They stopped knocking. Maybe the storm scared them off? Maybe the sun?

  I had crossed over to the other side of exhaustion. I felt feeble, like I was about to shatter. Even as I sat in this cabin on an island surrounded by a lake with a revolver in my hand, I questioned my reality.

  The storm roared and raged like the end times. It started right at dawn and took hours to die. Somehow the lack of knocking was actually more oppressive than the knocking itself.

  It was tempting to risk sleep, but I wanted to be out the door as soon as the storm was over. I took inventory of the home after a breakfast of instant ramen and saltine crackers; I figured it wasn’t stealing since everything here apparently belonged to me. I had really only gone through the first floor and the rooms above, I avoided the basement then; when you open the door you are met with a stag skull hanging above the stairs with a third eye carved out of the forehead.

  One look at that was enough for me to say “nope” and shut the door; but I would be lying if I said that I didn’t feel some urge to go deeper. I really doubt that I would be able to stave off that urge to descend again. I had to stay on task, find whatever valuables I could and get out.

  Wasn’t my house much smaller last night? It was a shack before, I could have sworn it. Yesterday was a blur. I probably just overlooked it because I was beyond overwhelmed.

  This all became an afterthought when I found the backpack. Eustice, I don’t know what you were involved in, but finding an old jansport filled with seventeen grand leaves me with a lot of questions. There was more than enough in the pack to buy some shitty car and get the hell out of Oakvane. I stuffed the revolver in the outer pocket, frowning at the less-than-discreet silhouette it left against the teal canvas. What the fuck am I doing? Who am I anymore? Am I revealing some hidden truth that Chase saw? Was he right when he called me a selfish coward?

  The storm died, like it was confirming that last thought. I opened the cabin’s door and returned to the light. Normally I find the scent of a passed storm to be intoxicating, like the potential of that spent lighting infuses the spirit. I had closed my eyes to take a deep breath, but the joy of petrichor was drained away when I crossed the threshold and saw the sign. It was affixed to one of the trees surrounding my home by this purplish and too organic string. Really, it looked more like tendons peeled free from muscle like string cheese.

  It was a doormat, one of those really cheap but stout novelty ones. The phrase “Welcome! Did you bring snacks?” was printed on it. I hated that, but it did remind me of one of the Rules of Eustice: “Sugar cubes in the feeders, every morning.” I humored Eustice, thinking it would be one last time. I wanted to leave my house, but I was crippled by the thought that I would inevitably wind up back here. Maybe the Knockers drove Eustice crazy, but there was a chance that the sugar cubes would appease them. May as well see it through.

  That was quick work. I found one feeder at each of the cardinal and ordinal directions, about halfway from the shore. They weren’t empty like I assumed, I could see that the old cubes within were now this muddy gray mess. Those cubes lost their remaining shape when I cast them down to the ground. They splattered, leaving mounds of mush that dissolved too fast on the drenched soil.

  I made my way to my boat, that’s when I noticed the first of the covered tree stands overlooking the lake. Rough hashmarks were in the bark, like Eustice had been keeping track of something. Four hashes marred the trunk, hovering ominously over a wood axe with strange symbols painted on the head. I tried to devote those shapes to memory, but found my mind unable to really grasp them. In ways, it seemed like the shapes were defending themselves by defying my memory.

  Fucking Eustice, what weird shit were you actually into?

  I was at the shore then, standing in a pool of gunk. Vaguely the size of a manhole cover, it seemed to shrink the longer it sat in the sun. Submerged in the fluid was a golden ring, suspended in what amounted to melted petroleum jelly. It reminded me of those really drippy special effects in the original Alien movie and that was an association I did not want. Apparently Chase was right about my greed, because I pocketed that ring- as if a backpack full of money wasn’t sufficient to my needs. That substance felt like it stuck on me, slowly absorbing like thick hand cream. It burned, just like too dry skin does when moisturized.

  Crossing the lake a second time was easier with the sun helping me. It made the journey seem far less ominous. At least I could see the rocky shore on the other side this time.

  There were other houses here. Homes that sat on what I guess you’d call the beach. None of them showed signs of inhabitation; like they had just been left in an abrupt, but orderly fashion.

  I wasn’t alone, though.

  The cop was there, leaning against the grill of his old cruiser, His tan uniform was drenched and adhering to his frame. There was this impossible smile on his face, one that seemed to go beyond the boundaries his lips had set. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve seen him blink in any of our encounters. It’s like he sees everything.

  I tried to act like I hadn’t noticed him as I trudged up the stone riddled beach by veering off as organically as possible. He matched my path until we were face to face,

  I cannot stress how wet this guy was. The more paranoid parts of my brain entertained the idea that he had stood out there, in the storm, for the entirety of the night.

  The more paranoid parts of my brain were probably right. A droplet of rain rolled over his unblinking eye, through the valley made between the cheek and nose, down and over a lip before finally freeing itself from the skin it travelled.

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  He called me Kingfisher, which was off-putting, and asked me how I liked my new home. I gave a middling and generic response that it was “nice.” That only made his smile grow larger. I could read his badge this time: “S.Kaaresh.” He offered me a ride to town, which I tried to dismiss. He loomed closer at me, rain falling from his drenched hair and spattering my neck and shoulder. Kaaresh insisted with an authoritarian hiss, hand drifting down to his service weapon. I swallowed hard as discomfort flooded my body. He asked me what was in my bag as he guided me toward his cruiser, to which I simply answered “my effects.”

  Then he asked me if I had a gun. I answered truthfully, feeling the dread percolate across the back of my neck in the form of goosebumps. My hairs stood on end as I slid in the back of the vehicle.

  He responded to my admission simply by saying “good.” That was as sinister a response as I could imagine. Weirder still was that he made no attempt to take my bag, he just accepted it. I clearly posed no threat to him.

  The oppressive pressure of riding in the back of that cruiser was too much to bear. Ironically, I wished I would lose some time on this ride, despite how much those black out periods had freaked me out the day prior. Eternal was how that ride seemed, to the point where I tried to engage him just to drown out the silence that was filling my ears.

  I asked him if he could drop me at Rudy’s to check on my car. He was quick to dismiss me, then told me that I could look at the mess I had made after we were done at the precinct. I tried to engage him on that, asking if this was a post accident interview or if I was getting charged.

  He responded with silence for the rest of the ride. Time seemed to stretch out. It reminded me of the accident again, the way that time slowed to allow my brain to process all present data. I took to looking for similarities among the houses that spotted the landscape; all seemed lifeless facades; but I counted five of them that sported confederate flags that looked relatively new.

  -----

  Officer Kaaresh sat me down in a chair that seemed to have been crafted in the late seventies, well-worn fake leather that was hemorrhaging stuffing. He loomed across his desk from me; steepling his fingers over a mess of paperwork that he seemed unconcerned was getting ruined by the rain still dripping from his clothes. He was getting a scent then, musty and kind of moldy. Awkward and robotic in his movements, he began to fake writing on the papers as he spoke to me. My eyes were drawn to the map of Oakvane behind him, seeking something that I didn't yet know.

  I know he was faking because the paper was tilted at an angle, soggy and ripping in the wake of the pen’s travel. He was writing outside of the boundaries dictated by the fields of the form.

  He asked me how my car was and if Rudy had given me a quote. I felt my features contort as I raised an eyebrow, trying to account for the number of times this conversation had been repeated. At first I marked it as just a quirk, since some people love having the same conversation over and over: but this was beginning to feel eerie.

  That solid, impossible smile did not flinch as he nodded. He asked me if I had bothered to call Rudy, to which I responded that my house’s phone had been disconnected. With another nod, he took a note.

  On the desk was this hideous, tan rotary phone. It looked positively ancient but I asked to use it. Swatting at my gesturing hand, he told me that the phone was for official use only; not some convenience for a civilian. Even when he struck at me and dismissed me, he did it with that unyielding smile and pierced through me with his unblinking gaze.

  That was enough for me. I asked if I was being charged with something or if I was free to go.

  He responded by asking me how I liked my new home. I repeated the same response as earlier. Then we had the same conversation as we did on the beach again. He was taking notes, but was now well beyond the boundary of the initial paper, spilling over to an unrelated form beneath it.

  He asked me if I had any loved ones, anybody that would be missing me or wondering where I may be. I told him flatly that it wasn’t his business and that I would be leaving if he wasn’t charging me.

  I began to stand, but he slammed his pistol down on the desktop; never breaking eye contact with me. There was a real temptation to go for the gun in my bag; but I knew full well that he could end me before I got the zipper open. For fuck’s sake; I’m a professional mourner, not some gunslinger.

  Like I was gonna pull a gun on a cop anyway. It was a fleeting thought of defiance. The kind of thought that you never really act on.

  Powerless, I went to answer. I began to say “no” but was cut off by the shrill ring of the phone on his desk. He answered it and pointed the gun at me in one swift motion, never blinking and never letting his eyes drift from me.

  He said something about a runaway, that he would be “right there” to whoever was on the other side of the receiver. Then he just… hung up and told me not to go anywhere. With that mechanical stride returning to his motions, he crossed the office and exited.

  I turned in the chair, keeping my word in case he looked back. I watched him march past the cruiser and down the road. As soon as he was out of sight, I made for the phone, chair tumbling in my wake.

  I gotta call Dean, he’s probably worried sick. He’ll know who I can go to.

  I plucked up the receiver and found only dead air. I did the thing from old movies and jiggled the pressure thing that the receiver sat upon, hung it up and picked it back up. Dead air, no dial tone: just the sort of silence that you would swear you hear whispers in.

  Then it was dark, ominous night peered back at me from the front facing windows. The chair I knocked over had returned to its proper orientation. I had been woken up by the ringing of the phone, my feet aching like I had been standing in place for hours.

  That was the first time I spoke to Marla, she was scared and begging for help. She told me her location, but there was no computer in sight to look up that address. I tried to tell her that I was not a police officer, keeping quiet the fact that the only policeman I knew of seemed like a drippy murder-mannequin. I wrote the address on the corner of one of Kaaresh’s unused papers, fighting back a well of panic when I noticed that he had just written the phrase “Kingfishers keep secrets, simple as a serpent” over and over again.

  The line went dead when Marla shrieked. I screamed my frustration into the nothing on the other side of the line. I wanted so badly to flee, but I could tell that Marla was in very real danger and I was not about to abandon someone in need. I tore off her address so Kaaresh had no way of knowing where I went and snatched the wall map down. Adrenaline made the path marked by my highlighter wobbly, but manageable enough to navigate.

  “Fuck it,” I mumbled as I realized that I was about to steal a police vehicle. This town can go to hell, Marla needed help and I was not about to allow inaction to stain my hands.

  You were wrong, Chase. I’m not always a coward.