No amount of contemplation could deter my horror.  Something was terribly wrong with existence even if I was the only one who knew it.

I reached into the side pocket of my shorts and retrieved my cell phone.  A quick inspection showed it was but a few minutes after ten in the morning.  I had to call Mom and Dad.  I had to know life continued outside Carr Beholden.  I dialed the phone and waited patiently while the sound of perpetual ringing filled my ear.

This is rather silly, I suddenly thought.  My panic was based on a dream.  Sure, it was a nightmare if it was anything, but it was nonetheless a product of my own drunken imagination fueled by significant amounts of processed sugary goods.  Whom was I kidding?  Of course the world was still out there, and no, I doubted it had changed because I dreamed something bizarre.

“Hello?”  Mom’s voice startled me and yanked me back from contemplation.

I tried not to sound like a mad man.  “Mom, it’s me.  How are you this morning?”  Even if my words sounded normal, my voice didn’t, thus I failed in my endeavor to not sound like a mad man.

“I’m okay.  How are you?  You sound tired…”  And hung over, I was sure she’d add.  She knew I was working on my book last night.  She knew what that meant.  I suppose I knew she didn’t have to say it.

“I’m a bit tired,” I replied, “and only just woke up.  I was up late finishing the book.”

“You have a hangover, don’t you?”

Damn!  She went and said it.  I pondered lying about it and decided not to.  What would be the point?  She already knew, but then that made her question rhetorical.

“A bit.  And I’m probably suffering from a major blood sugar crash as well.  You know me…”  I paused for a moment trying to remember why I’d called.  Ah, yes.  “So how’s everything over there?”

“We’re fine.  I just got home from Marshall—”  I forgot about her grocery shopping this morning.  The idea of her out alone somehow frightened me.  That dream was bothering me more than I thought.  “—and your father’s already taken breakfast and lunch over to Mr. Boskey.  Now we’re sitting here working on a puzzle.  Why, Vey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Mom.  Nothing’s wrong.  It’s the hangover, I suppose.  I just feel weird this morning.  A shower will probably wash it off.”

I heard the inaudible sigh escape from her lips.  She was worried about me.  She never liked the drinking even though she knew it happened in excess only when I was finishing a novel.  Most days I limited myself to three or four and sometimes fewer.  Then again, sometimes more.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, Mom, I’m fine like I said.  I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning after a long night.  I don’t seem to have my feet under me yet.  My brain will switch on momentarily, I’m sure.”  We both chuckled lightly at that.  “Listen, I know I was planning to come over today, but why don’t you and Dad pack up the dogs and come over here instead?  They can go for a swim—you two can as well, if you want—and we can watch a movie and visit or whatever comes to mind.  To be honest, I’m not sure I feel like getting out today.  Besides, you two haven’t been here since the kitchen was completed, and I think you both should be more familiar with your future retirement home.”

“Hey!” she said sarcastically before laughing.  I was serious and she knew it, but neither of them liked to discuss the possibility of ever having to rely on someone else.  They also didn’t like the thought of having to leave the home where they’d lived for decades.

“I’m serious, Mom.  About coming over here today, that is,” I added.  “It’ll be good for the two of you to get out of the house.  And I’m serious about wanting you to see what’s been done to Carr Beholden since your last visit.”

“Let me ask your father.”  I could hear her muffle the phone with her hand as she spoke to him.  While I doubt she realized it, I could still hear her.  “Richard, Dave wants to know if we’d like to go over there today instead of him coming over here.  I think we should.  I think something’s wrong although he says there isn’t.  Why don’t we take the dogs with us and spend the day there?”  I couldn’t hear his response but knew what it was the moment she came back on the line.  “You’ve got a date, mister.  Why don’t you go get a shower and we’ll plan to be there in about an hour.”

“That’s perfect.  Come on over when you’re ready.  Margaret and Helene should be over later to do chores, so we can all sit down to a good lunch while they’re here.”

“Alright, Vey, we’ll be over in a bit.  We’ll have the dogs with us—oh, food…”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom.  I still have a big bag of dog food from when I had them here a few weeks ago.  They won’t starve, I promise.”

“Great!  You go get yourself cleaned up and waked up, and we’ll see you in an hour or so,” she finished.

“Gotcha,” I responded, and then said, “Thanks, Mom.  I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, Vey.”

“Bye.”

I flipped the phone closed and took a deep breath.  It made me feel much better knowing they were coming here.  That made very little sense to me, as I couldn’t put my finger on why it mattered if we were there or here.  Sure, it wasn’t completely dishonest to say I had a hangover and didn’t feel like getting out, but it was more than that.  A lot more than that.  No matter, I thought, the issue’s already settled and they’ll be over in a short while.

I stood in the sunroom and stretched for a moment.  Increasing blood flow should help me feel better.  Even if it didn’t, the stretching itself felt good.  I stared out at the lake as I arched my back, stood on my tiptoes, and pushed my arms behind me as far as they would go.  The relief I felt escaped me as a quiet moan of sheer pleasure.

Looking through the windows that surrounded me only helped to relieve my stress and hangover-induced discomfort.  It was another calm day on Kingswell Lake.  There were a few clouds in the sky, wispy little things that held zero promise of the rain we needed so desperately, and they reflected peacefully on the still water that barely rippled.  A fish leaped into the air near the middle of the lake and created a splash as it undoubtedly caught an insect hovering a bit too low for its own health.  The tiny disturbance added to the Thomas Moran picture that lived right outside.

After standing there for another minute, I picked up the laptop, beer bottle, empty glass, and the Twinkies wrapper.  I took everything to the office where I deposited the laptop, and then I went to the kitchen with the rest.

The counter was covered with empty beer bottles.  Ten of them, in fact, and they were augmented with various bits of garbage from the confections I’d consumed all night.  I added the bottle and wrapper to the mess before placing the glass in the sink.  It was then I finally headed to the master suite where I could take a shower and hopefully bring myself back to the land of the living.

A steaming hot shower was precisely what I needed.  It was as if it washed the memory of my nightmare down the drain.  Even if that was not the case, it at least washed away the sweaty residue of my overindulgence.

I threw on a pair of shorts and a tee shirt, after which I made my way back to the office.  It was time to send Compassion in a Sweet Caress to Brody with a lame excuse about why he didn’t have it the previous night as agreed.

Although old habits die hard, I couldn’t find it within me to come up with anything new, so instead I sent it to him with a quick note: “Sorry it’s late.  I think you’ll like it.  Let me know.  Dave.”  I hit the send button, watched the manuscript disappear into the digital void, and closed the laptop.  I planned to check with Brody later.

I wandered aimlessly through the house for a few minutes considering what I could do to occupy my time until my parents arrived.  I didn’t want to be idle.  The thought of having enough time to think about what happened last night scared me.

I glanced around for a moment before deciding to go sit on the porch.  It was still early enough that the west side of the house would have no direct sunlight, so it would be somewhat cool even if the temperature already hovered well above miserable.  I made my way to the door and stepped out to the screened-in porch perfectly coinciding with the arrival of George’s old Cadillac.

“Why’s he here?” I wondered aloud.

The large black sedan pulled to a stop next to my Lexus.  At that distance, I could see Margaret sitting in the front passenger seat and someone else in the backseat whom I assumed to be Helene.  Old George McCreary was Margaret’s husband, Helene was their daughter, and he sometimes played taxi service for their rounds.

I had hired them to visit weekly to do the cleaning and general chores around Carr Beholden.  With it being so large, I wasn’t interested in doing it, and they appreciated having steady income for a job that really wasn’t difficult.  They normally would have all the cleaning and other tasks completed within four or five hours.  That time would only increase as more of the old hotel was renovated, but so far they didn’t complain about the size of the job.  I was accustomed to them arriving by nine in the morning but had rescheduled them later in the day knowing I would not be alive that early after finishing my book.

The three of them climbed out of the car in unison.  I waved and said, “Good morning.”

“Mornin’, Davey,” George yelled.  He was terribly boisterous.  Had it been earlier in the day, I would have been tempted to kill him for that.  His continuing to call me Davey would have been reason enough to make it a slow and painful death.

I pushed the screen door open as they approached the steps.

“Good morning, Mr. Lloyd,” Margaret said as she climbed the four wooden stairs to the porch.  She was neatly dressed in a light blue ankle-length skirt and white cotton blouse, a matching blue bandana tied neatly around her neck, blue sandals (I hadn’t realized such things existed), and her gray hair was tucked neatly under a dainty wide hat with a blue accenting ribbon.  If I didn’t already know she always focused on being a proper lady, I’d have suggested she was significantly overdressed for housecleaning.

“Margaret, I do wish you’d call me Dave.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t think of such a thing, Mr. Lloyd, you bein’ a famous author and all.  You’re the only celebrity here in Kingswell and deserve to be treated as such.”  That struck me as terribly untrue since I didn’t feel like a celebrity and didn’t want to be treated like one, but I let it go and listened as she continued, “Besides, you’re my employer and it wouldn’t be right proper for me to be so casual with you, now would it?”

I couldn’t argue with her.  She was a true Southern belle who demanded propriety in all matters.  How then does she put up with George? I thought.

I held the door open as she stepped by me and onto the screened porch.  Standing only five-feet-four-inches tall, she was a short petite woman, a stark contrast to her massive husband.  Although never in front of them, it wasn’t unusual for people to comment about the bizarre couple they made when standing next to each other.  He towered over her and looked as though he might crush her by mistake.

“Good morning, Mr. Lloyd,” Helene said as she followed closely behind.  Wearing a pair of skimpy denim shorts and a sleeveless button-down shirt, a dirty pair of sneakers, and a red bandana over her beautiful black hair, she was the polar opposite of both George and Margaret.  She spent her free days working with her mother, but I always suspected there was a hooligan inside that girl that one day would cut loose and break her parents’ hearts.  At only 15 years old and slightly taller than her mother, she already was a very pretty young thing who caught the eyes of most young boys, not to mention more than a few of the older men who should know better.

“Good morning, Helene.  How are you today?”

“I’m fine, and thanks for askin’.”  Her teenage charm was undeniable, a product of strict country upbringing.  Being a city man myself, however, I saw through it and knew it was a thin veil used to cloak the wild child that scratched and clawed just under the surface hoping to be set free.  I always kept her at arm’s length because of it.  She was trouble looking for a place to happen.

George patted me a bit too hard on the shoulder as he stepped through the door behind his daughter.  “How ya doin’ this mornin’, Davey?” he said too loudly.

“I’m fine, George.  And you?”

“Never been better.”

“Are you playing chauffeur today?”

“Yep.  The womenfolk wanted some company, so here I am.”

With all of us on the porch, I stepped around them and opened the door, let them enter before me, and then closed it behind us after I stepped inside.  Immediate embarrassment rushed to my face in hues of red.  Margaret stood at the door to the kitchen looking at the empty beer bottles and sweet wrappers on the island counter.

“Did you finish another book last night, Mr. Lloyd?” she asked.

“Uh…  Yes I did, and I apologize for the mess.”  I stumbled past her into the kitchen, but she caught my arm before I reached the island.

“Now, Mr. Lloyd, you needn’t worry about makin’ a mess.  You pay us to take care of that for you, so I’m not worried about that.  I do worry about how much you’re drinkin’ though.  It can’t be healthy.  All that sugary junk food is bad for you, but it’s the alcohol that’s got me worried.”

“I appreciate it, Margaret, but you don’t have to be concerned.  I generally drink more when I’m finishing a book.  That doesn’t happen all the time.  I think a splurge now and again doesn’t hurt.”

“If you say so, Mr. Lloyd.”  The disapproval on her face shined through clearly enough.  She was mothering me as she always did with everyone, and she’d said her piece and would not bring it up again.

Thankfully, it was at that moment my parents arrived.  While I’d not heard them drive up, Mom peeked her head in the door and announced their arrival with a friendly “Knock knock!”  She pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped inside before I could even respond.  The two dogs were behind her with my father right behind them.

“Hey, I’m glad you’re here!” was my greeting as I approached them.  I hugged them both and petted each of the dogs briefly who responded approvingly with happily wagging tails.  George, Margaret, and Helene then said their hellos to my parents as a general free-for-all conversation ensued as is normal amongst friends.

We made our way into the living room where Helene settled in a corner like a spoiled child.  I understood her woes; she was the only young person here and was only here to do a job.  Her parents, on the other hand, were close friends of my parents and enjoyed the unexpected opportunity to visit with them.  Margaret would soon decide it was time to get to work, but until then Helene would take a few minutes for herself.

As the others settled on and around the main couch where they could talk, I stepped into the kitchen and prepared a tray with glasses of ice, a jug of iced tea, a bowl of sugar cubes, a handful of spoons, and a handful of napkins.  Even a city guy—a widower no less—knows how to be civil in his own home, I thought.

I returned to the living room with the setup and placed it on the cocktail table in front of the overly large couch.  Everyone prepared their own glass and sat chatting idly and trying to catch up.  The entire scenario struck me as funny because these people saw each other almost daily yet acted as though it had been months since they spoke.  “Them’s country folk,” I facetiously mumbled under my breath.

Perhaps fifteen minutes passed before Margaret stood and announced she and Helene needed to do what they were paid to do.  They headed off to the kitchen for supplies as George, my parents, and I continued talking.

The dogs were comfortable on the love seat across the room.  I didn’t mind if they got up on the furniture, and I’d have to admit there was some measure of enjoyment in letting them do it when I knew it bothered my dad.  He was of the strict mind that animals should never be on anything except the ground.  That mentality never sank into my head when I was growing up.  Even though I didn’t have pets, I didn’t mind if other people’s pets used my furniture as long as they didn’t ruin it.  The two canines were as comfortable as possible in their tucked away location.  I would let them sleep a bit before taking them out for a swim.  That happened to be their favorite activity when they visited.  Who was I to rob them of such a simple pleasure?

During a break in the conversation as Mom fixed herself another glass of tea and Dad stepped over to quietly scold the dogs for being on the furniture, George walked to one of the large panoramic windows and absently looked outside.  He took a sip of his beverage, and then he began whistling a tune that caught my attention like an explosion.  It was eerily familiar and I glanced around the room because everyone had fallen silent.  They were looking at George.  Even Margaret and Helene had stepped back into the room and were staring at him.

“What is that tune, George?”  I had to know.  Only after the question spilled out of my mouth did I realize I already knew and in fact didn’t want him to answer.  I wished there was a way to retract my inquiry, to reverse time long enough for a do-over.  But it was too late for that.  I stood terrified at what he was whistling.

He turned to look at me.  “I ain’t rightly sure what it is, Davey.  Been stuck in my craw since’n I got up this mornin’.”

Had a mirror been placed in front of me at that particular moment, I’m quite certain what would have been staring back could easily have been described as a mad man.  The music struck a chord in me that echoed back in the look of horror on my face.

I was overly forceful when I again spoke to George.  “Keep whistling it.”  The commandment got everyone’s attention.  It was a demand more than a request and they knew it.  I felt bad for that despite needing him to repeat it.

In response, he began whistling the broken tune.  He was off-key as was normal for George, and his rhythm was anything but consistent.  His musical failings aside, the melody struck the very heart of me.  I was quite certain it had the same effect on everyone else considering the ghostly faces that now stared at him in disbelief.

Mom stood up from the couch with a look of concern on her face.  I glanced at her, took note that all color had drained from her complexion, and immediately turned my attention back to George.

“Keep whistling it,” I repeated.  The order was clear and inarguable.  He looked at me for the briefest of moments and realized I was deadly serious.  As the tune formed and escaped from his lips, I supplemented the music with the words I could remember: “We are pleasure’s anguish and pain’s desire… We bring undying forever to feed our ire… Hourglass sands are had in vain… Feel our dark heart bleed your pain…”

George’s whistled rendition of the pat-a-cake song stopped abruptly.  My own voice trailed off as I realized how impossible this was.  The silence that followed was punctuated by only one other noise: the sound of Mom’s glass of iced tea crashing to the floor at her feet.

[Introduction | Part 3 | Part 5]

I opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch (or is that ‘into’ the porch when it’s enclosed?).  With the four six packs of beer and a fresh supply of confections pulling my arms in what must be unnatural ways, I approached the main door, unlocked it and stepped inside.  The rush of cool air-conditioned breeze that greeted me felt most welcome.  It was hot outside; quite hot, in fact, although it was by no means very hot by Texas standards.  It was summer after all.  Nevertheless, I took great comfort in the onslaught of cold air pushed against my sweaty skin by both the ceiling fans and air conditioner.

After making my way to the kitchen—a room I’d only recently completed in my continuing upgrade of Carr Beholden—I put the beer in the refrigerator.  Before closing the door, I grabbed one of the lukewarm Coronas and put it in the freezer where it would more rapidly cool.  Immediate consumption of alcohol was blazingly fresh on my mind despite knowing I’d soon be eating far too many processed desserts.

I then turned and dumped the bag of sugary goodies on the island behind me.  Only with full view of the sweets spread out in that manner did I even realize I’d gone far overboard in preparing for my end-of-book fix.  It didn’t matter; at least I knew I was prepared.  I grabbed a package of Hostess chocolate CupCakes and set it aside before sweeping the entire mass into a pile that I immediately tossed into a cheap basket pulled from under the counter.  I set that aside, made special note of where the first victim of my sweet tooth was carefully laid, and left the kitchen.

My laptop was in the office and would obviously be needed if this evening was to be productive.  I jaunted down the hall and into my working space, unplugged the Dell from its power and network connections, then returned to the kitchen and retrieved my insult to diabetics everywhere.  Chocolate would kick off the event, followed by the next item that grabbed my attention.

With sugar coma-inducing afters and computer in hand, I walked to the sunroom and found a cozy spot in the northeast corner.  This part of the original wraparound porch faced east, the screened-in portion west, and the open deck north where it had full view of the lake.  With my new spot chosen, the sun hung directly overhead and moved toward the other end of the house.  I could avoid direct sunlight in this location.

Given the plethora of trees around the old hotel, it was possible to avoid direct sunlight in all but the most remote corners of the sunroom in the morning and screened-in porch in the evening.  The open section of the deck never received unwelcome sunlight except indirectly in the late afternoon before the sun fell behind thick foliage on that side of the house.

Standing in the sunroom placing my laptop and sugar fix next to the couch resting against the east-facing windows, I was amazed at how cool this room stayed despite its openness.  Then again, it had full air conditioning, three ceiling fans, and only received morning sunlight filtered through the trees.  Unlike the screened porch on the opposite end of the house that was exposed to the hottest part of the day and faced the hottest part of the sky, this room was an escape from the weather that equally let me enjoy every nuance nature had to offer.

After placing the laptop on the small table in the corner and dropping the cupcakes on top of it, I returned to the kitchen to fetch a large glass of ice water.  I hadn’t realized how hot and thirsty I’d become until I consumed the first glass before making it through the kitchen door to the hallway.  I spun around, made another full glass, and headed back to the sunroom where I made myself comfortable.

The laptop whirred to life.  I logged in, opened the manuscript for Compassion in a Sweet Caress, and scrolled down to the bottom of the document.  I fetched the chocolate goodies from the table and opened the package, retrieved one of the cholesterol-increasing cupcakes, and took a bite from it before putting it to rest on top of the other one, and all of that was in preparation for completing a single book.

I reread the last few pages of the novel to regain my position in the story.  The unwitting hero, William, had only just discovered the nature of the alien visitors invading his world.  He was on the verge of realizing a great truth: they were the very gods our species had worshiped throughout history.  In fact, as he was about to discover, their names, mental images projected by them as their means of communication, resembled in disconcerting ways the names of all of humankind’s major deities.

Ah, yes, this should really piss off the citizens of Kingswell, I thought.  I’m insulting their religious beliefs and making a mockery of their favored god.  Oh well.

My fingers rested easily on the keyboard and immediately found the rhythm necessary to complete the story.  William would make his discovery.  He and those around him would experience a great epiphany regarding the nature of the universe, of humanity, and of religion.  The aliens would offer a final decision to mankind, a choice between discarding the ways of the past in order to reach the future or knowing their destruction was insured, and the story would end with a big question mark about the fate of humanity.  An armada of non-corporeal ships would surround Earth, vessels impervious to the weapons of that time, crafts invisible to technology and bearing power unlike anything imagined.  Panic would grip every corner of the world.  The choice would be unavoidable.  And there it would end.

Perhaps 45 minutes later both cupcakes were gone and the glass of water was empty.  That’s when I realized I needed more fuel.  William was in danger of petering out before his time.

I closed the laptop and picked up the discarded confection packaging before returning to the kitchen.  Once there, I tossed the wasteful plastic container into the trash.  I then filled and consumed a fresh dose of water before preparing another helping to take with me back to the sunroom.

But something was missing.  Oh, the beer!  I opened the freezer only to discover the Corona was entirely frozen.

No matter, I thought, as the others are cold by now and this one hasn’t exploded, so it can be returned to the refrigerator to melt.  I put the bottle on the top shelf and retrieved one that had not converted to alcoholic ice.  I also grabbed one of the Mrs. Baird’s Fruity Apple Pies from the basket before heading back to the east wing of the house where my latest novel lay incomplete in digital form.

Several hours, several beers, and several sweets passed as I completed William’s journey from ignorant primitive to confused and informed hominid facing the end of all he’d ever known.  The sun had set at least a few hours before.  I was moderately drunk and running on a sugar high that would have killed most humans.  The basket of confections in the kitchen was nearly half-empty.  At least one full six pack of beer was gone and another was teetering on the edge of oblivion.  I was ever so thankful I didn’t have to drive anywhere to find dinner, although I wasn’t sure I could stomach anything for a late-evening meal considering how much junk food I’d consumed.

After typing “The End” in the digital version of my latest work and feeling a horrific loneliness in knowing Beth was not there to share the event with me, I sat in the corner of the sunroom with the document saved, the laptop closed, the glass of ice water empty, and a half-full bottle of beer resting on the table.  I nestled back on the couch to enjoy the darkness that encompassed Carr Beholden.  I could see the moon reflecting on the surface of the lake to the north, a glass-like sheet of water that offered very little motion in the still night.  There was no wind and not a cloud in the sky and the lake seemed like a solid patch of black ice.

“Dave, you have to run.  Go now.”

It sounded like Beth’s voice.  What in the hell was that about?  Chills ran up and down my spine as I listened intently.

“Go now, my love, before it’s too late.  It may already be…”  I was quite certain it was Beth’s voice, but how could that be?  She was dead—still dead as far as I knew.

I glanced around the dark sunroom and realized innumerable pairs of glowing eyes looked back at me from the darkness.  Had I been on the screened or open porch, I’m sure I would have wet my pants at that point.  The glowing embers floated unblinkingly in the blackness.  They were red and amber and piercing jewels that seemed to see right through me.  They’re hungry, I thought, and they’re licking their chops while sizing me up.  I felt trapped within my little world.  What was happening?

“Babe, you have to go now.  You have to leave,” the voice said.  “Don’t hesitate.  Don’t think about it.  Just go.”

I laughed, but it was the kind of demented laugh one expects from the mentally ill.  I knew Beth was dead and I knew she couldn’t be talking to me.  Yet she was.

I looked through the glass that contained me and realized I felt like a fish in a tank, a piece of food on display, perhaps a lobster sitting in the tank at the entrance of a seafood restaurant, a desperate animal that wanted nothing more than to live yet was offered up in public display as an unintentional entreaty to eat me.

The eyes…  They were all around me.  They stared at me as they slowly changed positions with each other, a bizarre waltz performed by the hungry dead that contained them.  They consumed me without being near enough to do so.  They scared the hell out of me.

“Vey,” the hidden speaker said.  Vey?  While everyone on the planet called me David or Dave or, like Old George, Davey, there were only two people on the planet who called me Vey: Mom and Beth.  One of them was dead and the other certainly was not in my house.

The voice continued: “Vey, listen to me and listen carefully.  There’s no place to hide and there’s no safe place.  But you still have to go, and you have to go now.  Get out.  Get out!”  The imperative at the end of that sentence frightened me like nothing ever had before.  It sent a chill throughout my body the likes of which very few people have ever experienced.  I was certain of that.  The emotional plea was like a knife cutting to the core of my being.

“Who are you?” I asked.  I felt silly for asking.  There was no one to be seen.  The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.  I was alone.

“Go!” it shouted back.  “It’s coming.  They’re coming.  Soon, my love, all too soon, the darkness will come and it will be too late.  You must go now.  Now!”

I wasn’t sure at that point if I’d taken leave of my senses or if I’d taken leave of my senses, but I was sure it was one of those two options.  “It” and “they” used interchangeably?  “The darkness” as a threat?  I suspected I was finally losing my mind.  I’d never before heard such rubbish.  It made no sense.  And yet I felt a level of fear the likes of which I’d never before experienced.

“Vey, listen to me.  The end is here.  The time to escape may already have passed.  You must listen to me, my love…”

The sound of children singing began to overwhelm the—her voice.  They drowned her out with increasing volume.  They were everywhere.  They were inside the house.  They were outside.  They were in my head.  It was the recital of some pat-a-cake song youths would sing while clapping their hands together.

We are pleasure’s anguish
And pain’s desire
We bring undying forever
To feed our ire
Hourglass sands are had in vain
Feel our dark heart bleed your pain

We are temptation’s hatred
Feed our lust
We make all your worlds
Burn to dust
Hope is just a fleeting promise
Darkness comes and is upon us

We are bringers of night
And dark despair
We are legions of hate
And cruel uncare
We are manifest and dark alas
Into hellfire your gods are cast

We bring death to hope
And end of days
We consume your spirits
On souls we graze
Cataclysm is what we give
Darkness now is all there is

I awoke with a start.  Morning sunlight shined in through the windows.  I blinked repeatedly as I tried to comprehend where I was and when I was.  I bolted upright on the couch in the sunroom and glanced around in all directions.  The laptop sat quietly on the table, a half-empty beer bottle rested next to it, an empty Twinkies wrapper lay on the floor where it undoubtedly had been blown by the ceiling fans or air conditioner or both, and the world was as it should be.  There were no eyes surrounding the house.  There was no voice calling out to me from an ethereal plane.  There was nothing but my sweat-soaked clothes clinging to me as the morning light revealed the same world that existed before I passed out the night before.  And yet I could feel Beth’s presence.  Her voice echoed in my head as I tried to understand.

“Get out…”

It was all a dream, I thought.  All a dream…

How odd.  Why would Beth’s voice come to me in a dream when I wasn’t remembering something that had happened in the past?  And what was up with the warnings to leave and the eyes in the darkness?  What was that about?  What did the children’s rhyme mean?  What was ‘the darkness’?  Who were ‘they’?  What was it all about?

I was more than discomforted by the experience.  I’d had dreams before.  Who hadn’t?  But this was different.  I normally dreamed of real events.  I couldn’t remember ever dreaming of something as extraordinary as voices from the darkness along with eyes that seemed to belong to no physical body.

There was no way I could explain how that made me feel, how completely out of touch with reality I was as I lay there on the couch in the sunroom on a perfectly normal day.  It was as though the universe had changed while I slept, had somehow transformed into something quite different from what I was already familiar with.  It was like the world ended overnight and I had missed it.

[Introduction | Part 2 | Part 4]

“Hey, Dad, how are you today?” I asked.

“I’m alright I guess.  I’m not feeling too well is all.”

That came as no surprise.  My father’s health had been failing for many years.  That was a major reason I decided to move out here after Beth’s accident.  Her job had kept us in Dallas prior to that, so once that particular fetter was removed, albeit brutally, I saw no reason I couldn’t relocate nearer my parents.

He continued, “But I’m still kickin’ and can’t complain about it.  What’re you up to today?”

“I’m at Joe’s and thought I’d call to see if you needed anything.  If so, I can run by your place on my way home.”

“You’re already in your car, aren’t you?” he asked.  How I hated that he knew me so well.

“Um, no.  Well, yes I am,” I stuttered.  “I’m about to leave though.”

“I thought so.”  The faintest hint of a chuckle followed that sentence.  I’d been caught being forgetful once again and we both knew it.  That made me laugh out loud as he shouted over his shoulder to Mom, “Honey, Dave’s up to Kingswell’s and wants to know if we need anything before he leaves.”  I listened to the phone’s silence which contained her response from somewhere else in the house.  His attention then turned back to me.  “Nope, we don’t need anything.  She said she’s goin’ to Marshall in the mornin’ for groceries.”

I was relieved I wouldn’t be forced to go back into the store.  I could see both George and Joe standing at the counter chatting as they watched me through the overly placarded windows, and while I liked both of them, I had run out of patience for George’s sometimes-incessant rambling.

“I just thought I’d check before I head home,” I said.

“Your mom wants to know if you’d like to come over for dinner.  I think she said she’s making Mexican food.  Or maybe she said she would if you were coming.”

He knew I loved Mom’s cooking and thoroughly enjoyed her twist on Mexican food.  Often it was a menagerie of spicy dishes from chicken enchiladas to build-your-own tacos and burritos with all the fixings.  I regretted that I would miss it if in fact she went that route.

“No, I can’t make it this evening, Dad.  I’m finishing a book so I can send it to the publisher in the morning.  I’m certain it’ll take me most of the evening.  I appreciate the offer though, and I know you’ll save some for me, right?”  He could hear the ribbing in that last part given how much he also enjoyed this particular family feast.

“No promises, son,” he responded with a laugh.  “No promises at all.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He chuckled again before asking, “You’ll be by tomorrow then?”

There was a certain yearning in that question.  Was it loneliness?  I suspected as much.  Although my parents were quite independent and had survived out here on their own for many years, age and declining health have a way of bringing out our desires for companionship.  This is never more evident than when it concerns loved ones we may have otherwise taken for granted.  I’d noticed in both of them an increased desire to visit with me as often as possible since I moved to Kingswell.  My new proximity to them helped me visit regularly without the three-hour drive from and back to Dallas.

“I certainly will.  I’ll call you before I head over since I don’t know how late I’ll be this evening and therefore don’t know how late I’ll get up in the morning.  I’ll touch base when I’m functional.”

His smile came through the phone clearly.  “Then it’s a plan.  I’ll let your mother know to expect you tomorrow, and we’ll both want to hear about the latest book.”

“It’s a deal,” I said, and then, “I’ll let you go.  Enjoy your evening and don’t eat too much Mexican food—or at least not all of it!”

He laughed for a moment before saying, “Alright, son, you take care of yourself and get that book done.  We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, Dad.  Bye.”

I flipped the phone shut and slipped it into my pocket.  One last glance at Kingswell’s General Store showed George and Joe still standing at the counter chewing each other’s ears off.  I was happy to see they’d stopped watching me.

I put the car in drive and pulled out onto Allen Camp Road for the short distance to FM 727 where I turned north and headed back to Kingswell Lake where I lived.

When I turned the radio on to fill the short distance back to State Highway 49 and the even shorter distance from there to my private drive, Marshall’s own KBWC was playing Sonny Fortune’s “Five Four Trane.”  The jazz created from his incomparable saxophone playing offered the perfect way to get me in the mood to finish Compassion in a Sweet Caress.  My fingers played the rhythm on the steering wheel as my head bopped from side to side.  I’m quite certain I appeared out of touch with the world to anyone who might have seen me as I drove past.  I didn’t care.

As soon as I reached the intersection of SH 49 and FM 727, Sonny Fortune continuing to blare in the background, I turned west and covered the fifty or so yards that separated me from the entrance to Carr Beholden.  The small private drive ran from the highway to the lakeside hotel-turned-residence where I lived.

Like Carr Beholden itself, the tiny road was surrounded by trees and undergrowth that transported me to a different world.  Driving the 150 yards from SH 49 to the house was a joy not suited for the claustrophobic.  The road was barely wide enough to accommodate two vehicles if both were mostly in the ditch.  Thick foliage and branches reached out as though the forest itself wished to capture any invaders making this journey to isolation.  It was a magical path that wound over hills and through East Texas woodlands until abruptly opening to a majestic view of Kingswell Lake tucked behind the timber building I called home.

Carr Beholden was built in 1832, more than a decade before Texas became a state, and it served as respite for the lumbermen, riverboat crews, and dockhands that swarmed into this area during the rapid expansion of shipping enabled by the waterways that traveled all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.  Big Cypress Bayou provided a channel between Kingswell Lake and Caddo Lake, and Caddo connected to the Red River.  From there it was easy sailing to major ports throughout the Mississippi River Valley and ultimately to the Gulf.

The town of Kingswell was a splinter from Jefferson, the “Riverport to the Southwest” during the 1800s, and Kingswell Lake provided the last major reservoir between Caddo Lake and the bayou itself.  The hotel was established to accommodate the large influx of people who came in search of work.  It often served as permanent housing for many since they could live on the lake where all the traffic must pass regardless of which direction it moved.  Multiple boats could moor at the hotel while remaining just a few minutes away from Jefferson.

The whole area was a shining success story more than a century ago when it was awash in money.  It remained that way for at least 75 years.  Then in 1873, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers removed the Great Raft from the Red River above Shreveport.  With the coming of railroads, the government believed dropping the water level in Big Cypress Bayou would not cause a significant impact since the waterways were no longer needed.  In much the same way as the bayou itself, Jefferson and Kingswell dried up in what later became known as the “great decline.”  I always believed that referred to the bayou’s water level as much as the local economies.

Prior to and following the disabling of the waterways, Kingswell had very little to offer compared to Jefferson since the hotel was the biggest building and most successful business.  The two towns actually housed significant numbers of people who worked the docks and ships or who were involved in moving supplies from the water to ground-based transportation.  Jefferson was where the real action was while Kingswell was just a rest stop along the way.

When I decided to move here, the availability of housing was, at best, nonexistent.  There were farms tucked away in the hill country.  There were a few abandoned business buildings scattered throughout the area.  There was plenty of open land that could be used for building something from scratch.  But when it came to buying a home, this was not the place to look.  And then I found Carr Beholden.

The Carr family still owned it in the early 1900s when they converted it to a private residence.  That conversion involved nothing more dramatic than removing the hotel references on the signs and adding a handful of indoor bathrooms.  Walter Carr, the sole remaining member of the family, died in 1976, leaving the place deserted.  It seemed no one had interest in something that large and so out of the way.  Besides, East Texas is certainly not known as a vacation paradise or even a major tourism destination.  So the building and land both languished on Kingswell Lake.  The private pier, what amounted to a private lake since the nearest residents were in Jefferson to the west, and just over a thousand acres of East Texas forest and hills stood unused for three decades.

I realized the moment I saw it that it offered enough room to accommodate whatever I might want to do with the place—including moving my parents in as they got older and could no longer live on their own.  They hated that idea but understood my reasoning.  I suppose they thought they’d live forever and would never need any kind of charity.  Don’t we all wish the same?

After seeing it only once, I purchased the old hotel in 2005 and immediately wondered how insane I’d become since Beth died.  Sitting empty and without upkeep for thirty years meant the place was in shambles.  The forest had overgrown all but the building itself, the wooden lodge seemed on the verge of collapse, half the pier had already fallen into the water, and it lacked most modern conveniences.  Thankfully the building proved they constructed some things to last back then as its appearances betrayed a sturdy structure that undoubtedly would stand for another century if someone would show it a bit of care and maintenance.

I engaged some locals in need of work to help clean it up and brought in contractors to do the major work.  It took three months to complete the repairs and bring the area back to some level of livability.  I realized it was worth the effort only after I moved in.

I was in no hurry to complete all the repairs since I only needed it to be safe and to have a small portion of it in which to live.  Once I moved in, I could continue the work on the rest of the rooms until the entire hotel became inhabitable… and presentable.

After repairing the structural concerns such as putting in a new staircase, I had two rooms converted into a master suite, another room into an office, and several other rooms into various requirements for civility: a game room with pool table and other diversions, a media room, a library, and several guest quarters.  I also had the entire building wired for electricity, added new plumbing and more bathrooms, and fixed the worrisome septic system.  The massive bar was converted to a combination bar and dining room while the old dining room was turned into a large living area.  I also added satellite television service and a T1 for internet access (the lack of any high-speed online facilities this far out in the country meant a dedicated circuit was my only option).  I screened in part of the wraparound porch that encircled three sides of the building and glassed in another section of it to create a sunroom.  I’d already decided to leave the upstairs balconies open.  I’d also replaced the crippled pier with a new one.

The more I made it my own, the more I realized I was running out of ideas for the space available from a twenty-bedroom hotel with almost 10,000 square feet of usable room.  None of that mattered since I’d rather have extra space than not enough.

As I pulled up to Carr Beholden, the noon sun high overhead baked the world in summer heat.  I parked beneath a large oak tree so the car would be shaded for the rest of the day (I’d not had a garage or carport built yet).  I took a deep breath as though leaving the vehicle meant stepping into some toxic environment where one could only survive with the air already in the lungs.  I turned the car off, grabbed the three bags from the back seat, and climbed out of the rapidly warming interior and made my way to the screened-in porch.

I stood just outside the door even as beads of sweat began taking shape on my forehead, and I looked out across the 1,100-acre lake.  This place had grown on me.  This was home.  Perhaps it was finally time to sell the old house in Dallas.

[Introduction | Part 1 | Part 3]