Within the Shadows (34 page)

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Authors: Brandon Massey

BOOK: Within the Shadows
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“We’ve got to get away from here,” he said. “Guess I’ll be moving into your lake house after all.”
Chapter 36
 
R
aymond sprang out of sleep with a scream on his lips. Accustomed to his eruptions from nightmares by now, June automatically touched his arm. “Ray?”
He licked his dry lips, touched his aching temple.
“Had another one,” he said.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing new, more of the same craziness.”
She lay back on the mattress. “Head hurt?”
“Like hell. Probably got a brain tumor.”
“Hush with that. Whatever it is, we’ll find answers, just like we’re finding answers to that awful house.”
“Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’m going to stay up for a while, do some reading.”
He kissed her cheek, sat up, and swallowed the two Tylenol capsules that lay on the nightstand, beside a tall glass of water. The pounding headaches so reliably followed his nightmares that he’d begun to keep Tylenol at his bedside.
The clock read 1:31 A.M. He’d slept less than three hours. He had stopped taking the Ambien pills that his doctor had prescribed. Fighting for every scrap of sleep was preferable to the waking-nightmare hallucinations that the drug had apparently induced.
Thankfully, tomorrow was Saturday. He could sleep in a bit, though he still planned to go to the office and put in a few hours.
He slipped on his house robe and shuffled into the kitchen.
He boiled water in a tea kettle, to brew tea. You knew you were getting up in age when hot tea became your preferred nighttime drink. In the wild days of his youth, he’d wake up to Budweiser and go to bed with Crown Royal. What a reckless young buck he’d been. It was a wonder that he’d fathered only one child out of wedlock and not a whole litter of them.
Considering how much he’d struggled with Andrew, he supposed it proved that God never gave you a burden heavier than you could handle—but he’d sure as hell strained under the weight of being Andrew’s dad. Had pushed him to his limits. But it motivated him to become a better man.
Thinking of his son and their golf outing tomorrow afternoon, he took a mug of Earl Grey tea to the study and settled in the comfortable leather chair. Tried to ignore his throbbing headache and concentrate.
A thick manila folder lay on the cherry wood desk. It contained the results of the research that he and June—well, mostly June—had conducted for the past couple days. He’d labeled it, “The Nightmare File.”
It was an apt name, for more than one reason.
He pushed up his glasses on his nose and opened the folder. He paged through the documents, most of which they’d printed from the Internet, others of which they had copied from library resources.
His wife, a professional researcher, had done a splendid job. They’d learned enough about the mansion that haunted his dreams to write a short book.
If he ever decided to pen such a work, it would be the equivalent of a horror novel.
They’d acquired information about the land on which the estate resided, the original owner and his family, and the town in Bulloch County in which the house was located. Colorful stuff. Crazy stuff.
Especially the things about the heiress.
But as fascinating and informative as the data was, it failed to answer his pressing question: why was he having these recurring nightmares?
He was missing something. An important connection awaited his discovery that, he believed, would coax all the pieces into their proper place.
A framed photo stood on the corner of the desk. Taken two months ago, it depicted him and Andrew standing together on a golf course, clubs propped in front of them like elegant canes. They grinned.
He took the photograph in his hand.
Andrew had something to do with all of this; his appearance in Raymond’s nightmare proved it. But when he’d asked his son if anything unusual had been going on with him lately, he said no. He thought Andrew was lying. But he had no proof.
The years had created a chasm between them as wide as the Grand Canyon, inhibiting their ability to communicate honestly and openly. But they were going to have to bridge that gap. Somehow. And soon.
He was beginning to believe that their lives depended on it.
Part Three
 
HIDE
 
Whether he wanted to admit it or not, whether he wanted to discuss
it or not, whether he wanted to deny it or not, the nasty truth
remained the same.
He couldn’t hide from it. It would follow him wherever he went.
He might as well learn how to deal with it.
—Mark Justice,
The Surrender
 
 
Chapter 37
 
L
ate the next morning, Andrew and Carmen left for Eric’s home on Lake Sinclair, located in the town of Eatonton, Georgia, over one hundred miles southeast of metro Atlanta.
Sunshine brightened the lush blue sky, showering the world in golden rays. The temperature was in the low eighties, accompanied by a cool wind that moderated the humidity.
It would have been an ideal day to begin a vacation if they weren’t running for their lives.
Most of his belongings had been destroyed in last night’s fire; the items that remained reeked of smoke. They’d stopped at Wal-Mart, and he had stocked up on clothing, toiletries, and groceries. Enough supplies for a week. He planned to be away for at least that long, and longer if necessary. Carmen planned to use vacation time from her job to be with him.
He still had the. 38, for all the good it had done against Mika. He’d purchased a Buck hunting knife, but he had doubts about its usefulness, too.
They packed Carmen’s laptop, in case Sammy decided to reappear. Optimistically, Andrew hoped to do some writing, too—if he could clear his mind to focus on something other than the nightmare in which he now lived.
To reach Lake Sinclair, he took I-20 east for about fifty miles, and then exited on US-129, which eventually turned into Milledgeville Highway. Traffic was light; he spotted a few trucks pulling boats to lakeside residences.
But he didn’t see a black Rolls Royce, either ahead of them, or trailing them.
He turned onto Crooked Creek Bay, a hilly, two-lane road that wound around the densely wooded lakefront properties. Eric’s place was ahead, at the bottom of a steep dip in the road.
He braked at the mouth of the driveway. Pines, maples, and head-high shrubbery concealed the house from view.
“Why’d you stop?” Carmen asked.
“Hold on.”
He climbed out of the car and stood beside the road.
And watched. And waited.
Birds chirped. Somewhere far away, an airplane soared.
The Rolls Royce did not appear. In fact, no vehicles at all passed.
He got back in the car. “Wanted to be sure no one followed us.”
“Good idea.”
He turned into the gravel driveway and burrowed under the canopy of trees. Shadows cloaked them on all sides—as if they were being hidden from the world.
 
 
Andrew slowly rolled down the driveway, toward the house.
A basketball goal with a tattered net hung from a thick pine tree in the middle of the driveway. Even here, Eric loved to play ball.
Farther ahead, a wooden sign was posted to a maple. “The Pattons” was carved in the sign, in big, cursive letters.
He parked at the end of the driveway, near the house.
It was a white clapboard, two-bedroom home, with a reddish roof blanketed with leaves and twigs. The door was on the left side, accessed by a short flight of wooden steps. A storage shed stood beside the house.
He shut off the car.
The only sounds were chattering birds, the sighing breeze, and the murmurs of rippling water.
“This place is pristine,” Carmen said. “We’ve gotta be safe here.”
“Let’s hope so. Hang tight. I want to take a look around.”
While she waited in the car, he walked around the perimeter of the house. Pine needles crunched beneath his feet.
Beside the house, an air-conditioning unit hummed. A stack of chopped wood leaned against a tree, reminding him that Eric kept an axe—a potential weapon—in the shed.
At the back of the property, a grassy slope descended to a dock, a path of smooth circular stones providing a walkway. A pontoon boat, moored to the dock, floated in the water.
The lake gleamed in the sunlight. Numerous piers and boats dotted the banks; he saw a couple of people across the lake, fishing. A gaggle of Canadian geese quietly swam the waters.
He returned to the house. A large deck wound around the back, reachable by a set of sturdy steps. He climbed the stairs and walked across the floorboards, which were layered with acorns, pinecones, and brittle leaves. A big gas-powered grill and wicker patio furniture sat on the patio. The glass patio door was locked.
But of course, locks didn’t mean anything. He smiled sardonically.
The deck curved around the side of the house, to the main door. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The still air was cool, scented with a lemony fragrance. He checked out each room—one hand resting on the butt of the revolver he wore in the shoulder holster.
The house was full of no-frills furnishings and minimal decor. The bedrooms were tidy, each bed neatly made. The bathrooms, living room, and kitchen were spotless, too. When Eric or his friends were not present, he leased the house to renters, and he hired a house-keeper to clean up after every guest. The place was sufficiently well kept to meet even Andrew’s obsessive-compulsive standards.
Most importantly, he saw no signs of Mika or her cats.
He returned to the porch.
Leaning against the car, Carmen looked at him.
“All clear?” she asked.
“Looks like it. Let’s unload.”
 
 
They unpacked the car. Inside the house, while Carmen put away the groceries and familiarized herself with the kitchen, he set up the computer in an alcove off the living room, and left a word processing program on the screen. Then he walked around, locking windows and doors.
It was a waste of time. No locks could keep Mika at bay. He secured the house out of what had become an illogical, paranoid habit.
Afterward, he walked to the dock.
The dock always had been his favorite feature of the property. He loved to sit there and watch the sun rise, and set. But this time, he ignored the beautiful panorama and focused on the boat.
It was a Premier Marine pontoon boat, twenty feet long, built to accommodate up to eight individuals. As he climbed onto the deck, the cream-colored bimini top shielded him from the sunlight.
Sitting in the helm chair, he inserted the key in the ignition and twisted.
The motor caught, and purred. He checked the fuel gauge. Three-quarters full. Good.
Eric had only ever used the boat for fishing the plentiful bass and catfish that swam in the waters, or relaxing on lazy summer days. Andrew had an altogether different and far more serious purpose in mind for the vessel: it was a last-resort means of escape.
He turned off the engine and hopped onto the dock.
As he walked back toward the house, his cell phone rang. It was his mother.
“Hey, Drew. Did you get to the lake yet?”
Including Eric and Carmen, his mother was the only other person to whom he’d told the full story of what had been happening to him. She believed him, wholeheartedly. She’d always been more inclined than him to accept phenomena that stemmed from what she termed, “the world beyond our five senses.”
“I’m here, safe and sound,” he said. “We’re settling in now.”
“Good,” Mom said. “Please be careful out there. Remember my dream . . .”
He’d forgotten all about his mom’s dream, which she’d related to him a few days ago. It crashed back into his consciousness.
Mom had dreamed of him and Carmen taking refuge in a cabin—and later being attacked there by a deadly snake. The dream did not reveal the outcome of the struggle. But it had terrified her.
He’d dismissed her dream as meaningless. Made jokes about it, too.
He had no idea that a snake—which he now realized was Mika—had been waiting to slither into his life.
His chest tightened, as if he felt the pressure of a real serpent wrapping around him and constricting his lungs. “I’ll be careful, Mom. Very careful.”

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