Lineage(51)

A corner of the blue-and-silver tinfoil box peeked from behind a gallon of milk on the floor as Lance bent to retrieve a bag of potatoes.

“Gotcha, ya bastard,” Lance said as he grabbed the end of the box and pulled it from its hiding space. The sun had begun to set behind the trees on the west side of the house, and the red light threw long shadows across the floor of the kitchen.

Lance prepared a celebratory dinner of fresh grilled salmon, baby red potatoes, and asparagus. A bottle of wine sat open on the counter, from which he poured and refilled several glasses as his dinner came together. He began to hum a song he had heard earlier under his breath as he cooked. By the time he took his food onto the patio overlooking the lake, his head was pleasantly light from the Merlot. He watched as the light suffused onto the calm water within the bay and stained it a shimmering red. The rocks that poked from the surface of the water were ringed in shadow, and a large ship moved without sound toward a port, half a mile out from shore. Lance searched his memories for another view that rivaled this moment and could find none.

As the sun finally relinquished its hold on the day and slipped fully below the horizon, the bay became a charcoal painting of what it looked like only minutes before. Lance sat back from the table and his now-empty plate to sip the last vestiges of his wine. He considered for a moment opening the other bottle he had bought in town, but dismissed it almost immediately. He couldn’t be hung-over tomorrow. Tomorrow he would begin to write. He already had a small table positioned in the glass alcove, his computer screen set up on top and the tower below on the floor. In the morning he would rise, eat a quick breakfast, and sit down to begin carving out the idea that still hovered at the back of his mind.

Over the past two weeks the story had come and gone as he traveled back and forth between Stony Bay and Ardent Hills. At some moments he felt as if he could sit down and punch out the entire outline, while at others he struggled to remember the basic plot. At those times the ideas that sprang into his head seemed childish and unrefined, so unlike his regular work. As much as he hated to admit it, he could only link the story’s appearance with one thing: the house. He had even tested the unsaid theory without truly acknowledging what he was doing. As he drove away from the house one afternoon after meeting Carrie there for one last walk-through, he had tried to keep the story at the foremost of his thoughts. But slowly, as the miles stretched out behind him it dulled. Then it dimmed until it was an insubstantial idea without a purpose, like an empty plastic bag carried by a rogue wind.

Well, we find out tomorrow if this place is really my muse, or not, Lance thought, as the last of his wine disappeared from his glass and a loon gave a melancholy cry that echoed like a question across the bay.



He placed the leftover helping of salmon in the refrigerator and stretched. His back ached from unpacking box after box throughout the house, and the wine made his eyelids feel heavy beyond their weight.

He snapped off the light, making a silent promise to do the dirty dishes on the counter in the morning. His feet shuffled across the wood floor with harsh rasping sounds. For a moment Lance had an overwhelming sense of dread settle over him, and he struggled to put his finger on the source. His left foot slid over the floor and the sound registered in his ears. Scraping footsteps. He picked his feet up so his socks didn’t whisper against the floor as he neared the stairway and the door at its base.

Lance stopped and stared at the door set into the wall. His eyes had flickered to it many times during the day as he moved about the house, the memory of looking through the keyhole fresh in his mind. He took a step toward it, his hand reaching out to the iron doorknob—he could already feel the coolness of it in his hand—but stopped. He let his arm fall to his side.

“Not on the first night. That’s just rude,” he said, the wine mustering levity he didn’t know he had. He turned and jogged up the stairs to the second level and got ready for bed in the small bathroom off the walkway.

He had settled into the smaller of the two guest rooms on the second floor. For some reason the master had felt too large and empty with its huge bay windows overlooking the lake. For lack of a better description, it seemed lonely. The irony wasn’t lost on him as he regarded where he was in comparison with the city he’d left.

A simple bed frame with a new mattress and fresh sheets welcomed him. His eyes wandered the dark room, trying to pick out familiar shapes—his two suitcases near the doorway, a small dresser that had yet to be filled, and the table he’d placed near the head of the bed. He lay down and listened intently for any sounds he might hear, as sleep began to pull at his mind, making his thoughts elongate and re-form like putty in the sun. Only the occasional snap of settling wood below him and the solitary drip of water in the kitchen sink met his ears.