Lineage(49)

Lance.

The whisper came from the door. His hand froze over the knob and he looked back and forth to see if perhaps John had entered behind them without him noticing. The house remained silent around him, and he could no longer see Carrie at the top of the stairs.

Lance.

It came again, and this time there was no denying it. The sound had issued from behind the door. Lance knelt before the handle and peered into the small black keyhole below the knob. There was only darkness there; no windows seemed to grace the room inside. He leaned farther in. A soft stream of cold air filtered out of the hole, making his eye begin to water. He peered closer, straining to make out any features of the room beyond.

The darkness on the other side of the keyhole moved.

“Lance?”

He flew back from the door, scrambling to remain on his feet. A wood pillar rammed firmly into his shoulder blades, pain blooming there and halting his backward motion. He could feel his eyes bulging in their sockets and it seemed that his scalp had been drawn into a thousand tight points. Carrie stood at the top of the stairs, a fist held tightly to her chest, as if she were grabbing at her heart. Even from where he stood leaning against the support, Lance could see the furrows of worry on her brow.

He stretched his jaw and it clicked loudly, echoing off the flat surfaces of the nearly empty house. His mouth was full of syrupy spit and his heart felt as if it had somehow learned to double-beat within the last minute or so. Something had moved behind the door, he was sure of it. It wasn’t the twisting of nothingness the eye sometimes saw in the complete lack of light. The darkness itself had shifted. Had he really heard his name, or was it just the apprehension he had felt at the sight of the door? Trying to regain his composure, he stood without the help of the log behind him and aimed a tight smile up the stairs.

“Sorry, just stumbled. Knocked the wind out of me, I think.” Lance saw the Realtor’s face relax, but unease remained just below the surface. Lance breathed in and out several times as he began to climb the stairs. “Let’s see the bedrooms,” he said as he neared the woman on the landing, and kept the smile frozen in place like the mask that it was.



“So, what do you think?” Carrie asked as she shut the front door behind them, and walked down to where Lance stood by the now-vacant bench. Her enthusiasm, which had been dampened by Lance’s odd behavior, returned as she led him through the two spare rooms along with the enormous master bedroom, complete with a full attached bath.

Lance stood looking out across the open grounds toward the shoreline beyond the house. He could see the outline of the old caretaker there, now seated in a lawn-chair beside the large three-season gazebo.

“It’s great, really spacious, which I like. Would it be okay if I took a turn around the outside and get a feel for it?”

“By all means. I’ll just be in my car if you have any questions.” Carrie began to turn away when Lance stopped her.

“Why didn’t John come inside with us?”

Carrie smiled as she stepped closer to him and lowered her voice conspiratorially, as if to keep the breeze that blew between them from carrying her words across the yard like fallen leaves.

“John’s been the caretaker here for close to fifty years. He’s seen owners come and go. I think he feels quite an attachment to the place and he might be a bit upset seeing it change hands again.”

“How many times has the house been sold?” The Realtor’s makeup-caked face took on an almost cartoonish thoughtful expression.

“The same owners have been trying to sell it since I became a Realtor two years ago. Beyond that, I’m not really sure. John would be able to tell you, though; he’s been knocking around this part of the world for a long time. He might’ve even known the person who built the place.” Carrie laughed while Lance nodded and thanked her before turning to walk through the ankle-length grass.

Lance noticed the wind had picked up, and the waves on the lake reflected it. Whitecaps were beginning to form every so often in the distance, like the backs of whales surfacing for air. He counted at least a dozen submerged boulders poking their heads out of the water within the bay directly in front of the house. He wondered absently how many boats had been damaged or sunk just a few hundred yards from shore and if their skeletons were still there like bones of ancient aquatic creatures, waiting in the shallows.

Lance stopped and stood still as he came abreast of the caretaker, who sat motionless in the plastic chair. John’s eyes were narrowed, studying the bay. He didn’t acknowledge Lance’s presence, so instead of breaking the silence first, Lance sat on the lawn nearby, his arms resting on the tops of his knees. Waves continued to crash on the shore, marking off the seconds and minutes that passed by, their insatiable thirst for erosion unquenchable.