Twisted Creek

Chapter 4

The numbers 6112 flashed past on a post just outside Nana’s window. I didn’t slow. Something in the back of my mind said if I acted as if I hadn’t seen the place maybe it wouldn’t be real.

But for once, Nana was paying attention and yelled, “Bingo!”

I backed up and turned into the drive. Forty feet down the gravel road, the left front tire hit a hole, almost knocking us out of our seats, but I managed to keep the van from tipping as we rattled toward the largest of several buildings scattered on the property. My property. At least until Garrison D. Walker figured out he’d made a mistake and found the wrong Allie Daniels.

A hundred feet behind the buildings the lake lapped against dingy sand. Barbed-wire fencing framed the boundaries on the other three sides of the wide lot. The land to the left looked wooded and unclaimed from nature. The acreage to my right appeared too hilly to even get a road through, making my property seem lonely on the space between the road and the water. Cluttered driftwood scattered like bones along the shore and beneath the dock.

Nana leaned forward and stared at the building twinkling in the morning sun. “It’s a store, I think.”

Tin signs advertising everything from Camel cigarettes to Coors beer looked like they held together the front wall. The steep tin roof had two windows, and with the long wooden porch running the length of the front, the building seemed to smile at us. The downstairs windows were boarded up. Broken wicker furniture littered one end of the porch while metal lawn chairs lined up on the other end as if at attention-old and rusty, but too tough to die.

I let the van roll into the shade of the shack and noticed a long, covered walk out back that led to a dock on the water. It looked in better shape than the building so I guessed it must have been added.

“This is it, Nana.” I fought to swallow. “Our new home.” We’d lived in some pretty rough houses on land hardly worth plowing, but none looked as bad as this.

Nana smiled and was out of the van before I could throw it into park. She might be in her eighties, but my grandmother was a ball of energy. By the time I caught up with her, she’d already tried the front door.

I pulled out the keys Walker gave me and on the third attempt we were in. Cold, stale air rushed passed us, fighting for freedom and leaving my skin chilled. My body parts were voting on whether to run or stay when Nana flipped on the lights. Bare bulbs above us flickered, then came on along with ceiling fans.

“Would you look at this,” Nana whispered as hundreds of tiny lights along one wall blinked to life. “It’s like a party in here.”

I wondered how much I could get for Christmas lights at a garage sale as I studied a room divided in half by wide stairs.

Fifteen feet of bare shelves lined the north wall, with a high glassed-in counter in front. The oldest cash register I’d ever seen sat on a long table along with several empty wire racks. River rocks the size of footballs formed the wall facing the road. The back wall had two huge bay windows that looked out over the lake. Dark wood framed each view like a homemade picture frame.

The south side of the room must have been a café at one time. There were tiny round tables and a pass-through with a drink chest beneath it. A low counter ran parallel to the pass-through with half a dozen stools anchored in front. The vinyl was so worn the seats looked silver in spots. Any wall space not claimed by shelving had a dead animal head or a mounted fish on it.

In the center of the room, separating the store from the café, stood a staircase that appeared more solid than the entire building. The air smelled damp, but dust wasn’t as thick as I’d expected.

I pointed with my head, silently asking Nana to choose either the swinging door in the back or the stairs.

Nana smiled and raised her eyes.

Without a word, we climbed the stairs. With each step I thought of all the horrible things I might find on the second floor. Wild animals, spiders, Uncle Jefferson’s body.

I glanced over at Nana and, to my surprise, she laughed. For her, this was Christmas morning. For me, it was more like Halloween night.

The second-floor door stood open at the top of the stairs. We walked into an apartment that was about half the size of the downstairs and twice as dusty. Old papers cluttered the main room’s floor, and two of the three lightbulbs above us were burned out. A doorless bathroom seemed wedged in the corner across from the door. Medicine bottles filled the counter and the back of the commode as if they’d been poured there instead of set. A few of the bottles were even floating in the toilet water.

I didn’t want to think about when the porcelain had last been cleaned.

Concentrating on the main area, I ventured forward, noticing a few pieces of furniture that looked solid beneath the layers of dust.

From the center I took inventory. Two rooms with an open bathroom in between. No kitchen. I guessed that would be downstairs on the other side of the pass-through. First room contained one desk by the window and a pair of wingback chairs. One wrought-iron bed, unmade. In the smaller room I counted one twin bed covered with clothes, a dresser decorated with more medicine bottles, and a recliner surrounded by fishing magazines.

I lifted one of the bottles of pills, then another, both full.

When I tried the old phone by the bed, it was dead. “No nine-one-one to call if Jefferson ran into trouble.”

“Maybe he had no one to call?” Nana reminded me of a bloodhound on a hunt as she circled the rooms. She was cleaning, rearranging, organizing in her mind just like she did everywhere we lived. No place was ever bad to her; some just needed more work than others.

“True,” I agreed. “If he’d known anyone, he wouldn’t have left the place to me.” Looking for loose boards, I watched my step as I moved around the bed.

Nana flushed the toilet. “We got lights and water,” she cheered. “Life is good.”

I caught a glimpse of a dirty hand sliding slowly beneath the bed and realized that wasn’t all we had.

We had company.