Rooms - James L. Rubart [43]
“Great finally talking to you like this,” the voice said.
Micah made sure the door was shut tight.
That night he stood on the deck outside his room at the Ocean Lodge, campfire smoke drifting up from the beach. He couldn’t believe he was so scared of his own voice he wouldn’t go to sleep in his house.
But c’mon. How often did a voice come out of a dark room claiming to be his own? Then again, maybe it was a gift beyond imagination he needed to accept. Yes. An incredible gift. He would simply accept it and the next night sleep back in the house.
Someone down on the beach waved a tiny fireball through the air. Probably a marshmallow that got too close to the campfire. He wished his biggest mystery in life was how to evenly brown a marshmallow.
Rick. He’d talk to Rick about the voice. Tomorrow night.
CHAPTER 17
But Micah didn’t tell Rick about the voice. He went with him to his church the next evening, and afterward the mechanic suggested they grab a late dinner at the Lumberyard. Micah avoided the question. He was still thinking about church.
Every time during the service Micah had thought about describing the voice to Rick, dread washed over him. Twice when he turned to tell his friend, a palpable tension shot through his back, leaving the instant he decided not to tell. How much clearer could it get? It wasn’t the right timing. No question. And Micah didn’t feel like making small talk.
The rooms, the weird things disappearing in Seattle, even the stock dropping was strange, but talking to yourself? He needed to call it what it was. He was hearing voices.
Maybe he was losing it. Archie could have been schizo and somehow rigged the house to trigger the same thing in Micah. Maybe it was time to sell the place and get back to reality.
But there was Sarah. And maybe God was in control. As long as Micah could avoid facing whatever was more painful than the memory of his mom’s death, he’d stay.
“So you going to join me?” Rick said.
“Nah, early day tomorrow.”
“Getting up with the market, eh?”
“Does anything get past you?” Micah shook his head and smiled. “I just want to keep an eye on the stock tomorrow.”
“Last week wasn’t enough?” Rick threw his arm around Micah’s shoulders as they walked through the syrupy fog toward their cars. “I’m just teasing. I’d feel the same way in your shoes.”
But Rick wasn’t in his moccasins. And Micah didn’t like the idea of going through his life barefoot.
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Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday all followed the same pattern. Stress about the stock price. Check it incessantly. Check the charts one more time to confirm it never traded as high as 83. Stress some more.
On Wednesday his computer chimed three times with a reminder message. TASK: READ ARCHIE’S NEXT LETTER
Yes! Time for his weekly blast from the past. Micah flopped down on the couch in front of his fireplace and opened the cherry-red shoe box in which he’d placed all Archie’s letters. He lifted the next envelope off the top of the stack and tore it open. February 10, 1991. He was ten years old when Archie wrote it. Still too weird.
Dear Micah,
I hope you are liking the house. Perhaps that is not the correct word. More accurately, I pray the house is making you face yourself and that you are on the path toward restoration. I pray you are allowing this to occur. The home will challenge, encourage, and stretch you to your limits. In all probability this comes as no surprise to you; however, if you think you have encountered a number of strange and unexplainable incidents up until this point, it would be less than fair if I did not alert you that stranger things are still forthcoming.
Great. Bizarro home gets even stranger. He could hardly wait.
With that admonition in the forefront of your mind, let me also assure you once again that God is sovereign and in control and I have prayed for and about this home for many years. However, this does not mean there are no dangerous places within the house. There are. This simply illustrates the truth that from time to time