The House on Black Lake (29 page)

D
ARKNESS HAS FALLEN ON THE STORYBOOK VILLAGE AND WITH IT A
solemn chill has descended.

“The rain has stopped, but it looks like there will be another downpour before morning,” André says as we depart his cottage and cross the grounds to the car.

“My flight leaves early tomorow morning,” I protest. “It’s already past midnight.”

“This is our last night together. I don’t want to let you go; not yet.” He stashes the painting in the cargo section and beckons me to enter. We drive in silence down a dark country road to a parking lot adjacent to the lake bordering St. Agathe. He leads me down a steep ramp to a pier running along the lake.

“Here is my boat,” he says, gesturing to a small motor craft. “We will go for a short ride.”

“André, I told you I can’t swim and am afraid of deep water. Where are the life jackets?”

“The cushion on the seat is a float. If you fall in, grab onto it and kick your way to the shore. Don’t worry, I will watch over you. I am an expert swimmer. They don’t like motors on the lake. I will keep it low,” he says and draws me down into the boat.

“Sit next to me so I can steer the rudder and keep my hands on you. Come back, my sweet. We have the lake to ourselves tonight.” As we set out into the lake and St. Agathe Des Monts retreats the air grows colder and a swirling fog envelops us.

“You are shaking. There is a blanket on the floor under your seat. Here, let me help you,” he says, and wraps it around my shoulders.

“The other side of the lake is uninhabited. This is swampland.” He steers the boat across the lake to a shore with dense overgrowth, and slips inside a narrow passageway.

“Sit on my lap and face me.” He draws me onto his lap to straddle his thighs, and peers over my shoulder to guide the motorcraft.

“Why can’t I see where we are going? There aren’t alligators in this swamp are there?”

“Only pythons and tarantulas.”

“Wonderful.”

“Duck. There’s one ahead,” he says playfully as a trailing vine grazes my head. The air inside the dank boscage stinks of rotting foliage and dead fish. I bat away the gnats and mosquitoes, wrap my arms around André’s shoulders, and scoot my hips forward to support myself firmly against his body.

“We’re not going to get stuck in here, are we?”

I turn back to see where this channel leads. The creeping plants and thick vegetation nearly hide a vague ingress to another lake. Through the morass, I catch a glimpse of an unfathomable sight. In a haze of smoke and fog, the charred ruins of the Victorian house on the island looms ahead.

“This is Black Lake! This isn’t an adventure. It’s a nightmare. I insist you take me back.”

“Stop fighting or you’ll drown us both,” André says, and grabs me by my wrists.

His face has transformed into a mask of ruthlessness I would not have believed possible, had I not seen the vicious serpent etched into his skin.

“Alexandra, you must return to the house to see the destruction, to view the ruins, or it will haunt you forever. If you don’t face the reality, it will remain inside you, residing in your dreams to burn forever. The skulls you found inside the shed... you must witness that the spirits have been set free, their souls released by incineration.”

His words touch me but my fear overrides his passion.

“The future cannot be embraced until you have faced the death of the past. You must be bold; there is said to be magic in boldness.” His dark eyes grow luminous as he tightens his grip on my wrists.

“This is the island where my ancestors are buried; their bones still lie beneath the soil. I want to see the destruction and be assured the spirits of those held captive have found their way to the other side. I wish to say a prayer for the freed souls. Will you do that for me and for yourself?”

“Have I a choice?”

“Of course you have a choice.”

“Do I?”

“If you wish, I will go back.”

I am silent.

“Would you like me to turn around?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you fear something that is abandoned and burnt to the ground?”

“It holds terrible memories.”

“Why is the past something to fear?”

“Something bad could happen again.”

“What would that be?”

“I only know what my instincts tell me.”

“Memories cannot harm you unless you give them power.”

There is a long silence as I struggle against panic and seek a sane decision.

“If you cannot commit yourself to trust completely, then you can never be trusted.”

“Not everyone is brave.”

“We will go back.”

He abruptly releases my hands and starts up the engine.

“André, wait.”

I rise from the hull to sit next to him on the wood plank. Choking back tears, I search for words to express my conflicted emotions. “The day we met was the most difficult day of my life. I had lost everything and was in the depths of despair. You comforted me, helped me face my fear, and most important, you helped me regain trust. If I turn back, I negate all of it.”

The island looming in the distance is a terrifying sight. Nothing is visible other than a singed bank of trees lining the perimeter of the shore. But I realize this is a test of my resolve. I must make this pilgrimage.

“I will visit the house on Black Lake one last time to view the burnt ruins and pay respects to the dead. I will do it for the lost souls, for you, and for myself.”

“Boldness awakens when we trust in ourselves.”

He draws me up on the seat next to him and wraps the blanket around my shoulders.

“Think of it as your baptism into a new life.” He dips his hand in the lake and raises it to sprinkle water over my head. “The young natives were submerged in the lake as a part of their ritual initiation. After immersion, they gained psychic powers, were able to communicate with the dead and received spiritual guidance.”

André steers the boat across the lake to a heavily forested area of the island, near the fire pit. He ties the boat to a tree at the edge of shore and I follow him through the charred forest. The giant oak tree stands beyond the dense overgrowth. It has lost a few branches to wayward sparks, but is largely intact.

“It is the Holo Kaustus. It means a burnt offering solely for God,” André says as we approach what was once the majestic Victorian, now a parched heap of debris.

He guides me across the grounds, to where the shed once stood. It has burnt to the ground and there are no remnants of the skulls or pieces of bone visible in the rubble and ash. “I pray the spirits have found peace on the other side,” he says in a reverent voice.

“I’d like to see the trash bin where Sammy was hidden,” I say, turning away. I don’t wish to linger much longer. There is finality in destruction; but no joy.

“This island is not a place for the living,” he says and guides me through the wreckage to the shore of the lake. He kicks aside the debris, navigating me through a dredge of muck to where a steel container, covered in soot, is encroached by a slurry of water and wet ash. Petals lost from garlands decorating the barge floats are heaped in piles and covered in slimy crud.

And there, within, I see the floating remains of the little kitten. She looks untouched, at peace, as though asleep. I shake with sorrow for the lost life of the innocent creature and struggle to overcome the urge to break down completely.

“It was a miracle I found Sammy. He must be blessed. He’s had two miracles in his short lifetime.” I embrace André, seeking in him the warmth and comfort of the living.

“You are shivering, my darling. You will catch a chill if we stay here much longer. Come, let us say a final prayer for the dead and go back to the boat.”

“Sometimes I wonder if all of life is a façade,” I say, looking up to the empty place where I stood only days before, trembling in fear behind a murky window.

“It depends on your perspective,” he offers as he leads me across the desolate grounds. “I could be related to this old oak. It might have absorbed someone in my family through its roots,” André says as we reach the base of the oak tree.

“It does look a bit like you.”

“Remember the first day we first met, when I sketched you reclining against the trunk, enmeshed in the limbs of a tree? Who would have believed one day I would place you in the same setting?”

“Life and art are one and the same, are they not?”

“We must be careful what we bring to life,” he says and takes my hand to lead me up to the tree. He stations my body against the trunk and lifts my arms above my head to recreate my position in the sketch. “Now I will complete the picture,” he says with a mysterious smile, as he sensuously moves his body against me, while making a necklace of kisses along my collarbone.

“Did you say a prayer for the island, the lost souls, the freedom of the underground, and the safe passage of the spirits?” he whispers in my ear.

“I did,” I say between shallow breaths, wanting him here, now, to wash away my misery.

“Recite your final prayer,” he says, as he slips a hand beneath my skirt.

“André, do you truly believe the men from the club will be here tonight?”

I gaze into his beautiful dark eyes and search for a signal to give up and surrender.

“I do.” His eyes flicker side to side. “I belong among them,” he says in a barely audible voice. And with this, something cruel rises up. He grabs my wrists and pins me against the massive trunk, scraping my skin against the brittle bark as he takes me with his full weight.

“Let me go!”

He does not relinquish his hold, but rather appears to retreat deeper into himself, and I fear I have lost him to something entirely diabolical.

“You were the one who preached how I must have faith if I am to find those who will help me. I confessed to you what I have never shared with another human being. Now, you owe it to me to be honest and tell me the truth.”

“I was brought into the club by my birth father,” he says in a voice bereft of emotion.

“What about the Solar Temple?”

“It is possible to belong to more than one club, eh?”

“I don’t understand.”

“As I told you, I cannot be a part of a ritual ceremony for another ten years, but they can...”

I follow his gaze to the stone path leading up to the grounds, where a group cloaked in hooded black robes and red armbands have congregated.

“Andre, for God’s sake, why are they here?”

“For you, darling: they are here to release you.”

A statuesque figure emerges from the group and strides across the lawn. His black robe flows in waves behind him as he crosses the grass to stop in mid-stride in front of where the house’s grand entry once stood. Majestic in his billowing robe, he stands before me like a prince of darkness come to claim the soul of one soon to be departed. Shadowed before the ruins of the house, with the blood-red moon lurking like the magnified eye of Satan, he observes me silently. A murderous gleam escapes the eye-slits of his mask, and fits of steaming breath seep from the mouth hole.

“Reveal yourself. Take off your costume. You defile the sacred robe of justice,” I taunt him.

Andre tightens his grip as the odious specter raises a gloved hand and poises it aloft in an excruciating pause that nearly stops my heart. The hand clutches spasmodically, like one abruptly severed, then sweeps down to seize the fabric of the hood and tear it away. A shock of bleached hair appears from under the hood and intense green eyes flash from a tanned face with a mouth contorted into a cruel grin. Vapors of the evening air snort through Georgie La Pointe’s flaring nostrils.

“Hello again, darlin’. As with our first meeting, you are accompanied by a tree. You must have a fondness for tough hide, eh?”

“Where is Ramey?” I ask, peering into the robed vigilante tightening ranks behind him. I now see they wear the double hexagram with a winged cross, the same armband as the one I found hidden in Egan Schlotter’s trunk.

“Ramey Sandeley is tending his mare. He no longer owns this island; it’s now my property.” Georgie moves towards me with a menacing swagger. His posse of sacrilegious priests follow suit and the sound of collective breaths under hoods lends a touch of the macabre to the obscene.

“Wrap her up tight and we’re done with you, Labat. You’ll get your turn at the end, after the others have had a piece—a fitting spot for a half-breed,” he spouts in a voice bloated with unfettered disdain. He lifts the heavy robe up over his head, drops it to the ground, and draws a hand through his hair to groom the gelled spikes.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Alexandra. The sacrifice of a specimen like you could change the world. But you need a little taming first. You need to be fucked soundly before you’re put to sleep.” His face contorts into a gluttonous sneer as he lowers the zipper of his gaudy pants. His starched linen shirt is stained with perspiration and he reeks with the stench of a beast not quite human. He traces my eyes as he moves in on me, clawing his hand down his chest to the crude bulge that has afforded him the twin gods of fame and bloated debauchery.