A House at the Bottom of a Lake

24

There were thirty steps in all. The stairwell was a tunnel of its own, traveling down at a dizzying angle. And like the concrete tunnel that delivered them to the third lake, there was graffiti.

Of a sort.

Rather than crude drawings of penises and naked women, the writing read like a growth chart, though neither James nor Amelia could fully envision a parent asking their child to stand against the wall, halfway down the basement stairs, in order to mark their height.

But there were marks. Rising marks. As if somebody’s development had been noted.

After examining the marks for a minute, James and Amelia continued down.

Deeper.

At last, they arrived at an entrance to a wide room and Amelia felt another lightbulb string trace her spine as she passed under it. She had to swim lower to avoid wooden support beams, the foundation of the home. She spotted a web, a large one, where one of the beams met the ceiling, and paused to show James. They treaded near it, studying the intricate design rippling with waves that must have come down the stairs with them.

A spider’s web. Underwater. In a house at the bottom of a lake.

They continued, deeper, into the basement.

Space, James thought. The room had a lot of space. Amelia tugged on his wet suit and pointed down with her beam, showing him a familiar flooring below. Blue-and-white tiles labeled with measurements, 3 ft., 5 ft., that in another context surely would have been clear but down here simply could not be.

And yet as that which could not be was in this house, the basement proved no different.

Amelia and James treaded water six feet above an indoor pool.

With water all its own.

The surface moved independently of the water they swam in.

Amelia laughed and James could hear it, muffled by her mask, coming to him in marveled beats that perfectly embodied the wonder she was relishing.

Then she dove, swimming headfirst into the pool.