By Thomas Wyrick
The familiar clacking of typewriters and scraping of cabinets greeted Walter as he walked into the office.
The equally familiar voice of his boss, Anderson, broke the morning monotony. Walter’s posture stiffened. He was certain this meant being assigned a long-distance delivery. Such suspicions were soon proven correct.
"You've got a delivery for 67 Morrow Lane, in some town called Innshoal."
"Never heard of it."
"That makes two of us."
The package in question was a wooden crate roughly four and a half feet on each side. The only markings it bore was the delivery address, printed on the lid of the box in rigid block letters with black paint, and the words Lake Harmont printed beneath it in the same manner. No one knew when it had arrived or who had dropped it off, only that it was waiting by the door when
the first workers arrived in the morning.
According to a yellowed, fraying map Walter had managed to find in a rusted filing cabinet in the building’s dim basement, Lake Harmont lay near the town of Portstead, separated by miles of fields and dirt roads. There was, however, no mention of any town named Innshoal.
After several hours driving past open pastures, Walter at last reached Portstead, a quaint town that evoked in him faded memories of a distant childhood. More than once, he felt a pang of nostalgia for a time or place he could not quite remember. After stopping at a diner that evoked
in him further feelings of nostalgia, he continued driving, his hunger sated. Untamed grasslands rose waist-high on either side of the unpaved road, rippling in the wind like waves upon a pale green sea. The wooden fences that lined the road began to slouch like rows of tired soldiers, before disappearing beneath the sea entirely. Now unhindered, the waves seemed emboldened to consume the narrow isthmus that divided them, where already dandelions and crabgrass perforated the tire-tracks.
After what certainly seemed longer than it was, the dirt and weeds were replaced by gravel as the truck rolled onto a wide gravel beach so glaringly white it pained the eyes. The shore ahead was dotted with clusters of small lopsided houses, all constructed from wood nearly identical in
color to the stones of their foundations, into which the road wound out of sight. Walter’s attention was drawn to the waterline, where a square three-story lighthouse stood at the end of a crumbling jetty. Next to a lone wooden dock lay a gargantuan barkless oak, kept company by a rowboat bobbing at a drunken angle, several inches of water sloshing in the bottom of the stern.
On a board that had perhaps once stood upright, someone had carved the name Innshoal in thin, uneven letters.
The problem soon became apparent that Innshoal did not have streets in the conventional sense, certainly none which bore any signage, nor were the houses numbered. Walter knocked on several doors, hoping to ask for directions, but none were answered. It soon dawned on him that
he had not seen another person since his arrival.
One and a half fruitless hours later, Walter knew he could navigate the empty streets of Innshoal blindfolded, but Morrow Lane continued to elude him. With the sun beginning to sink behind the wall of pines on the far side of the lake, Walter decided his endeavor had been a fool’s errand from the beginning.
Along the road to Portstead, Walter was jolted from his thoughts by a harsh growling emanating from the truck engine, followed by a sudden silence as the wheels rattled to a stop. Sighing in resignation, he continued on foot.
Scattered rays of sunlight illuminated a lavender sky from somewhere beyond the horizon as the distant lights of the city faded into view. By the time Walter aching legs carried him through the doors of the hotel, the heavens had assumed a deep hue of indigo that faded into ebony long before the tow truck returned with Walter vehicle.
The next morning, Walter approached the receptionist desk after a restless night and a vague dream of which he could not recall the details. He had decided to return to the office as soon as the truck was repaired and report the crate to be undeliverable.
The young woman behind the desk smiled good-naturedly at Walter.
"Is there anything I can help you with, sir?" the woman asked.
"I just need to get a package from the mailroom."
"Of course. Follow me."
After several minutes of searching to no avail, the receptionist turned to Walter with an earnest expression.
"Are you sure you left a package here?"
Walter didn’t answer her, a thought forming in his mind.
"Have you ever heard of a town called Innshoal? About an hour's drive from here?"
If this inquiry at all fazed the receptionist, her placid expression betrayed no hint of confusion.
"No, why?"
The sun sat squarely in the sky by the time the winding dirt roads and boundless fields gave way to gravel that pinged against the underside of the rental car. Walter slowed to a stop and staggered out of the vehicle, neglecting to close the door or turn off the engine. He shuffled onto
the beach as if in a trance. The olive-green waves of Lake Harmont washed against an empty and silent expanse of stones bleached bone white under the sun. Only the pale carcass of a once mighty oak lay at the water edge.
No town by the name of Innshoal stood on these barren shores, nor had it ever.
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