The House on Serpent Lake (Ghost, Romance, Fantasy) Read Free

street.
    “Hope something is open,” Lindsay said, scanning the buildings. A nice dinner and a glass of wine would be heaven after an entire day of traveling.
    Lights brightened the inside of one cafe, but according to the sign, it was due to close in ten minutes. Maybe they could order something and take it to the motel.
    Inside, the smell of grease and old cigarette smoke hung in the air. Two men in jeans and baseball caps sat at the counter, talking and laughing over slices of pie. A thin, wrinkled woman occupied a booth, her short white hair spiking in all directions, a pink quilted jacket hugging her emaciated body. A radio played country music, and a blackboard listed the day’s specials. Most had been crossed out with chalk.
    Eric and Lindsay took a booth by a window overlooking Main Street. A waitress about forty, in jeans and a sleeveless blouse, brought them water. Shirley, her nametag read. She recommended the hot beef sandwiches.
    “Real mashed potatoes,” she told them, patting her elaborately fashioned French twist hairstyle. “Peeled them myself. And we have fresh apple pie. Made that, too.”
    “Do we have time for all that?” Eric asked.
    “Sure,” Shirley said. “I got to clean up. Besides, I wouldn’t throw you out.”
    One of the men at the counter looked up. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. She’s got a mean right hand.”
    “You should know, George,” Shirley said.
    Both men laughed.
    “You folks passing through?” Shirley asked, scribbling on her order pad.
    “We’re here about some property I inherited,” Eric told her.
    “Really?” She arched her penciled eyebrows. “Ain’t that nice. Where at?”
    “Just out of town. From my aunt, Frida Peterson.”
    Everything went silent, even the conversation at the counter stopped.
    The faint click of the diner’s ventilation system switching on sounded like a bass drum in the sudden silence. Cool air blew on Lindsay from above.
    Shirley stopped writing. “The old Peterson place?”
    “You know it?” Eric said.
    “I’ve heard of it,” the waitress mumbled, glancing at the old woman.
    The look they exchanged was strangely intense. The men at the counter dropped some change by their plates and left without speaking.
    “Well, your dinner will be right up.” No longer smiling, Shirley passed their orders to the kitchen, then became busy wiping the counter. The old woman rose to pay her bill, all the while staring at Eric and Lindsay. She didn’t return their smiles.
    “What happened?” Lindsay whispered.
    Eric shrugged. “Guess it’s closing time.”

    Lindsay was opening her car door when the old woman from the diner rushed over to them and grabbed her hand.
    “What is it?” she asked.
    The wrinkled eyes bored into her so intently that Lindsay was unable to look away. The old woman finally spoke, her dentures clicking in her thin face.
    “Stay away from that house! Evil lives there.”

Chapter Three
    The one-story motel sat on the northwest shore of the lake, with all the rooms facing the water. Lindsay waited while Eric checked them in.
    Evil lives there . What did that old lady mean?
    Suddenly the trip caught up with her. Totally exhausted, she didn’t want to think, didn’t want to do anything but fall into bed and stretch out next to her husband’s warm body.
    From several hundred feet away, an outboard motor buzzed to life, then the sound faded as the boat sped up the lake. Even from the car, Lindsay could hear the waves gently lapping the shore.
    Eric pulled in front of the door at the far end of the motel.
    “To escape the noise,” he said.
    Lindsay glanced around the vacant lot; theirs was the only car. “What noise?”
    “You never know who might check in.” He jumped out of the car, opened the motel door, and began unloading the car.
    She grabbed an armful, walked through the open door—and came to an abrupt halt.
    Twin beds. Two individual beds separated by a solid oak night stand holding a bible