The House on Serpent Lake (Ghost, Romance, Fantasy) by Brenda Hill Page A

next could begin. She was outside in the night, wearing a long robe, tromping along a dirt path behind the house carrying a bulky flashlight. The outhouse, discreetly tucked behind pine trees was just a few feet ahead.
    She’d sure be glad when the new bathroom would be installed. Papa said if everything went right, it would be installed next week and she couldn’t wait.
    She wouldn’t let him know how excited she was, though. Other than her courtesy answers, she’d vowed she wouldn’t speak to him until he let her cut and style her hair in the short elfin style or even the poodle cut so popular with all the girls.
    It was the only way; one didn’t argue with Papa. His word was law. She just hoped he’d give in soon; she didn’t know how long she could keep up the angry façade. She’d nearly smiled today when his booming Swedish voice teased and cajoled her again.
    “Honey?” Eric asked, looking at her strangely.
    Lindsay stared blankly at him. She blinked and the images were gone. Outhouse? Poodle cut ? Where on earth had that come from?
    Her mother had chided her for an overactive imagination, so that must have been what it was. Or maybe a story she’d read.
    “You okay?” Eric asked. “I could’ve sworn you left me for a minute. Reminded me of what Aunt Berina used to do.”
    “Well, whatever it was, it’s gone now.”
    “Want to take a ride in our new boat?” he asked. “We have to try it out, you know.”
    “Eric,” she said hesitantly, “we need to talk about last night. Are you having a potency problem? Is that why—”
    He jumped up from the chair. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “But honey, if you are, I understand. Especially with everything that’s happened lately. I love you no matter what, and together, we—”
    Eric’s cell phone interrupted her.
    “It’s Mark. I have to take it.” He bolted out of the kitchen.
    Damn. The call couldn’t have come at a worst time. They needed to work out their problems, not push them away as if they didn’t exist. But from the closed expression on Eric’s face, she knew he still wouldn’t talk.
    She didn’t know if impotence was his problem at all; he was much too young. It had occurred to her as a possible explanation, but she shouldn’t have blurted it out like she did. From everything she’d ever heard or read, men were extremely sensitive about their perceived masculinity, and when there were problems, they reacted in different ways. All she knew to do was to let him know she loved him no matter what, to support him, and listen when he felt ready to talk.
    Okay, she reasoned, that would explain his withdrawal from her, but what about her lack of response to him?
    She wandered to the front of the house. Eric was on the porch talking on the phone, so she drifted to the old Victrola.
    Would it still work?
    She raised the lid of the polished mahogany cabinet. Brunswick, the scripted gold label said on the inside. The top compartment held a turntable and a heavy metallic arm, its rounded end still holding a needle. A slim crank-handle protruded from the outside of the cabinet and the bottom front pulled opened to reveal slots holding old records, some 33 RPMs and a few 78s, each neatly cased in white paper sleeves, all in pristine condition. She thumbed through and discovered a treasury of recordings including classics by Billie Holiday, Irving Berlin’s “Lady of the Evening,” Enrico Caruso, and even a couple of Gene Autry’s records. Probably for Eric, she thought fondly, wondering what he’d been like as a boy.
    She picked “Only You” by The Platters and placed it on the turntable. She didn’t think it would actually work, but she cranked the handle anyway. When the turntable began to spin, she was thrilled. She placed the arm over the record, and when she heard the first scratching sounds from the cabinet speaker, she felt as excited as if she’d discovered a lost diamond mine.
    Elated, and with arms outstretched, she