The Haunter of the Threshold (11 page)

Since that calamitous storm in St. Petersburg last May, I’ve
grown quite ill mentally. My spirit feels soiled. I wander these woods,
motiveless and desultory, with sleepless eyes and an utter absence
of vitality. It’s beyond description, my friend. The ghosts of all those
dead from the storm follow me everywhere, figuratively speaking, of
course. I often wonder of late: is it my afflicted mind or the cabin itself
that has so drastically soured my dreams and tainted my thoughts? Were I not a man of erudition, I think I’d be more inclined to say the
latter—though I know this cannot be so. A man’s mind can get sick,
not a man’s house. Nevertheless, my symptoms can only be clinical
by this point. My dreams have turned ghastly indeed, tinged by a
grotesque carnality unlike anything ponderable. Sometimes, even—I
swear—people (or things
like
people) make utterances in my dreams
that reveal information which I verify later. This is impossible, I know,
and I can only fear what you may be thinking. In all, it’s just more
proof of the enervation of my mind.

Please arrange for the disposal of my pitiable body; I’m all too
sorry to have to leave it to you in this way. My warmest regards for
your father, and take care and be well,
Sincerely,

Henry

P.S.—But you’re not off the hook this easily! Call the number at
the bottom for further instructions that I hope are not too inconvenient.

“The lawyer’s number, in town,”
Hazel recalled.

“Good luck making anything out of this.” Sonia handed her the next piece of paper. It had been archaically closed with sealing wax and a brand reading, H.W., the seal now broken, of course. Hazel’s eyes poured over it...

No doubt, Frank, you’ve now been informed by my attorney that
my estate all goes to you. I hope it will assist your and your father’s
future, you especially, with a child coming. In return, however, I
submit to you my final requests...

1) I’ve delved too deeply into the guts of our research, Frank—for
more than a generation. Like proverbial rabbits, we’ve been chasing
a carrot on a stick. Ah, but what dreams we had, eh? Nevertheless,
my most recent findings indicate without revocation the falsehood
of Non-Euclidics. It doesn’t work, Frank. It’s an impossibility. So,
please, waste no more of your time pursuing this golden calf. I’ve
apprised your father likewise, and he agrees. If this theory were
to make its way into our academic channels, my name would be
posthumously lambasted. You’re young and still full of vigor, Frank,
but you must see this my way. Our research, ultimately, can never be
functional. So put it out of your mind and return to more productive
studies. Moreover, I must ask you with much urgency to destroy
all traces of our theory. Destroy all of my papers in this cabin, and
delete all my computer files. Do this, Frank, please. Any intellectual
legacy I may have will be tainted with ridicule if you don’t. The only
reason I haven’t destroyed it all myself is due to a grievous lack of
energy on my part, which I can only suspect is a symptom of severe
depression.

2) In years past, before your dear father’s affliction, you’ve heard
our references to the Gray Cottage. This, too, is a sullied place, quite
dangerous, and, also, quite useless. Please, never go there, Frank. Never try to find it. It’s a fool’s errand—

“The cottage Frank mentioned on the phone,” Hazel uttered. “Wilmarth asked Frank
not
to go there—”

“And said it’s
dangerous,
” Sonia augmented. “Frank must be
trying
to give me a heart attack.”

–for hundreds of years, this execrable place went unnoticed. Therefore, I’m asking you to mention it to no one, and let it return
to its anonymity. You’d likely not be able to find it anyway so just...appease me, Frank. Don’t try to find it.

3) Likewise, don’t try to find the ST. I’ve disposed of it irretrievably. It’s a phony augur, so, like the cottage, forget about it...

“The
ST?
” Hazel asked. “What’s that?”

“Got no idea,” Sonia smirked. “Wilmarth must not’ve known Frank’s character very well. You tell Frank
not
to do something, that only increases the chances of him
doing
it.”

“Just like a man.”

—I’ve disposed of it so completely I have every confidence it
will never be found. My final rummagings of research revealed the
unserviceability of the ST and, attendantly, the entire theory. That
dismal ST, Frank. It’s a jonah, the mathematician’s graven image. Like the Devil, it is a Great Deceiver that solicits us to follow lies. Please don’t insult my memory, Frank.

Forget that goddamned stone ever existed.

Hazel folded the paper up, her head misted in confusion.
That
goddamned STONE?
The marauder in her ghastly outhouse fantasy had said something about a
stone,
hadn’t he? He’d also made references that could be traced back to what Frank had said over the phone, but those references were obviously re-filtered through the fantasy via her subconscious.

But Frank never mentioned anything about a STONE during his
phone conversation, did he?

Hazel winced out of a shudder.

“Frank just burns me up sometimes,” Sonia fumed, pacing the small room. “Not only is he disregarding Henry’s last wishes, he’s trying to find some ridiculous
cottage
that’s hundreds of years old and probably ready to fall in. With my luck it’ll fall in on his
head
and I’ll be a widow before I’m even married!”

“He’ll probably never even find the place, Sonia,” Hazel suggested. “There’s whole square miles of tree coverage all the way up that summit—you saw it. But I’d love to know what this
stone
is, this
ST.
”

“I could care less. And he’s going to be real sorry he’s pulling this stunt.” Sonia’s hands tightened to fists. “No oral sex for him, just you watch.”

Hazel laughed. “Oh, give him a break. He’s just out on a camping trip. The poor guy sits in an office ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“Stop sticking up for him!” Sonia barked. “He’s making me a nervous wreck. How would you feel if Ashton decided to go
mountain climbing
while you had to sit in some ridiculous non-air-conditioned cabin while you were
pregnant
with his kid?”

Hazel smiled, then looked around. “Check this out,” and from atop a bookshelf she retrieved some sort of decorative metal box, five or so inches long, and four high.

“Jewelry box?” Sonia wondered.

“Maybe, but...” At once, Hazel noted the foremost oddity. “It’s uneven. See?” She pointed out the box’s slightly unparallel lines. “Pretty funky—a style thing, I guess.”

Sonia squinted. “It’s not
gold,
is it?”

Hazel tapped the side with a fingernail. “I don’t think so.” It was a yellowish metal but too dark for gold; however, it didn’t look like bronze or brass, either. “Flavescent” was the only word she could think to describe its unique hue. Both women seemed to stare fixedly at it, like some captivating totem.

“What interesting engravings,” Sonia observed next.

Hazel wouldn’t have called them
interesting.
“More like unsettling...” Peculiar glyphs and characters like less-than and greater-than signs had been etched very faintly all about the object. Atop the lid, and centered on each slightly uneven side, were just-as-faint bas reliefs which seemed to depict some obscure figure whose details she could not quite make out. Hazel couldn’t understand why the figure unnerved her.

“Open it,” Sonia said.

Hazel paused, then raised the off-kilter lid with a fingernail.

An egg-shaped metal band had been fixed by tiny struts within the box. Hazel couldn’t imagine what purpose it served. “There goes the jewelry box theory.”

“What’s the band for? To put something on it?”

Hazel reclosed the lid. Objectively she viewed the box with insignificance, yet something...

Something about it...

—made her queasy. A vertigo crossed her eyes when she looked harder at the barely visible engravings—mostly shapes like V’s on their sides—and she thought it almost seemed as though the little angles were minutely opening and closing.
I’m just tired,
she thought, but then her squint sharpened: she was looking at the etched figure on the lid. Her stomach hitched.

For a moment the figure looked bulb-headed, with a trail of tentacles draped below.

Another fatigue-born mirage.
Tentacles,
the word lolled in her head. Her mind had simply made her think that, based on the horrific baby from her daymare in the outhouse.

“Put it back,” Sonia said with a look of distaste. “Don’t know why but I don’t like it. Suddenly it looks creepy.”

“Yeah.” Hazel shoved the box back into its shelf. “Maybe it’s morbidity on my part but...didn’t you say Henry killed himself in
this
room?”

“Um-hmm.”

Then they both looked up at the study’s only overhead rafter.

“That must be it,” Hazel said. But at the same time Sonia happened to glance in the small waste can by the desk. She jumped back as if startled, pointing down with a frown.

“Now I’m
really
going to kick his butt,” she said.

Hazel peered into the waste can. It contained a length of stout rope.

“Thanks a lot, Frank, for leaving the hangman’s noose in the
house!
” Sonia added.

“You’re really squeamish all of a sudden.” Hazel had to chuckle.

“Squeamish
and
bitchy. Christ, my stomach’s sticking out like a beer keg while the father of my child is out playing Lewis and Clark, and now I get to look at the friggin’
rope
that Henry killed himself with. Frank really can be an inconsiderate dick sometimes.”

“He’s just absent-minded—”

“Don’t stick up for him!”

“–but you’re right, a grade-A dick.”

“That’s better.”

“Look, I’m starving, so let’s—”

“We have Pop Tarts,” reminded Sonia.

Hazel scowled. “You’ve got a baby growing inside you, Sonia. He or she deserves better than Pop Tarts. So go get ready. We’re going to the Bosset’s Tavern or whatever it’s called.”

“You just want to cozy up to the woodsman,” Sonia said, nodding knowingly. “I know you.”

“Just get ready, while I put this in the garbage,” and then she reached into the waste can and grabbed the length of rope that had no doubt been around the neck of Henry Wilmarth just nights ago.

“Eew!” Sonia shrieked.

Hazel loped out of the cabin.
She really is loaded up with
pregnancy hormones or something.
Outside, she flipflopped across the front yard toward the end of the drive, but slowed to take a grimacing glance at the outhouse. In her mind, the tentacular newborn squalled, its sucker-mouth pulsing.
Jesus...
A large plastic garbage can sat across from the mailbox. She pried off the lid, then held her breath at the stink. But before she dropped the noose in, she caught herself peering down.

Several objects she couldn’t identify lay atop a garbage-filled bag.

An arrangement of leather straps were attached to metal platforms, while from each of the two platforms, sharp steel spikes sprouted. A long leather strap had also been dropped in the can, with a buckle, yet it was much too lengthy to be a belt.

She picked up one of the platforms.

When she noted wood-splinters embedded in the saw-teeth she could guess that they were the things workmen used to climb telephone poles; a brand name was etched on the spikes, SPORT CLIMBERS, INC. Next, she picked a receipt out of the trash, which read, HAMMOND’S OUTDOOR GEAR, BOSSET’S WAY, N.H.
Lineman Spikes, one pair, $199.99.
The next item:
Tree Scaling Belt,
one, $69.99.