Page 49 of Dream Lake

“You should probably have a shot of booze. Guy who drinks as much as you, it’s better to wean off slowly rather than go cold turkey.”

Alex was swamped with incredulous outrage. The ghost was wildly overstating the case. He drank a lot, but he knew what he could tolerate. Only drunks got the DTs, like the homeless guys in alleys or the barflies who drank the nights away. Or his father, who’d died of a heart attack while recreational diving at a tourist resort in Mexico. After a lifetime of alcohol abuse, Alan Nolan’s coronary arteries had been so blocked that, according to the doctors, he would have needed a quintuple bypass surgery had he lived.

“I don’t need to wean off anything,” Alex said.

It would have been easier to take if the ghost had been mocking or superior, or even apologetic. But the way he looked at Alex, with a sort of gravity touched with pity, was too offensive to bear.

“You might want to take the day off and rest,” the ghost said. “Because you’re not going to get much work done.”

Glaring at him, Alex lurched to his feet. Unfortunately the motion was too much for his outraged digestive system, and he was forced to lean over the toilet, retching.

After a long time he made it to his feet again, rinsed his mouth and splashed his face with cold water. Looking into the mirror, he saw a pale, haggard complexion and puffy eyes. He recoiled in horror, having seen his father in this shape about a thousand times while growing up.

Gripping the sides of the sink, he forced himself to raise his head and stare in the mirror again.

This wasn’t who he wanted to be. But it was what he’d become, what he’d made of himself.

Had there been any tears in him, he would have wept.

“Alex,” came the quiet voice from the doorway. “You’re not afraid of work. You’re used to tearing things down. Rebuilding.”

Even as sick as Alex was, the metaphor didn’t escape him. “Houses aren’t people.”

“Everyone’s got something that needs fixing.” The ghost paused. “In your case, it happens to be your liver.”

Alex struggled to strip off his shirts, having sweated through both of them. “Please,” he managed to say. “If there is any mercy in you… don’t talk.”

The ghost obliged, retreating.

By the time Alex had gotten dressed again, the shaking had subsided, but the clammy hot-and-cold feeling kept crawling over him. His nerves were strung tight. The difficulty in finding the work boots he wanted, the same ones he’d worn the previous day, sent him into a full-blown fury. As soon as he laid his hands on the boots, he threw one of them at the wall so hard that it ruined the paint and left a dent in the Sheetrock.

“Alex.” The ghost reappeared. “You’re acting crazy.”

He hurled the other boot, which shot through the ghost’s midsection and left another dent in the wall.

“Feel better now?” the ghost asked.

Ignoring him, Alex retrieved the boots and jammed them on. He tried to think above the violent pounding of his head. He had to get the check from Justine and take it to the bank.

“Don’t go to Artist’s Point,” he heard the ghost say urgently. “Please. You’re in no shape. You don’t want anyone to see you like this.”

“By ‘anyone’ you mean Zoë,” Alex said.

“Yes. You’ll upset her.”

Alex gritted his teeth. “I don’t give a damn.” Grabbing his car keys, wallet, and heavy black sunglasses, he went to his truck and pulled it out of the garage. As soon as he drove onto the main road, the sunlight seemed to split his skull open with the precision of surgical instruments. He groaned and swerved, looking for a place to pull over in case he needed to puke.

“You’re driving like you’re in a video game,” the ghost said.

“What do you care?” Alex snapped.

“I care because I don’t want you to kill anyone. Including yourself.”

By the time they had arrived at Artist’s Point, Alex had sweated through another T-shirt, and he was trembling with what felt like fever chills.

“For pity’s sake,” the ghost said, “don’t go through the front entrance. You’ll scare the guests.”

Much as Alex would have loved to defy him, the ghost had a point. Surly and exhausted from the effort of driving, he pulled around to the back of the inn and parked near the kitchen entrance. The smell of food drifted outside, causing the hot sting of nausea in his throat. As his sunglasses slipped down his nose on a fresh bloom of sweat, Alex ripped them off and flung them across the gravel with a curse.

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