The House on Serpent Lake (Ghost, Romance, Fantasy) (4 page)

Without knowing how it had happened, Lindsay realized how drawn she felt toward everything on the property. The beautiful old screened porch, even though sagging now, provided a magical place to sit in the evening and read or to listen to the frogs and fish jumping for insects. And since she loved the water, they could build another gazebo next to the water, right in the same spot where the first one used to be. Looking over the property, the house, the rich green lawn with the full-leafed maples and oak trees filled with birds and squirrels, it all seemed to call to her and fill her heart with joy. She no longer felt the sadness from before, just a peace and contentment, as if she were coming home after a long, tiring vacation.

Eric was still puttering around the boathouse, so she climbed the wooden porch steps and stepped carefully over the warped boards. She didn't know anything about carpentry, but she thought a little work could make it good as new. She found an ideal place for a swing and envisioned plants hanging from the beams.

She cupped her hands to peer through a grimy front window. Heavy drapes blocked the view. Idly, she tried one of the double doors, twisting the brass knob, only to find that it turned smoothly. The heavy wooden door fell open as easily as if someone on the other side were inviting her in.

She stepped into a wood-paneled entryway that led to a darkened stairway directly ahead. The door closed behind her.

Lindsay paused to give her eyes time to adjust to the gloom. The house sighed, and an aromatic scent filled the hallway, a light spicy fragrance she had smelled before but couldn’t name. She felt a stirring of air near her, the gentle warmth surrounding her, enveloping her like a lover's caress.

Chapter Five

Suddenly the front door flew open and hit the wall with a loud thud. Eric stood in the doorway rubbing his shoulder.

“I'll have a dislocated shoulder if I have to do that very often.” He turned to her with a puzzled frown. “How'd you get in?”

“Opened just fine for me. I guess you don't have the magic touch.”

“That’s odd. Last night it was locked so tight you’d think the CIA was storing secret documents in here.” He examined the door, then the lock. “Must be some kind of quirk. We’ll get a locksmith out here just to make sure, although I doubt there’s any reason to worry.”

“Did you smell anything when you came in?”

“Yeah. A musty, closed-up-old-house.” He glanced around the foyer. “See the intricate woodwork? Grandpa spared no expense building this house for Grandma. It’s a bit dusty, but it’s just like I remember.”

Lindsay smiled at the satisfaction in his voice.

“I hope the rest of the house isn’t in too bad a shape. Come on.” He led her through a high archway on the left. “This was the parlor, reserved for guests during my grandparents’ day. My aunts weren’t so formal.”

Lindsay noticed the scent had disappeared. “That smell was pretty strong.” She glanced back at the foyer.

“Let's get some fresh air in here. And some light.” Eric pulled the heavy gold drapes. Clouds of dust filled the air. Coughing, he opened the windows and shafts of sunlight brightened the room.

“It's lovely!” Larger than their living room back home, Lindsay thought it felt even more spacious because of the high ceilings. A rock fireplace with a rich mahogany mantle took up the center wall, and on the floor, clear plastic runners stretched over a faded oriental rug that partly covered an oak floor. Yellowed sheets covered a few pieces of furniture.

She couldn't resist peeking at the overstuffed chairs and a sofa, all made of yellow damask. And in the corner, a highly-polished Victrola cabinet stood with some old seventy-eight records still stacked in the bottom. They must be worth a fortune.

“What in the world is that?” she asked, pointing to four wall ducts, each about fifteen inches square, mounted against the baseboard.

“That’s for the oil furnace in the basement.”

“Oil furnace?”

“It has to be filled once a month. If we keep the house, we’ll convert to gas.”

The parlor opened to a dining room just as spacious as the first room. A dusty chandelier, its crystal prisms draped in cloth, hung over a partially-covered mahogany dining table large enough to seat twelve. An elaborately carved buffet stood on one side of the table, and a matching sideboard on the other.

“Oh, look. Aren't they beautiful?”

Eric smiled. “Told you.”

Lindsay paused at the large bay window to gaze at the woods edging the overgrown lawn at the back of the house. How wonderful to take meals in a room overlooking a forest crowded with trees, shrubs, and wildlife.

And how familiar it seemed. The magnificent red oak standing at the edge of the lawn, its heavy lower branch stretching to the west, the clusters of white birch, all mature now, rising above wild pin cherry bushes. When she spotted a towering black ash topping the thicket at nearly sixty feet, she felt an overwhelming joy and wanted to dash out the back door and embrace that crooked old tree’s furrowed gray trunk as if greeting an old friend.

A stirring of warm, vibrant air whispered in her ear, a slight humming sound, so low it was almost a vibration. All her senses were tuned to the sound, and she turned, expecting to see him standing next to her, sharing her memories, bringing them alive again.

From across the room Eric slammed a sideboard drawer shut. Startled at the sudden sound, Lindsay blinked—and found herself standing alone at the dining room window. The same bewildering grief she’d felt yesterday began to grow, squeezing her heart until she could barely take a breath. Her eyes moistened.

She wiped a teardrop with her finger and stared in puzzlement. Who was the ‘him’ she’d expected to see? And what, for heaven’s sake, would cause her to think such fanciful thoughts or feel such strong emotions? Perplexed, she looked at the tree again, but it was simply a nice tree in the forest.

What was wrong with her?

“Did you tell me about a special tree in the back of the house?” she asked Eric.

“A special tree? Of course not.”

“You didn’t build a tree house or anything?”

Ignoring her question, he headed for the kitchen. “Let’s see the rest of the house.”

Lindsay glanced once more out the window, then followed.

After the exceptional condition of the parlor and dining room, Lindsay felt disappointed at the warped cabinet doors and café curtains underneath the sink instead of a cabinet. A big rust spot ringed the drain. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see an old water pump mounted on the rim.

A hallway led them to another front room across from the parlor.

“We used this as the family room.”

The windows, like those in the parlor, opened onto the porch and provided a view of the sparkling blue expanse of the lake. A pot-bellied stove, with dull nickel decorating the black iron, was mounted on a brick pad in the corner. All it needed was a little bit of polish to make it sparkle. Lindsay decided it would make quite a conversation piece, and she was even more determined than ever to keep this lovely home.

The stairwell opened to three bedrooms and a bathroom on the second floor, with a landing spacious enough for a comfortable chair and bookcases by the window overlooking the lake.

Unfortunately the bathroom was as outdated as the kitchen. Instead of the familiar porcelain tank behind the seat, two pipes led to a boxlike object mounted on the wall above.

“It’s an old-fashioned water closet,” Eric told her, pointing to a long slim rod on the left side. “You pull this to flush.”

Lindsay frowned. She could make do with an older kitchen but that bathroom had to go.

They continued on to the attic where partial walls for a small bedroom had been fashioned under the sloping roof. There was a twin bed, the bare mattress under a dulled brass headboard still in place. A scarred dressing table stood against one wall with a flower-painted ceramic pot and lid next to it.

“That’s a chamber pot,” Eric explained. “I imagine the outhouse is still in the woods.”

“Good God!”

Eric grinned. “I can just see you half asleep on that thing in the middle of the night.”

“And they call those the good old days?” But despite everything, Lindsay loved the place.

The rest of the attic held unused furniture and boxes spilling over with discards, but Lindsay was drawn to the front windows. She gazed through the dusty panes to the serene lake below.

The sun rode high above, casting its shimmering reflection on the water. From her vantage point, she could see down the water’s edge to the motel and the park with a swimming area. Several boats were scattered on the lake, and she watched as one fisherman hooked something, his rod bending as he reeled it in.

Slowly, the brightness of the attic dimmed, as if a shadow had slipped in front of the sun. She became aware of a faint, spicy scent with a hint of cloves, the same fragrance she’d smelled when she first entered the house.

It grew stronger.

Thinking that perhaps it came from outside, she unlocked the window and raised it, amazed at how easily it opened. She inhaled deeply. The air was fresh, so the scent wasn’t coming from outside.

“There it is again,” she said. “Smell it?”

“Umm,” Eric murmured, absorbed in the contents of one of the boxes stacked against the wall.

A slight breeze ruffled Lindsay’s hair, touching her face in a light kiss. Her skin tingled and the hairs on her arms stiffened. An incredible warmth and excitement spread through her as if all the all the physical pleasures she’d been denied were centered right there in the attic, just waiting for her. Her nipples hardened. She turned toward the stir of air, reveling in the familiar scent, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the feather-touch against her lips.

Eric came up behind her. “Smells pretty rank up here,” he said. “It’s a good thing you opened the window.”

Lindsay snapped out of her reverie, annoyed at Eric's interruption. Her cheeks were hot and she felt flushed. To her astonishment, her panties were moist. Flustered, she turned from the window, hoping Eric wouldn't notice anything amiss.

He tugged open the other window. “Maybe there’s a dead mouse or a squirrel in the walls. Let’s get some lunch and let it air out up here.”

They descended the stairs, Eric leading the way. “I’m glad to get out of there,” he said. “There’s something about that attic I don’t like.”

Lindsay paused to look over her shoulder. There was something about the attic all right, something oddly physical. But she wasn’t repelled. Puzzled perhaps, and curious, maybe even intrigued.

She had no idea what had just happened to her in that attic, but something had, something she couldn’t explain.

Chapter Six

“Ready for some lunch?” Eric asked. “The coffee and doughnuts this morning didn’t last long.”

Lindsay nodded, thinking about the house.

What did happen in that attic? How could she have been so affected by something as insubstantial as a breath of air?

It had to be the excitement of inheriting the house and the possibility of a different lifestyle. Living by the water had always been a dream of hers, but with the prices in California, it was something she had never thought possible. Vacations on a nice lake would be a joy, then later, they could retire there permanently.

So it wasn’t so unusual; she had heard of people becoming aroused at the oddest times—just before a battle and even after a funeral.

And maybe it was the house. Maybe in combination with weather conditions—a high or low pressure or a change in the barometer.

Eric took the long way and drove down Main Street, starting at the one-story hospital and clinic bordering the forest on the eastern edge of town. Lindsay noted with appreciation nature’s different colors around her, the pink flowering crab tree, the deep blue water, the luxurious green grass, so different from the desert beiges surrounding Palm Springs. She lowered the window and breathed deeply.

“All this fresh air, I hope my lungs don’t collapse from shock.”

Eric rolled down his window and rested his elbow on the sill.

“Don’t worry. The human body can adapt to almost anything. It’s a growing lilt to your speech or a sudden fondness for Lutefisk—” he pronounced it with a Scandinavian accent, sing-songing the syllables—“that would give me pause.”

“Surely, that can’t be something to eat.”

“Dried cod preserved in lye,” he explained. “My grandparents used to store it in barrels. When you’re ready to eat it, you skin it, take the bones out and then boil it.”

“Sounds right tasty to me.”

Eric laughed. “It’s an acquired taste, but one you should try while we’re here.”

“I can’t wait.”

His cell phone rang and it was Mark, his field manager in California, upset over the latest crisis.

While Eric tried to calm him down, Lindsay stared out the window and tried to force down the irritation that bubbled inside. Wouldn’t they even allow him some time while on a bereavement leave?

They passed the small grocery store, and Lindsay spotted an older man sweeping the parking lot with a push broom, his cap shading his ruddy complexion from the sun. Two elderly women strolling by stopped to chat.

Everything looked so picturesque, and people took time to enjoy their lives. Before her experience in the house, she would have loved to live here.

She frowned. No mater how she tried to rationalize, what had happened in the attic nagged at her. It just wasn’t normal.

And what about that tree?

Inside the diner, they sat at one of the chrome tables. A small circular fan on the counter pushed the stale air through the screened door. A couple of grey-haired women sat in one of the four booths, but most of the lunch crowd had left.

Lindsay ordered the lunch special, a tuna-salad sandwich with a cup of hamburger soup. Eric decided on a cheeseburger with fries.

“You know,” he said, pouring catsup on his fries, “driving through town, I’m reminded of a time long ago, a way of life that’s fifty years in the past. Here, people actually know their neighbors and care about them. Can you imagine such a thing?”