by Chris Raven
I google the St. Albans Messenger’s site and, after twisting around my little fingers for a couple of minutes, I find their archive section. I see that it is divided into three parts: news archive, historical archive, and obituary file. As the only thing I’m sure of is that Peter Anderson is dead, I pick out the last one. Unfortunately, in this file, the deceased appear only since 2006 and the search of Peter’s name does not throw any result. The web tells me that, for previous deaths, I must visit the historical archive.
This time, I get several results when I repeat the search. I can see the headlines. There is an obituary dedicated to Peter Anderson dated on July 12, 1979. I also find the headline of a news story that talks about his death on the 10th. Just by reading it I feel that the cold invades me and I’m sure I found something:
A child dies drowned in Lake Champlain in strange circumstances.
Unfortunately, when I click on the headline to expand the news, the page leads me to a registration form. With trembling hands, I’m filling all the fields, while I quickly say all the prayers I know. The information is there, and I have to waste several minutes doing all this nonsense. After filling in all the information and entering my e-mail to confirm the registration, I return to the page to find that I have to pay ten dollars to be able to consult their files for a day. I pull my credit card out of my pocket while I recite new curses I had forgotten. I think investigating is a task for people with more patience and money than I have.
After typing down the credit card number, it seems that my problems are solved. When I click on the news headline, a new page opens where I can see it. The article is illustrated with two photographs. In one of them, you see the face of a smiling child of about nine or ten years old. He has huge eyes and a smile that seems to suggest that it would be better not to lose sight of him for a single second. The other photograph shows a pier on the Lake Champlain shore occupied by policemen and curious people. At the far end of the pier, you can see a small lump covered by a white sheet. This image awakens in my mind a whole chain of horrible memories. I make an effort to put them back in the corner of my brain where I have them confined and I focus on the body of the news:
Nine-year-old Peter Anderson has been drowned in an accident that occurred yesterday morning at Lake Champlain in Swanton. According to nearby sources, the boy was swimming while his father, Steve Anderson, was fishing. For reasons still unknown, the child sank into the waters and, despite his father’s efforts, could not be rescued.
Emergency services received a warning at 10.15 hours when they were told that a child had drowned in the waters of Lake Champlain, on one of the residential piers near the Maquam Shore Road.
When the emergency services came to the site, the parents informed them that the child had been dragged to the bottom of the lake without them being able to do anything to avoid it. After a few distressing minutes of searching, they were able to rescue the small body. Although for half an hour the emergency department doctors were applying on him resuscitation maneuvers, nothing could be done to save his life.
Although the case is still under investigation, it is suspected that the child may have been cramped or got caught with the vegetation at the bottom of the lake, which prevented him from swimming to the surface.
I re-read the news over and over again. This death happened many years before those of my friends and, moreover, it does not seem to be a crime. So, what does relate them to Peter? Why are they together in the afterlife? Do they organize them according to the place where they died or because of their cause of death? The truth is, I have no idea what they might have to do with it. Maybe Eloise can help me with that.
I spend the next few minutes looking for more news about Peter, in case they ended up discovering that his death was due to a murder, but I can’t find anything else. There is only one other entry with his name: that of his obituary.
SWANTON — nine-year-old Peter Thomas Anderson died drowned in Lake Champlain on Tuesday, July 10, 1979.
Born in Highgate, on July 15, 1969, he was the only son of Steve and Camille Anderson. He was an outstanding student at Swanton Elementary School.
The liturgy for his funeral will be held this Thursday, July 12, at 11 a.m. in the Church of the Nativity, in Canada Street (Swanton). Next, the burial will take place in the Riverside Cemetery.
I start to have the impression that I’ve thrown ten dollars. Unless Eloise manages to relate this death to that of my friends, I can’t think of what we can get out of this. Although Peter was also drowned, everything indicates that it was an accident. My watch already marks half-past noon. I’d better go home if I don’t want Eloise to get angry and leave me without eating.
When I’m going to close the page where the news of Peter’s death appears, I notice a draught of cold air stroking my nape. I turn around, wondering if they have turned on a fan pointing directly at my crown, but I see nothing. After a few seconds trying to find an explanation, I convince myself that I have imagined it and put the hand back over the mouse to close the page.
This time I feel the cold on my hand. It’s not a current or a faint blow. It is something heavy and consistent with a glacial touch that has been placed on my right hand to prevent it from moving. I can almost feel the touch of some little icy fingers that hold me to prevent me from closing this news and forget it. I do not know if it is Peter’s spirit, one of my friends’ or the ghost that was presented to us yesterday at Eloise’s house and destroyed half the room. I’m not able to react. I’m so afraid that I’m paralyzed, with my hand twitching over the mouse and staring at the monitor. All my muscles are in tension, prepared to make me spring out of the chair and go running as soon as the paralysis disappears. However, I continued without moving, with my back as straight as if I had swallowed a stick. I don’t say anything, I don’t move, I hardly breathe... All I do is mentally repeat “let him go, let him go, let him go...”. The hand is still there, cold, heavy and inert. I realize he won’t leave me until I do what he wants.
In spite of my nerves, I hastily re-read in the news of Peter’s death. It seems that the circumstances of the accident were unclear, that there was even an investigation. With an effort of enormous will, I get to nod.
“All right. I’ll investigate Peter’s death.”
I notice that the invisible hand slides softly on my skin, like a farewell caress. When the contact fades, I get to control the desire to run out of the library. I search the web for the white pages of Swanton and introduce the name of Peter’s father without any results. I’m going to get up when it occurred to me to introduce the mother’s name: Camille Anderson. I’m luckier this time. There’s a woman with that name on 107 Maquam Shore. Even if I have no idea what to ask that woman, I think I’ll have to go up there and talk to her. Peter and his ghostly friends are leaving me with no choice.
X
I am in a winding gravel road that emerges from the general road to head towards Lake Champlain, whose blue and tranquil waters cast reflections on the midday sun. The road is bordered by parcels of grass, without fences that separate one property from another. The persistent drought has made the herb a little yellow, but it still seems like a nice place to live. The first house on the road to the right is the 107 of Maquam Shore, a small building with red walls and the roof and the door of white wood. I get off the bike and walk there grabbing it by the handle.
I hear music coming out of the windows of the house. I stop for a moment, trying to sort in my head all the lies I have been warping along the way. Even though my stomach aches because I am nervous, I knock at the door a couple of times and wait for them to open up. The music stops, and I hear a few slow steps that are directed to the entrance. An old woman with her hair picked up in a silver bun appears on the threshold. She wears little glasses adorning her round face. She must be around seventy, yet she has no unpleasant wrinkles or dry skin, but she has lovely and healthy rosy cheeks.
“Do you need something, son?”
“Are
you Mrs. Anderson? Camille Anderson?” I ask her as I direct the one I hope will be my best professional smile. When she nods and shakes my hand, I continue to speak. “They sent me from Swanton’s City Hall. There have been complaints about safety at the lake and part of the population is asking for rescue workers or at least the most dangerous areas to be fenced in. We have been charged with a report on the dangers of the Champlain and we found that you had the misfortune of losing your son drowned in 1979. Is my information correct?”
“Yes, it is.” The smile has completely disappeared from the woman’s face, making me feel guilty. “Unfortunately, these security measures are already too late for my poor Peter.”
“I am sorry to wake you up with such painful memories, but it would be helpful if you could tell me what happened to include it in our report.”
Mrs. Anderson stays silent for a few seconds, making me afraid she’s going to hit me with the door in my face. However, she ends up nodding and letting me in.
“Come into the kitchen and sit down. We’ll be cooler in there.”
I whisper a thank you and enter the house. As I sit in one of the kitchen chairs, a huge striped cat goes up on my lap, purring so hard it seems like someone has put it to boil for too long.
“I hope you can excuse Neville. He’s too cuddly.”
“No problem.”I force a smile while I see another half dozen cats swarming on the kitchen floor. If everyone decides to climb on me, I’ll end up buried in hair.
Mrs. Anderson takes a jug of lemonade out of the fridge and fills two glasses before she sits down. As soon as she does it, a cat with black and white spots goes up on her.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says, smiling. “A crazy cat lady. Since I lost my family, they’re all I’ve got.”
I nod, and I make a pair of caresses to the gray cat that I have on top. I’ve never liked cats, but if that woman sees that I’m affectionate with them, she might be more open to me. Unfortunately, Neville does not seem to agree with my plan, as he bites my hand and gets off, getting away with the tail bristling and upright.
“Well, he doesn’t seem to like me much” I throw a smile of apology and decide to go to the point. “Could you tell me about Peter’s accident?”
“Peter had no accident. It is impossible that he drowned alone in the lake.”Before my bewildered face, she continues to speak. “We live next to the pier. Peter learned to swim before he learned to walk. At nine years old he swam better than any child in the surroundings. He even participated in competitions against children older than him and yet he always won. We used to call him ‘the fish boy.’ My son didn’t drown.”
I feel a shiver going through my body. I seem to have found something important, although I still don’t know what it is. Perhaps this woman’s claims are only the ravings of a madwoman who has not been able to cope with the loss of her child.
“Newspapers at the time say that it may have been due to cramping or being caught in the vegetation at the bottom of the lake. At least those were the assumptions that the police handled.”
“I don’t give a shit what the police think.”Hearing those words in the mouth of this adorable old lady cause me to startle. “I know what I saw.”
“Would you mind telling me?”
Mrs. Anderson nods and, before she starts talking, she gives a long sip to her glass of lemonade. I imitate her, giving her time to sort out her ideas. The woman finishes the glass and leaves it on the table. Then she leans towards me as if to tell me a secret that she doesn’t want anyone else to hear it.
“That day we were all three at the pier. I was sitting on the grass, reading a magazine. Occasionally, I looked up to look at Peter, who was swimming and diving, as he did every day since the lake waters stopped being icy. His father was even closer, trying to fish. Although Peter’s shouting and splashes made it very difficult for any fish to come near, he liked to sit there and think about his things.”The woman looks at me, trying to see if I follow her story. I nod, encouraging her to continue. “Suddenly Peter gave a shout and sank into the waters. We jumped up and stayed a few seconds looking at the place where he was gone, not knowing what was going on. After a few seconds, Peter emerged again, asking for help. He shouted something like “He’s got me, he caught me.” His father got on his knees at the pier and held out his arm to help him out. Peter grabbed hard, but something was pulling him from the other side. I also grabbed my child’s arm to try to get him out, but it was impossible. The shouts Peter was giving were as horrible as if we were to split him in half. Suddenly, something pulled him hard and Peter slipped out of our hands and sank again.”
The woman stops talking and tries to contain a sobbing. I would like to say that it is enough, that it is not necessary to continue to remember such a painful event, but I think it is too late to repent and that I am in front of something important. I stretch my arm on the table to touch her hand in a gesture that I hope will be comforting. She feigns a smile, she plucks a piece form the roll of kitchen paper that is on the table and wipes the tears that have escaped her eyes.
“His father jumped into the lake to help him, but the waters of the Champlain are very dark, and he could not find him. In a matter of seconds, several neighbors came running. They had seen everything from their windows or gardens and had called the emergencies. My husband was diving over and over again, desperate to find him until the police, ambulances, and firefighters arrived... And then my boy appeared floating near the shore, dead...”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Anderson.”
“Thank you, son,” it is now the woman’s turn to squeeze my hand to comfort me. “They tried to revive him for a long time, but nothing could be done. When my husband saw that Peter was dead, he went crazy. He started screaming, talking to someone who wasn’t there, promising he’d do anything to get our son back, demanding it to bring him back to him... saying he’d kill any kid in the village in exchange for Peter being alive again.”
“And what happened? Do you know who he was talking to or what did he meant by killing other children?”
“No, I don’t know anything. They took him to the hospital in an ambulance and was admitted in the psychiatry unit.”
“When he came back, was he better?”
“No, he never recovered. He became a wraith. He couldn’t work, he didn’t talk to anyone, he hardly ate... Many nights I noticed he was getting out of bed, thinking I was sleeping, and sat on the porch to look at the lake for hours. Sometimes I would get up on tiptoe to spy on him...”
“And what was he doing?”
“He spoke alone as if praying. He kept asking an invisible being to return our son to us. At first, I thought he was talking to God, but the things he said were so weird... He said that three dead children were not so much payment for the life of his son, that he made a mistake. He asked to be allowed to try again, that he was willing to pay the sacrifice.”
His words leave me paralyzed. I don’t know what to say. Even my brain seems to have been blocked. I only repeat to myself, again and again: “Three children: Anne, Bobby, and Dave”, “Three children: Anne, Bobby, and Dave...” Mrs. Anderson is crying again. Seeing her so sad brings me out of my stupor.
“Where is your husband? Is he still living here?”
“No, he left a few months later and I never heard from him again. I don’t even know if he’s dead or alive.”
“Did he go without giving any explanation?”
“He left me a letter saying that if he stayed in Swanton, he would end up committing a madness. A few years later, some village neighbors told me that they had seen him in Montpelier, that he was begging by the streets, that he slept hidden between cardboard boxes... I haven’t heard from him again.”
I’m very sorry about Mrs. Anderson. After all, that’s happened, I don’t want to cause her any more pain, but I have to ask her one more question before I leave.
“I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but, do you think your husband could
be related to the death of the three kids who were drowned in the lake in the year 2001?”
She plucks an even larger piece of kitchen paper and hides her face in it as her shoulders shake through her sobs. I let her cry without saying anything, waiting for her to calm down and give me an answer.
“I don’t know. I have been with that fear ever since, wishing he had nothing to do with that, praying even that he was already dead when that happened. Do you think it could be him? You think my Steve could have killed those three kids?”
I leave Mrs. Anderson’s house about half an hour later, having tried to reassure her about the suspicions about her husband. I walk towards my bike with a quiet step, letting the breeze coming from the lake shake from me that woman’s pain and fear that seems to have impregnated my skin. I’m standing there looking at the lake. In spite of its bluish color, the brightness of the sun’s rays on the surface and the treetops of the rocking trees on the shore, it no longer gives me a sense of peace. Right now I would not get into its waters nor for all the gold in the world. The story that Mrs. Anderson has told me has impressed me so much that I can almost see it as if it were a movie in front of my eyes. The child’s shouts, his parents’ efforts to take him out and something dark and unknown pulling him into the depths. In spite of the heat of midday, I shudder again.
I try to calm down and think in a cold and rational way. To what extent can I trust a story told by a lonely old woman who has been living among cats for years? Everything she has told me happened a long time ago and will be dyed by pain, loneliness, loss... No one would blame that woman for looking for an explanation of that event that shattered her life forever, though she had to invent a dark, malignant being who snatched her son and drove her husband mad. Although I understand, and I feel very sorry, I cannot take her story as something objective.