Lineage(92)

“If she says anything, please let me know,” Lance said, handing the nurse a slip of paper with his name and number on it.

She took it and chuckled as she neared the office that she had emerged from earlier. “Oh, we will, don’t worry about that. That woman’s almost ninety years old, and the last thirty of it she’s spent writing those two names down. If she communicates anything other than that, we’ll give you a call.” Her laughter followed her into the office and died as the door swung shut behind her.

Lance frowned and walked out into the waiting area and through the exterior doors. The trees were beginning to bend more with the storm’s pressure, and he could almost taste rain in the air. He slid in behind the wheel of the Land Rover, and stared at the dark windows of the building. He wondered which one was his grandmother’s, and as he drove out of the parking lot, he imagined he could hear the sound of a pencil scratching on paper.



The grave sat just where John said it would. After walking to it, Lance wondered how he’d missed it before on his nightly treks through the property. The path that led off the main trail twisted only once, before rising onto a small bluff and opening into a clearing roughly the size of a car.

Lance stood at the opening’s mouth, looking at the short granite headstone. The words were barely visible in the gloom of the day, but he could still read them clearly enough.

“Erwin Metzger, 1920 to 1980. Father and husband. Rest in peace.” Lance’s voice sounded weak in the clearing amidst the rising wind and the constant beating of the waves on the shore behind him. When he turned his head to the left, he could actually see the house, which did nothing to comfort him.

He didn’t know why he had come here. Perhaps he hadn’t really believed John, and if the grave wasn’t here, he could refute everything the old man had said. He could wake up in the morning, refreshed and relieved by the fact that it had all been a joke.

He walked closer to the headstone. The ground had recently been cleared of sticks and leaves, the grass still very green over the plot. He realized then that John had been caretaking here also. Every time he came to tidy up the lawn and shrubbery he must have come to rake and prune this area also, each visit a reminder to the old man of his guilt and secrets. For some reason the thought seemed macabre to Lance, like Erwin had never truly released his hold on his employee. Lance supposed he hadn’t.

Lance felt his foot sink into the grass and stepped back onto the path. Images of a sinkhole opening up and him sliding down until he rested within a few inches of Erwin’s skeleton bloomed before him. He swallowed as a raindrop struck his nose, a cold tap of the storm’s fingertip. The sky had darkened further, and when he looked out across the lake, he saw angry waves rolling white peaks over and over as far as he could see.

As he made his way back to the house, more drops began to fall on him, which hurried his pace further, and he told himself it was the weather and not the lonely little clearing so close behind him that finally made him break into a run.

The house’s warmth did nothing to dispel the chill he felt as he shut the door and listened to its resounding echo. Just a tomb door closing, that’s all, the voice said, and Lance shook his head and went to the kitchen to find something for lunch.

Movement near the stairway caught his eye just as he turned the corner into the kitchen. He spun, his stomach dropping as he saw the bathroom door swing close above him on the landing. He sucked a breath in, wondering if he’d seen what he thought he saw: fingers. Four of them, as white as a fish’s belly, sliding away into the darkness of the bathroom.

He waited, trying to hear any sounds above the throbbing in his eardrums. Did the door just click shut? Had he heard it or not? Had he really seen a hand shutting the door? The urge to leave became almost overwhelming. All he would have to do is walk back over to the entry, grab his keys from the shelf by the door, and leave this cursed place behind him. He could do it fast, so if something came out of the bathroom and ran down the stairs behind him, he would already be gone.

No. The word cleared all other panicked thoughts from his mind. He’d be running again. He’d always run, he realized. Ever since his father hit him the first time. He’d run from the pain, from his mother’s lack of protection, from the rage, from the fear of becoming something terrible, even from people who cared. Whatever was up there now would just be something new to run from, and he finally knew that no matter how fast he went, there would always be another reason to keep going.

By the time he came to himself, his foot had already found the first stair. Before his mind had time to protest, he lunged upward with a burst of speed. The familiar anger came back to him, but now it felt like an ally, not a conspirator, and he used it as he rounded the top railing and flung a well-placed kick at the bathroom door.