Джош Малерман - A House at the Bottom of a Lake

Before she reached any larger room, her light showed her a mirror on the hall wall.

Don’t look into it.

It was the first thought that came to mind. Just like when she’d told herself not to look in the mirror at home when she had a feeling she looked like shit.

Just like it, but not just like.

Don’t look into it.

Of course the space ( the whole house, the lake, too ) surrounding her beam of light was a blackness as dark as burial. And the objects that were revealed, in the beam, rippled unnaturally. Yes, an underwater mirror in a pitch-black house might have been a bad idea.

But Amelia couldn’t resist.

Bubbles erupted from between her lips as she gasped, mutely, catching sight of her face in the glass.

Medusa.

But not Medusa. Just Amelia. Not a wrinkled gray Gorgon who turned you to stone, but rather a distorted representation of a young woman, her skin as pale as the drapes in a morgue, her hair floating like seaweed ( snakes ) above her frightened but curious face. It was such an everyday task, looking in the mirror, that she’d instinctively expected to see her everyday face. But this woman, this her, this Amelia had rippling skin, cheeks half an inch higher than they normally were. Lips curled up at their ends in a false smile.

Even her eyes looked different. Unfocused. As if Amelia were privy to the one sight no person truly wanted to see: This is what she might look like dead.

Found dead.

One day.

Found drowned.

Drowned.

Amelia needed to get back to the top. Needed to get air.

She shone the light once more, deeper into the house. A pair of matching bubbles escaped her nostrils.

Then she swam from the mirror, back to the foyer, toward the half front door.

You’re not gonna make it and James is gonna call the police and they’re gonna find you floating down here. Or maybe not floating… maybe they’ll find you flat on the floor, like that coatrack, disobeying the laws of a lake.

She crossed the threshold and tried not to think about what it would feel like: drowning. Was this it? The earliest stages? The last few moments before a person understood there would be no getting back up?

Would she see stars first? Would she black out before or after the pain of it became unbearable?

James. Swim toward James.

Amelia exited the house and foolishly thought about turning back, to close the door, as if she’d been rude for leaving it open. But there was no door to close and her arms and legs were already propelling her up. Up.

Up?

She couldn’t see the surface above and for one insane second she thought maybe she was swimming down.

She was starting to believe she was going to die.

Curiosity killed the cat and the snooping seventeen-year-old girl.

James would mistake her floating body for a living one. He’d think she was joking.

First dates. And whom would he tell about this date? Just as he’d told Amelia about the girl who broke her arm bowling, who would hear about the girl that went diving and popped out of the water as a bloated, veined corpse?

But death hadn’t happened yet.

No blackout. No stars.

She swam harder, pulling herself up, as if the water had rungs of its own.

The last thing she saw before breaking the surface was the second-story window, partially shadowed by the roof.

Is there a dresser up there? she wondered, absurdly, too close to passing out. A nightstand and a wardrobe, too?

Then she broke the surface and all her terrible imaginings dissipated into the air she desperately breathed.

Part horror, part triumph, the sound echoed across the third lake and chilled James cold.

“Hey!” he called, gripping the canoe’s side. “Holy shit! Are you okay?”

Amelia wiped snot from her nose and lips.

“We need scuba gear,” she said.

“Yeah, that’s what I—”

“It’s furnished, James.”

They locked eyes. James in the canoe. Amelia treading water four feet from the ladder.

“It’s what?”

“It’s furnished.”

Amelia didn’t recognize how claustrophobic the third lake made her feel until they set out to leave it. Then the word struck her like a slap.

Claustrophobic.

She was afraid the canoe wouldn’t squeeze out the way it squeezed in. Afraid they’d be stuck there, on the third lake, with the house, forever.

It was silly, of course. They could just swim through the tunnel, could walk on shore, a dozen different ways to leave. But still, she’d felt it.

Panic.

But the canoe made it out just the way it’d come in. Only now there were even more paint flakes in the water, more of a dent in the canoe.

“Uncle Bob’s got a good long hose,” James said as they reached shore at last: the short stretch of sand that constituted Uncle Bob’s little beach.

“We keep coming back to hoses,” Amelia said.

“We do. I guess that’s our spirit animal?”

But Amelia thought of the dead fish floating a foot below the surface of the third lake.

James got out of the canoe.

“It won’t work,” Amelia said. “The hose.”

“It won’t?”

“No. I tried it before. It doesn’t work like a straw.”

James looked thoughtful. He looked out across the first lake but Amelia knew he was actually looking farther than that.

“Does your uncle have scuba gear?”

“He might.”

“Would you know how to use it?”

“No.” He looked ponderous again. “My cousin has diving gear.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah. I’ll get it from him tonight.”

Clipped syllables. Short sentences. Amelia knew why.

They were planning on returning to the third lake.

Without discussing the idea, they were going back.

This meant something.

“Tomorrow then,” James said.

“Yes. Wait… no. I work tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“During the day.”

“Where do you work?”

“Darlene’s Grocery.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

“All right.”

“The next day,” Amelia said.

James nodded.

“All right.”

They looked into each other’s eyes. Something quiet passed. They’d been given a teaser, a foyer, a hall with a mirror, and they wanted to see more.

You’d go back with or without her, James thought. But the idea felt ugly.

They nodded at the same time, both pretending they were agreeing to a second date in two days. But really both were saying, Yes, yes I’d go back alone.

I’d go back this second if I could.

Darlene’s Grocery featured twelve aisles of everything a family could need. From food to toilet paper, Amelia’s co-worker Marcy liked to say. We’ve got both ends covered. And it was true. All ends, in fact. Including the flippers and snorkels and masks that made up the small, but popular, water aisle.

Working the next day’s shift, Amelia passed those bathing suits and water wings and thought about the house countless times.

What is it?

Specifically she thought about the coatrack and the glass bowl, neither of which should have stayed put in an environment like that. And the more she thought about it, the more the pristine state of the wood walls bothered her, too, the more the string hanging straight down from the lightbulb in the foyer confused her.

What is it?

These three words made a bigger racket than the more obvious four:

Why is it there?

She stocked shelves with paper towels and cereal and helped Marcy void an order. She talked briefly to the delivery guys from Saxon Foods about the apples and why some of them were bad and one of them asked her if she could do him a favor and keep quiet about the state of the apples? They were fine when they left Saxon, he said. He must’ve gone too fast over a bump. Boss would be angry. Amelia inspected the apples, found they were good enough, and told him it would be their little secret.