Half-Moon Lake Read online

  I’d often wondered if my dad was locked up in a mental hospital somewhere. That would explain some of the craziness in my life, as well as why I’d never met him, but that was another mystery. As far as Pat was concerned, I’d had no father.

  How could I not have a father? A father was sort of necessary, right? It was a package deal…taking both a mom and a dad. Well, except for the Virgin Mary. I’d learned about her at church. Pat always refused to go with me, but I had attended church with friends as much as I was allowed. It was there I’d heard about the only virgin birth that had ever happened. There was no way Pat’s claim and the preacher’s sermon could both be right, and I’d chosen to believe the preacher. It just seemed unlikely that God would make an exception with me and allow a second immaculate conception.

  But then the letter had showed up, proving Pat’s claim false. With its arrival, everything I had known about my life—about myself—had become a huge mystery, ominous, filled with inexplicable dread and doubt. If only I could have known the letter’s contents and the repercussions it carried. If only I could jump back in time and not open it, but—wait! This was my exit.

  Half-Moon Lake—next right.

  ****

  What in the world was that?

  I gazed in horror at the hillside to my right, fighting the urge to whip the car around in a tight U-turn and head back to the airport. A jungle-like carpet of thick green vines completely covered everything…trees, power lines…everything. The trees stooped under the weight, fighting in vain to escape. I could almost hear them screaming…

  I was hyperventilating, gasping for more oxygen. I needed to pull over, but I didn’t dare for fear the monstrous vine would swallow me too.

  Tearing my eyes away and focusing directly in front of me, I stomped the gas, exceeding the posted speed limit by quite a bit. I didn’t care. I had to put as much distance between me and the horrific scene as possible.

  ****

  By the time I reached town, my breathing was almost back to normal. I hadn’t encountered the local law enforcement during my escape, of which I was thankful, and I was now able to concentrate on my surroundings.

  Wow! I was amazed. Bumper to bumper traffic inched forward at a pace that made a herd of turtles look speedy. Most of these folks must be from somewhere else; the town wasn’t big enough for this many cars.

  Turning off the air conditioner, I powered down my window, and regretted the decision immediately. Heavy air whapped me in the face like a soggy blanket. The humidity was profound. A wet suffocation. An occasional puff of breeze rearranged the sticky air without making a noticeable improvement. I swiped the back of my hand across my forehead and grimaced. I had no desire to be drenched with sweat again after I’d finally dried out, so I flipped the AC back on, but kept the window down. I didn’t want to miss anything.

  Touristy gift shops spilled a variety of folks out onto overflowing sidewalks. As much as I wanted to study the shops, I had to keep my attention on my driving. Though crosswalks were marked, little notice was paid to those painted white lines.

  I enjoyed people-watching. I liked to pick out individual folks, then try to figure out what they were thinking by reading their expressions. While most faces amid the throngs packing Half-Moon Lake’s sidewalks appeared happy and carefree, there were a few who looked a little grumpy. And no wonder! As far as I knew, humans didn’t come equipped with gills, so breathing water like this was sure to shorten tempers. It was having a similar effect on me and prompted an echo of my complaint from the airport…how did the locals stand it? It was obvious that someone forgot to tell the temperature it was supposed to cool down, now that the sun had moved behind the mountains that crowded around the little town in every direction.

  If possible, traffic got worse once I got to the lake itself. Families were calling it a day. Frazzled parents lugged sandy beach paraphernalia and herded their sunburnt offspring wrapped in soggy towels back to their waiting minivans and SUVs. The daytimers’ empty parking slots didn’t stay that way long, but were snatched up as soon as they exited by the evening crowd. I tapped my brakes when a sporty Lexus backed out in front of me, leaving an empty space facing a place called El Tango. A Mexican restaurant? I sniffed appreciatively. Mmmm. Didn’t smell very Mexican, but with a name like that, what else could it be? A silver Volvo coming from the opposite direction turned on his signal and attempted to zip in front of me, but slammed on his brakes, glaring as I inched forward. Striving to avoid eye-contact, I glanced in my rear view mirror and glimpsed a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile light the face of a black BMW’s driver as he wheeled into the vacated spot. Music poured from the restaurant’s door each time it opened to admit another patron, which was often. Apparently, El Tango was a favorite in these parts. If it wasn’t too far, maybe I’d come back later and check it out. I sniffed again. Yum! If the smell was any indication, I was in for a treat.

  My turn was coming up…the first left past the lake.

  Lake Road? I pressed my lips together, fighting a smirk, then directed my comment to the mirror.

  “Don’t make fun, and give them a little credit. At least it’s accurate, even if it’s not very creative. The road’s right by the lake…makes sense.”

  Playing devil’s advocate, I quipped, “Yeah, or maybe the official road-namer slept in on the day imaginations were doled out.”

  “Be nice.”

  I switched on my turn signal and slipped across as soon as there was a break in traffic.

  The moment I pulled onto the packed dirt road, I got the sensation of entering another world or at least another time. Huge tree branches intertwined overhead, creating a living tunnel that was both dark and disquieting, the shadows eerie. It was cooler here, and damp, but instead of making me feel better, it had a completely unexpected effect. Fear closed my throat and I was soon gasping for breath, again. What in the world was happening? Trees didn’t usually affect me this way, only vine-y stuff, but all this green seemed suffocating!

  “Take a deep breath, Kate. You’re almost there.”

  That advice should’ve encouraged me, given me a measure of consolation, but since I didn’t know what this trip held in store for me, the “comfort-factor” sank even lower. It seemed a whole chapter of my life had been sealed behind a wall of secrets, compliments of Pat. Why couldn’t I remember any of it? That’s what had my stomach tied in knots. Wouldn’t it take a horrific trauma to trigger memory loss so complete that even hypnotizing couldn’t break it? The thing that scared me most wasn’t the memory loss or my strange phobias, but rather the fear that they had the same root cause. Being summoned to Half-Moon Lake like this…it felt as if I was being brought face to face with an invisible monster. Was I ready for it? My thoughts whirled, making me feel almost dizzy and frightened about what was to come.

  “Pat would tell you not to be such a wimp.” Hearing my own voice helped prop up my flagging courage, so I continued; glad no one else could see me.

  “Well, Pat’s not here, is she?”

  “No, but if she were…”

  “Moot point! Now shut up!”

  “Fine!”

  Okay…it only helped for a moment. I felt like a soldier, facing an invisible enemy. Maybe it was just the uncertainty about this whole situation, but whatever the cause, the fear was real. I had no weapon and only a make-believe shield of bravery gripped tightly in my trembling, white-knuckled hands. It wasn’t hard to figure my odds. My “shield” had all the protective qualities of cobwebs or wet Kleenex. I was walking into a battlefield armed with nothing but secrets…and they weren’t even mine!

  What kind of protection was that?

  ****

  Fifteen minutes of inching along the winding green tunnel brought me to a dead-end. I hated using that term in such a creepy setting. Lake Road abruptly ended and there, beside a driveway that looked more like a bike trail—certainly too narrow for a car to manage, even my micro-rental car—was a sign that made me gulp; Swan Song.


  “Get a grip, Kate…it’s just a sign with the street number and a small, black swan painted at the top. Nothing scary about it.”

  So why did merely reading the name send a chill down my spine?

  Maybe it was because of the meaning behind those words. If I remembered correctly, a swan song referred to someone’s farewell stage performance. It came from the belief that a swan only sang as it died. The image it evoked was less than cheerful. Why would someone choose such a depressing name for his or her home?

  “To creep you out, that’s why,” I muttered. I needed to stop being such a scaredy-cat. My list of phobias was long enough…too long, and certainly didn’t need anything added to it, especially not signs with birds on them. Wonder what the name for that phobia would be?

  Ignoring the sign, I eyed the driveway with uncertainty. If I was going to be afraid of something, then it ought to be that footpath they were calling a drive. I took a deep breath, held it for several seconds, then let it out slowly and whispered, “Here goes nothing.”

  ****

  As soon as I could see the sky again, it was as if I regained consciousness, and I found myself at the edge of an open area, probably a meadow or maybe a pasture, though any tell-tale hint of animal smell was absent. A pinkish glow, leftover from the sunset, was still visible to the west, but it didn’t provide enough light to see much.

  Shaking my head, I wondered at the dazed, muddled feeling. What just happened? One minute I was attempting to squeeze my car between hulking hemlocks, the next…I was here. Had I driven the entire length of the driveway blindfolded? That’s what it felt like because I couldn’t remember a single thing about the drive itself. As soon as the wall of feathery branches closed around me, I’d gone into a sort of twilight zone, seeing a series of vivid, intense, scenic bursts, a sort of mental slide-show that disappeared as soon as I exited the woods, yet I was unable to remember a single image now. I was left with a sense of overwhelming sadness and dread, and no idea why. All I knew was it was linked to the void that represented my childhood before age nine, and that certainty caused my apprehension to mushroom.

  Hoping to get rid of the claustrophobic sensation that filled the car, I rolled the three other windows down. A tepid breeze fluttered through the grasses and wildflowers, sending warm, perfumed air through the car. A few desperate gulps of fresh air helped quell the beginnings of a panic attack, but it took several minutes to calm my syncopated heart rate.

  Why was I doing this to myself? My life had been fine in Tucson. Well…maybe not fine, but it’d been normal…at least normal for me…a routine I could live with. Why rock the boat? If only I’d ignored the letter…

  The stationery had been heavy weight, creamy in texture, expensive. The word Esquire in the envelope’s return address meant some kind of attorney had sent it, but why would a lawyer in North Carolina even know my address? And how? I’d ripped it open without thinking, and now its message was mine, sticking like flypaper.

  Pat had lied. I did have a father: Patrick Eubanks. The letter had informed me that this Patrick Eubanks had died recently and I was requested to be present at the reading of his will. Dad? It was all so confusing. I didn’t know him. Was I supposed to feel some pang of regret for someone I’d never known? Yet, here I was, in the mountains of western North Carolina. I’d traveled well over two thousand miles, to sit in some room with total strangers, only to hear that I might have inherited some trinket or other that no one else wanted. The family vultures had probably already swooped down, scooped up everything valuable or meaningful, fought over this and that and generally emptied whatever was in the estate while the owner was still on his death bed. After that, people would sit around with long faces and shed crocodile tears while they listened to whatever was officially decreed, read by a lawyer who didn’t care in the first place as long as he was paid his fees.

  But there was more in the letter. Pat, the woman I’d always believed to be my mother, was actually a much-older sister. Just wonderful! My outlandish phobias weren’t enough. Liberal amounts of soap opera script needed to be added in order for my life to be complete. No wonder Pat had refused to be called, “Mom.”

  How had the attorney tracked me down? Had my father been in touch with Pat all along? No, that couldn’t be it. If he’d known where we were, he’d have visited…made some kind of effort to see us. After all, Pat and I were both his daughters.

  I’d compared the date of death stated in the letter with the postmark and my heart had sunk.

  A week? It had taken my father’s attorney all of a week to track me down and get a letter from North Carolina to Arizona. He’d known! He’d known exactly how to reach me, which meant my father had known too. A private investigator wouldn’t be able to work that fast.

  So, why hadn’t Dad contacted me in all these years?

  He didn’t want you. My inner self whispered. He sent you away, didn’t he? Saddled your sister with the responsibility of raising you, effectively messing her life up as well. How much clearer does it have to get?

  I didn’t want to think about that. It didn’t make sense and it would hurt if I dwelt on it. Better to just block it out, live in denial. These were things I’d probably never know for sure and just a few of the millions of secrets that made up my life.

  At any rate, I was almost to my destination: Swan Song was just ahead. Located right on the lake, it was the place where they’d read my “mystery” father’s will tomorrow.

  When I rounded the final curve, the house came into view. Believe it or not, it looked like a film set for a Victorian movie. The roof had a steep pitch and was irregularly shaped with a dominant front-facing gable. A squared-domed turret rose above the rest of the roofline in the midst of multiple chimneys. The sunset’s fading light painted the textured shingles a dark mauve. Though lack of light meant lack of details, I was sure that the morning would reveal the typical wide porch with intricately turned posts, curved railings and excessive filigree that usually accompanied Victorian architecture, kind of like a wedding cake.

  Without warning, the scene changed.

  It was the same house, only instead of the sunset’s fading light glancing off all the windows, it was daylight and it was winter…bare-branched trees crouched around the house, replacing the thick summer foliage. The vision disappeared almost as soon as it came, but in that instant, I was sure of two things.

  First…Swan Song was not just the place for the reading of my father’s will; it was the Eubanks family home. I had lived in this house.

  And second…I was terrified.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, I awoke again, drenched in sweat, thrashing and out of breath from fighting. My assailant? My bedding. The sheets couldn’t have been wrapped around me any more securely if someone had been trying to roll me up like a mummy. I was nearly panicking by the time I got myself unknotted. Collapsing back onto my pillows, I tried to calm my racing heart as I stared around the room.

  Last night I’d been too tired to pay much attention to the décor. Travelling always wore me out, and since this trip added in liberal doses of emotional calisthenics, as soon as I was shown to my room, I managed to wash my face and brush my teeth before dragging myself to bed and crashing in exhaustion. The only thing that had really registered was that the furniture was dark and oppressive; not airy and light like my apartment’s furnishings back home, but as the first fingers of light reached through the gauzy curtains on the room’s eastern side, I was stunned at what my eyes had missed the night before.

  It was a Victorian museum.

  The bed and dresser set looked like something from the Renaissance Revival. The headboard towered above my head. It was every bit of seven feet tall and ornately carved; the footboard only slightly less impressive, the combined weight probably rivaling that of an elephant. Heavy nightstands guarded either side of the bed. The double-globed lamps on each top looked like hand painted snowmen. Crocheted doilies floated like lacy lily pads on nearly eve
ry flat surface. A five-foot square gilded-frame mirror topped a white marble fireplace. Bas-relief bouquets of flowers had been chiseled across the front of the mantel. A pair of Edwardian chairs were positioned close to the fireplace—no doubt, an over-paid decorator’s attempt to make the scene look “cozy”—and were probably just as uncomfortable as they looked. The revival wallpaper and crown molding completed the scene from a gothic novel. Someone had even papered across the ceiling! The whole thing was like something I imagined I’d see in a European castle. I couldn’t speak from experience, but I’d seen plenty of photographs. I knew that great pains had been taken to achieve this look, but in my opinion, it was too much…too contrived…too heavy and overdone. The feeling of being a part of a movie set was even stronger than when I’d first seen the house.

  I tried to imagine the woman I’d always known as my mother confined in this type of suffocating atmosphere and shook my head. No way! Pat would’ve have felt stifled, repressed. No wonder she’d gone overboard in the opposite direction once escaping. Pat’s decorating style had used lots of chrome and plain straight lines, almost “Zen” except for the color. She’d liked color and lots of it; the hues of a desert sunset, the bolder, and more vibrant the better. The combination was incongruous, but defined Pat and had shaped my own tastes, as well. My mom…uh…sister must’ve felt it was necessary to make up for the years spent surrounded by all this…this excess. From what I could see in this room, Swan Song couldn’t have been a happy place for children to grow up. There were just too many darn things to break.

  I wandered to the window and peeked through the gauzy lace. Just as I expected…no cottage-type garden here; the lawn and gardens were a perfect match to the house: prim and proper, hedges trimmed to within an inch of their lives, old-fashioned hollyhocks standing at attention, peonies and roses of every color, but clipped and controlled. The plants knew they had to be on their best behavior in this garden or they’d get weeded out.