The Riverhouse (47 page)
Authors: G. Norman Lippert
The shadow in the lower right of the painting, the one stretching out onto the brick drive, was very dark and long now. Whoever it was, they were almost inside the scope of the painting. Once more, he forced himself to look away. He didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see any more. He’d seen too much already. The voice in his head—the quiet, timid one, the Voice of Reason—had been right all along. This wasn’t his story. It belonged to someone else—some
thing
else. Something powerful, and frightening.
Shane walked out the front door, moving like a man in a dream. He thought about packing some of his things, some clothes and toiletries, but that was silly. He couldn’t go back inside, not now, not once he had begun to walk away. He should have done this weeks ago, maybe even months ago.
He stepped out of the shadow of the porch, into the bright haze of the morning sun, and squinted. The grass was wet. It soaked through his canvas shoes almost immediately but he didn’t slow down. The driveway sloped toward the hill in front of him, cutting through the trees, looking like a highway. He angled toward it, stepping onto the muddy gravel.
The cottage was behind him, pulling at him, trying to draw him back. He resisted, and was shocked to realize that it was very hard to do. His resolve was hardly rock solid. It was flimsy, weak, but for the moment, it held. He thought again of Marlena reaching forward with her skeletal right hand, her nails grown to obscene talons, scratching lines on Christiana’s living cheek. Lines were the language Marlena understood. She was an artist, after all, like her husband. She had spoken to Shane in the best way she knew how. She had drawn him a picture. That time it had been a warning, he thought to himself. There wouldn't be any warnings next time.
Not this time,
he thought, remembering the words scrawled on the bottom of the last crayon drawing, embedded in the cheap paper so deeply that they had torn it.
Not this time,
Stambaugh had said, cackling in the chair next to Earl’s bed, his hands wet with the old man’s blood.
Shane quickened his pace, descending the hill. The sun was over the tree line now, sparkling brightly on the wet weeds and the bare branches of the trees. Christiana’s Saturn sat crooked on the side of the driveway far below, barely ten yards from the mailbox and the River Road. Shane could see the rutted tracks where she had slipped off the drive, the front left wheel bogging down in the soft earth that bordered the trees. The mud had already begun to dry around it, lightening in color, turning thick. Shane thought he could push the car back up onto the gravel, at least enough to give the front wheels the traction to back out. He’d drive Christiana’s car into downtown St. Louis, meet her at Greenfeld’s office, maybe take her to lunch.
She’d told him she trusted him, and that was a responsibility he meant to take seriously. The first part of that responsibility was never bringing her back to the cottage again. Not after last night. Not after that final, warning mark, drawn in Christiana’s own blood.
Shane looked up. Someone else was walking along the driveway, coming up the hill, halfway between him and the Saturn. The figure was wearing a pair of old green coveralls with a handkerchief hanging limply from the front pocket. A pair of worn work boots gritted on the gravel as the figure plodded toward him.
Shane’s feet continued to carry him forward, but his brain seemed to have shut down, revolting against what he was seeing. It couldn’t be who it seemed to be. This wasn’t his imagination. This wasn’t some flashbulb vision revealed in a flicker of lightning. Shane could hear the scrape of the boots, hear the puff of the man’s breathing as he climbed the hill.
They both stopped walking at the same time, and the figure raised its head, looking up at Shane.
“Earl,” Shane said weakly.
He wasn’t an old man, but he was still plainly recognizable. His face was grim, hopeless, but resolved.
“It’s too late,” Earl said, and his voice was just as old as Shane remembered, despite the younger features, despite the pate of thick black hair. “It’s too late now. You have to finish it. Understand?”
He stopped, still looking up at Shane, his eyes piercing. He drew a long, deep breath and shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry.”
Shane felt rooted to the spot. Distantly, he heard himself ask, “Sorry for what, Earl?”
“Sorry I didn’t tell you everything when I had the chance,” Earl said, and he began to turn away, as if his job was done and he meant to go back. As Earl turned, however, Shane saw that there was something wrong with his profile, something strange about the back of his head. It was horribly lumpy, and bald. It wasn’t the back of his head at all. As he finished turning, Shane saw, and his breath stalled in his chest: the back of Earl’s head was another face, grinning up at him madly, full of manic glee. Stambaugh stood on the driveway now, watching, his eyes dancing, daring Shane to come down the hill and meet him. Behind Stambaugh, the Saturn sat in the sun.
Shane heard something, a wheezy lilt, and realized Stambaugh was singing to himself. He was singing “the Good Ship Lollipop.”
Hopelessness filled Shane. It welled up in him and poured out of him, spreading away like a ripple, covering everything in sight. The sun seemed to dim, as if a cold cloud had passed in front of it. Maybe it even had. Shane didn’t look to see.
He turned around. Slowly, he began to trudge back to the cottage. Stambaugh’s singing voice, horribly cracked and off-key, followed him. He thought he could still hear it even when he got back inside, even when he went up to the studio and stood in front of the unfinished face of the Sleepwalker. He only stopped hearing it when he finally dipped the brush, reached forward, and began to paint.
When he began to paint, he stopped hearing everything.
By the time Christiana returned that evening, driving Shane’s truck up the driveway and squeaking to a halt in front of the porch, the sky had turned ominously dark again. The low clouds moved sluggishly, groaning with distant thunder. Shane heard the screech of the truck’s old emergency brake from the studio. He stopped painting and put down the brush without taking his eyes from the canvas.
He’d been painting feverishly for nearly six hours, not bothering to stop to eat or to even turn on the overhead light as the afternoon dimmed outside, casting the studio into a pall of shadows.
The Sleepwalker was nearly finished, and yet it didn’t make any more sense to him now than it had that morning. The three main images remained the same: the bed on the right, covered with rumpled sheets, hiding the bloody form that lay on it; the upholstered chair on the left, empty except for the purse, its mouth dark and somehow damning; and the figure in the center, silhouetted against the brightness of a round, bluish halo. The picture had refined much over the past few hours, but no new details had emerged, save for one: there was something in the central figure’s hand, held loosely, but purposely. It was long and thin, tapered to a point. Shane had a suspicion that it was a knife, but he didn’t know for sure. He couldn’t even tell the gender of the figure, since any defining features were lost in the depths of the silhouette. The hair was matted flat to the head and the lower half of the body was lost in darkness, hiding its shape. Apart from the three main elements, the whole picture was thick with shadows, all represented with layers of green and blue, so dark that they were nearly black.
Shane drew a deep breath, shuddering a little, his back aching, and climbed slowly off the stool. Downstairs, he heard the front door open and close, slamming. The curtains over the stairs billowed as a gust of air moved through the cottage, bringing in the cool scent of the river and the approaching storm. It was going to be a proper deluge, Shane sensed. If there was going to be a flood, it would probably happen tonight. The floodgates down at Bastion Falls would close as the Valley Road submerged, sinking into the river as it swelled to overtake it. The lower woods would turn into a swamp and the cottage would suddenly become a virtual island, perched on its rocky bluff. It would probably only last a few days, and there would be a mess of sandy sludge on the roads and the trail for weeks afterwards, but that was all right. It was simply the price one paid for living near something so unpredictable and capricious. It was the price one paid for living on the boundary land.
“Hey, you up there?” Christiana called from the kitchen. “I brought back some sandwiches from the office. Gotta eat quick. I’m meeting some people tonight. Can I use the truck again?”
Shane met her at the base of the stairs and gave her a quick hug. She handed him a half a Subway sandwich, wrapped in paper. “Leftovers from some client wingding Morrie hosted today. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Free food is always nice,” Shane said, taking the sandwich but not unwrapping it. “I’ll grab a bite later. Not really hungry now. And yes, you can use the truck again. We’ll pull your car out tomorrow, assuming it isn’t windows deep by then.”
“Yeah,” Christiana said, moving into the kitchen ahead of him. “They’re predicting it to rain buckets tonight. Said it’ll start getting really heavy by midnight. I hope I’m back by then. Otherwise I’ll have to go back to my place. I’ll call if I do.”
Shane leaned on the kitchen entryway, watching Christiana open the fridge and reach for her customary can of Diet Coke. He asked, “So what’s going on?”
“Preliminary meet and greet with the show organizers,” she said. She sounded tired and harried, but Shane could tell that she was excited about it. “I’m meeting them for drinks downtown. I’ve got a few hours to kill, but I’ve got plenty to do in the meantime. I’ll probably leave again pretty quick. Wish me luck.”
“Luck,” Shane said, inclining his head.
“What’s going on with you,” she asked, approaching him and looking closely at his face. She reached up and touched his chin, raising his head again. “You seem… subdued. More so than usual.”
He sighed and looked toward the window. “I’ve been painting all day. Buried pretty deep. Sorry. It’s hard to come up out of it sometimes, especially when I’ve been at it so long.”
She nodded. “You working on that last painting?”
He grunted and shrugged.
“Get it out of the way,” she said firmly, turning away again. “Wrap the whole thing up, all right? And then, if you’ll pardon me for being a little bossy, let’s get the hell out of here. What do you say to that?”
Shane sighed deeply. “I say that sounds wonderful.”
“This place is no good for you, Shane,” she said, rummaging in her purse, producing her cell phone. “Maybe it’s the ghost and all the weirdness that goes along with it, but there’s probably more to it than that. I mean, this was you and your ex-wife’s place. It’s got to be full of memories and reminders of her. In a way, this place was haunted before you ever saw Marlena here. You know?”
Shane nodded again, slowly, still looking out the kitchen window.
“Snap out of it,” she said, closing her phone and putting it on the counter. She moved close to him again and laid her hand on his cheek. “You’re acting like all those tortured starving artist types you told me about. It’s almost over, isn’t it? So what’s riding you?” She frowned up at him, and then, in a different voice, she asked, “Did you see her today?”
Shane looked at her. After a moment he shook his head. “No,” he answered honestly. “I didn’t see her today. I don’t think she’s in the cottage. Not since her portrait was moved into the sunroom.”
Christiana nodded grimly. “Leave it there then. Finish what you have to finish, and, God help us, Shane, let’s just get out of here. ‘Kay? I know I’m not showing it much, but last night…” she paused, chewing her words, still looking up at him. “That was hard to handle. I’ve never seen anything like that before. Never felt anything so… so cold and awful. It makes the whole world seem a little off-kilter. It’s like everything I thought I ever knew was just a sham, just a prop in some kind of crazy play. Seeing something like that… it pushes reality aside like a curtain. I didn’t like what I saw behind that curtain. Maybe some people can get used to it. Maybe some people don’t have a choice. But we do, right? We can live the rest of our lives on this side of the curtain of reality and never look back. I need to know you are with me on that, Shane. Are you?”
Shane nodded again. He softened his features, smiled at her. “I’m with you, Chris. No matter what. I have to finish this, but when it’s done, it’s
all
done. I promise.”
She moved a half step closer to him, so that her front pressed lightly against him. Shane thought she meant to kiss him, but she didn’t. She merely looked up at him, her eyes searching his, her brow slightly furrowed.
“I love you, Shane,” she said. She said it as a statement, a mere declaration of fact. Her expression didn’t change as she looked up at him. “Your mess is my mess. And vice versa. From now on. That’s just what love does to us. I don’t regret it at all, either. So finish it, as soon as you can. Capiche?”
“Capiche,” Shane agreed. He kissed her, lightly, as if sealing an agreement.
“That’s better,” she said, as if dismissing him. She turned away and grabbed her sandwich off the counter. “Now go finish that damn painting. I can tell you’re still two-thirds buried in it. I’ve got a few phone calls to make and then I’ll be heading out. Don’t wait up.”
Shane smiled again, more genuinely this time. “I think I’ll do that. Both of them.”
“What’s that?”
“Finish the painting.
And
wait up for you.”
She rolled her eyes and smiled.
Shane turned and headed back down the short hall, passing the closed basement door. He stopped at the base of the staircase and turned back.
“And Chris?”
She looked at him from the kitchen, her mouth full and her cell phone open in her hand.
“I love you, too.”
She smiled at him and allowed the phone to lower in her hand. Her eyes sparkled. It was hardly a romance novel moment, but it was meaningful. People don’t forget the first time they profess their love, Shane thought, even if it’s unplanned and mundane. Even if one of them has a mouthful of hoagie and the other is distracted and cranky. People don’t forget something like that because it only happens once. After that, it turns into a novelty, and then a routine. It may never mean any less—and hopefully, over time, it’ll mean more—but the first time is always special. The first time has its own small magic.
Shane felt it, and it was good. Despite everything—despite the painting and the approaching storm and the scratch that still shone on Christiana’s otherwise perfect cheek—it was very good.
Shane still didn’t turn on the light in the studio. He sat in front of the Sleepwalker, leaning forward with his chin resting on one hand, simply staring at it. The paintbrush lay abandoned on the little work table. The painting itself sat in a wash of stormy light, looking drab and blue, frustratingly mysterious.
It was almost all there now, and yet it still didn’t make any sense. The previous two—the Riverhouse and the portrait of Marlena, Dear M—had been obvious. They had created their own portals, telling their stories, defining the scenes and giving them meaning. That hadn’t happened with the painting of the Sleepwalker, however. Shane’s hand had moved over the canvas as if in the grip of some alien force, like he was merely a tool, the necessary means for bringing the image to life. He’d expected this final image to be the last piece of the puzzle, the key that would unlock everything and bring the entire story into focus. He had hoped that that would be all it took to break Marlena’s hold on him, to deconstruct her mysterious hatred of Christiana. This painting, however, didn’t seem to be a key to anything. It was merely a weird still life, showing apparently disconnected scenes—Steph’s purse, Earl dead in his bed, and the faceless figure silhouetted against that inexplicable blue halo.
Shane drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, frustrated and worried. He didn’t know what to do next. He had at least finished the final painting, just as the ghostly vision of Earl had instructed him. Would the Riverhouse let him leave now? Or was there still more to come? He had a vague, creeping sense that
something
had been set into motion with the completion of the Sleepwalker, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was both subtle and huge, like destinies cycling behind the curtain of reality, hidden and foreboding.
Christiana had left a little while earlier. Shane had heard the front door open and close again, slamming as the wind caught it. He was glad she was gone for the night, and hoped that, when she returned, he’d be able to keep his promise to her. It was time to leave now. His work was finished. There was nothing left for him here.
Outside, the sky was dimming as night fell, bringing a constant, shifty wind in from the west. It twitched the curtains and sang in the window screen, gusting randomly. There was still no rain, but Shane could feel it in the air. He could nearly taste it.
Christiana had been right about more than one thing. The cottage had been haunted before Marlena had ever showed up. There had been Smithy, of course, but that wasn’t what she had meant. The cottage was haunted by Stephanie.
Not by her living ghost, but by Shane’s memories of her, by the constant, low grade reminders of her that popped up in every corner, every forgotten nook and cranny: a tea bag in the back of a cupboard, a half used bag of potting soil behind the door of the shed, a hair barrette in the bottom bathroom drawer, a few of her hairs still caught in its tiny hinge. Every one of them was a pang of loss, even after all this time, even after finding Christiana and falling in love with her. Death lag, Dr. Taylor had called it.
All Shane had left was the memory of Steph’s last phone call, the one that had left everything perpetually unfinished, ringing in the stillness of his heart like the toll of a silver bell, or like a child’s lost rattle.
Downstairs, the telephone rang, and Shane wasn’t surprised. Part of him, he realized, had even been expecting it. He got off the stool and tromped slowly down the steps. The staircase was very cool, misty with the air that had come in from the open window. It seemed to pour down the steps like a slow river, chilling the downstairs. The cordless phone continued to ring, burring senselessly on the bottom step of the staircase. Shane sat down on the step with a sigh and collected the phone, thumbing the Call button as he did.
“Hello,” he said blandly.
There was a long moment of silence. Shane could hear a thin shushing sound in the earpiece. Finally, there was a shuffling sound and a man’s voice said, “Is this Shane Bellamy?”
“Yeah,” Shane answered, cradling his forehead in his free hand.
“Shane? Sorry. This is Detective Weekes. Bastion Falls P.D.”
“Detective…?” Shane said, raising his head and furrowing his brow. “Oh, yes. What was… what can I do for you?”