Lights Over Cloud Lake

Copyright © 2019 Nathan Hystad

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover art: Tom Edwards Design

Typography by: Beaulistic Book Services

Edited by: Scarlett R Algee

Proofed and Formatted by: BZ Hercules

Acknowledgments

This is the first time I’ve written an acknowledgments section, and it’s past due. Writing a book seems like a solitary process from the outside, but I find it to be quite the opposite. Lights Over Cloud Lake is the eighteenth novel I’ve written, and each book gives me something different.

First of all, I want to thank my wife Christen, who has supported my dream from the start. She’s put up with my obsession with reading, writing, and everything in between, and it means a lot to me to have a partner in all of this. She’s become my sounding board and my first line of defense, reading my books before anyone else sees them. Thank you, Christen. For everything.

I have a great group of author friends to lean on, to talk with, and discuss the small things, and sometimes the big life things with. To the Collective, and beyond, I thank you for being there throughout this journey. I wish each and every one of you the success you deserve.

Thank you to Scarlett Algee, my editor. She’s been with me from the start, and she’s become invaluable to my process. I count myself lucky she still makes time to red-mark my manuscripts, and I’m thrilled we’ve been able to work together for this long. Her advice and suggestions make each book that much better. Here’s to many more.

Thank you to BZ Hercules for formatting and being my last line of defense on my books. You are a wonderful person, and a pleasure to work with.

Tom Edwards, you’ve been so great to work alongside for all of my covers. From back in the Explorations days, you’ve created your artistic magic, and have made my visions come to life each and every time.

Huge thanks to Steve Beaulieu for doing the typography on this book, and for being an overall awesome dude.

And last but not least, I dedicate this book to my mom. She’s been gone for almost eight years, and I miss her every day. She taught me to read. She taught me to love words. She showed me the magic behind a book, and for that I will be eternally grateful. This one’s for you, Mom.

August 2nd – 2001

Very good, Jessica. Yes, let go of your surroundings. Dr. Hendricks’ voice was soothing, lulling me into deep breaths. I didn’t think it would work, but my eyelids became heavy, my chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm.

How old are you, Jessica? the doctor asked.

Fourteen, I said.

Good. What is your name? I heard scribbling on a notepad as he jotted my answers down with a pencil.

Jessica Bailey Carver.

Very good. More scratching. Where did you go on July thirteenth?

My eye twitched. To Cloud Lake’s Summer Kick-Off, I told him, fully aware he wanted a different answer.

He slowed the pace of his words. When you left, you walked home, is that correct?

Yes. No. I ran. I didn’t tell him why, but I could picture my bleeding legs, the red welts from the tree branches.

Why were you running?

I was trying to get home, but…

What is it, Jessica? What happened when you got out of the trees? Dr. Hendricks asked, unable to hide the impatience from his voice.

I was in Mr. Martin’s yard. It was bright, so bright. I lifted a hand and placed it over my eyes, recalling with such clarity how white-hot it had burned.

Was Mr. Martin there? he asked.

I saw him that night, but not there, I said truthfully. Dad had been grilling me on it for the last week, but I couldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear.

Where were you taken? Dr. Hendricks asked, and I sensed him shifting in his seat.

My eye twitched again. I saw images in my mind—a bed, tubes, shadows—but never a face. I told him this, and he kept probing with deeper questions, ones I was unable to give firm answers to. Dad was in the room, and he made a whimpering sound in his throat as I deflected. I didn’t know where I was in my memories. Everything was a jumbled mess.

Could it have been inside a room? Dirt floor? A wooden staircase? he asked.

I scanned through the memories and shook my head. I don’t think so.

"Could it have been?" he asked, emphasizing the first word.

I guess. It could have been, I finally relented. I didn’t want to be here any longer; I wanted to push the painful images from my mind and go home.

Thank you. He snapped his fingers, though I didn’t know if that was supposed to do anything. My eyes slowly opened, and I glanced over at my dad, who exhibited a sad smile. A chin up, sport kind of gaze.

Are we done? I asked.

Dr. Hendricks nodded. I need to speak with your father. Do you mind waiting out there with your sister?

I shook my head and walked away on shaky legs. Zoe sat in the cramped waiting room, flipping through a magazine with some overdressed model on the cover.

You okay? she asked, peering over at me from behind the magazine.

I raised a finger to my lips and crept to the door, which I’d left open a crack.

It isn’t uncommon for someone who’s been through this kind of traumatic event, Brian. She’s scared. She’s seeing things in clips, almost like random photos from her internal camera. They don’t make sense to her, but they might in time. Dr. Hendricks’ voice was clear as he spoke to my dad.

What about the lights? She’s making it sound as if… my dad started.

It could be a flashlight. Maybe there were floodlights inside the room. There are too many factors, the doctor said.

What’s the next step? Dad asked him.

I suggest she be medicated for something this intense. She needs to be calmed down, to handle the anxiety and stress of what happened to her, Dr. Hendricks advised.

For how long?

As long as she needs it, he answered.

Dad let out a sigh, and I could picture his cheeks deflating like a balloon on the other side of the wall. Do I make another appointment with you?

No, Brian. I don’t often deal with this level of trauma, but I can recommend a few professionals who’ll really be able to make inroads with your daughter, the doctor said.

Thank you.

Hold her tight. It’s not often you hear about the victim making it home in a case like this. I shivered at his words.

I will. Thanks for the help, doc, Dad said, and I ran across the room, sitting beside Zoe. She passed me a magazine, and I opened it, pretending to read an article.

Ready to go? Dad asked us.

I nodded, unable to forget the pictures that had flashed over my mind in Dr. Hendricks’ office. Part of me wished I knew what had really happened to me; the other part wanted to go home and forget any of it ever occurred.

July 7th – 2020

My feet were aching as I strolled through the gallery. It wasn’t the ideal time to wear a new pair of shoes, especially after a long day on the streets of Manhattan. I’d roamed from street vendor to street vendor, talking to the proprietors about their food: where they came from, how long they’d been in the city. Most of them had been affable, and almost all had offered me free food.

A woman carrying a silver tray of hors d’oeuvres passed by, stopping near me, holding the crab puffs out. I shook my head, unable to stomach the thought of eating another bite today. Or this week. Or ever.

The gallery was one I’d been to a few times before; each showcased an amazingly talented New York artist’s works. This one was for a woman who called herself Persephone, and I understood the reference as I scanned through the wonderful paintings surrounding the gallery. The Greek goddess of the same name had been abducted, brought to the underworld to become the queen and wife of Hades.

I stopped in front of a giant canopy and instantly recognized the farmer’s field—the corn crops, the trees in the distance, the night sky—as a classic alien scene. I’d read enough books and watched all the documentaries to know this was the ideal setting for such a sighting. I looked up at the seven-foot-tall painting and saw the flying saucer above. It wasn’t cartoony; not quite round, but jagged instead, as if molded by a child who’d been told to make a UFO.

Goosebumps rose on my arms as I stared at it.

What do you think? a woman asked. Her scent drifted towards me before I saw her, a mix of roses and sandalwood. She wasn’t what I normally expected from an artist at this gallery. I thought I’d look down to see bare feet and wild curly hair. But she was slight, short, with midnight pumps and a sleek gray dress. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her lips matched the color of her shoes.

It’s brilliant, I told her, actually meaning it. Too often I went to these shows having to try to decipher the artist’s meaning behind some elusively obscure statue or painting. She was clear with her intentions.

Her gaze drifted to the badge around my neck. "The Brownstone Beat. Can’t say I’ve heard of you," she said.

We’re online. Kind of a niche following, but strong supporters. I’ve worked there for a while. I can only assume you’re Persephone? I asked, and her eyes lit up.

Why, yes, I am. She looked at my name again. Eva. Eva Heart.

I peered to the side, seeing another alien-centered painting. This one was crop circles: large rings connected by long lines. It reminded me of a chemical compound image. Two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen.

Do you believe? I asked, feeling foolish for even asking.

Persephone nodded. I do. If we think we’re alone out there, we’re even more egocentric than I thought, she laughed.

I agree, I said quietly.

You do? How intriguing. I don’t know many people in the city that believe in aliens, UFOs, or abductions. It’s a little too… country for them, Persephone said.

I haven’t always lived here, I said with a smile.

A man waved at Persephone, and she touched me lightly on the arm. Give me your card, and I’d be happy to meet up to do an interview for your magazine, she said.

I fished one from my small clutch and slipped it to her. I will. Thank you.

Pleasure is mine, she said, walking away, heels clicking on the tile floor.

Barns would be thrilled I’d landed such a high-profile artist. I’d hesitated about coming tonight and had really only done so because no one else at the office had been able to use the press pass. Harry had a date, and I knew the others had likely made up excuses.

I walked around the gallery for a few more minutes before heading outside. It was muggy during the day, but as the moon rose high in the sky, the city air cooled, and I took the opportunity to walk home. My feet were sore, but it was only ten blocks.

The city was my safe place, as crazy as it sounded, but I suddenly felt trapped by it. I needed a vacation, or at least a few days in a bed and breakfast out in the Hamptons. I had a friend with a place out there. Maybe it was time I took her up on the offer to use it. Seeing those paintings had broken through one of my many barriers, and I could feel the dread seeping into the walls now.

I was alone on the street, and where I’d felt safe a minute ago, I was worried now. The alleys were dark, too dark, the streetlights casting uneasy shadows on the road. A taxi whizzed by, and I tried to flag it down, but it kept driving, the light off.

My legs moved faster, and I was halfway home when my heel snapped. I stumbled forward, dropping my clutch on the sidewalk. Great timing, Eva, I scolded myself, picking up both heel and bag. I limped along, and after another block, I kicked both shoes off, tossing them into a trash can. A man sat leaned against a closed bookstore, his hat between his legs, a cardboard sign held up even though his chin pressed against his chest.

I moved around him, almost running now. My pills were at home, and the desire to pop one overwhelmed me as I jogged the last excruciating block. My keys were stuck on the bottom of my bag when I opened it, and the streetlight went out. I turned to see it flicker back on, then off again, until it was strobing brightly. Finally, I was inside the building, and I ran up the stairs, arriving at my suite. I locked the door behind me, sliding my back against the slab, breathing heavily.

My pills were on the countertop where I’d left them with my full-sized purse, and I went to the bottle, swallowing one with a sip of water. I hadn’t had an attack like this for a long time, and I sat in my living room, turning on the lamp beside me.

It’ll pass. They always pass, I told myself. And I was right.

July 9th – 2020

Close the door, my boss Chris Barns said as his gaze remained glued to his laptop. Take a seat, Eva.

I perched on one of the two chairs in his corner office overlooking Fifth Avenue. Our website wasn’t quite established enough to be on one of the higher floors, but even from here, I could see a piece of the Empire State Building, and I actually preferred to hear the traffic from the busy street below. The constant hum of the city in motion calmed me. If there was one thing I feared, it was the dead silence I rarely had living in Manhattan.

I stayed motionless, waiting for Barns to speak, but he just mumbled as he tapped away on his keyboard. I waited two minutes and cleared my throat.

Sorry. You know how it is… He closed the laptop and removed his glasses, setting them on the desktop. His office was immaculate. Bookshelves filled the one wall, with first edition classics behind locked glass sliding doors, and he even had a few plants thriving near the window. I had it on good authority that Barns knew nothing about the care of his ficus and jades, because his assistant frequently complained about having to water them.

His desk was a direct contrast to the rest of the office. It was filled with stacks of dog-eared books, folders, and strewn-out paperwork. Half of the sheets had old dried coffee rings on them, and I smiled at his erratic demeanor. He was unpredictable, but it was part of the reason I enjoyed working for the man.

What did you want to see me about? I asked. I was in the middle of an article about the cleanliness of Manhattan’s street-food vendor business and was itching to get back to it so I could finish up. Barns had a penchant for grabbing shawarma from the one outside our office, and I suspected he’d stop as soon as he skimmed my work.

I have something for you. Something… big. Barns relaxed his posture and stared me in the eyes. He wasn’t much of an eye-contact boss, and his gaze was unsettling. His voice lowered as he spoke again. You know Cloud Lake in Maine, right?

My eyes sprang open. Why was he asking about it? My heart raced inside my chest, and whiteness threatened to creep over my vision. I saw Barns’ mouth move but didn’t hear the words as my pulse pounded in my eardrums.

Eva? Are you okay? His expression was full of worry.

I settled and breathed slowly. I’m fine. Not feeling well, I lied. Why did you ask about Cloud Lake? I tried to make the query sound innocent, but the crack in my voice gave me away. I’d been on edge ever since the other night, and this wasn’t helping things.

Barns furrowed his brow and ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. There’s a story waiting to be told. Could be a big one. I wanted to send you, since you grew up around there, he said.

I didn’t grow up there. We spent a few summers at the Lake when I was a kid. My grandmother owned it, I corrected him, not wanting to be attached to the place any more than I already was. His eyes widened at my snappy comment.

Either way, you know the lay of the land, maybe some of the locals. You can do some digging the others might not be able to, he said.

I was almost afraid to ask, but I had to. What’s the angle?

He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. There’ve been a few sightings. Strange things in the sky.

Are you telling me you think there are UFOs in Cloud Lake? I asked, trying to add a pleasant air to the question, as if I found the entire idea preposterous.

He shrugged, clicking a pen repetitively. All I’m saying is the sightings have been noted all around the region.

Any video proof? I asked.

Not that I’ve seen yet, he said.

In this day and age?

Do you want the job or not? Barns was annoyed at my attitude, and I needed to do something different than the usual. Plus, a deep-seated part of me was salivating at the idea of a UFO piece. The more rational part was dreading the idea. It had been so long since I’d let myself think about Cloud Lake and that summer. Maybe it was time. Time to open up long-sealed boxes inside me.

I do, but isn’t this a little ‘trashy magazine’ for us? We like to do exposés on the environment, city pieces, and the odd political piece to gain visibility. Why Cloud Lake? I asked.

Because we need something to stand out. We’re dying here, Eva. Barns appeared five years older as he said this. His chest caved in as his posture slackened, and I saw the bags under his eyes, dark and heavy.

I… I didn’t know. Is there anything I can do? It was a dumb question. I was one of ten regular writers at the online magazine. I had no ability to save it.

You can go to Cloud Lake and write a damned good story. Get a real take on it. Talk to the people. Find anyone who claims to have seen the UFO. I heard there may even be one or two of them who believe they were abducted. Work out the details. Do what you do so well and have done for the last five years. Only do it better than ever, because we need something to make the difference. Barns seemed to notice he was melting into the desk, and he sat up straighter, putting his glasses on. He flipped open his laptop, and the old editor-in-chief came to the surface. He started typing, and I knew it was time to go.

When do I go? I asked.

Saturday. Get your current piece finished and send it to me by tomorrow. He didn’t look up, and I left him there, clacking away at his keys. Before I shut the glass door, he hollered at me. Eva! I peeked my head back inside, and he gave me a feeble grin. I smell a book deal on this one. It could be just what you need.

A book deal? He was pressing his excitement a little too far. I guess we’ll find out, I said, and closed the door. Readers did like pieces like this. I should know. I’d devoured almost every article and book on the subject over the last two decades. There was no way Barns had obtained that information, though. He must have remembered me talking about Cloud Lake, but I couldn’t recall an instance when I would have brought the subject up with my boss. I was almost sure of that.

Our magazine held half the office space on the fifth floor, and the center of the area was made up of cubicles. Barns had tried to give them a fancy edge, slate-topped desks over a classy hardwood floor, but they were still tiny boxes within the office, where you could hear every bit of your neighbor’s business whether you wanted to or not.

I glanced to the edge of the space where the top two contributors’ private offices stood, and tried to push the jealousy away. I worked hard or harder than those two, but one was Barns’ nephew, and the other wore short skirts and tight tops, something I wasn’t willing to do to have an office. Harry noticed me staring through his glass palace, and he gave me a wave. Instead of acknowledging him, I pretended I hadn’t been looking his way, and flipped open my laptop.

Karen was gossiping to someone on her phone about her bust of a date last night, and I grabbed my noise-canceling headphones, cranking some Chopin to drown the annoying woman’s conversation out. Maybe a few days out of town would do me some good.

Hearing the words Cloud Lake had been enough to send jolts of fear into the soles of my feet, but now, only a few minutes later, a deep-down part of me was excited. I hadn’t been there since I was an optimistic fourteen-year-old girl, and after that last summer, I’d never managed to be that person again. Maybe it was my chance to reclaim what I’d lost. Isn’t that what we all strive for? If there was one thing all the therapy had taught me, it was that I needed to let the past go. Mine in particular was so bizarre, I’d had to go through three professionals before I found one who took me seriously.

I closed my eyes as the song reached its crescendo and tried to focus on finishing my article. The second my fingers touched the keyboard, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun to see Harry there, smiling widely. He mouthed something I couldn’t hear, and I tugged the headphones from my ears.

Sorry, what’s that? I asked.

I’m asking if you wanted to grab lunch. Harry asked me to lunch once a week, and I always gave him the same answer. Today, I noticed a pleading in his eyes I hadn’t seen before, and the truth was, I knew he’d have confidential news on the magazine’s future. After seeing the concern from Barns, my curiosity was piqued.

Sure, I answered, getting a surprised eyebrow lift in return.

Great. Let me grab my jacket, he said.

It was the middle of summer, and Harry was collecting his blazer. The guy never left home without one, and I had to admit it was a good look for him. I watched him walk away, and I wondered why it was I hadn’t accepted his advances before. It wasn’t as though I had a line-up at my apartment door, pleading for dates.

One of the biggest cities in the world, and it felt like the dating pool was closed for a filter replacement all year round.

Ten minutes later, Harry and I were dining on a cramped patio, while hundreds of businesspeople and tourists alike passed us on the sidewalk, many with bewildered expressions as they pointed to the Empire State Building.

Do you ever tire of this? Harry asked.

What?

This. He motioned to the people and the street. The city. I don’t know. Maybe it won’t be such a bad thing. He stopped and glanced at me, seemingly aware he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

"So we are closing." I reached for my water, feeling the urge to have something a little stronger today.

He nodded. Maybe. Either way, I’m out. Barns can’t afford to keep me, even if we find a way to survive. Ad revenue’s way down. We can’t keep making a living at these stories about… what are you doing now? he asked.

Food vendors. I pointed at one across the street, the smell of roasting meat emanating from the small trailer. The man inside was sweating profusely, and a few people were lined up, waiting for their chance to order.

Right. If we lose our jobs, what are you going to do? Harry asked me.

I hadn’t thought about it. I only found out a few minutes ago. I haven’t had a chance to ruminate quite yet. I waved our young waitress down. Scotch on the rocks, with a twist.

Harry grinned. Make it two. He held up peace fingers.