Lineage(73)

Lance felt his heart pounding in his ears and glanced over at Andy, who had turned a pale shade of gray. John seemed unsurprised; perhaps he’d heard the story before.

Stub continued, “There’s evil in this world without reason or purpose, my friends. It just is. And God help you if you ever run across it.”



The rest of the evening slid away from them like the sun behind the trees. More drinks were poured and more stories told. When the clock in the kitchen read 10:00 and the shadows had condensed into full darkness, Stub and John said their goodbyes. Lance and Andy watched the taillights like disembodied eyes disappear down the drive until they’d winked out.

“Good people,” Lance said, piling dishes onto the counter as Andy went and sat in the alcove near the computer.

Andy nodded as Lance began to wash the dishes, his head buzzing pleasantly from the wine. “Mind if I read?” Andy said over his shoulder as he opened the Word document that now numbered in the hundreds of pages.

“Looks like you are,” Lance said. The house became quiet besides the clink of dishes and the intermittent swish of water washing suds from clean utensils.

Just as Lance placed the last plate in the dish-holder to dry, he noticed Andy saunter in and sit at the counter. His face held its color again under the kitchen lights as he poured himself another glass of wine.

“So?” Lance asked, leaning against the counter and drying his sodden hands.

Andy took a gulp from his glass and swallowed loudly. “It’s the best thing you’ve ever written, by far.”

Lance felt the familiar glow in his chest. He had worried that he had misjudged the story and his talent, but now he felt validated; Andy always told him what he thought, honestly and truly.

“You think so?”

“Yes. It’s powerful, and I like the way you’re swaying the main character between damnation and redemption. Well done.” Andy raised his glass in a toast. Lance lifted his own in return, and both men drank deeply. “Now I just need to figure out how I’m going to pitch this to those bastards in New York.”



They retired shortly after finishing their wine. Lance had prepared the guest room upstairs for Andy, and as they walked upstairs, he watched his friend for any sign of the distress he had shown in the driveway. Andy only seemed tired, and after saying good night, the house became dark, its sounds reflecting the cooling temperature outside.

Lance lay awake for some time after he heard Andy’s soft snores from down the hall. Stub’s story still hung in his mind like a ghoul, circling him until his back was turned, and then pouncing. Stub had been right—there were some things that were so awful they defied logic. As Lance drifted off, he pictured the man Stub had described sitting in the chair, covered in gore. But when the man looked at him, instead of a stranger, he saw his father’s face.



Something woke him hours later, his mouth dry and his throat parched from the alcohol he had consumed. He inhaled, the sound loud in the empty room. His eyes searched the space around him; deep shadows clung to the corners, contrasted with milky light that leaked in through the open door. He listened, searching for the source of the sound that woke him, not sure that it had been a sound at all. He reached out, feeling in the darkness for the smooth stock of the Mossberg he knew was there. His palm touched it, and he drew it to his side as he stood from the bed.

Stopping at the door to his room, Lance peered at the house beneath him. Moonlight filtered in through the bay windows, and he could smell the lingering vapors of dinner wafting up from the kitchen. Nothing moved below him.

Trying to sidle out of the room without making a sound on the wooden floor of the landing was all but impossible, as a creaking board let out a shriek like a banshee. Without flipping on the light attached to the weapon, he made his way around the perimeter of the banister until he drew even with the guest bedroom. Not wanting to burst into his friend’s room with a shotgun in the middle of the night, he hovered outside the half-open door and listened for Andy’s breathing.

The refrigerator’s fan below him whirred into life and he lost any hearing advantage he had. Feeling stupid and as overcautious as a parent checking on a newborn, he nudged the door to the guest room open.

The covers to Andy’s bed were thrown back, his pillow like an island in the middle of the mattress. Andy was nowhere to be seen.

Lance flipped on the light in the room to confirm what he already knew. Ducking low and flipping on the white light attached to the shotgun, he scanned beneath the bed. Nothing but a few dust bunnies were revealed in its glow.