. They don’t come. No sobbing, no shaking. She’s stiff as a board with tension, but otherwise, resigned.

  “You okay?”

  “I think so. I’m all cried out. Maybe I’ll kill her in a story. Might make me feel better.” She stands up. “You want me to shut your curtains, so the morning sun won’t wake you up?”

  “It’s all right. I’ll do it. Good night, honey. Thanks for waking me up. I really am sorry about Vera.”

  “Don’t tell the others. I’m not ready to be dissected.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  She tiptoes away, and I look to the windows, dread filling me. The curtains are all wide open.

  The next morning, to shake off the dream and the sad news of Ellie and Vera’s demise, I set off on another walk.

  I go the opposite direction this time. The words I’ve written the previous day—what few there were; we talked as much as we wrote—glow brightly in my mind. They are good words. I am on to a new story, something challenging and exciting. I don’t normally write about happy things, my work tends toward the dark and dramatic, but I was hit with the idea as we drank our wine and ate our chicken salad and talked about how we like to be loved.

  Love. Why not write a story about love for once? A happy love, with a happy ending. Can I do it? Can I write something that isn’t so dark?

  I am consumed by darkness. There is a reason, I’m not being dramatic. I’m over my Goth years. Mostly.

  When I was in my early twenties, a friend had a party, and hired a palm reader to entertain.

  I had no interest in joining the fun. I didn’t want to know my fate, even one custom-made to please by a house medium.

  One by one, friends and acquaintances and strangers disappeared into a dark corner of the ballroom, separated from the rest by a long, silver curtain. On
e by one, they came out again, eyes wide, smiles huge. I’m going to be rich, I’m going to be famous, I’m going to marry Tad!

  Simply ridiculous, I thought to myself, having another drink. Who would waste their time on such frivolities?

  I was the only one in the room who didn’t disappear behind the curtain, though my friends egged me on. Finally, the hostess, being a royal canine bitch, tracked me down. “You’re being a spoilsport. Everyone else did it.”

  “If everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you expect me to follow suit?”

  “No, Rebecca. I’d expect you to have the good manners to go along with something utterly harmless so people will stop talking about you. Why do you always have to be the center of attention?”

  Now, that last was unfair of her. Being the center of attention was the very last thing I wanted. It was not my fault that I stood out from the crowd—tall women always do.

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re ruining my party,” she cried, flouncing off to be ministered to by her minions.

  Oh, for God’s sake. Drama queen much?

  So now everyone was paying attention to me, and I had no choice but to slip behind the damn curtain myself.

  The woman was older, not plain but not pretty. She would be easily forgotten if you bumped into her on the street, if you didn’t look closely. But when I stepped in, she raised her face to mine curiously, her eyes violet, as dark as a midnight sun, with an eerie gold ring around the irises.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Why? Why didn’t you just leave?”

  “I promised the hostess I’d read all the guests’ palms. It was in our contract. You’re my only holdout.”

  “Great.”

  “Not into fortune-telling?” The hint of a laugh in her melodic voice made me take a breath. I relaxed.

  “No, I’m not. My friend guilted me into it.”

  “You don’t want to know your future?”

  “No. A—I don’t believe in it. B—I want to live my life without some random prediction hanging over me. I believe we manifest our own destinies. If you look at my hand and tell me I’m going to die of cancer in three months, then I’ll spend three months worrying about dying, instead of living. I’d rather be ignorant and have bliss.”