Lineage(99)

He sighed. “Self-pity hour is over. Get to work,” he said, as he sat before the computer and brought his novel up on the screen.

The next few hours passed serenely. The storm remained like an unwanted houseguest, fussing over the roof with renewed vigor and lightning as it grew darker. The tapping of the keyboard was the only sound that filled the room, but Lance’s ears remained alert to any other noises from elsewhere in the house. He paused from time to time, telling himself that he was doing anything other than listening for something moving in the rooms behind him.

The lake had fallen away into a void outside the windows when he finally stopped typing. He sat back and ran through the last pages he had written. They were good. The story sang along on its own now. He only channeled it into words, and despite everything that had happened, it felt so good to feel them flowing as well as they were.

He stood from the computer after saving his work, and went to the kitchen. His stomach grumbled, and even though the only things that stood out to him were the makings of a cold turkey sandwich, he gladly threw the portions together and ate heartily at the counter.

His mind wandered as he ate. There had to be a reasonable explanation for everything. Perhaps the stress of the writer’s block and the subsequent release after moving here were at last catching up with him. Maybe the things he’d seen over the last weeks, right down to the nightly visitations, had been the resultant products of anxiety. The thought troubled him, but it did so much less than the alternative. Either way, the question of whether or not to call Dr. Tyler had been answered. He needed help. He made the decision to call the doctor in the morning, as he popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth and washed it down with a mouthful of cold water.

Weariness that had gone unnoticed until he stooped to put the leftover turkey and mustard away in the fridge settled over him. He yawned, his jaw cracking as he shuffled out of the kitchen and into the living room.

He had gotten halfway to the stairs when something stopped him. It wasn’t a sound, he hadn’t heard anything other than the brushing of his own socked feet on the wood floor. It wasn’t movement, either. He scanned the walkway above him just to make sure that he remained alone, then turned around. The windows behind him were emotionless black eyes that opened unto the yard he could not see. If someone lurked beyond the panes of glass, they were invisible to him now.

He stood that way for a while, something tilting inside him, just outside of his reach, as if a priceless vase were tipping on a stand, ready to pitch onto the hard floor of his psyche. He breathed deeply, but the sense of unease didn’t let up; if anything, it increased, rising another notch in intensity. Run! the voice inside his head screamed, and he felt his legs straining to obey the command. He swallowed and turned again toward the stairway, blinking away the shuddering pulse of his heart in his eyes.

The door was open.

It yawned at him from across the room like a gaping mouth, the darkness inside complete as if a sheet of midnight had been hung just inside the doorway. The horrible, immovable door was open. Lance staggered back, feeling returning to his numb legs. He stared at the perfect darkness of the room until it seemed to swirl and move. Or had it actually moved? He remembered the dark shifting through the keyhole on the tour of the house, the blackness stirring like dust motes as something moved through them.

The door creaked open another inch, reminding Lance of a flytrap widening its jaws as an unsuspecting insect hovered nearby. He felt it then. The divide before him, like a swooning height not to be looked down upon but felt in its immeasurable depth.

He could walk away now. Leave the house, his belongings, his story and drive into the night. He might never write again. He knew the writer’s block would return the moment he left the drive of the house, and would continue to thicken as the miles fell away behind him. He would never write again. The thought seemed too large to fit in his mind. But he would be safe from whatever presence resided here.

He hesitated only a split second before he crossed the distance to the doorway.

Cool air that held a faint musky odor flowed from it, like a mushroom that had sat inside a plastic bag too long. Lance peered into the room, trying to discern if anything waited beyond the line of light. His body thrummed with adrenaline, making his hand shake as he cautiously reached inside the doorway and felt for a light switch on the wall. He expected something cold and wet to grasp his hand, and that’s when he would lose his mind. The fright would be too much for him to bear and his circuits would simply overload. Instead, his hand slid along the smooth wall without meeting any switches or other hindrances.