The House on Black Lake (2 page)
Read The House on Black Lake Online
Authors: Anastasia Blackwell,Maggie Deslaurier,Adam Marsh,David Wilson
Tags: #General Fiction
P
ICTURES
F
ROM
T
HE
T
RAILER OF
T
HE
H
OUSE ON
B
LACK
L
AKE
HAPTER
O
NE
T
HE
A
RRIVAL
T
HE CAB DRIVER IN THE SOILED STRIPED SHIRT DRAWS CIGARETTE
smoke up his nose and leers at me from behind his filthy yellow taxicab. When the debauched little thing first approached me at curbside I told him I was waiting for a ride. But the truth: no one has set out to retrieve us. Not at this late hour, at the nearly deserted Montreal airport where apparently all the reputable cabbies have found their fares and left for the night. So my son and I stand alongside our shadows, marooned outside the international terminal.
Inside the airport, the security guards lock the doors and switch off the overhead lights. The few remaining passengers have vanished now that the outside lights are extinguished. A fierce panic has taken hold and I sorely regret my decision to take this journey. But there is no turning back.
There is no exit.
“Mommy, why can’t we take that man’s cab?”
I want to tell Sammy that he looks like a derelict and will likely have our throats slit and pockets empty before the first mile registers on the meter. But I don’t want to frighten my child.
The driver takes a quick last drag, tosses the butt over his shoulder, and saunters out from behind the vehicle. “Madame, as I told you,” he says in a heavy Quebecois accent, “there are no more cabs tonight. It looks like your ride is not coming. When I leave the terminal you will be left alone and stranded. Dangerous characters come here to do their drug dealings late into the night. Here, let me take your bag. What is your destination?” He picks up my suitcase and throws it inside his open trunk.
“Excuse me, sir. But the bag stays with me.”
“My name is Zito, Zito Zahn. I will take care of you.”
“I told you we’re waiting for our ride.”
“A limousine driver, engaged to pick up a woman and young child flying in from the states, departed at least an hour ago. I will take you to your destination.”
He opens the back door and gestures for us to enter.
“Let’s take the cab, Mommy. I’m tired.”
“All right Mr. Zahn,” I say with a deep sigh of resignation.
Ignoring his outstretched paw-like appendage I stoop inside, leading Sam with me. Lowering myself onto the cracked seat, I kick aside the assorted papers, candy wrappers, and God knows what else that litters the floor.
“I would like you to take us to a house in a private enclave of summer homes on Black Lake. There is no number, only a landmark.”
“What is the name?”
“Sandeley.”
“
Oui
. I know the place.”
He takes a small recorder from the dashboard, shoves it between his legs, and turns up the volume of a French baritone.
“Would you mind rolling up your window?”
“
Excusez-moi?”
he asks, while withdrawing a stubby cigarette from a crumpled pack on the dash.
“Never mind.”
I draw Sammy tightly against me as the driver veers out of the airport and pulls onto the highway. He zigzags between lanes, jockeying for position in the freeway traffic, taunting drivers with a shaking fist as he passes. Cackling to himself and blowing smoke out the window, he trills his glottis along with the lusty man singing deep within his thighs.
“Hold on,” he exclaims, and abruptly veers off the highway. Nothing is visible along this stretch of road, other than the cracked asphalt beneath the one working headlight and the ghoulish shadows that play along the narrow passage. It feels like we are twisting down a black hole into some godforsaken parallel universe where Zito-like creatures act out unimaginable perversities and abominations.
“Mr. Zahn, would you please slow down? You’re frightening my son.”
“But you Americans love your rides. I am giving you your amusement.”
“Not all of us love the rides. Are you certain you are going in the right direction?”
“
Oui.
I know the way to Black Lake. This is the shortcut, as you call it.”
“I don’t see any signs or landmarks,” I say, and toss my wind-whipped hair aside while wiping a circle of fog from the window.
“There are no signs. It is a private lake.” The whites of his eyes grow larger in the rearview mirror, as he traces the line of buttons down my sweater.
“Mr. Zahn, please! Would you keep your eyes on the road? I don’t know how you can tell where you are going.”
In the dim red illumination of the instrument dials I watch a tiny hand slither back to scratch and his moans join that of the singer between his thighs, who is now in the throes of an excruciating climax.
“How much longer?”
“Not too much longer, Madame... not too much...”
He lets out a wild whoop, like a warrior about to bury his spear into an enemy, and thrusts his foot down on the accelerator. The car momentary takes flight, careens down a steep grade and lands in a pothole filled with water, splashing a muddy soup onto the windshield.
“Welcome to Black Lake,” Zito says, and brings the cab to a screeching halt. He opens our door, and we step from the rotting cocoon onto a dark road with a canopy of brilliant stars and fresh air infused with lilac. A summer breeze scatters the last remnants of the dust as I lead Sammy towards the yellowish beam of the car’s headlight. Sheathed in a dense overgrowth of trees, the deserted road shows no signs of human habitation.
“Where is the house?”
“It lies at the base of the path, at the shore,” he tells me, and points to a flagstone trail bordered with trellised roses interspersed with sparkling lights.
I hand him a few bills to cover his fare and turn with Sammy to cross the road.
“Wait. Do not leave. I need to take you down...” he calls out, while taking something from his back pocket.
“Pardon me?” I say, and search inside my purse for a sharp object.
“I need to take down your time. When do you return to Montreal, to the airport? He removes a threadbare notebook from his pocket and takes the pen from my hand.
“Why do you ask?”
“Zito will be there to greet you. Zito is always on time.”
“That is not necessary. Mr. Sandeley will take care of my transportation.”
“I know all the schedules. I will arrive just after sunrise for your return.” He replaces the notebook in his back pocket and hands me my fountain pen. “
Bonne nuit
,” he says with a salute. “I will meet you at dawn after the longest day.”
Zito shuffles back to his cab and takes off with a lurch, vanishing into a cloud of pink-tinged dust like an apparition.
HAPTER
T
WO
R
UTH AND
R
AMEY
S
ANDELEY
“I
HEAR DEMONS CRYING
, M
OMMY
.”
“Those are the crickets in the bush, darling. You’re not used to the sounds of the country. Look at the size and color of the moon—we don’t see red moons in the city. It’s less than a week until the solstice, the beginning of summer and the longest day of the year, the day the sun stands still. They say the dreams you have that night will come true.”
The mirror of fiery brightness blesses a strange effect of light. A coppery halo illuminates a veil of brilliant stars and lends a mysterious otherworldliness to the landscape unfolding before us. I grasp the handle of my suitcase and take Sammy’s hand to lead him onto a footbridge straddling a stream cloaked with a jungle of vines and exotic flowers. The night is steamy and sultry, inky dark at the faint edges, and reeks of a potent floral perfume mixed with the stench of rot and freshly upturned earth. The wide open blossoms seem to watch us as we pass, while the churning water throws up a light mist, enshrouding us in shimmering dew.
“I wonder how he knew.”
“Who?”
“Zito. I wonder how he knew we are scheduled to return the morning following the solstice.”
We cross the aqueduct and step onto a brick walkway that meanders through a haunting terrain. A radiant light appears as we pass the first loop of the serpentine and I am taken by a delicious stab of excitement as a palatial estate materializes against the panorama of darkness.
“The Sandeley’s house is magnificent. I’d like to spend our entire vacation lying on that big hammock on the front porch,” I say, and retrieve strands of my hair from moss dangling from a tree overhanging stairs that lead up to the stunning manor.
It is eerily still as we begin our ascent: except for the melodies of cut-glass chimes swaying in the eaves of the patio, sounds nearly human, like the whispers of shared secrets.
The front doors are flanked by stained-glass depictions of flying cherubs and illuminated by carriage lamps that have attracted a swarm of moths. Beneath their commotion, those that have beaten themselves to death against the glass lie in heaps on the floor. As we approach, the blind creatures flutter helterskelter in our direction.