Tag Archives: Door in the Lake

34: Harsh Truths

***BEGIN TRANSMISSION***

The Sad Man is talking.

I am talking.

So hard to stay focused and

*************

Hank sighs as he gets out of bed. “Time to make the doughnuts,” he mutters. The joke isn’t funny anymore, but it’s all he’s got left. He kisses his fingers and presses them to Allison’s picture. She looks strange this morning. Harsh. Cold. Dead. Must be the light. Awfully bright. Awfully clean. Awful. It’s making everything in the house more… stark. Real. Hank blinks once, twice. Then he makes up his mind. Takes a shower. Shaves. Gets dressed. Then he picks up the pistol and

*************

The Sad Man keeps talking. “I’m sure you’re feeling disoriented, Agent Matthews. It’s the Osceola. If you’re not used to its effects, it can be overwhelming. For a man of your capacities, especially. Different minds, different places. Even time distorts. Sometimes I think that riding is harder than being ridden. Depending on which of the Ahtunowhiho is doing the riding, of course.”

I look at myself dumbly, and look back with sympathy in my ancient eyes.

“I’m speaking in riddles. My apologies. It’s just so refreshing to speak with someone who shares the gift. Someone who’s not a snake, at least. Poor Oscar. It’s unfortunate what we’re going to have to do to him. But again, I’m speaking in riddles. We should start at the beginning.”

I blink, look around. Pause politely as I get my bearings. “Liar’s Path,” I hear myself say. My voice sounds strange, thick. Clumsy. “Can’t believe you.”

I smile sympathetically at myself. Already, I’m annoying myself. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to believe me. I know the urge to lie here is strong. But I’ve long since learned to fight it. Besides, it’s…” I trail off, give myself a measuring look and

*************

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Report 17: A Brief Encounter

Sir,

It’s dark, and I cannot sleep. Earlier, I heard a noise like a door opening, and started awake. I rose quietly, so as not to disturb Denise, and crossed to the window. The Mountain seemed quiet and dark, so I went back to bed. But I couldn’t sleep. So I got up, dressed, helped myself to a glass of water, and went outside.

Pannawau is very peaceful at night. Nothing but crickets, and the wind in the trees. Relaxing. Tom and Gladys keep a bench out in front of the inn, next to the beaver. It’s a chainsaw statue, Tom tells me. The beaver, that is. Made by a local artist named Cecil Murden. Quite a character, apparently. Traveled all over the world as a merchant marine, then settled down here in Pannawau to make art. He wears an eyepatch, I’m told, and has a wooden foot.

At any rate. I was sitting on the bench, sipping on a glass of water, meditating on the silence. Then I looked up, and there he was. The tiny bird-faced man. Standing perched on the beaver’s belly.

He looked at me.

He looked at the water.

He looked at me again.

So I sat my drink down on the bench beside me, and suddenly he was there. Wrapping his arms around the glass, he stabbed his beak down into the water repeatedly. Then he threw his head back and swallowed. Stab, back, swallow. Stab, back, swallow. Over and over, with a mesmerizing rhythm. Once he’d had his fill, he stepped back, wiped a drip away from his beak, and bowed slightly. Then he looked up. His gaze took mine, and once again I was plunging down into the black depths of his eyes, up into the night sky, soaring. Seeing as birds see.

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