Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective

Chapter 11

Zandra's ankle-drag up the steep driveway nearly sends her careening backward. Most driveways in Wisconsin find a way around - or through - a hill because of the snow. Her suspicion about there not being a house at the end seems more likely with each shuffled step.

She pauses to catch her breath near the top of the hill. Her pack-a-day habit and bad ankle have her hunched onto her haunches. She straightens after a minute and cracks her back. It provides a bit of relief, and she continues up the hill.

At the crest she spots the van parked next to a hunting shack in a clearing at the base of the hill. It's small, only a few times larger than the size of the van. A single window facing Zandra allows the light inside. The faux log siding, perfectly arranged shingles and plastic green trim tell Zandra the shack started as a picture in a catalog. Skid marks in the dirt leading to the front door indicate a truck hauled it into place.

Zandra scans for a sign of the driver. He must be inside.

Or not. A man turns the corner of the cabin and spots Zandra. She estimates he's in his 20s. Beard. Longish hair. Jeans. Flannel shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. A crust of blood runs the length of his exposed skin. In his right hand is a Buck 110 folding knife.

"Something I can do for you?" the man says as casual as ordering coffee.

His voice is even, unwavering. No hints of stress. It puts Zandra at a slight ease. It means wherever the blood came from wasn't the result of violence. It's more likely he's a hunter, especially given the knife. The Buck 110, as most rural Wisconsinites know, is one of the most common and iconic hunting knives. She can recognize the brass and wood handle from the hill.

That doesn't exempt its use in criminal activity, of course, but Zandra notes how the man's posture isn't defensive. He's facing her straight on, shoulders relaxed and throat exposed with an inquisitive chin faced upward.

Throat exposure is another "tell" Zandra learned over the years. The more the throat is revealed, the less guarded the person. She'd consulted on a haunted house a few years back on this exact concept. Have the frights come from below to force maze-walkers to look upward, she'd said. It resulted in a subtle, psychological terror in addition to the overt, flashy one. There's something especially horrifying about showing your throat to the thing trying to kill you.

The haunted house operator made bank on what Zandra's "brand" brought to the operation. And Zandra made rent for six months and shut her mouth about how the operator spelled her name on the promo flyers around town. "Now featuring a spook-tacular maze designed by world-famous mistress of the supernatural, Sandra." Just another way for Stevens Point to whore out her reputation, so long as the trick doesn't talk during the fuck.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," Zandra says to the bloody man. "My car got a flat tire down the road and my cell phone is out of batteries. Could I use yours to call my friend for help?"

The man shrugs. "Sure, why not? Will you give me a minute to wash up?" he says.

"Of course. You must be deer hunting. I hope I didn't bother you," Zandra says.

"Nah, I wasn't in the stand or anything," the man says. Points with the knife at a spot behind the cabin out of view. "I popped a doe this morning and went into town to register it, pick up a few things. Just butchering it in the back now. You like venison?"

Zandra shakes her head. "I don't really know. Never had it," she says.

"Well, why don't you come in and find out? You can call your friend and try some breakfast sausage I made after bow season," the man says.

It's almost too generous of an offer, but Zandra shuffles down the hill anyway.

The inside of the cabin is quaint, to say the least. There's hardly anything in it, and certainly no pink shoes or anything suspicious. It's one room with a bunk bed, a woodstove, a couple chairs, a small pantry and a table. The sink consists of a jug of water hoisted above a basin that drains outside. It's plenty warm, though. The woodstove cranks out a ton of heat. It doesn't take long for the sizzle of breakfast sausage to permeate the air with its greasy aerosol.