The Black Lake: Tales of Melancholic Horror (2 page)

“Do
not
tell me what to do, Dorothy. I know what's good for me, I know what I'm doing,” Arthur Wick barked as he jabbed his index finger towards his beloved wife, Dorothy. The hardwood floorboards rattled as Arthur stomped and shouted, “I don't need you to nag me every five minutes! I never asked you to come here! I didn't ask for any of this!”

Dorothy sniffled as she crossed her arms and inspected her distraught husband. She could see the fury burning in his sharp brown eyes. His vexed scowl echoed the anger swelling in the windows to his soul. Fumes practically spewed from his rosy ears like a cartoon. Arthur was the epitome of anger and frustration.

Dorothy shuffled in her insulated loft jacket as she rolled her eyes. She tied her silky brunette hair in a neat ponytail as she struggled to plan her next move. One wrong word could cause Arthur to erupt like a volcanic explosion. Yet, a correct response could cause the same reaction – a lose-lose situation.

Dorothy inhaled deeply, then said in a dawdling pace, “Listen, I came here for...”

“
For what?
” Arthur asked. “What is it? Why'd you decide to tag along? Huh? Are you going to write my book? Is that it? You're going to sit down in front of
my
computer and do
my
work? Is that why came along?”

Dorothy sighed as she slowly shook her head. With alcohol running through his veins and anger embedded in his DNA, Arthur was peerless in nonsensical arguments. Dorothy continued to examine her overwrought husband, gliding her eyes from head-to-toe.

Arthur stood five-eleven with a lean figure. The stubble on his chiseled jawline seamlessly connected with the buzz cut hair on his dome. Most of his short hair was veiled by his black beanie. He donned a thick black parka coat with a fleece-lined snorkel hood above a gray button-up shirt. His navy jeans clung onto his slim legs and his black boots were sooty.

Dorothy waved her arms and said, “Listen, I came here to keep you company.
That's all
. I'm not here to write your book, I'm not here to bother you. I'm just trying to take care of you. This... this isn't right, okay? You can't just expect me to be okay with you leaving to a cabin in the woods for weeks to write a book. It's
cliché,
Arthur, and it doesn't always work that way.”

“Well, it works for me. It always has and it always will. It's foolproof. That's all that matters. Get that through your thick skull and accept it.”

“It doesn't seem like it...” Dorothy whispered as she glanced down at her black knee-high boots and her dark skinny jeans.

Arthur glowered as he slowly stepped forward. He asked, “What did you just say to me?” Dorothy opened her mouth to speak, but struggled to conjure an excuse for her impertinent verbal jab. With rage shimmering across his visible skin, Arthur yelled, “I am trying to write! There are a few roadblocks here and there, but I
always
get past them!
You
are not helping, Dorothy! I don't need you to ask me to take a damn break every 10 minutes. I don't want tea, I don't want coffee, I want to
write!
”

Dorothy shook her head and rebutted, “I'm only trying to take care of you, Arthur. You can't sit in front of that monitor all day, you can't read the same words and sentences for hours without a break. You–you need... I don't know, you need some time to think about everything. You need time to process your work.”

Arthur mockingly puckered his lips and nodded, then said, “That's excellent advice, Dorothy. Really, I never thought about taking that splendid approach. Remind me, how many books have you written in your robust career? How many awards have you won? Huh?
Answer me.
”

Dorothy shook her head and sighed with indignation. The blatant contempt was insulting and painful, like simultaneously being spit on and stabbed by a loved one. Her mind wandered between potential responses. Another wrong word, another spiteful response – she knew this very well. Yet, Dorothy felt compelled to challenge Arthur's poisonous tirade.

Dorothy huffed, then responded, “You know damn well what the problem is, Arthur. You need to stop drinking, then
maybe
you'll be able to finish your
damn
book! You drink whiskey like water for crying out loud!”

“You've got to be kidding me...” Arthur murmured as he glared at Dorothy in disbelief. He shook his head and gritted his teeth as he said, “You really must be stupider than I thought. I should... I should...”

Suddenly, Arthur raised his right arm – cocking his limb back into the air over his left shoulder. The backhanded slap was prepared to strike –
all systems go for launch!
Dorothy gazed into Arthur's piercing eyes with incredulity. The simple raise of the hand was enough to pummel her heart with fear and disappointment.

Dorothy's eyes swelled with tears as she grimaced and asked, “You... You want to hit me?
Over this?
You're really thinking about hitting me right now?” Arthur's breathing intensified as he glanced at his trembling hand. Tears streamed down Dorothy's blushed cheeks with every blink as she said, “You go ahead and write your damn book. I'll be gone tomorrow morning. I won't be home, either.”

Arthur's arm wavered as he continued to hold his hand over his shoulder. He watched as Dorothy strutted down the hall, swinging her hips like a model on a catwalk. He swallowed loudly, then lowered his arm. Only one thought ran through his mind:
what the hell have I done?

Arthur stood towards the center of the living room and glanced around his surroundings. Behind him, the sound of the scorching flames in the fireplace crackled through the living room. Directly to the right of the murky chimney, Arthur's workplace, consisting of a hardwood desk and a desktop computer, hugged the wall in the corner near a window.

There was a black three-seat sofa and a glass coffee table directly across the crepitating fireplace. The walls in the living room were cluttered with bookcases brimming with voluminous textbooks and moldering novels – the books had been worn down by age and neglect.

Lost in his dreadful contemplation, Arthur whispered, “What do I do now? What if she...”

Abruptly, the shrill whistle of the gleaming teapot on the stove reverberated through the living area. Arthur rushed towards the fuming stove. His boots thudded on the hardwood floor, then clacked on the linoleum flooring as the room seamlessly transitioned from living space to kitchen. He turned the knob on the stove, then leaned on the marble counter. From afar, he could hear Dorothy shuffling in the bedroom.
Packing,
he thought.

Arthur sighed, then returned to his desk. He sat in front of the thin monitor, then retrieved a stack of rustling papers. His manuscript was tentatively titled:
Red Rivers on Snowy Hills.
Although the sentences were comprehensible, the words were muddled nonsense in Arthur's eyes – he saw an unsolvable puzzle, letters drifting apart in every direction.

Arthur whispered, “How the hell am I going to fix this crap?”

He turned to his right and gazed out the frosty window. The wind whooshed, the trees howled, and the unfortunate woodland critters sought shelter. The surrounding forest was painted white by the falling snow.

Arthur retrieved a spotless silver flask from his coat, then took a swig of the tantalizing alcohol harbored within. He gritted his teeth as the whiskey slid down his throat. Arthur turned his attention to his keyboard. His preparations were complete.

As the keys clicked and clanked with his methodical work, Arthur whispered, “I'll write something better... I
will
write something better.”

***

Abruptly, an earsplitting shriek reverberated through the woodland. The remaining birds rapidly fluttered their wings to escape the piercing sound. The woodland varmint scampered into bushes and tree trunks to shield themselves from the ruckus. The hair-raising noise seeped through every crack on the log cabin until it pummeled Arthur's ears. Shocked, Arthur bolted up from his desk – pages from his loose-leaf manuscript spiraled to the floor.

As the shriek dwindled, Arthur whispered, “Did I fall asleep?”

His eyes widened and his hands trembled upon spotting the blood and slobber streaming across the makeshift workstation. Gooey saliva oozed on the sleek black keyboard. Pages of his manuscript were stained with blood – a striking composition. Arthur stood from his seat, then grimaced from the staggering pain.

His head violently throbbed, like if his tender brain were rattling in his skull – like if raucous drummers were using his brain as a bongo. He stumbled towards his desk as he clenched his jaw and rubbed his moist brow with his fingertips. The inexplicable agony was overwhelming.

Arthur whispered, “What the hell is wrong with me? This... This pain... It's too much...”Arthur turned towards the hall, then shouted, “Dorothy! Dorothy! My head! Please... get me some aspirin! Get me some vicodin! Get me some tea or something! Please!”

There was no response. The cabin was eerily silent. Only the woodland noises reverberated into the small home. Arthur staggered forward, then glanced around his surroundings. The fireplace was smoldering as the flames diminished. The kitchen was silent, the teapot had vanished. All sense of normality had been whisked away without a trace.

Arthur furrowed his brow and whispered, “How long was I out?”

He attempted to shrug off the incertitude, then hobbled forward. The striking pain echoing through his dome brought his entire body to an enfeebled state. He trudged down the hall, then stopped at the first door. The door squealed and howled as he slowly shoved it open. He stepped into the doorway, then flicked the light switch to his left. The bulb buzzed and flickered, then settled.

“She's not in here...” Arthur murmured as he rubbed the nape of his neck and inspected the cramped bathroom.

There was a counter with an installed sink to his right; a medicine cabinet with a pristine mirror was installed directly above. To his left, a toilet was anchored to the floor. Directly ahead, there was a bathtub-shower combination with transparent curtains. A very basic bathroom without a single place to hide.

Arthur sighed, then turned towards the hallway. He suddenly lurched as the pain thumping in his dome struck. He swayed side-to-side as he hopelessly sought balance. He could feel the thrumming in his ears with each palpitation. To his utter surprise, Arthur found himself leaning on the next door.

Arthur knocked and announced, “Dorothy, it's me. I... I need your help, sweetie. I really need your help. Are you in there? Are you... are you okay?” There was no response. Arthur sniffled, then said, “Dorothy, I want you to answer me... I want you to answer me, damn it!”

Arthur brutishly shoved the door open. The neighboring wall rattled from the collision. Arthur tottered into the room. His head swayed in a circular motion and his eyes rolled, like if he had been dazed by the mighty blow of a professional boxer. As his eyesight adjusted to the grim shadows, Arthur shook his head and sighed.

The bedroom was barren like the rest of the home. The drawers on the dresser to the right were pulled out. Garments for every occasion and gender were sprawled across the floor. A black suitcase with a hard shell rested on the crimson sheets of the queen-sized bed. The luggage was brimming with Dorothy's clothing.

As he leaned on the wall, Arthur rationalized, “If her clothing is still here... If the briefcase is still here... She must be around here somewhere. She has to be around here.” He looked over his shoulder and peered into the hall, then whispered, “But, where the hell is she?”

Arthur sealed the room with the impenetrable darkness as he reluctantly departed. He shambled down the hallway, drifting towards the living room as terrifying ideas hurtled through his fragile mind. He stopped at the end of the hall, then glanced around the vacant living room. With Dorothy's mystifying disappearance, Arthur couldn't help but feel the hefty burden of responsibility sitting on his shoulders.

Suddenly, Arthur leaned forward and grimaced as he felt an unexpected twinge in his head. His body shuddered from the unbearable torment reverberating through every limb. The pain would not stop. He gritted his teeth, then bellowed.

Arthur cried, “Please stop! Stop, damn it!” Slowly, the pain dwindled, withdrawing from the battlefront and lingering at the back of his mind. Arthur sniffled, then said, “Maybe she was right. Maybe I'm working too much... Maybe... Maybe I am drinking too much.”

Arthur's legs wobbled as he shambled towards his desk. The chair scratched the hardwood floor as he carelessly pulled out the seat – he couldn't conjure the energy to lift the sturdy furniture anyway. He sat, then shuffled through his manuscript, organizing the bloodied sheets as he prepared to finish his work. The blood did not disturb him. He figured he bled from his nose as he slumbered. As he riffled through the pages, Arthur abruptly stopped.

He whispered, “What the hell is this?”

Scrawled in blood across a sheet of paper, a message read:
No victims, no witnesses.

Arthur narrowed his eyes as he repeatedly read the ominous message. He shook his head, then planted the sheet on the desk. He carefully perused the following pages, scanning each sheet with squinted eyes – a meticulous ocular examination. He stopped as he stumbled upon the second message.