Chapter Seventeen

Call to Door of Death

Cleveland Umbra’s response to his vision was nothing less than extraordinary. He took a position as medical director of Grace Station, where he found himself fascinated by the little ones whose minds and bodies lay broken. The brain-damaged children drew him like a moth to a flame. Nowhere was the universe’s sheer cruelty more evident than in the vacant stares of these lost children. Victims of auto trauma, victims of drunken daddies, victims of severe shaking, victims, victims, victims. These were the lives of the powerless and the forgotten and they taught him, more than anything else, that God doesn’t give a shit. Cleve tried to imagine the power he would feel in doing the job that God was too lazy or too uncaring to do.

He spent his weekends exploring the newly discovered, lightless tunnels beneath the chronic care facility. They drew him into their labyrinthine depths as if they existed for him alone. The north cave, in particular, was his favorite destination. Something about the primordial limestone, untouched by history or time, caused his soul to hum with vibratory excitement.

Although several expert spelunkers had mapped the caves, Umbra was the one who discovered a passage at the far end of the north cave. The bedrock beneath Door County was part of Niagara dolostone, an area once populated by coral reefs. Using the unfocused light from his carbide headlamp, Umbra studied the fossilized mollusks and corals embedded in the reddish-brown rock. A mysterious symbol was etched into the limestone, almost hidden by the many fossils.

The symbol was the outline of a fish rising from the water. The shape reminded him of the Christian symbol, albeit rotated counterclockwise. He immediately recognized it for what it was. The fractured sunset.

Umbra was able to visualize the Wisconsin sun, setting into a thin cover of cloud, causing the orange rays to diffract into many directions. The sun’s many paths, none leading home. This realization was not mere guesswork. It was a telepathic message sent to him by the spirit of the black walnut.

The cul-de-sac to the immediate right of the symbol now revealed a fissure where previously there had been solid limestone. Umbra’s heart raced as he squeezed through the tight opening into an unchartered passage. He felt the hand of destiny press upon him. He was meant to be here at this place and time.

The sound of water crashed and receded against the ceiling of the narrow tunnel, though his geographical knowledge informed him he was miles away from the bay. He walked deeper into darkness. The carbide light was swallowed by rocks of black hue. Onward he pressed, following the craggy shaft even as the reverberation of water grew more intense.

The further he walked, the more lost he felt. There was no rhythm to the waters above. There was only incessant misery, rage, chaos, and battery. He pictured himself at the bottom of the sea where huge, jagged boulders sprang out of a place of cold hostility. The limestone at this depth was black like a raven, like the congealed blood of an infected wound. He was driven by madness, deeper into the passage, beyond the reach of rescue.

He was heartened to see feeble, gray light beckon him from a distance of less than fifty yards straight ahead. He followed the passage, which led him around a bend and then out into daylight. His escape from oppressive darkness should have led to euphoria, but it did not.

Cleve found himself upon a dreary, desolate island. The rock-strewn beach was shrouded in fog, but he was able to see a cream-colored brick lighthouse rising into the haze. Pilot Island, he whispered to himself. The defunct lighthouse and abandoned island marked the northeast passage through the Door of Death. “This is impossible,” he said aloud.

In the span of one hour he reached a destination over forty miles away, separated from the mainland by a mile of open water. It was simply not possible. Yet he had kayaked to this very place many times. It was unmistakable.

There was no living vegetation on the narrow stretch of island. A pus-colored patina, composed of the guano of tens of thousands of cormorants, made the island inhospitable to tree and plant life. A silhouette of dead trees framed the length of the tiny five-acre island, their barren branches reaching up as if in unanswered prayer to the incessant gray fog that shrouded the island in darkness from dawn to dusk. The air smelled of dead fish and animal shit. There was no other place like it.

Umbra approached the rotting structure that had once been a functioning lighthouse. The square tower above the western gable was listing unnaturally to the south. The ten-sided lantern room was naught but shattered glass and rusted cast iron. Light-keepers had committed suicide here, he recalled. This was a cursed, lifeless, and desolate place.

Umbra sought shelter from the forty mile-per-hour gale. A black raven flew just overhead and settled on a perch atop the faded red dome of the leaning tower. It tilted its head slightly and eyed him curiously as he approached.

The base of the two-story house remained largely intact. Rough-hewn slabs of stone, gray like a tombstone, made up the base of the structure. An imperfect line of decaying mortar separated the base from a layer of Cream City brick that weather and time had worn to the color of graveyard dirt. The faded salmon roof was deep into a state of decomposition. The defunct tower sat awkwardly upon the skeletal support of rotting beams.

Umbra was dressed only in jeans and a flannel shirt, neither of which trapped his body heat. He kicked in the plywood barrier that had been secured over the front entrance of the keeper’s house. This caused a dozen or so cormorants to startle into flight. He shielded his face from the furious beating of wings as the house’s occupants flapped their way through the newly formed exit. He waited until the last squatter had taken to the stormy sky and entered the house. He was immediately blasted with an overwhelming stench of decay, guano, mold, and animal decomposition. Umbra covered his mouth and nose with his hands but was overcome by nausea. He ran back down the crumbling concrete steps and vomited upon the cracked walkway.

No one knew he was stranded, and he had not carried a cell phone with him. Umbra would need to overcome the stench of the light-keeper’s house to shield himself from the cruelty nature had wrought. He stood tall and took several deep breaths of frigid air before entering the crypt-like structure.

He made his way from room to abandoned room but even in the dim light creeping through shattered window panes he could see dozens of dead birds strewn about the rotting floor boards. The stench of decay grew more intense as he waded deeper into the house, and he knew that he would not be able to make camp here. He retreated toward the entrance but noticed a door at the west end of the main corridor. It was the only existing door on the main level. The others had been carted off long ago by coast guard personnel or looters, along with any copper or usable hardware and appliances.

The door was solid oak with a half-inch brass bolt fastened in place. Someone had wanted this door to remain here as a barrier to what lay on the other side. Umbra tried in vein to force open the heavy door but the dead bolt was locked and there was no key readily visible amongst the carcasses, feathers, and bird shit. As he pushed harder he noticed a little give around the frame, which was in the early stages of decomposition. He took a step back and kicked at the door. After the fifth attempt the frame splintered and the door groaned open upon rusted hinges. He discovered an inviolate wooden stairway leading to a dark cellar.

Using the dim light from his dying headlamp, he walked the stairs gingerly, not fully trusting the ancient wood to support his weight. The air was immeasurably cleaner, and Cleve surmised this depth of the house had not been subject to the corruption of the main or upper levels. The stairs held his weight and allowed him to descend to the stone and mortar walled cellar. As dark as the upper level had been, this place was darker. Weak, gray light filtered through several small cracks in the floorboards of the main level as well as from the open door above.

When he reached the stone floor, he angled the carbide bulb to illuminate the blackness. Shadows danced across dusty gray stone. The cellar was one large room, spanning the length and width of the square house. Cylindrical and rugged wooden support beams ran along the east-west axis. The light of the flickering torch revealed a forsaken dungeon of stone. There were no cloth-covered pieces of abandoned furniture or cardboard boxes sitting upon metal shelves. There were no sawhorses or piles of wood or rusted tools. There was nothing. Or almost nothing. Several empty and fractured wooden crates lay strewn about the east end.

He scanned the floor for signs of life or death, but the untouched thick layer of dust informed him he was the first to occupy this space in many years. The opposite end of the dungeon was also devoid of shelving, file cabinets, or photographs. It was all just hollow space. The discovery should have filled Umbra with a sense of relief, but instead it caused him considerable unease. The shadows created by the expiring torch seemed sinister and oppressive. “It’s a tomb,” he remarked to himself. He wondered what secrets lay hidden.

He explored the basement, foot by foot. A shimmer of light reflected off something near the northern wall. A small, dusty clay jar lay forgotten by time. It caught the last remnants of Umbra’s light in a very curious way.

The smoky green vessel was an unbroken, antique work of Native American pottery. It shone more brightly after Cleve wiped away the top layer of dust. The opening of the jar was sealed with a wedge of petrified wood and hardened tree sap. He carried it to the base of the stairs just as his lamp died. Muted gray light from the top of the stairs was the final illumination of the dying day. Umbra seated himself upon the concrete floor and then proceeded to uncork the ancient vessel. The wedge of wood pulled apart from the clay quite easily as if its seal had been broken in anticipation of this moment. Inside lay three pieces of parchment, stiff and brittle with age.

Cleve retrieved the miniature paintings, each a composition of cryptic imagery. The first painting depicted a beast, half-man and half-buffalo, with two nude prisoners chained to his marble throne. The man and woman each had long, black hair as well as other Native American features. The tone of the work was dark and foreboding.

All light had abandoned his dungeon so Cleve could no longer see. He lay the artwork down upon his lap and fell into an uncomfortable and restless sleep. The sound of footsteps from above awakened him at dawn. Is that the sound of hooves or human feet? Is it the rattle of chains? Cleve braced himself for something unholy and maniacal.