The Riverhouse (45 page)

Chapter Nineteen

It stormed for three days straight, beating the river into a brown lather, swelling it dangerously in its banks, and turning the cottage’s gravel driveway into an obstacle course of deep ruts and mini mudslides.

On the third day, Christiana had to abandon her car at the base of the first hill, having mired it hopelessly in the soggy marsh that bordered the Valley Road. She walked the rest of the way to the cottage, fuming and drenched, her shoes caked with thick brown mud, arriving in a seamlessly black mood, flinging off her wet clothes in the doorway and demanding Shane’s robe. For his own part, Shane struggled not to laugh, with little success. She saw his suppressed smile and rolled her eyes.

“I swear,” she said, shrugging into his red terrycloth robe, “if this is turning you on, I’ll punch you right in the nose.”

They dried her clothes while she sat at the little computer desk beneath the Riverhouse painting, sending emails and researching details for her upcoming show. Later, Shane talked her into joining him for a ride into town.

“We’ll get some groceries, just in case we get stuck here for a few days. At this rate, the floodgates are sure to close soon, if they haven’t already. We can check on your car, too. Maybe it’s not as stuck as you think it is.”

“You’re such a man,” she replied, but without any real conviction.

Shane navigated the truck gamely along the drive, feeling the jerk and slew of the uneven surface, gripping the steering wheel as it rolled, trying to spin out of his grasp. The rain was a constant blatter, transforming the gray evening into a watercolor abstract, swished gamely by the squeaky windshield wipers.

“I’m over there,” Christiana said, pointing suddenly.

Shane saw her green Saturn, tilted partly off the drive, nose-down into the muddy weeds on the right side. The rear quarter panel was covered with a fan of thick mud.

“You really dug it in good,” he said admiringly. “Good to know you don’t give up without a fight.”

She sighed tersely. “So what do you think, oh Master of the Universe. You think it’s as stuck as I thought it was?”

“I swear I’ll never doubt you again,” he answered, steering carefully around the Saturn.

“Famous last words,” she said. Shane glanced at her, glad to see the small smile on her face.

The ride into town was uneventful, and Shane was happy to find that the floodgates were, in fact, still open when they got there.

The IGA sign glowed like a beacon over the broken parking lot, sparkling in the millions of rain droplets that coated the parked cars. Inside, the aisles were more crowded than he’d ever seen them, packed with shoppers obviously doing the same as he and Christiana.

Shane avoided using a cart, opting instead for one of the red plastic hand baskets, which he filled quickly. Christiana picked out another bottle of wine from the meager supply along the far right wall, next to the cheeses and below a huge red banner proclaiming WEDNESDAY IS SUPER SAVER DAY!

Together, they waited in line, and Shane found himself quietly enjoying the mundane pleasures of shopping with someone else, someone who would likely be sharing the assorted goods in the red plastic basket. It had been awhile since that had happened, and he assumed that, before too long, he would once again take it for granted, but for now he soaked in the moment. He put his free arm around Christiana’s shoulder as they waited in the long line, listening to the muzak and the babble of voices and the persistent beep of the checkout scanner. She leaned into him, reaching up to lace her fingers into his. She seemed tired, but content.

She didn’t always spend the night at the cottage, and on the nights she did, they didn’t always sleep together—Shane’s quazi-Baptist upbringing reared its guilty head whenever they did—but there was no question that tonight she would stay over. For the first time, his primary feeling was not physical desire for her, but a deep, simple happiness in her presence, in her having chosen him, in the fleeting comfort that this might be a glimpse of what the rest of their lives might look like—she and him together, content and unselfconscious, sharing a mutual life the way two travelers might share a narrow path.

Brian wasn’t manning the checkouts that night, but Shane wasn’t particularly disappointed. Christiana would meet Brian eventually. He could tell her all about his grandfather Earl. For some reason, Shane thought it was important that she know him, at least as more than the mangled shape they had discovered in his bed on that horrible night.

Thinking of Earl dead in his bed reminded Shane of the Sleepwalker painting, of course. He had worked on it consistently over the past few days, filling in minor details, not rushing, even feeling a strange reluctance to push ahead. The truth was that, suddenly, the painting seemed to want to exist even more than he wanted to paint it. The removal of Marlena’s portrait from the studio had apparently freed it. In her absence, the story’s eagerness frightened Shane a little. His curiosity about it hadn’t diminished, exactly; it was just offset by a growing sense of quiet dread, a creeping conviction that soon the story would be over, and that he might not exactly like the way it ends.

Part of him—a small, timid part in the very back of his mind—told him he should stop painting the Sleepwalker, stop before it was too late.
This isn’t your story,
the voice said, whispering, as if afraid of being overheard.
This story belongs to someone else—some
thing
else—something scary and dangerous. It’s a mistake to dig it up. Some things should just stay buried. Let it go. Escape before it’s too late. Take Christiana with you. You can stop this still, but not for much longer. Time is running out. Go while you can.

Shane knew there was sanity in that voice, and yet he didn’t heed it. It may well have been the voice of reason, but it was such a tiny voice, such a timid voice, and the pull of the Sleepwalker—of the end of the Riverhouse’s dark story—was simply too huge and pervasive. He
couldn’t
turn away from it, not really. Or so he told himself. Thus, he continued to paint, slowly but ceaselessly, filling in, defining that strange perplexity of artistic styles, adding depth and detail, making it come alive on the canvas. He was just over halfway done. Soon, in no more than a few days, it would be complete. Shane honestly didn’t know if he looked forward to that completion, or if he dreaded it.

The two of them were silent on the drive back from town. Christiana held Shane’s hand across the truck’s big bench seat, but he had to let it go as he braked, preparing to downshift and turn into the drive. It was nearly dark now, with only a narrow fringe of sunset rimming the horizon, peeking from beneath the caul of gray clouds. The headlights lit Christiana’s Saturn brightly as Shane swung the truck around, accelerating slowly up the incline. The wheels tried to slew away from him, and Shane clenched his jaw, working to keep the truck in the center of the wet gravel. The hill was steep, slick with oozing mud, and the dark trees seemed to encroach ominously over the drive, reaching with their bare branches, trying to scratch at the windows as the truck inched along.

Shane leaned forward, peering past the streaked glass, but the night sucked at the headlights, making them nearly useless. Something glinted at the top of the hill and Shane couldn’t help taking his foot off the accelerator for a moment.

There was something blocking the drive, something large and black, something that hadn’t been there before. The truck quickly lost momentum on the incline and Shane strained his eyes, squinting to see through the streaked, watery glass. A flash of silent lightning flickered across the sky, illuminating the road and the woods for one bright second, and Shane nearly bit his tongue in surprise. For a split second, the object blocking the drive was a large black pickup truck, its wheels huge and spoked, its bed squat, dripping rainwater. Shane didn’t know much about antique cars, but he was filled with a sick certainty that the truck revealed in that bony flash was a model A Ford, the one Gus Wilhelm had once provided for his grounds crew. A moment later, however, the lightning was gone and the scene had changed. The shape blocking the road was a tree, dripping blackly in the glow of the headlights.

“Oh no,” Christiana said, leaning forward as Shane braked the truck. “Ah, damn.”

“Give me a minute,” Shane said, wrenching the driver’s door open. “I think I can move it. It’s not that big, especially with all the leaves off it.”

“You want some help?”

Shane glanced aside at her, one leg already out the door, pattering with dark raindrops. “Maybe. Let me take a look. You already did your tramp through the rain today. I’ll wave if I need you, kay?”

She nodded. “Don’t strain anything. We can carry the groceries from here if we need to.”

Shane grunted and climbed out, slamming the door behind him. The sight of the phantom model A truck had unnerved him, but he’d already determined that it had only been his imagination. He’d tried not to let it get out of control, but he was beginning to learn that it was a much harder dog to leash than he’d originally expected. He approached the tree, peering over it toward the cottage beyond. If the leaves had still been on the trees, he wouldn’t have been able to see it at all, It looked small and quaint on its knob of hill. There were no lights on inside, except maybe for the candle in the upper east window, which he couldn’t see from this angle.

Shane sighed and shook his head, flinging rainwater from his hair. He reached out and touched the fallen tree. The trunk was barely six inches thick where he gripped it, wet and rough with ragged bark. Its bare branches had cushioned it, keeping it from falling flat onto the drive. Shane thought he could probably pull it out of the way, and some small part of him was still keen on impressing Christiana. After all, artists might be known for a lot, but rugged strength wasn’t usually one of them. He climbed over the tree carefully, meaning to pull it away from the truck, angling it from the root where it was still half embedded in the mud. He gripped it and pulled, but his first attempt was useless. His feet slipped on the wet drive and he nearly fell underneath the tree. He spread his legs, squatted to give himself better leverage, and gripped the trunk with both hands.

Suddenly, silently, the lights of the pickup truck blinked out. Seamless darkness fell over Shane, reducing the world to a black tableau of pattering rain and creaking trees.

“Chris?” he called. “What are you doing? I need those.”

No answer came from the truck. Shane leaned forward over the tree, trying to see the pickup in the dark. All he could make out was a blocky shape, slightly darker than the trees beyond.

“Chris! Turn the lights back on, all right? It’s too damn dark out here to see anythi—”

Another flash of silent lightning flickered across the clouds overhead. In it, the pickup truck lit up like pale daylight. Christiana could be seen inside, her face a white circle of surprise, her mouth open and her eyes wide. She wasn’t looking at Shane. She was looking at something next to her, something in the driver’s seat. Shane glanced at it, but darkness fell too quickly, blinding him again.

“Chris!” Shane called again, his voice splintering. He made to clamber over the tree, but the branches seemed to snag at him, catching his jeans, hooking his foot. He tripped and stumbled over the tree, falling onto the gravel on the other side. His sleeve was still caught on the tree, hooked by a splintered branch. He pulled, ripping his shirt and breaking the branch. He called Christiana’s name again, struggling to get his feet beneath him, slipping on the muddy slope.

The pickup truck began to roll slowly backward. It matched his speed, moving ponderously, rocking slightly on its springs. The windshield was a black mirror of the clouds above. Shane lunged forward, his heart pounding up into his throat. The ground was like ice beneath him and he slipped again, falling onto his right hip and sliding. The truck continued to move backwards, rolling silently, its headlights looking like tarnished pennies in the darkness.

Shane struggled to his feet once more and bolted forward, lunging for the truck. He ran into the grill, bracing himself with his hands, and then lurched around to the passenger’s side door. The truck suddenly stopped moving, squeaking to a halt, and Shane could see Christiana pressed against the passenger’s window, turned away from him. Shane gripped the door handle and pressed the thumb button, but the door was locked. He could see the knob of the lock just inside the window. It rattled as he rammed the button with his thumb.

“Chris!” he barked. “Unlock it! Unlock the door!”

Slowly, almost dreamily, Christiana turned inside the truck. She peered out, and her eyes were unfocussed, as if she couldn’t quite see Shane standing on the other side of the glass.

“Unlock the door!” he cried desperately, thumbing the handle again, yanking helplessly. “Let me in! Unlock the door!”

Christiana finally met Shane’s eyes. Her gaze was glassy, her mouth slack. A dark shape loomed behind her, moving on the driver’s seat, and Shane finally recognized it. It was Marlena, of course. Her eyes were black and huge, eating into her face. Her mouth was turned down into a grimace of hate and frustration, but she wasn’t looking at Christiana. She was looking past her, toward Shane, her empty gaze boring into him. Her brow lowered, as if in resignation, and Shane felt a deep, inexplicable weight of horror settle onto him, pressing him down into the mud, chilling him to the bone.

Slowly, Marlena reached forward, as if to caress Christiana’s cheek. Her fingernails were very long on her skeletal hands, sharpened to talon-like points. Christiana was still looking at Shane through the glass of the passenger’s window, and she didn’t flinch when Marlena touched her. Shane thumbed the door latch again, pulling so hard on the handle that it made a metallic ping, popping slightly loose in his hand. He groaned desperately, thinking that he could simply break the glass with a rock, but unwilling to take his eyes away from the scene inside the truck.

Marlena extended her index finger and traced a line on Christiana’s left cheek, scratching it. The cut immediately welled beads of blood. They looked black in the darkness. Shane cried out and smacked his hands on the wet glass, but neither Marlena nor Christiana responded. Christiana stared out, her eyes blank and dazed, as Marlena drew her nail over her cheek, drawing a shape in thin, bloody scratches. The shape was small, but meticulously clear. It was a letter M. When she was finished, Marlena leaned forward, arising from the driver’s seat and turning phantasmic. Her face loomed over Christiana’s shoulder, becoming huge and pale, her black eyes deep as wells. Shane suddenly took his hands from the glass and stumbled backwards as Marlena streamed through the window, towering over him in the rain, her face terrible, glaring down at him. She opened her mouth and turned her hands inward, clawing at her own face now, as if tortured with anguish and frustration.