11. Into the Fog

The world was colorless. Everything was bathed in the dusky grayness of the fog. Even the red railings on the porch were hidden behind the cloud of mist that enveloped the island. Still, Jacob continued up the dirt path. There was no turning back at this point. Not only was he here for a purpose, but the ferry was gone, it wouldn’t be back until morning. He had no choice but to keep going.

He stopped to catch his breath. He had forgotten how steep of a climb it was. A seagull squawked. Rustling in the brush told of other wildlife close by. Jacob looked up at the house sitting on its rocky perch. He couldn’t believe he was back here. How long had it been? Twenty years? Maybe more. He felt the gap of time closing behind him. It was as though he had never left.

He started to resume his walk when something caught his eye, a beam of light penetrating the soup. The porch light had been switched on. That damn thing, brighter than the sun. Someone was home. And now they were beckoning him back.

Jacob took a deep breath and then continued the slow steady climb up. As he got closer the details of the house began to emerge through the fog. The red railings. The broken window, repaired with tape, on the front dormer. The sagging porch. And the light, always the light.

He climbed the porch steps and stood in front of the door. The paint was peeling. It was the curse of living on an island, paint peeled off of everything. It was Mother Nature’s way of keeping things clean. He opened the screen door, the hinges squeaked. The sound brought up more memories, bad ones. Don’t go back, he told himself.

Behind the front door the muffled sound of a television could be heard. That thing was always on. Did they know it could be turned off? Probably not. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air smelled of the sea, and furniture polish, and bacon.

“Hello?” he asked. There was no answer. “It’s me.”

From the kitchen a kettle began to whistle and then scream. The sound quickly petered out as someone took the kettle off the stove.

“It’s me, Jacob. I’m home.” He took a few steps forward into the front hallway. Above him someone was walking around on the second floor.

He took his coat off and hung it on a hook next to the door. Another coat was already there. A red plaid one. He knew who it belonged to. He felt an ache in the pit of his stomach. An ambush.

Someone laughed in the next room.

“Don’t tell him.” a voice whispered.

“Dahlia?” Jacob asked. He opened the door to the dining room, where the laughter came from. There was no one there.

“He’s here.” said a voice. It came from the hallway. It was Dahlia.

Jacob ran into the hallway. Predictably, it was empty. “This isn’t funny. You know what you’ve done. Come out and face me.”

“What I’ve done?” Dahlia sauntered into the hallway with that look on her face. The one that said she still didn’t think she was wrong. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I know what you’ve done, and soon everyone will.”

She glared at him. “You always did think you were better than the rest of us.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You think because you’re adopted, because you’re from some other family that you’re better. You’re not. You’re worse.” She took a step forward. “I know all the things you’ve done.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

She shook her head. “Oh yes you have.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out a small gun with a pearl handle. She pointed it at him and grinned. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

Jacob put his hands in the air. “Are you crazy? Put that away.”

Dahlia waved the gun around. “Of course I’m crazy. That’s what you’ve always said.”

Jacob backed up. Dahlia came forward, the gun aimed at his chest. He bolted into the dining room just as a thunderous bang rang through the air. Jacob fell to the floor. He grabbed his chest, feeling the blood trickle over his fingers. Dahlia’s tall black boots strolled in front of him, followed by a pair of sneakers, and then a pair of heels.

“You’ll never hurt us again.” Dahlia said, glaring down at him.

Jacob managed to roll onto his side. He looked up at three satisfied expressions. If only he could get them back for this. He would show them. If only. If only. His eyelids slowly closed, shutting out the world.

“Cut!” the director shouted. He was standing next to the cameraman. “Great job everyone. That’s lunch!”