Black Balloon

Chapter 16

Snowflakes streaked across the windshield like stars whizzing past the Millennium Falcon on its climb to lightspeed. According to my maps (and my admittedly limited ability at interpreting them) Carmi Lake sat just below the town of Shiloh at the terminus of the Harriet River. The "river", as it was named on the map, turned out to be more of a stream, but a lovely one with crystal clear water and stones that had been carved over the eons into smooth spheroids. It was a refreshing change of scenery; the coniferous forests, evergreen and lovely and covered in snow, a veritable winter wonderland; a far cry from the concrete wastelands of Los Angeles and the deserts of So-Cal.

I pulled into Shiloh after sundown, and found myself faced with the prospect of locating the cabin in the dark. To get to the lake you had to first drive through town along Main Street, which could have been called Only Street. By 7 p.m. the shops were already closed. The streets were empty and the storefronts dark. On this moonless night, and in its state of sleepy hibernation, the town was ominous and unsettling, dark and lifeless. I told myself it would be better in the morning. I tried to shake the feeling away. You're just tired, Miles. Everything is scarier at night.

At Shiloh's northern end, the valley opened up to a scenic vista overlooking the lake, although Carmi was a barely visible black void in the evening's profound darkness. I followed the highway along the shore until eventually seeing the sign for Lake Road. The road was little more than a gravel pathway, barely wide enough for my hefty vehicle. Along Carmi's shores were camps of all shapes and sizes, nestled into the murky boundary between forest and water.

I searched the cabins for an address number but not a single one was labeled. Even if they had been, it would have been tough to see through the tiny hole I'd scraped in the frost. The homes were pitch-black. They appeared abandoned. It was like being in a ghost town or an apocalypse movie. Tall pines grew thick between every cabin, shrouding them in darkness, even more so than the night sky already had. The homes were hulking wooden monsters, their darkened windows looming like big black eyes, empty and dead. Just before reaching the verge of fully freaking out, I finally saw it: "216", stenciled on the porch of the very last cabin on the dead-end road. It was the only one with any address numbers so far as I could tell, typical of Frank's meticulous nature.

The cabin was illuminated only by my headlights. It was smaller than the others, 20 feet square, with a porch on two sides and a steep shake-shingled roof. It was as tall as it was wide, almost an A-Frame. There wasn't much of a yard, just more wilderness; trees, pine needles, and roots. Under different circumstances I'm sure it would have appeared cozy, but on that night, it was terrifying. I fumbled for the house keys—which I'd found in the glovebox, exactly where Gendelman said I would—steeled my nerves, and reluctantly stepped out into the frigid air.

I thought I'd mentally prepared myself for the shock of the cold, but I was wrong. You think I could have guessed it, given all the snow and ice, but no. It somehow still took me by surprise. I quickly opened the trunk and fumbled for a coat, wrapped it tight around my torso, and then apprehensively approached the front door. The snow-covered steps creaked and groaned as if they were about to buckle. I knocked twice, not expecting an answer and thankfully not receiving one.

I'd left the Caddy running and my headlights reflecting on the glass only further obfuscated the view. I slid the key into the lock and opened the door.

"Hello!" I shouted, receiving only my own echo in response. "Anybody home?"

I was disappointed but not surprised to find the inside of the cabin no warmer than the outside. I fumbled along the wall for a light switch, and flipped it on. Thankfully, it worked.

The interior was wood. Everything was. The walls were wood, the floors were wood, the furniture was wood. The couch was a wooden-framed bench with hideous orange and yellow cushions, as scratchy as steel wool. Everything was dust-covered and cobweb-clad. The smell of stagnation and mildew permeated the air. The cabin had not been occupied for some time. On the ground level was a small kitchen and a bathroom. A staircase led to an open loft above. Where a TV would normally go, there was instead a pot-bellied stove which I really hoped wasn't my only heat source (I didn't know how to build a fire). Lying on a chair was a piece of paper, another note from Frank Gendelman. This one was mostly logistics, very German in its blunt and to-the-point-ness. No sentimentalities, no frivolous prose, just the basics: How to turn on the water, how to get in the storage building, who the neighbors were and when they could be expected, that sort of thing. The cabin two properties down was owned by a doctor and his family apparently; the Lumnah's. The note said they usually summered on the lake and could be expected in late spring. And to my chagrin, Gendelman informed me that yes, in fact, the wood stove was my only source of heat. I'd have to build a fire.