They retired shortly after finishing their wine. Lance had prepared the guest room upstairs for Andy, and as they walked upstairs, he watched his friend for any sign of the distress he had shown in the driveway. Andy only seemed tired, and after saying good night, the house became dark, its sounds reflecting the cooling temperature outside.
Lance lay awake for some time after he heard Andy’s soft snores from down the hall. Stub’s story still hung in his mind like a ghoul, circling him until his back was turned, and then pouncing. Stub had been right—there were some things that were so awful they defied logic. As Lance drifted off, he pictured the man Stub had described sitting in the chair, covered in gore. But when the man looked at him, instead of a stranger, he saw his father’s face.
Something woke him hours later, his mouth dry and his throat parched from the alcohol he had consumed. He inhaled, the sound loud in the empty room. His eyes searched the space around him; deep shadows clung to the corners, contrasted with milky light that leaked in through the open door. He listened, searching for the source of the sound that woke him, not sure that it had been a sound at all. He reached out, feeling in the darkness for the smooth stock of the Mossberg he knew was there. His palm touched it, and he drew it to his side as he stood from the bed.
Stopping at the door to his room, Lance peered at the house beneath him. Moonlight filtered in through the bay windows, and he could smell the lingering vapors of dinner wafting up from the kitchen. Nothing moved below him.
Trying to sidle out of the room without making a sound on the wooden floor of the landing was all but impossible, as a creaking board let out a shriek like a banshee. Without flipping on the light attached to the weapon, he made his way around the perimeter of the banister until he drew even with the guest bedroom. Not wanting to burst into his friend’s room with a shotgun in the middle of the night, he hovered outside the half-open door and listened for Andy’s breathing.
The refrigerator’s fan below him whirred into life and he lost any hearing advantage he had. Feeling stupid and as overcautious as a parent checking on a newborn, he nudged the door to the guest room open.
The covers to Andy’s bed were thrown back, his pillow like an island in the middle of the mattress. Andy was nowhere to be seen.
Lance flipped on the light in the room to confirm what he already knew. Ducking low and flipping on the white light attached to the shotgun, he scanned beneath the bed. Nothing but a few dust bunnies were revealed in its glow.
He stood, his heart picking up speed. He turned from the room and began shining the light in swinging arcs across the breadth of the house.
“Andy!” His voice sounded lifeless as it bounced off the hardwood floors. He sped down the stairs, being careful to point the gun at the rafters in case he tripped or Andy startled him. His eyes came to rest on the floor in the living room.
What he had originally disregarded as a patch of moonlight he now realized was the stain he had noticed his first night in the house. The moon had made a full revolution from waning to waxing and now hung bloated in the sky above the lake. Lance walked over to the spot and gazed at the oblong stain. It was exactly the same pattern as before, not a speck of the silvery blotch different. His vision traveled up and out of the window before him and his breath stuck in his throat like something solid.
Andy stood waist-deep in the water below the house.