Chapter 2
992 Words
2On top of an Andes mountain at the site of Machu Picchu…
Lake Wright wandered the ancient stone-lined paths bored out of his twenty-two-year-old mind. Despite the panoramic views, all Lake could do was wonder about the amount of manpower and energy it had taken to build the megalithic citadel.
What were the ancient Incas trying to accomplish when they hauled all those giant rocks up the mountain? Lake figured they probably were thinking the same thing his father had been. They thought that when Lake got to the top of the mountain, he’d be totally awed by the majesty of their accomplishment.
And he was, at least a little bit, but at the end of the day, this place was just rocks and dirt and stories. It was nothing life-changing for him.
His father had meant well with his Peruvian going away gift. To be fair to the man, Lake had used the word exotic when he should have used words like tropical and island during their conversation about where he’d like to go. It was a typical mistake for him. Lake had never known how to communicate clearly with his absent-minded yet academically brilliant father.
Inventor and futurist, Frank Wright, hadn’t been the best at listening to his one and only child. Born late to parents in their mid-forties, Lake could look backward and see that he’d been way too much trouble for them to manage gracefully. He’d had too much energy and too much curiosity. He’d been too much of everything really. Their answer to the question of what to do with such a child was to send him away to boarding school.
He’d been away when his mother died. He’d come back for the funeral before returning to school two days later. His father’s emotional distance hadn’t given him any reason to linger.
Afterward, self-reliance had become a matter of survival. Over the years, friends drifted in and out of his life, but Lake never mourned their loss. He just made new ones and moved on.
And girls—girls were fun but a bloody enigma. They all seemed to want things he couldn’t find it in himself to give them—like marriage and babies. The last thing in the world he wanted was to create another version of himself.
His father’s sudden heart attack just before his graduation had taken away Lake’s secret goal to force his father to connect with him. Whatever was said during the last conversation ended up not mattering one whit. His father was just as dead.
Yet ever the good son though, here Lake was on top of a wild Peruvian mountain suffering from oxygen deprivation. Either that or he was being haunted by his father’s ghost because he could swear someone kept calling his name.
Lake…
Lake looked around and felt instantly embarrassed by his mental breakdown. Had anyone noticed? There were others walking the paths, but so far not a single tourist or guide had looked his way. It was like he was invisible.
Maybe this was what being dead was like, he thought as he walked. You wandered among the living while they didn’t know you existed. Shaking his head at his strange thoughts, he trudged on following one path after the other.
How many stones had the Incas carried up here anyway? He’d read the history. The Temple Of The Sun was not all that impressive to him nor was the whole of Machu Picchu unless you were into all the legends.
He’d traveled to Cambodia on a school trip his father had funded a couple of years ago. The temples of Angkor Wat were far more interesting to him—all the giant heads and giant gods. It was creepy to most visitors, but he’d oddly felt right at home among those ancient buildings with trees dissecting them.
Lake followed the winding path to the end of the stone walls. He listened to a guide talking about the “The Temple Of The Moon” and its purpose. In it was a strange rock throne and several rooms. Some peculiar, pointless doorways were carved out of what appeared to be an open cave or at least part of a cave.
He stepped around the other tourists who were still politely listening. He pushed his hair back and bent his six-foot frame to fit through the first genuine opening that went inside. No one paid any attention to him as he walked to one of the many fake doorways. They were obviously just part of the rock wall that hadn’t been excavated.
Lake…
Lake’s head whipped around. What the hell was going on here? That time his name had been louder and clearer. His imagination was probably being affected by the lack of oxygen at Machu Picchu’s high altitude.
His gaze scoured the cave area looking for the owner of the voice but came up with—well, nothing. There was no one else in the cave but him.
Snorting over his idiocy, Lake glared at everything around him. He finally turned back and frowned at the closest “fake” doorway that went nowhere. There were all listed in the visitor brochure to make sure tourists didn’t miss seeing them.
All Lake saw was just work gone unfinished—places the builders hadn’t managed to get around to carving before they’d abandoned the temple.
Following some urge he couldn’t refuse, Lake reached out a hand and placed his palm on the rock surface of the wall in front of him. Though solid at first touch, his hand with the slightest push went entirely through the cold stone.
“f**k this,” Lake yelled as he yanked his hand back.
Not really believing what had just happened, he reached out a second time. The rock surface seemed to melt as his hand, wrist, and finally, his whole arm went through.
Then he felt a tug, and there was a humming sound like a jet engine gearing up for takeoff. It seemed to be coming from the opening his hand was passing through.
What the f**k was this place?
Lake…
And how in bloody hell did the person with the voice know who he was?
“s**t,” Lake yelled loudly as the rest of his body got tugged through the stone.
- Writer
