The House on Black Lake (24 page)

“I’m singing the song,
The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,”
Gabrielle announces. “The sun is setting. Finish getting dressed, children, and follow me.”

I take a camera from a crate and move across the grass, away from the guests who have congregated to watch the show. There is a spot with a clear view near the bonfire.

“It’s time for the performance to begin. Take your places,” Lizzie yells out as she clangs a brass cowbell overhead.

The wail of a lute issues from behind the bushes where the children are congregated. Gabbie stumbles out first, singing a cheerful melody, and tripping on the hem of her dress as she struggles to keep a daisy wreath balanced on her head. Amanda leaps forward next in flowing chiffon, shaking a tambourine in one hand and a beer bottle filled with beans in the other. They are followed by hearty gales of laughter, and the children spill onto the grass. Lizzie, who is dressed as a ballerina, walks to the center of the circle, bows to the crowd, and begins to pirouette and leap, as the children dance madly around her.

“The
Nutcracker
—I hate that fuckin’ ballet,” Ramey says as he comes up from behind me.

I raise the camera to take pictures of the children dancing.

“Why are you smiling, is there an inside joke?”

He lightly touches my arm while moving next to me. The fiery sun reflects the coppery highlights in his hair and gives his tanned skin a ruddy glow. Dressed in a plain white T-shirt smudged with ash and long khaki shorts, he looks both boyish and manly, and cruelly handsome.

“It’s supposed to be performed around the winter solstice, when we first met,” Ramey says, with a kindness in his eyes I have not seen since I arrived.

“I dreamt about it last night.”

“Did you arrive alone in the dream?”

“I walked up to a house built into a bluff at the edge of the desert. Hundreds of votives were set in the snow. When I reached the house, you were waiting for me at the door. You told me you had placed the candles there, so I could find my way home.”

“Was Mozart playing?”

“I didn’t walk in.”

“Did you enjoy Georgie’s concert?”

I turn away from him to zoom in on Rand and Sammy, who are engaged in a swordfight.

“A gaudy spectacle, eh?”

“Your cousin is a remarkable showman; he has a brilliant theatrical flare.”

“Where did you sleep last night?”

“Who says I slept?”

“But you said you dreamt.”

“It was at dawn.”

“Well, you’re lucky the asshole didn’t find you. He still had a hornet up his ass when he called this morning. He accused me of setting it up; he thought we had conspired for you to ditch him. He told me his henchmen caught your scent and followed you to Oscar’s. He greeted Georgie with an open robe and an offer to suck his dick if he desired entry into the auberge.”

“It’s unfortunate Georgie is protected from the public, but the public isn’t protected from him.”

I turn away to take a series of shots of the children, who have torn off their costumes and are running through the grass waving them like banners.

“Did you take comfort from Oscar’s driver, Daniel?”

“No comment.”

“Alexandra, about the other night—I was really plowed. I’m sorry about what happened, how I treated you.” He looks sheepish and penitent, but I am no fool.

“Let’s not talk about it.”

“You’re right; it’s better to let go of the past.”

A somber silence descends between us and I lower my camera to turn and face him.

“May I take a picture of you?”

“You can take a shot of me, as long as we’re together.”

“You don’t pose alone?”

“I do. But not for photographs.”

“I was hoping for a souvenir, something to remind me of you when I return home.”

“You have enough,” he says, and clenches his jaw while a dark thought appears to cross his face.

“Ramey, what does your tattoo mean?”

“Why does a bunch of dancing fairies remind you of my backside?”

He turns and lifts up his T-shirt. His shorts hang low enough that the symbols are easily visible.

“In One Man Lie All The Mysteries Of The Universe.”

“What about woman?”

“It’s all the same.”

He leans down to whisper in my ear.

“Meet me later behind the house.”

“It won’t happen. I quit taking clandestine encounters when I graduated high school.”

“I’ll watch for you,” he says with a beguiling gleam, and turns to walk to a table loaded with pyrotechnics, where Roger and the other men are huddled.

“Mom, you should see all the fireworks Ramey bought for us,” Sammy says as he runs toward me with Rand at his side.

“Why don’t you boys get something to eat before they pack up the supplies? I’ll join you after I check on Rand’s mother.”

The boys run off, and I cross the grounds to where Ruth lies sprawled out on a tattered wicker lounge.

“Where are Luna and Mondie?” I ask as I approach.

“Who gives a shit?” Her eyelids droop and she speaks in a heavy slur.

“Lizzie’s quite a talented ballerina. Did you perform when you were a girl?”

“I danced. Then I quit. My dad couldn’t afford the shoes.”

She takes a drink from a plastic wine glass and the red liquid drips down her chin onto her ruffled white halter-top.

There is a loud swish and I look up to see the sky explode in beautiful hues of blue and violet, followed by tiny sparks of lights cascading through the dark sky, burning out moments before they reach the ground.

“It’s just a test. Stay clear of the launching area,” Roger announces.

When I turn back, I see Ruth has dropped her empty glass and passed out. Her bejeweled sandals hang limply from perfectly manicured toenails. Two women chat at a table nearby and I ask them to keep an eye on her. I depart the veranda and move around the back of the house, to the wooded area where the shed is hidden.

“André, are you still here...” I call out.

The ladder is covered in dirt and mildew and is heavy and cumbersome, but after a few tries, I am able to position it below the window. When it is secured beneath the sill, I ascend to the window, shove it open, and lower myself down the wall through cobwebs filled with mummified insects and onto the floor.

It is dim inside; the soot-covered window the only source of light. The dank space is strangely quiet. As my eyes adjust, a workbench takes shape against the wall, littered with tools and gadgets, pieces of wood, metal containers and an assortment of scraps.

Aligned along the far edge of the carpenter’s table are three spherical objects. The flashes from a new firework explosion momentarily draw light into the room, illuminating the empty eye sockets and wide open jaws of a trio of
human skulls.

There is the sound of feet climbing up the ladder rungs outside the shed. “You didn’t start without me, did you?” Ramey asks as he pops his head in the window. He lowers himself inside and slides to the ground.

“So, you found old Schlotter’s souvenirs, eh?”

He dusts himself off and shoves a hand into his back pocket.

“Want a hit of opium?” he asks, while removing a thin hand-rolled cigarette and gold lighter. He lights it, inhales deeply, and blows out smoke that transforms the air in the room to a pale translucent blue.

“You’re out of control, Ramey. You need to get help.”

He takes another hit and releases the smoke as he speaks.

“No, sweetheart, you’ve got it all wrong. You are
under
control and need my help.”

I move to unlock the door.

“Don’t you want to hear the story?”

“I want to hear the truth.”

“Okay, I’ll give it to you. Hope you can stomach it.” There is a gleam in his eyes, a joy in the telling of something awful, like a young boy who has heard a terrible tale and can’t wait to share it.

“His wife found him here enjoying his keepsakes early one spring morning, before church on Easter Sunday. She had no idea what was inside. He’d kept his collection to himself. She grabbed the kids and took off in a boat across the lake, never to return. She didn’t come back to retrieve the grand piano she paid a fortune to dismantle, carry by boat, and rebuild in the house. She didn’t turn off the stove before she left, or clean up the breakfast dishes. She left him to his mistresses.” Ramey glides his fingertips across a skull.

“Where did they come from? Who are they?”

“They were native girls who worked as servants in his house. Even his death has not released them.”

Ramey’s last few words are muffled by a loud blast, shrieks of a rocket, and the screams of the children.

“I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Why would I make up stories about my own flesh and blood, a man who carried my DNA?”

“How are you related?”

“He was my uncle. My mother’s brother.”

“Who told you this horror story?”

“When I was a teenager, Georgie and I would row out to the island to get some of Schlotter’s homemade brew. When he was entirely pissed, he’d tell us the stories and then pass out. He said he didn’t enjoy the strangling; it was a means to an end. Power was the aphrodisiac for him, to control another human being completely. He brought prostitutes to the island when the servants were gone.”

“I’ve been told the island is a Native American burial ground. I would assume he dug the skulls out of his garden.”

“There is no garden on this island.”

Ramey draws a deep last hit and smiles at me through a veil of blue smoke.

“Why did he kill himself?”

“Loneliness.” He drops the opium cigarette and snuffs it out with the heel of his boot.

“I’m going back to see the fireworks.”

“But I’m not done with you yet.”

“Someone is going to notice we’re both gone. What would Ruth think if she found us here together?”

“I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about anything.”

He takes a thick piece of rope from the workbench and stretches it between his hands.

A firecracker explodes, followed by the sound of loud hisses and pops.

“Tie my hands, Alexandra.”

“You’re acting crazy, Ramey, and I’m tired of your sadistic games. You need to grow up and find more meaningful ways to amuse yourself.”

“How do you define crazy, and how do you decide what’s good or bad unless you’ve tried it? Fuck it, baby, someone did a real number on you. Whose rules do you live by? Who tells you what is right and wrong. Who tells you how you should live your life or how you should feel about anything. Is it you, baby? Or is it your parents, your husband, your priest or some fucking magistrate? Don’t judge me until you can ask those questions of yourself and be completely honest.”

There are no answers to his questions and no words worthy of one. There is only the light from the brilliant explosions reflected inside his eyes and the streaks of gold dancing in his hair. The warlock has once again placed a spell on me, and I’m loath to find a magic potion to vanquish it. So I melt into an enticement I cannot refuse.

“Have you ever experienced what it feels like to have complete power over another human being, over a man?”

“I have only experienced loving a man to create life, and of having it taken from me. I don’t wish complete power over another. It sickens me, the thought of it. I don’t want to become one of the demons who suck life from others to empower themselves.”

“The only way to free yourself is to understand what drives your suppressors. I want you to experience the feeling. It is my parting gift. You can do whatever you desire with me; you have all the power. Complete control. Take the rope.”

He offers me the long piece of thick braided cotton.

“Take it, Alexandra.”

We stand silent, eyes locked, frozen. The tension in this miserable repository for the damned is excruciating.

“It’s time you were freed. From this day forward you are not subject to censorship or control by a ruler, government or authority. Your rights are not restricted. You walk outside the prison a free woman. You are now the vanquisher. You hold the power.”

“All right, I will play your little game. If it means I have a chance to redeem my life. Or at least that I might liberate myself from you.”

I accept the twisted rope from his hands and tighten the slack. The feeling is indescribable—the surge of adrenaline breathtaking, exquisite.

“Tie my wrists.”

He holds my eyes, brings his hands together, and offers them for me to bind.

There is a pounding on the door, and a hysterical child’s voice screams, “Daddy”.

“It’s Lizzie,” Ramey says. He drops the ligature and moves to unlatch the door. “Lock it behind me,” he tells me and slips outside.

“Daddy, where have you been? We’ve been searching for you everywhere,” I hear Lizzie shriek as he departs. “Mommy got up from her chair and fell down and hurt her knee. When Luna tried to help Mommy, she called her a bitch. Then, Mondie hit Mommy with her purse and screamed bad words in French. Mommy says you don’t love her and are going to kick her out of the house and she’ll never see us again.”

“Calm down, Elizabeth. I’ll take care of everything.” His voice fades as they move farther away.

A fireball explodes as I step outside the confine, followed by a rainbow of brilliant flashes. Moving onto the lawn, I see the bonfire has died and most of the guests are packing up their supplies. An oppressive darkness has settled in, the fog has crept from the lake, and the red moon is muted with a veil of swirling clouds.

“Where are the children?” I ask one of the men from Roger Sandeley’s feast who is packing up the remainder of the firecrackers.

“Off playing hide-and-seek.”

“Are the au pairs with them?”

“Sorry, I don’t know,” he says. He tapes the cardboard box and turns away from me.

The faint sound of children’s voices comes from the back of the house. I follow the narrow trail, and hear branches breaking inside the tangled overgrowth reaching up to the worn gutters.

“Who’s there? Come out now, I’ve found you,” I say and peer inside.

A grinning Eggie emerges from the brush. He thrusts his red ball at me as he scrambles down the path.