
A FINE CAST OF CHARACTERS
by J. Dane Tyler
Published by J. Dane Tyler
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010---J. Dane Tyler; all rights reserved
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To my loving wife Vanessa, who has never flagged in her belief in and support for my work, and for my friend Raga, who wanted this as much as I did. Thank you both for pushing me onward.
Table of Contents
Do Not Enter
Copyright Protected
Lucky Caller Seven
My Childhood Friend
Remember Me
War is Hell
Over Troubled Waters
Acknowledgments
Do Not Enter
Rose set her hands on her hips, jolted her whole body and huffed an exasperated breath. "So ... what do we do?" Her eyes stared into the dark hole in front of her.
Butch stood beside her and fiddled with his Ray-Bans. "Um ... nothing, Rose. There's nothing we can do. That's why I called you. If we could do something, I'd do it."
Rose turned to speak but her mouth hung agape for a few seconds before she snapped it shut. Butch shrugged.
Rose's former boss recommended Butch to her. He was the contractor who had remodeled her boss's basement a few months before. He was reliable, fast, and only used skilled laborers. He was expensive, but with the amount of money she'd saved by finding this building on the edge of the Black Heart section of the city, she could afford him.
Finding him and buying the building meant fulfilling her dream. All the years of saving, scrimping, and God help her, living with her parents, finally paid off. The real estate agent was only too happy to unload the building. The small, compact one-story with the slant-back roof and picture windows flanking the glass-panel door stayed on their listing for more than a decade. No one was sure why it hadn't sold, only that it hadn't. Every agent had the old stalwart passed to them when they joined the realtor's office, because none of the senior agents wanted to keep peddling it.
But Rose was glad to find it. She wanted it. It would be perfect. With new, crisp, white walls, a clean, bright hardwood floor and modern decor, she saw it as her little slice of heaven. Her future bakery.
The demolition started the day after Butch got the last of the plans and permits for construction. Rose wanted to gut the building, bring in shiny stainless steel appliances and fixtures, a stone surface for kneading and a cooling table, and as many convection ovens as she could afford. She worked hard to bring this to fruition, and now, a hole in the ground stopped everything cold.
"So you guys can't do anything at all? Nothing?" She tried to keep the groan from her voice, but failed.
"Sorry. I called you, then I called the inspector. I told him what was going on, and he said all operations had to stop, immediately. I had the guys picking up and removing junk, but they're finished now, and well ... I have a couple of other clients I need to see about. So we're knocking off for today."
"I ... I can't believe this. And a staircase like this doesn't show up on any of the drawings? Anywhere?"
Butch shook his head. "I've checked 'em over four or five times. Nothing. Here, take a look." He gestured to his truck, parked in the cracked, pitted asphalt lot behind the overflowing roll-off garbage bin. Rose followed half a step behind through the dented, eczema-flaking rear door.
He bent through the open window, grunted as his barrel-body mashed against the door, and pulled out a rolled blueprint and a worn plat drawing. He handed Rose the plat and unfurled the blueprint over the truck's warm hood. He cast a sidelong glance at Rose, three inches taller than him.
"See?" he said, and gestured to the blueprint. "One story, no basement, a small attic space. When the inspector did the initial inspection he did it based on that---" Butch dipped his head toward the plat drawing in Rose's hands, "---and between the two there's nothing like a staircase or basement anywhere. The original title doesn't show one either. When we pulled up the rotten subfloor boards, there it was. We had to stop. I don't want any of my guys gettin' hurt, y'know?"
Rose sighed, resigned. "Yeah, I can see that."
"So I called you right away when I found out. Like I said, I had the guys clean up and stuff so we can get started again right away if the inspector gives it the okay."
"If?"
Butch shrugged, his short-sleeved khaki shirt stretching over his belly. He scratched at his wide, rounded jaw and the crawling ivy-like stubble creeping over it. "Yeah, no guarantee it'll be safe now."
"Are you kidding?"
He shook his head, crossed one dusty work boot over the other and propped himself against the truck. "If the structure underneath's not in good shape or not up to code or whatever, you won't be able to get it passed."
The blood drained from Rose's face. "What ... what then?"
Butch shrugged again. "I mean, I guess you can hire an architectural firm or whatever to design it, you know, bring it up to code. Depends on what's involved, but it might have to be razed."
Rose got an adrenaline sting. "Oh God."
Butch nodded. "Yeah, that'd be a bit---a bear. Cost a ton o' money, too."
"Oh crap." Rose felt her head swim, the edges of her vision fading to white.
"Yeah, that'd stink." He shrugged again. "Well, I'm gonna send the guys home, and take off. I'll call you tomorrow, when the inspector tells me what time he's gonna be here."
"We don't know?"
"Nope. He couldn't say. He had another couple inspections down this way, then he was gonna stop off here. So we're done today, and tomorrow, but I can be back after that with a full crew. You get the okay, we'll get cranking again double-time."
Rose's body sagged, her head tipped to the bright blue sky. "This ... God, this sucks. This absolutely blows. I can't believe this."
Butch tried not to chuckle. "See ya later, then. I'll call ya."
"Thanks, Butch." She stood and stared through the back door while Butch barked echoing instructions to the crew, their silhouettes like ghosts against the bright white from the picture windows. After a few minutes she traipsed in, arms folded over her flip-flopping stomach. She thought she might vomit.
She felt some sort of ceremony should be involved; some exchange of ... something, but Butch tossed a meaty hand at her as he went through the back door, and like cockroaches scattering from the light, the workers dispersed in shuffling boot heels and laughter. In a matter of seconds, she stood alone in the middle of her building, walls bare to the studs and floor exposed to its floorboard planks, surrounded in a faint dusty haze.
She looked over her shoulder at the yawning maw of shaft and sighed again.
\*
Rose came back into the building, the dusty haze still lingering in the sun streaming through the windows. She held a tiny, silver flashlight from her car's glove box in one hand, her purse slung over the other. She pointed the flashlight at her face and clicked the button. A strong white beam stabbed her eyes. She snapped it off, blinked the blue-white spot out of her vision, and moved toward the staircase shaft to the grinding sound of grit on the rough floorboard planks. The thump of her soles on the age-hardened wood seemed deafening.
She set her purse down next to her and stared at the staircase shaft.
The narrow hole was rough-hewn, perhaps three feet wide and four long. It gaped from the cement beneath the planks of the floor where the work crew pulled up the rotted subfloor. It looked as if it had been hacked from the surrounding concrete with a pickaxe. The rough edges were jagged, and the few steps she saw were primitive. They ran across the shaft, the corners where the risers met the crumbling aggregate walls dust-clotted and piled with bits of stone.
The strangest aspect of the shaft came in the way the light wouldn't reach the bottom. She trained the powerful beam down the shaft, just above the stairs, but it dissipated and vanished where the light from the main chamber stopped. Rose furrowed her brow. It looked like the sunlight and flashlight hit a wall of dark and couldn't go any farther.
Rose took a halting step down onto the first stair. Then another. A third. The shaft swallowed her to the shoulders, but the light would not illuminate more than she could already see. Her shadow blotted out everything, leaving the dimmest shapes below.
She lowered herself to the next step. She stood two steps from the light-consuming wall. She pointed the beam at her palm and it lit strong enough to shine through the web of reddish skin between thumb and forefinger. She screwed her face up, and pointed the light back down the shaft.
It died in a diffused fuzz a few steps down.
Rose aimed it at the steps, but the beam didn't show anything. The light didn't reach them.
"All right, that's just weird." The sound of her whisper scared her.
She edged another step down.
Her form blocked most of the light from above now. Through the gloom of her shadow she made out the stairs between her and that black curtain a few inches beyond.
She swallowed, but her dry mouth resisted until she forced the muscles in her throat to push down the knot lumped there. She turned back.
The square of light above her seemed small, a notebook-sized cut-out of brightness in a sea of dark. She jumped at the distance. She didn't remember moving so far down the shaft.
Something thrummed under her feet, around her. The air seemed to pulse with a vibration she felt but couldn't pinpoint. A throb, like distant heavy machinery. She held the flashlight at arm's length.
Again, the beam died; this time about two inches from the end of the light quivering in her shaking hand.
Rose swiveled her head back to the light at the top of the shaft.
It was the size of an index card, a white, glazed patch far above her.
She slammed the heel of her hand into her mouth to stop the scream that surged to her lips. Her heart spiked. She stepped up, turned back to the night-curtain below her. She felt it follow her, swore she heard it moving on the concrete sand encrusted steps. She faced the shaft opening.
Her head poked above the floor to her chin. She surveyed the gutted building around her, heart fluttering, pulse jangling.
A jittering gasp escaped her. "But ... I was so far down ... how ...?"
She looked back into the stairwell, and something winked in the beam. Metallic, rusty, mineral-coated. She panned the light, and a snap of white snaked at her from the murky dark.
"How?" Her heart hammered in her chest. She reached out of the hole and dug into her purse. She pulled out her cell phone, snapped it open, and stared into the staircase. She took another step toward the top.
Rose thumbed through the phone's contact list until she found Butch's number, hit the SEND button. A hiss while circuits closed, then a ring. Two. Butch answered on the third.
"Hey, Rose," he said. She wondered if his voice held an edge of irritation.
"Butch, sorry to bother you," she said. "I'm here in the staircase, and I---"
"You're in the staircase? In it?"
"Well ... yeah. I wanted to see what was down there, and I ... didn't have anything else to do."
"Listen, that staircase didn't exactly look code to me, you know? You need to not go in that shaft. You could get hurt. I mean, really hurt."
"Okay, fine, but I was in here anyway, all right? So I wanted to see what was at the bottom. I got a flashlight and went down there, and ..."
Hiss and noise on the line, the wind blowing into the speaker on Butch's end. "And?"
"And ... did you notice anything ... unusual about the shaft?"
"Unusual?"
"Weird."
"Well, yeah, I mean, it looked like some old gold miner with one of those cartoon picks chopped it out of concrete. The building's on a slab, but the concrete can't be all that deep."
"But you didn't ... didn't notice anything ... you know, weird?"
"Uh ... I don't think I get it. What do you mean, 'weird'?"
"Well, I can't ... my flashlight doesn't reach the bottom. It's like it can't shine far enough. Did you notice anything like that?"
Butch didn't say anything for a moment. Rose knew she didn't lose the connection because she heard the road noise and wind roaring.
"Butch?"
"Yeah ... yeah, I'm here. No, I didn't really go down in there or anything. I didn't chase a flashlight down in there either. After my guys found it they let me know and I had them move away, then I called the inspector's office, then I called you, and then I got the guys cleaning up. I really didn't check it out or anything."
"Huh," Rose said.
"Maybe you need new batteries, or a better flashlight."
A click-click on the line interrupted.
"Hey, Rose, I gotta take this other call. I'll get back to you when I hear from the inspector, all right? And try to stay out of that shaft, it could be dangerous."
"Okay, thanks, I---"
The phone went dead in her hand.
She drew a long breath, still staring down the stairwell. She moved the light around the cramped shaft but couldn't recapture the metallic splash she saw before.
She tucked the cell phone into her hip pocket and closed her eyes.
"They're just stairs, like any other stairs. There's nothing weird about them."
She opened her eyes again, and a scream ripped past her lips.
She stood immersed in the dark, deep in the shaft.
She backpedaled up the stairs, but her feet skidded on the loose debris and gray-black sandy grit. She slammed on her backside and yelped as the air squeezed from her lungs.
She gasped and gulped air, and held the flashlight up to ward off the dark.
And that flash, that brief glint of metal, nipped the dark.
She tried to steady the light, panting. Her hand shook, bounced the light in the shaft, but she managed to hold the reflection this time.
Rose stared, sat forward, squinted through clouds of billowy dust wafting from her sudden frantic outburst.
A door. A metal door, aged to a mosaic, blotched pattern of rust, verdigris and brown. Huge, patina-clad bolts fixed the seams. A massive lock squatted above a curved handle, carved with intricate designs of sinister gargoyles and smiling demonic countenances.
She followed the beam up the door, to a sign. It froze her. A homemade sign, not manufactured but painted, and affixed to the grimy metal surface by newer, shinier bolts, similar to those pinning the rails and stiles of the door.
She sat in dumbfounded silence as the sign screamed at her. The lettering dripped runners, down the sign, down the door, swallowed at the base of the entryway in thick dusty piles of crumbling shaft.
Three words scrawled across the sign, and Rose couldn't tear her eyes from them.
It read, DO NOT ENTER.
\*
Rose scrabbled up the stone steps on her hands and knees. She tore her weight forward, ripped skin and broke fingernails to the quick. Her rasping breath dragged gulps of dust, dirt, grime. She felt tiny stones stab the soft flesh of her knees and palms. The top of the dark stairwell seemed so far away and her frantic efforts didn't seem to close the distance.
She exploded through the opening and pulled herself away from it across the splintery subfloor. Daggers of ancient wood sank deep in her hands. She flipped onto her back and skittered away until she slipped and crashed down on the back of her head in the middle of the room.
A new wave of dust puffed motes drifted and glinted in the white, soft daylight. She heaved and panted, stared.
The hole sat innocent, innocuous. A hole in the floor; nothing more.
She inspected her hands. Tiny scrapes and nicks pooled with tiny drops of blood. The scabbing process had already started. Her pants had a threadbare patch over the knees, a small frayed hole opened in one. She trembled like an October leaf on an autumn wind.
It took a few minutes for her to calm. When she composed, she stood, and again eyed the shaft askance.
And again it stared back, innocent, harmless.
She winced when she stood, her joints creaked and ached. She limped on a throbbing knee toward the shaft, and stood a safe distance away to gaze into the charcoal depths.
The darkness swallowed the door whole. She couldn't make out any sign of it. Several steps into the stairwell the blackness engulfed all light.
She drew a jittering breath, ran her hand down the back of her head, and smoothed her ruffled, dust-caked hair. She dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out the phone. She considered calling Butch back, then thought better of it. He'd been unenthusiastic about her last call. She thought of calling the realtor but didn't know what she'd ask. Maybe for her money back. She assumed that would be ludicrous without a lawyer and a lot of fighting. No sense stirring that pot. Not yet, anyway.
She checked her watch. Eleven-forty. Still plenty of time in the day to do some digging, perhaps see what she could learn about the tiny old building, in a neighborhood that struggled against going bad. But already the edges were roughening, and the seedier elements gained footholds. Part of her willingness to buy this old, quaint spinster amidst the crumbled hulks of apartments tipping toward tenements and shops bordering on roach motels was the city's tax break. If she stayed and helped turn the neighborhood around, they offered her significant business tax and city tax reductions. They could use this as impetus to keep pushing nicer and nicer elements into the drug-and-crime infested Black Heart area of the city. Rose had been assured more than adequate police patrols and monitoring, since the city's special pet project couldn't fail.
But she wanted her money back now. She didn't think the benefits of a couple of tax breaks could offset the cost of having to have the building revamped from its foundation up if something about that sinister shaft was wrong, or if it made the building unsound. She didn't have the money to fix it, period, and since she didn't know the shaft was there when she bought it, and it wasn't in any of the disclosure forms, she might have a case against the realtor.
Or they could just say they didn't know anything about it either. And they'd be off the hook too, wouldn't they?
Rose gasped when she found herself on the top step of the staircase.
She clambered out, stepped away, watching the hole like a viper.
"How?" she asked aloud, and the sudden shift from silence gave her a bad jolt. "How do I end up in there without knowing I'm going in?"
Her heart tattooed in her chest, a bunny-quick thump that left a ring in her ears and shook her hands like palsy.
Rose backed away from the hole until she felt her heels hit the baseboards beneath the huge, square windows. However far she moved from it, it wasn't far enough. Every time she got distracted with other thoughts, she ended up in the stairwell, farther down than she wanted to be.
An hour ago she didn't even know the shaft was there. Now she couldn't escape it. It seemed to move beneath her and swallow her when she didn't stay alert, aware of the shaft.
She shuffled across the floor, sidestepping so she faced the shaft at all times as she sidled past toward the rear door. She opened it with her back to it, and went to the parking lot backward.
She shut the door, and exhaled. She didn't realize she'd held her breath.
She collapsed in a quivery mass on the hood of her car.
"Found it, didja?"
The ruined, raking voice jarred her and she yelped. She spun but couldn't see anyone. A wheezed whistle of laughter broke into a hacking cough, and she followed it with her eyes.
A homeless man sat beside the garbage bin, dirt-smudged so opaque his skin color seemed like barbecue ash. Matted hair clumped in ropey tangles and webbed like cocoons, his scalp flaked in oily yellow floes working their way up the gray and filth-colored hanks of hair. The mass on his head poured down the sides of a cracked, reddened face to join a bushel of tufts like a series of steel wool pads laced over his chin and across his mouth. Tiny things seemed to move there, or perhaps droplets of spit and old food clung like fleas. His red-veined jaundiced eyes, glossy and cataract-glazed, ran thick, milky globs when he blinked. His eyelashes were crusted with something greenish-yellow. The face sank into a webbed network of leathery skin, the eyebrows the same uniform steel-wool color. Dirt caked under and around his fingernails in black lines. His clothes and shoes blended with his overall hue as if coated by some particulate dust.
"Excuse ... me?"
The vagrant smiled; a shriveled line sliced across his face and revealed the pallor of his mouth, bluish tongue working like a fat worm in white, foamy spit, a couple of gray-green teeth wobbled in pink-white gums turning the color of the ocean on a stormy afternoon, and something under his shirt seemed to shift, an unwholesome and unnatural movement. Like something fed on his flesh without his knowledge under it.
Rose shuddered. "I-I'm sorry, I just needed to get some air, I didn't mean to---"
"Ya found it, didn'cha? The sshhaaaft."
He tipped his head back and bulged his eyes while he hissed the word, and it slid like a cold slug down Rose's spine, setting her hair on end, and a shiver raced up her back.
"I-I think I'd better---"
"Best beware, misssy!" the old man lisped, like a serpent in human form, "beware the ssshhaaaafft! It's a doorway to Hell! Old man knew it! Old man Crawford, he knew it! Tried to hide it! Tried to keep people from knowin' about it! But I knew!"
Rose's brow furrowed. She tried to step back but her butt pressed against her car's fender. "I-I'm sorry, mister, really, I-I need to---"
"Crawford put a sign on it! A sssiiiign, right? Right? You seen it! The sign! 'Do Not Enter', it sssaaaaysss, right? Right missy? Right, missy Rose?"
Her heart slammed to a halt. "How ... how did you know---?"
"Heard the voices yet, missy? Heard 'em screamin'? You can hear 'em in torment! Voices from Hell screamin' for mercy, for relief! Heard 'em yet, Missy Rose? Heard the voiceeesss?"
"Leave me alone!" Rose turned to round the car, get in, drive away, leave, never come back. The old man moved across the cracked and pitted asphalt toward her, on his belly, his hands slithering out toward her, drawing him nearer.
"You can hear 'em sssscreeeeamm, Missy Rose! I heard 'em too! Me an' Crawford heard 'em, back in '63! Heard 'em sssscreeeeaam, we did, mmooooanin' and waaailin' for help for their souls, Missy Rose, their very ssssoooouls!"
"Leave me alone, damn you!" Rose shrieked but couldn't move, couldn't make herself open the door, couldn't tear her eyes away from the pus-crusted, yellow orbs shot through with red, couldn't make herself shut her eyes, even, or step to the side.
"Hell's door is in there, Miiisssss Roooossse, and you bought it! It's your door, now! Crawford couldn't hide it! They came for him! I heard him sscreeeeam when they took him! The door opened and they pulled him down into Hell and I heard him sssscreeeeamin' like the others, Missy Roooose, I heard him and hear him to thiiiis day!"
Rose sank to her haunches, the blood and strength draining from her like water in an unstopped tub. She shook her head and put her hands to her cheeks, and screamed, throat shredding, ear drum rattling screams.
When her breath gave out and she looked up, there was no one there. She was alone in the parking lot, sitting against her car.
\*
Rose shook. Her eyes darted across the battered pavement.
Nothing. Utter solitude.
She heard a rasping breath, and her heart spiked. She yelped and looked over her shoulder, but only the dark square of the building against the bright midday sky stared down on her. She panted and realized the rasping breath was hers.
She wiped her brow, then caught her breath again.
Her purse. She'd left it inside when she came out ... and she didn't lock up behind her. The keys were in her purse.
And the old man? Where is he now?
Inside? Robbing her?
She reached into her pocket for the phone and for the third time in a sixty-second span she got a bad jolt.
Her hand spread in her empty pocket. No phone.
Had she dropped it when the old man scared her? She scanned the parking lot, one eye wary for the old itinerant, her nose keen for his stench. She bent and looked under the car where she'd collapsed. Nothing.
She stood up and eyed the rear door. She listened.
Silence. The sound of traffic on the busy street outside seemed muffled here behind the building. She clenched her hand to stop the tremors.
Rose huffed a sigh, drew a deep breath and let it out slow. She stepped toward the door, listened, stepped, listened. She pushed the door open and it swung aside and creaked at the end of its arc.
She listened again. Nothing moved. Unless the old man hid in the shaft itself, the building was empty.
She stepped inside, wary of the hole, and moved beyond it, toward the front of the building.
She exhaled a sigh of relief. Her purse was where she left it. She rummaged through, inventoried contents, rifled through her wallet. Cash, credit cards, ATM card ... all there. Satisfied, she dug for her keys, trotted to the back door, locked it, and moved back into the front room. She dropped the keys back into her bag, wrung her hands, bit her lip, and stared at the shaft.
She bent back over the purse and scanned. She couldn't see her phone. She emptied the purse of larger items, until only a smattering of detritus remained at the bottom.
No phone.
A panicked thought stabbed at her mind, chilled her.
Had she dropped the phone in the stairway when she'd fled in terror?
Rose looked around. The black hole in the floor beckoned her, mocked her.
She didn't want to look there. She had no problem admitting the hole scared the hell out of her. She didn't like the idea of approaching it.
She didn't have any choice, though. She needed her phone.
She took a hesitant, light step toward the shaft. Another.
She realized in a sudden flash of understanding she couldn't sneak up on a hole. She coughed and her cheeks flushed despite the dead quiet solitude. She cleared her throat, summoned her dignity and marshaled her courage.
She strode to the edge of the staircase with all the confidence she could muster. It wasn't much.
She blinked at the ceiling for five seconds, ten, drew a long breath. She shut her eyes, looked down, then opened them. Her heart slammed against the roof of her mouth and destroyed the scream diving for her lips.
She stood at the metal door, her phone and her flashlight at her feet.
Her head spun, and she felt the world tip in at an insane angle beneath her. She panted for breath and a fine sheath of sweat broke over her skin. She teetered and crashed against the cold concrete wall and the rough texture jabbed her tender scalp. She slid down onto the bottom tread in horrible slow motion, like sinking in molasses, unable to stop herself, no strength in her legs.
Her head fell back as her butt hit with a heavy thud on the step. Rose faded, the edges of her eyesight graying and fading. She shut her eyes and tried to breathe, tried to will herself to recover muscular movement but she toppled back against the other treads. She couldn't hold her head up. The back of her head jarred against another step and a whizzing scattershot of sparks left contrails over her field of vision.
She panted, gasped, gulped for air. She shut her eyes, willed herself to not be at the bottom of the shaft, she imagined it, it had to be her imagination, she never went down the stairs ...
Her heart throbbed. The pulses sent squishy, ringing sounds through her ears. She tried to calm herself, breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth, focused on slowing her heart rate. A moment later, she felt strong enough to sit up. The shaft opening seemed far, far above her.
The door leered at her with the cold menace of an abusive boyfriend.
Rose shrieked when her phone rang and shattered the silence.
She sobbed in relief, bent and with a weak, shaky hand, picked up the phone. She collected herself while it rang a second time, a third. She opened the clam shell, gulped and held it to her ear.
"H-he-hello?" She steadied herself.
Every hair on her body stood on end.
A moan, distant, faint, drifted through the speaker.
She swallowed hard, but her bone-dry mouth provided nothing to swallow.
"H-hello?" The moans became wails, cries, voices rising and falling in torment, screams in the background and shrill banshee screeches wafting, blending. A cacophony of horror, terror, anguish.
Her eyes stung with tears, her lips trembling.
"W-who is this?" Her voice broke as the tears fell. "Who's there?"
The screams grew in strength. The sounds became louder, more numerous. She heard the distinct sound of each voice, yet they melded into a wall of noise. Despair. Total despair, pain.
She snapped the phone closed. She cried, hard sobs wracking her body, and the voices, the tortured sounds of agony and abject fear, echoed in her ears. She covered her ears with her palms and screamed again, shook her head, sent tears flying across her face. She turned to flee, legs shaking, heart pulsing rapid-fire.
The shaft opening teased her with its distance, a tiny smudge of white light high overhead.
She reached to scramble out, on all fours if necessary, and froze.
The sounds. The cries, the screams, the pleas for mercy, for help, the desperate voices from the phone ... they floated on the air in the cold, cramped staircase. Faint, far off, but growing louder. She whimpered as she forced her body to move, to flee, to get up the stairs, and clawed at the next step despite her leaden limbs and spinning head.
Then another sound froze her.
A loud clang smashed her heart to smithereens and frosted her veins in an icy flood. A puffing, like the breaking of a long-closed seal, and a rush of air filled the confines of the concrete chamber. Rose slowly turned her head toward the door, unable to resist.
It was ajar. A flickering orange-yellow light danced and played over the wall beside the crack between the door and the jamb.
She tried to yell, scream, wanted to release the building fear and madness swelling in her, but only a pathetic, puling sob escaped her.
Rose turned to flee, scrambled to her feet, and then the horrified shriek did come, tore her ragged vocal chords to ribbons, shook her vision with its ferocity.
The shaft opening was gone. Only blackness stared back from overhead.
\*
A hot wash of air rushed up from behind Rose.
It raised the hair on her arms and neck and a shudder wracked her body. She heard her breath, thready and whimpering, rasp in the tight confines. She felt the air heat, a layer of gleaming, slick sweat caked her skin. Her eyes flitted in the dark for the eerie dances of light.
The door stood black against the bright, hot edge of orange and yellow which danced on the wall, and from the crack between the door and jamb.
Another gust of hot, arid wind rustled her hair and stung her eyes. She dripped in sweat now. The temperature climbed further with the second wash of heat. She turned back to the stairs.
The opening of the shaft was still gone. She moaned as fear swelled toward panic.
She shut her eyes and tried to control herself.
The phone. She held it in her whitened, fear-clenched fingers.
She snapped it open. The display lit up a cool blue in the dark, amber-lit stairwell.
The blood in her veins iced when she saw the NO SERVICE warning.
Her hands shook so hard she almost dropped the useless phone as she tucked it back into her pocket. She turned toward the door.
It had opened further. The light in the cave-like shaft blazed brighter, hotter.
Rose wiped her brow with the back of her wrist, swallowed hard and tried to calm her throbbing heart. She blinked tears from her eyes and wondered what to do.
The heat cascaded over her like a smothering wave, and she couldn't stand it anymore. She backed away from the door up one step, then two.
Then her back hit a wall.
She turned and another startled cry raked her throat.
The stairs were gone. A solid, concrete wall blocked the passage. The grit, dirt, and dust choked her nostrils and caked her mouth. The rough texture, warmed by the blasts of hot air, scraped her palms as she dragged them over it and felt for an opening.
She tipped her head back and screamed. All the terror and confusion erupted through her burning vocal chords. When it died in her chest, she laid her head against the hard concrete and sobbed.
Rose opened her eyes. She didn't know how much time passed. The cramped prison was darker, and cooler. She sniffed and turned toward the door.
It stood open, the massive metal stopped against the wall on the far side of the opening. A rough-hewn passage, as if chipped from solid rock, wound down beyond the portal. The soft, amber glow came from somewhere beyond a bend in the gradual spiral. The spectral shadows folded and leaped against the far, black wall.
Rose quivered. Her fingers slipped down the wall. She took a hesitant step forward, toward the door.
The chopped, carved corridor stretched away from the door, then disappeared to the left, down what appeared to be a winding stairway.
She approached the portal, touched her hand to the door. The warmth of its ancient metal startled her. The rock swallowed the jamb as if it had been embedded there. She leaned forward.
The stillness unnerved her. She edged back through the doorway, and her back pressed against something crowding her into the doorway.
Rose screamed, jolted, and turned, backing through the door jamb.
The wall loomed less than two feet outside the door. She sobbed, her fists clutching large knots of hair at the sides of her head as she sank to her knees, vision blurred with stinging saline. She sobbed and shrieked until only the hoarsest groans escaped her. Exhaustion slumped her against the wall to her right.
Her nose ran and her eyes leaked, so she wiped them with her sleeve, and turned her back to the wall. She tipped her head leftward and the soft, warm glow from beyond the bend danced, swayed and draped over the stony enclosure. She turned to face her right and saw the wall beyond the door now blocked the opening, the outer portion of the jamb entombed to the door stop.
She was sealed in. The portal didn't exist anymore. She was buried alive.
Rose heard something ... a strange, scraping sound, dry, alien.
She realized the sound was her voice, laughing alone in the dead cavern of carved stairs and useless steel door. She tipped her head back and cackled, her sides convulsing until they ached, her eyes watering. Rose laughed, deep guffaws, belly laughs which blinded her, immobilized her. She couldn't figure out why she laughed. She just did.
When her breath failed and she gasped for air, she noticed she wasn't laughing anymore. She sobbed.
She tried to stand, but her leaden limbs made her feel as if she swam through gelatin. She couldn't manage anything but thick, slow movements. She braced her hand against the wall, and stared into the rocky passage bending away from her. She had nowhere else to go.
She stood upright and pulled the phone out of her pocket again.
When she opened it, the display didn't light up at all.
She sighed, slipped the phone back in her pocket, and stared down the passage. The flickering, playing light seemed brighter somehow.
Rose drew a deep breath and wondered if she suffered a delusion. She reached out her hand, and the sensation of the rocky, hard-edged wall, warm and dusty, dragged her fingers. There was only one way to go.
She took a halting step forward. Her shallow breath seemed loud, deafening, in the crypt-quiet passage. Another step. She heard the grind of debris---pebbles, grains of concrete and shards of rock---beneath her shoes. Another step.
Then the sounds drifted to her, distant, soft and floating on drafts of hot air, ricocheting off the walls in the narrow corridor.
The moans. The wails. The desperate screams, cries and wails of tormented, agonized suffering. They grew louder, clearer, distinct yet melded, some drifting high above the others, some more baritone. All in terror, all in pain. All in despair.
She tensed, held her breath. It sounded like the voices of thousands. And it got louder still.
Rose balked, turned back toward the door.
The wall was gone. The door was open, the stairs illuminated in the soft candlelight-colored glow of the passageway. Above, clear, bright white against the blackness of the stairwell shaft, the tiny patch of surface sunlight beamed.
The stairwell shaft! The way out!
Her heart smashed into her throat. She spun, ran toward the door, and in a single, violent motion a blast of fiery hot wind roared past her, stinging her skin as it scraped by, and she winced against the needle-sharp bite.
And the huge, heavy metal door of rivets and cross-braced metal beams snapped closed in front of her with a final, hollow clang.
Rose's momentum smashed her full-face into it, and the force bucked her head back, stars whirling in her vision, a nasty, coppery bite spattering in her mouth and nasal cavities. She collapsed and sank to the foot of the door. She waited a few seconds, then blinked back the water in her eyes and reached for the door handle.
There wasn't one.
She heard the wails, the cries, the screams, grown to a cacophony behind her, and tried to worm her fingers into the cracks between the door and jamb. They seemed fused together. She couldn't identify the seams in the dim light.
She screamed again, but it was a wasted, desiccated sound, the sound of a dried, shriveled corpse as her voice gave out. She kicked the door, beat it with her fists, banged as hard as she could and screamed until the moaning, chilling sounds from the passage became louder than her cries.
Her hands pulsed pain with every heartbeat. Rose collapsed at the foot of the great, solid door.
She choked back a sob.
In the shifting, changing light of the passageway ahead of her, she saw a shadow. A head, stretching long as it approached in the winding stairwell, the bony shoulders and long, skeletal fingers, tipped with crooked claws.
She shook her head. The flickering light played havoc with her vision, but there was a shadow on the wall, growing larger with each passing second. She stood up, pressed her back to the warm door.
Another stream of burning hot furnace air plastered her to the wall, and she cried out as her skin screamed in pain. She glanced down and watched as blisters formed on her exposed arms and hands. She shook in agony and cried out again.
The shadow blocked the light from the passage now.
The din from the crying voices assaulted her, the heat scorched her, and Rose felt panic rise to choke her. She shrank against the wall and door and cowered.
The screams wavered, rose and fell as individual voices, but united they were an unbroken river of horror.
Over them she heard the flutter of leathery wings as the shadow on the wall rounded the corner.
Copyright Protected
Music oozed through speakers mounted high in the room's corners and spilled over the murky half-light leaking through cracks around the heavy drapes and shut blinds. The sliding closet door stood ajar, revealing a jumble of clothes thrown haphazardly onto hangers and shoved onto the packed rod. Some stood free, wrinkling atop the mashed wads of others behind. The floor piled high with more fabric cadavers. A dresser, night stand and table teetered beneath piles of detritus and miscellany from their horizontal surfaces. Unmated shoes spread across the battlefield floor. Sugary, preservative-laden drinks festered in forgotten aluminum cans.
A black light buzzed in a fluorescent fixture over posters above the bed. Strange, eerie artwork adorned almost every square inch of wall space, some overlapping other. Exotic indie music band posters, prints of macabre and gothic people and places, vampiric images and statements, all stared into the heart of the room toward the unmade bed.
A voice wavered from the edge of the mattress. "Danny, you sure about this? You can get in trouble, dude."
"Shut up, Aaron. I do this all the time. I haven't handed in an assignment I wrote yet." Danny sat at the computer, tipped back on his chair, long hair draped over one mascara-painted eye. "Besides, it's not you doing it, it's me. What do you care?"
Aaron shook his head, tossed his blond strands on the stale air. "Whatever. I'm just trying to look out for you."
"Thanks, Mom, but I'm fine."
Danny's pale, sun-deprived skin revealed blue veins beneath the papery surface. Reflections from the metallic studs on leather bands glinted. Bangles and bracelets jangled with every mouse motion, and each button click and keyboard entry sounded with the prattle of rings on every black nail polished finger.
"At least hurry up," Aaron whined. "What's taking so long?"
"I said shut up," Danny growled. "This assignment's, like, a third of the grade, dumb ass. It has to be the right story, a really good one. I can't just grab anything. I want to get a great one."
"It's on the Internet, Danny," Aaron said. "Jeezuz, man, don't you think Marlin's gonna find out?"
"Find out? How? These aren't from fiction sites, ass-wipe, they're from blogs. Who reads blogs anymore? Now chillax. This one's really good."
Aaron sighed in worried exasperation and stood up, the rasp of his worn black jeans and faded black shirt seeming loud in the still, musty room. Danny ignored him, tossed the hank of black mossy hair out of his eye and continued reading. He nodded as a grin snaked over his lips.
"Oh yeah ... yeah, this one's good. This is it."
Aaron closed the distance from the full-length mirror on the back of the door to the computer desk in two nerve-powered strides. "Fine, get off the site now."
Danny scowled up at him. "Will you fucking relax? It's not like someone's monitoring the---"
"Aw, shit man, this one's copyrighted or whatever! You can't use this one!"
"Screw that, it's just some stupid ass's little thing he puts on the bottom of all his posts, it doesn't mean squat."
"Dude, it's patented or something! You can't use it!"
"It's nothing! I said forget it! It's my homework anyway, so shut up already."
Aaron threw his hands up. "You're goin' to jail, dickhead."
"Up yours." Danny clicked and moved the mouse over the text on the screen, highlighted all of it and clicked the right mouse button. He chose Copy from the context menu, then opened a new document on his local drive. Another right click; he selected Paste. "There. Now I just change a couple words here and there and I'm done. A two-week assignment finished in twenty minutes of reading." He saved the document with no name.
"You're gonna get in trouble for this if you keep it up."
"God, you're a pussy, Aaron."
\*
Danny walked into the house and felt the silence like a chill breeze.
"Mom?" His voice echoed through the house. "Mom, I'm home."
No reply.
Danny listened for a moment, then strode to the stairs. "Mom? You home?"
No answer again. Normally his mother would leave him a note when she went out and wouldn't be home when he arrived. It was unusual when she didn't. He felt his pulse quicken despite himself.
He shook his head and bounded up the stairs to his room. With a quick, mindless motion he stepped in and shut the door behind him. He looked up and his breath caught in his throat.
A black-clad figure leaned on the corner of his computer desk. The monitor showed both the original blog from which he'd stolen his major creative writing assignment and the document he'd pasted it to. The figure, a tall, lean silhouette in a black ski mask and turtleneck, hooked a gloved thumb to the monitor.
"You're a thief." The voice was smooth and baritone.
"I---hey, how do you know I didn't write it first? Maybe that guy stole it. Who are you anyway? How'd you get in here? Where's my mother?" Danny's voice sounded thin and weak. He knees felt the same way.
The figure thrust its masked chin toward the corner of the room beyond the door.
Danny turned. The scream ripped his vocal cords to shreds and his bladder let go.
His mother slumped in the corner, eyes bulging and shot through with burst blood vessels. Her blue-black tongue protruded from purple lips, her skin a sick gray pallor. A thin strand of plastic coated metal rope left a deep, dark bruise on her throat. One shoe dangled from her toes, the other lay beside her.
"Wh-who ... who are you?" Danny said, and his vision blurred with acrid saline. "Jesus Christ, who are you?"
The figure rose to full height, and with slow deliberate movements, pulled a gun from behind his back. "Me? I'm the copyright protection method. Thief."
Danny wept hard. For a moment.
Kelly sat on deck with the maritime wind in her dark blond hair, the salt smell in her face and the sun shining on her skin.
Life didn't get much better than this. This particular aspect of "this", anyway.
The chartered boat sat lolling on the waves, bobbing on the gentle sea like a cork, and Kelly felt the first tug of sleepiness on her eyelids. The two-man crew---Skipper Steven Flanagan and Mate Willy Jurgen---worked with a couple of overweight, balding business men at the transom, instructing them for the umpteenth time on how to handle the lines and keep them from crossing, how to seat the heavy rods in the harnesses, how to strap into the fighting chair, and so on. The crass, middle aged braggarts cocked their Wal-Mart fishing hats, strung through with "lucky" lures, and laughed until their faces reddened at their own inappropriate and humorless jokes. The crew joined in with polite enthusiasm, tolerating them long enough to collect their pay and have done with the blowhards.
Kelly, on the other hand, wasn't having as much fun as she hoped.
She didn't know what to expect when she called WTNZ. It sounded nice. A four-day, three-night fishing trip off the coast with two of "sea fishing's foremost experts to teach you the ins and outs, tips and tricks, all while on a luxury charter fishing boat with a small passenger list, so you get the personalized attention you need to master the art of ..." blah, blah, blah. It seemed simple enough. Kelly loved fishing, and she loved country music, and all she had to do was be lucky caller seven.
She figured she had no chance of winning. She'd never won anything so grand before. And besides, she thought while the phone rang in her ear, there had to be a catch of some kind, right? No prize so nice would just be free, right?
Well, Kelly turned out to be right. The trip didn't include air fare, if necessary, to the port city from which the craft would launch. It wasn't a solid four days on board, either. They would set out each morning and return every evening, and the guests stayed at a local motel. Not being in a high-resort area, the motel wasn't the Ritz-Carlton, but it was clean and run by a nice elderly couple during the day. The night shift, Kelly found, consisted of a huge bear of a man with a shaved head, fading tattoos and a mustache denser than most toupees. He was built like a bullet and when seated, was taller than Kelly's diminutive five-foot-three figure. He eyed her with something that might've been desire, but Kelly tried to avoid passing the front desk at night.
This was the last day of the trip. She hadn't caught a thing. No one had. She suspected the so-called "experts" were nothing more than a couple of yokels who offered the lowest rental rates in the area. WTNZ, being cheap, paid them their rate plus a little stipend to pretend to be "world-famous experts" on ocean fishing. All they do is take fat business men out for a day of beer, sandwiches and sunburn, turn around and come back in. They go to different, pre-determined locations the same distance from shore each time, say they're "finding the fish" or whatever load of crap they feed, and then go back to land. If the passengers happen to catch something, great, and if not ... well, they get paid either way.
Kelly had never heard of either one of the "experts".
She returned her gaze to the leather-bound book on her legs, jotting on the half-filled page in front of her. She'd kept a journal most of her life and was so excited about the trip---at first, anyway---there was no way she'd leave it behind.
Last day of the trip. Thank Goodness! It's been miserable so far. Bad fishing, bad company, bad crew. Well, not all the company's bad. The really young, hot girl (damn her!), Sam, is nice. The two guys though? Ugh. If I have to hear them laugh after I get off this boat I'm going to hang myself from the doorknob of the hotel.
The boat's nice, but it's not a luxury liner. And the food is pathetic. It's like airline food but warm. The only thing cold onboard is the beer, and I can only stomach so much of that. So I'm chugging room-temp water and listening to two fat guys laugh themselves a hernia. Woo-woo, what fun. Sure am I glad I won. Yee. Ha. Go. Me.
Kelly sighed again. She never used to be so jaded, and wondered if she was just getting old and cynical. The sound of her name drew her gaze to the aft of the vessel. It was the "first mate", whatever that meant on a two-person crew. He'd made overtures at Kelly almost the entire trip and didn't seem to understand subtle rejection. Kelly figured she'd have to resort to being direct if he didn't get a clue. Most people call it "rude" and she supposed since she wouldn't see the bozo again, she shouldn't care, but ... she hated to be rude just the same.
"Kelly, aren't you gonna drop a rod?" He smiled with nicotine-stained teeth at her, his dark, dry skin as weathered and cracked as a tanned lizard hide, his dirty, bleached-brown curls tussled by the breeze. She tried to fake a smile but couldn't manage one.
"No, thanks," she said, trying to sound less morose than she felt. "I'm just going to catch some rays." She turned her face away from him and muttered, "... And stay the hell away from you, bean-breath." She considered putting something on over her halter top, but the sun beat down warm. It was the last day; she'd deal with it.
Kelly heard footfalls on the deck and tensed, expecting the so-called first mate. She turned and instead found the other woman onboard, Samantha, looking as bored and sick of the trip as Kelly. She offered the tall, lithe blond girl a wan smile.
"Hey," Kelly said.
"Hi," Sam sank down, her taut, Hollywood-perfect body sliding onto the deck with the grace of a rope being coiled. Kelly tried not to stare, and tried even harder not to be jealous, but the girl was an amazing physical specimen. Five-eight, curved and contoured with muscle and just enough fat to make it feminine, and sexy, long golden locks and big, emerald-green eyes. She never wore make-up. No older than her middle twenties, and she was here with a man more than twice her age and more than double her weight. Kelly wondered again why.
"You okay?" Kelly stared off and closed her journal.
Sam hung her head. "I guess so. I'll be glad when this is over. I just want to go home."
Kelly shifted toward Sam and smiled. "What are you missing back home?"
"Hanging out with friends, mostly." Her smile didn't make it to her eyes. "You know ... Just doing stuff we like to do. We ... as in, younger people."
Kelly nodded. "Does your husband go with you?"
Sam giggled. "He's not my husband. We're just ... I don't know what we're doing, really. But no. He doesn't."
Kelly nodded again, slow. "What's up?"
Sam cast a worried glance at her. "Nothing, but if you want to be alone I can---"
"No, no," Kelly put her hand on Sam's knee before she got up, "that's not what I meant. I just meant you look like you have something on your mind, that's all."
"Well, I was ... Hey, what's that?"
Kelly saw Sam crane her head to one side, staring over her, off the bow.
Her heart pounded in her chest.
An isolated, dark storm cell piled just over the water's surface. Lightning skipped from one section of the low, narrow, cloud. The brilliant flashes ripped one after another across the slate gray face, then ignited its bowels, and flashed down at the ocean. An intense curtain hung to the water obscuring everything behind the rapid, amoebic disturbance. The cloud seemed to pull itself along, tendrils extending from the main cloud and dragging the body along the water, then others doing the same. The cloud tacked toward the boat creeping along its belly over the waves.
"Storm," Kelly intoned, her interest sparked.
"Wow, it's ... weird." Sam pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them.
Kelly nodded. It was weird. Kelly had chased storms as long as she could drive, and she'd never seen one like this. Maybe it was because it blew in from the open water, but...
Then it hit her. "There's no wind. I mean, it's moving really fast but there's no wind. We should be feeling the wind." She narrowed her eyes at the amorphous shape spreading and oozing over the water toward them.
It was closing fast. They had minutes before it hit.
No wind.
"Hey, Captain?" Kelly called over her shoulder, but her voice died amid the purple-faced guffaws of business men, clutching their bellies and collapsing on the gunwale, while the crew smiled and nodded, trying to look genuine.
"Captain?" she called louder, and Jurgen looked her way, his smile fading as he did.
He swatted Flanagan on the shoulder, and tipped his chin toward the horizon. Flanagan stood upright, put a hand across his brow to shield his eyes. He spoke to Jurgen, who turned to the business men. Flanagan stepped onto the gunnel and around to the deck, coming up behind Kelly and Sam.
"You'd better get inside the cabin," he said, eyes on the pressing cloud and flashes of lightning. Kelly's heart fluttered when she realized no thunder accompanied the sparks.
"It's weird," Kelly said. "No wind. No thunder. Plenty of lightning though, and that's the lowest singular cloud I've ever seen. It's like it's sitting right on the water."
"Might be a white squall." Flanagan gave an absent scratch at his bare chest, hooking the other thumb into the pocket of his cut-off jeans.
Kelly turned to the cloud. "I ... I don't think so. It's got a cloud; white squall wouldn't have that distinct a cloud." She swallowed. "Would it?"
Flanagan never looked at her. He just shook his head. "I dunno. Looks bad though. Go on into the cabin, just 'til it blows over."
"Well, ya don't have to tell me twice," Sam said, hopped to her feet and minced over the deck toward the main cabin. She stopped and looked back. "Kelly? Coming?"
Kelly stared into the creeping, crawling cloud, so close now it blotted out the ocean behind it. "Uh ... Yeah, I guess." She got to her feet, and the squat blossom of cloud diffused the daylight around her.
She and Sam went single file under the flying bridge and down to the main deck. "There's no wind," Kelly muttered again.
"What's that?" Sam turned to Kelly, whose face was a quizzical scowl.
"Huh? Oh, I said ... it's just weird there's no wind."
"Yeah, you were saying."
Sam retreated into the cabin, and fished through her bags for a pair of shorts and a button-down, short-sleeve shirt to cover the expanse of tight, smooth skin and the skimpy bikini. One of the tubby bald guys groaned.
"Aw, babe, putting clothes on is the opposite of what you should be doing," and he and the other chubby man belted laughter.
Sam didn't smile. "There's a storm coming, Edward," she spat, "in case you're too clueless to see."
"Well the storm won't be the only thing rockin' the boat, baby!" He turned red with more rib-straining laughter as he and the pudgy partner in humor lost control of themselves in mirth.
Sam turned away and went deeper into the cabin. "Yeah, right. Like you could rock anything but a chair, you dried up, withered old ..."
Kelly blushed and tried to move from between them as Edward sobered and followed her. "Hey," he said soft in the flat acoustics of the cabin. Kelly stepped onto the deck to avoid hearing them.
The storm was almost on them now. Kelly watched Jurgen and Flanagan on the flying bridge, pointing and whispering. In a second, Flanagan skittered down the ladder and dropped in front of the cabin door, and ushered Kelly back inside with an extended hand.
"Folks, we've got a little storm coming on. Looks worse than it is, from what I see. We can't feel the wind and the sea's still calm, but she's moving quick and that's a little weird. So we're gonna batten down here and ride her out. It should get past us in just a few minutes, based on how fast it's comin'. So, please put on your life vests and make yourselves comfortable, it shouldn't be too long."
Kelly sighed and sat down, tried to stay out of earshot of the pleading Edward and the shushing Sam as they argued in muted tones. The crew tossed yellow life vests around, not donning any themselves, and then returned to the flying bridge. Kelly peered out the door as the underbelly of the cloud moved overhead, stretching and pulling and tugging its way across the sky.
And there was still no wind.
She leaned forward and got her journal, and opened it to the page she began earlier.
Strange storm has blown in. It's moving fast---very fast!---but there's no wind. The sea is calm. There's lightning but no thunder. At this moment---12:23 pm---there's no rain, but I can smell precipitation in the air. It's a low, heavy and very dark cloud, and it moves like ... well, like it's crawling along the surface of the water, not being pushed along by the wind. Very strange.
She closed the journal as the sound of a driving rain swelled around the boat. In a moment she couldn't see the transom across the deck from the paned door of the cabin. The walls of water pounded down so hard she wondered if the boat might sink under the accumulation.
The passengers stared silently at the ceiling, as if listening for something from above. The steady hiss of rain filled the cabin.
Kelly saw a flash, then another, and a few more rapid-fire as the lightning began. She counted off seconds in her head, waiting, staring out the door of the cabin.
The thunder never followed.
She wanted to open the cabin door and stand on the deck, but the cabin would flood if she did. The weather stripping under the door held back the water, and she didn't want to compromise the situation. And the rain fell.
And fell.
And fell.
"This ... This isn't right." The voice startled Kelly and she turned. It was Charles, Edward's comedic second. His face dripped sweat and a slight flush colored his neck and most of his cheeks around the blob of zinc oxide on his nose. Big patches of dark pooled under his arms, breasts and down the middle of his back on his Hawaiian print shirt.
"It's okay, it's just a storm." Kelly tried to sound confident.
"No," Charles said, and shook his head, causing droplets of perspiration to fall onto the table where he sat. "No, it's not just a storm. It's ... it's weird. There's something wrong. Where's the skipper?"
Sam's voice bit the quiet. "Just calm down, Charles. They're on the flying bridge. You're whining like a little girl."
"Something's wrong." His voice did have a more nasally, whiny tone, Kelly noted.
"Charles, please relax, it's just a storm. It'll pass in a few minutes."
"How do you know?"
"Because it was moving too fast not to."
"This could go on for days! We might be---"
He never got the chance to finish. The sound of the rain rose to a crescendo, receded to a soft patter, then ceased. The flashing, crawling cloud moved across the stern and into the open water beyond.
"See?" Sam said. "It's over already, before you were even done pussing out."
Charles turned to look out the cabin door, but a solid sheet of slate gray stared back at them. The cloud wasn't visible anymore. The hazy, softened shape of the boat's aft floated in and out of view, paling and darkening.
"Whuh ... What now?" Charles clambered to his feet and jostled Kelly aside. "What's ... What's going on now? Wh---"
"Charles, shut up!" Sam snapped.
Kelly stared into the gloom for a few seconds, then realized what happened.
"Fog," she said. "The storm must have ... It must've been behind the cloud."
"Fog?" Sam stood and shoved Edward aside. "Shouldn't the rain have ... Shouldn't it be clear and stuff after it rains that hard?"
Kelly gave a helpless shake of her head, staring at the thick, shapeless mist. The boat's stern was almost lost now, the haze seeming to thicken as they watched. "I don't know. I never heard thunder. Did you?"
Sam looked at her. "No."
"This is weird."
"Where's the crew?" Edward pressed himself against Sam and she grimaced in awkward discomfort and shrugged his sweaty palm from her shoulder.
"Yeah, where are they?"
"I told you, Charles, they're on the bridge."
"Doing what? Huh? What's keeping 'em up there? We should go out and see what's going on!"
"Jeez Louise, Charles! Did you take special courses in being a chickenshit little pussy or is it just natural for you?" Sam glared at Charles with savage disgust and it forced him onto his seat. She turned to Edward. "And get your hot, slimy mitts off me, Edward, or so help me God I'll---"
"Here they come," Kelly muttered. The thud of Flanagan dropping onto the deck thrummed the cabin. The passengers backed up as the skipper opened the door, letting the water standing on deck in.
"Well, folks, I'm sorry to say this," Flanagan said, dripping wet, "but we're going to have to pack it in."
"Why? What's wrong?" Charles' voice still leaked tense panic, but he refrained from the whiny twang it had before.
"This fog, Mr. Beaushanks, is the thickest I've ever seen 'round here. And there's no tellin' how long it'll hold up. The storm blew through fine, just like we thought, but the fog it pulled in's a doozy."
Kelly studied his face, her arms folded over her chest. "But?"
"'Scuse me, ma'am?" Flanagan perked his brows at her.
Kelly blushed. Then she steeled herself and stood straighter. "There's something else you need to say."
He sighed. "Well ... yeah."
"Oh crap!" Charles wailed like an old woman on the verge of fainting. Sam raked an exasperated sigh. Edward tried to scoot closer to her.
"We ... we seem to have some ... some engine trouble."
Kelly's heart jolted in her chest, tried to scrabble out her mouth. She dared not speak or it would escape.
"What?!" Edward bellowed.
"I'm afraid we ... we have some problems with the engine. It won't turn over. Mr. Jurgen's lookin' into it right now, and I'll be helping. Uh..."
Kelly steeled.
Flanagan licked his lips. "And the ... the radio's not workin', either. I think ... I think the unusual storm did ... something."
"No radio?" Sam said.
Flanagan cleared his throat. "I'm afraid not, ma'am."
"No engines?" Edward barked, wiping a meaty palm over his smooth, sweat-slicked pate.
"No sir."
"Oh my GOD!" Charles' sudden scream gave them all a bad start, and he stood so fast his thighs slammed into the table and knocked everything on it asunder.
"Now, calm down everybody, we'll get the boat fixed. Just wanted to make sure you all knew what the situation was 'fore we got too far along. We're gonna be busy trying to figure out what's wrong with the engines for a bit so please, occupy yourselves in the cabin or on the sundeck but stay off the main deck. We need to open the engine hold and work there."
He shut the door before any of them could respond.
"Did I ... Did I just hear what I think I heard?" Sam's voice was tight, thin.
Kelly saw the girl's wide eyes zeroed in on her, hoping for an answer.
She considered, then nodded. "Yes, you heard right. We're stranded, dead in the water. There's no engine and no radio."
"And from what I can see, no crew, either," Sam spat and collapsed onto a seat at the windowless end of the cabin.
Kelly sighed. She had a sinking feeling Sam was right. The crew didn't seem capable of solving a simple problem like where or how to find fish for their charter guests, never mind a complex one, like figuring out what's wrong with a boat motor that won't start. Or a radio malfunction. She put her forehead against the cool glass of the cabin window and stared into the fog.
She sure was glad she turned out to be lucky caller seven.
Note to self: Next time you win a radio prize, ask if you can have the cash equivalent instead.
It's been a couple of hours. Still no word from the crew. The thick fog that came in behind the storm is still sitting on us like a wet blanket. Yuck ... can't even sunbathe. I hear tools clanking and them cursing every once in a while, but they've given us no information, and since I don't hear the motor running, I assume they haven't fixed it yet.
I seriously, seriously doubt they're going to.
Part of me wants to go up there and tell them to give it up, no one's being fooled, just tell us how bad we're screwed. Someone's going to come looking for us anyway, once they find the boat hasn't come back in. We have some crappy---and I mean crappy---food we can ration out and get through for a while. We have bottled water and all the warm beer you can drink, so Charles and Edward should be content. I guess we can just wait to be rescued or the fog to lift, whichever comes first.
Of course, as incompetent as this crew is, I wonder if they had the brains to file the manifest thing right. I don't want to spend too much time thinking about that. If they didn't, then I guess we're boned, because if nobody knows we're missing...
Kelly shut the journal with a somber touch, trying to push the last thought from her mind. She felt skittish, nervous, and edgy. Something about the fog, impenetrable and endless, bothered her but she couldn't figure out what. She sat at the galley table wringing her hands in her lap, hunched over the faux wood surface, staring out at the boundless white-gray void beyond the cabin door.
In the corner, Sam and Edward bickered in hushed, muted tones. Every once in a while, Sam's voice would rise above a whisper in her vehemence, and Edward would grovel and suck up and she'd ease back. Kelly felt confident when the trip was over they would be too.
Charles slogged beer after beer down his gullet until he fell asleep, and now snored and drooled in a chair behind Kelly. She didn't turn around to see him; she didn't want to know.
Kelly mounted the ladder to the main bridge, and noticed the two crewmen hunched over something to the left of the wheel. She came all the way up, not trying to be sneaky but still unnoticed, and took a couple of halting steps forward.
"I know, Willy, but hell! We can't just sit here! There's nothing wrong with the engine, can't fix the radio, and none of the other 'lectronics are workin' either? What the hell's going ..." Flanagan caught sight of Kelly from the corner of his eye. "Oh shit," he muttered, but she still heard it.
Jurgen whipped his head around, and his eyes bulged for a split second before he plastered his used-car-salesman, yellow-toothed grin on again. "Need somethin', Kelly?" He tried to sound suave, but only sounded smarmy and slimy.
"The truth about what's going on here would be a good start," she said. She didn't want to seem rude, but fear was edging her manners aside as time slipped by. "We've been listening to you guys cuss and bang around for a couple hours and you haven't told us squat. We're a little concerned, y'know? What's happening?"
"Nothing, everything's just fine," Flanagan said. "Like I told you, it might be a while 'fore we get it all figgered out and---"
"Look, I don't want to be bitchy here, but you guys haven't shown any expertise in anything since this whole trip started." She kept her voice low, but shot her words through gritted teeth. "You've lied about knowing where and how to fish, and that's fine, no big deal, you get your money whether we catch anything or not and right now, no one cares. But dammit, we have a right to know if we're in trouble here, and the two of you don't seem to have a clue between you what the hell's going on!" She blushed, folded her arms across her chest, and caught her breath. "I'm ... I'm sorry, I don't mean to ... be nasty. But ..."
"No," Flanagan sighed, "no. It's okay. I understand. We ... well, we're all under some pressure here."
Jurgen dropped his gaze and contemplated his worn shoes with intense interest.
"See," Flanagan said, "I was sure the storm flooded the engine with all that hard rain. Then I found out it did something to the radio too, but I don't know what. Now we found out it's everything. GPS, fish finder, impeller, radio ... hell, even the stereo's not working. All the 'lectronics are out for some reason. Battery's okay, we tested that, but nothing's working." Exasperation leaked into his tone.
"Same deal with the motor? You don't know what's wrong there either, do you?" Kelly's face softened, fear's icy grip creeping around her heart, slow and slimy.
Flanagan and Jurgen exchanged a glance. "There's nothing mechanically wrong," Jurgen said, his voice muted and beaten. "Not that we can see. Whatever took out the 'lectronics took out something critical in the engine, too. Solenoid, starter, distributor maybe. Somethin'. But we turn the key, and nothing happens. Nothin'."
"We were just talking here 'bout setting off the emergency beacon." Flanagan looked into the fog through the windshield.
"Does the beacon work? Everything electronic is dead, right? How do you know it works? Did you test it?"
Jurgen flicked his head at the skipper. "I didn't. Not yet."
"I didn't either. Shi---shoot, we'd better do that. Now."
Jurgen nodded, and hopped down on deck. He scampered around the cabin and over the sundeck, pulled open a hatch and dug in its depths. Kelly looked at Flanagan.
"What if it doesn't?"
Flanagan looked at her, his face pained. "Then we're in some real shi--- then we're in trouble, 'cause nobody'll know where to look for us."
Kelly's heart flip-flopped in her chest, and her stomach did the same. "You ... you filed a ... a manifest thing, right?"
"A trip manifest?"
"Yeah."
Flanagan looked through the window again. "It's a day charter. There's ..."
"Oh my God. There's no requirement to do that, is there?"
He hesitated, looked hard at her, then dropped his eyes, the lines in his face deepening as she watched. "No. No there's not."
"Oh ... oh no. So no one knows we're out here, where we are, what we're doing, how long we've been gone, nothing." Kelly felt cold sweat bead along her hairline, on the back of her neck, slick her palms and it sent a earthworm-clammy shiver slithering up her spine.
"The emergency beacon'll probably work, Kelly," Flanagan said. "It's not powered by the boat, and the battery should be good for a couple years sitting in the box. It runs 'bout a week when it's going off."
Jurgen bounded up the ladder. "Got it." He handed Flanagan a small box. The skipper opened it and inspected the beacon. The inside box lid detailed how to use the tiny device, and he skimmed the instructions for a moment, then he threw the switches.
Nothing happened.
"Aw, shit," Jurgen muttered. "Oops, sorry. Shoot."
Flanagan threw the switch back and then tripped it again. He turned the box over, opened the battery hatch, removed the battery, reinserted it, and tried the switch again. Nothing.
"Damn," he breathed. "That storm did something. Must've."
Kelly looked from one of them to the other. "Now what?" She tried not to sound as panicky as she felt. "What do we do?"
Flanagan and Jurgen glanced at each other. Neither spoke. Flanagan sighed. "I guess we ought to tell the others ... I guess."
"They're gonna freak," Jurgen said. "Man, Skip, that Charles dude's gonna have a stroke."
"I know, but we can't hide it from 'em. They oughta know."
Kelly shuddered again. "I wouldn't say anything until you have some sort of ... of plan. You have a plan, don't you? I mean, a fail-safe back-up sort of thing?"
Flanagan shrugged. "The beacon is the back-up fail-safe thing. It's broke too. In this fog a flare's no good either."
"But you do have flares, right? And they do work, right?"
"'Course we have 'em," Flanagan barked. "It's a requirement."
"Look, Captain, no offense, okay? But you guys don't across as the most prepared and competent crew on the seven seas, y'know? I mean, we haven't caught squat the entire three days and now your emergency beacon doesn't work, along with the rest of your equipment. The boat seems okay but it obviously isn't in very good maintenance here, or you'd---"
Flanagan snapped to life. "All right, hold on a damn minute there," his face blotched red, jaw muscles dancing beneath his three-day stubble. "The boat's in perfect working order, everything checked out 'fore we set off. That freaky-ass storm knocked the stuffing out of the equipment and there ain't a damn thing me, you, or anybody else coulda done about it, Kelly. You might not be happy with us here, but what's goin' on ain't my fault and it ain't Willy's neither."
Embarrassment burned Kelly's palms and face but her fear drove her on. "Everyone down in that cabin is going to be looking to you for answers, guidance, leadership. If you're not the 'expert' skipper we were told you were, either come right out with it or start faking it pretty damn quick. The last thing you want is Charles or Edward taking charge."
Flanagan sniffed a sharp breath through his nostrils and set his jaw, staring out the windshield at the gray. "I'll ... think of something. The dinghy, maybe."
"Are you sure the dinghy works? I mean, nothing else you've tried does. Don't you think you ought to test it?"
Flanagan bit his thumbnail. "I ... we can't. If it inflates, there's no way to un-inflate it."
"Then you'd better inflate it, because we need to know if it works or if the storm took it out too." Kelly shrank into her frame at the thought of even the inflatable raft failing. She shuddered again.
Flanagan nodded at Jurgen and the mate sighed, pushed away from the console and went down the ladder and across the sundeck to the hold again. Flanagan turned to Kelly.
"I'm gonna tell the others what's happening. Hope to hell it don't cause mayhem and panic."
"You might as well be ready for panic and mayhem from Charles," Kelly said. "He panicked before he knew we were screwed. Now that we are, mayhem is next."
"Great."
Flanagan moved down the ladder in no particular hurry, drew a deep breath and opened the cabin door. Kelly stayed on the bridge, shut her eyes and waited.
She didn't have to wait long.
"OH MY GOD!" She recognized the voice before Charles burst through the cabin door, Flanagan following with hands on hips, shaking his head. "OH MY GOD, WE'RE GONNA DIE OUT HERE! HEELP! HAAAAAAAAAAAALLLP!" Charles waved his arms in frantic flaps over his head, jumping up and down, rocking the boat side to side under his bulk, face red, veins popping on his forehead.
"Mr. Beaushanks, please calm down," Flanagan put his hands on the pudgy little man's shoulders. "This isn't helping. Just settle down!"
Sam's voice cut through Beaushanks' wails. "For Christ's sake, you incompetent jack-ass, what're we going to do?" She took the skipper's arm and spun him to face her. "Huh? What the hell are we going to do now? No motor, no radio, no emergency beacon? Sounds fucked to me! Is that what we are, 'Captain'? Fucked?" Her face flamed, chin thrust forward, hands on hips. She wheeled toward Edward. "Do something, Edward! Jesus, act like a man for a change and do something!"
"Honey, please," Edward reached for her, but Sam slapped his hands away.
"Get your greasy goddamn paws off me! Be a man, Timmerman! Do something, for God's sake! We're stuck out here! Call one of your 'people', you lousy fuck!" Tears leaked through her flaring eyes and raced down her mottled, blushed cheeks. "Goddamn it! Somebody do something!"
"Please, Ms. Whitaker, we are doing something, I just need everybody to calm down a little bit here ..."
Sam's voice strained through clenched teeth. "You son of a bitch! You lousy, shit-for-brains son of a bitch!"
Flanagan kept his voice even. "Just settle down, all of ya. Willy's getting the life raft now, and we'll have it ready for---"
"Life raft?!" Charles's eyes popped farther from his skull. "Oh, Christ, we're sinking, aren't we? Oh God, oh GOD!"
"Mr. Beaushanks, please! Screaming ain't helping matters none!"
"GOD IN HEAVEN, WE'RE SINKING! HAAALLLP! HAAALL---"
Flanagan slapped Beaushanks across the face, raising an angry red welt on his flabby cheek. The Edward's head sailed around on the force of the blow and he crashed to the deck in stunned silence. Everyone froze. Kelly heard her heart throbbing in the sudden stillness, just under the lapping of waves against the sides of the boat.
"Now, I'm sorry 'bout that, Mr. Beaushanks, I really am, but we gotta have some kinda order here."
Beaushanks stared up through watery eyes, his chubby hand caressing his inflamed cheek, his expression that of a whipped puppy. Sam had her hand over her mouth, Edward taking advantage of her distraction to put his arm around her waist, gaping down at Charles.
"Willy's getting the raft ready. It'll hold eight, so that's all of us and some food and water. We can at least row it. We're a ways out from land, I ain't gonna lie, but we can at least make for land. Hopefully another craft'll spot us, and if we see something we got the flare gun to signal 'em."
They stared at him in silence. "That's the best plan I got. Any objections?"
Sam hugged herself, Edward draped around her middle. Charles looked down at the deck, blinking. Flanagan sighed.
"Okay, then, that's what we'll do. Willy, you got that dinghy yet?"
"Got it, Skip," Jurgen called from the sundeck. He'd watched the exchange without interrupting. Or helping, Kelly noted.
"Well, go 'head and blow it up, get it tied off over the side. Make sure it don't leak. Rest of you get provisions together." Flanagan offered his hand to Beaushanks. Charles stared at it, then took it. Flanagan pulled him to his feet. "Go 'head an' help the others, Mr. Beaushanks."
"Charles," Beaushanks corrected. "Call me Charles. Sorry ... about before, I mean. I..."
"Forget it, Charles. Just pitch in." Flanagan clapped him on the back. Charles waddled like a schoolboy back into the cabin behind the others.
"That was pretty good," Kelly admitted from the bridge. "Pretty doggone good."
Flanagan smiled up at her. "I hate to get rough with folks, but ..." He shrugged.
She smiled back, then something drifted on the air to her. She stood up, tuned her ears to the mist over the murmur of the food gathering. "Listen!" she said. "What's that sound?"
Flanagan scrambled up the ladder and stood beside her. He listened.
There was a secondary sloshing, slapping sound, under the sound of the sea against the charter's bulkhead, and a creaking, a moaning of timbers.
"Holy crap," Flanagan said, "it sounds like ..."
Kelly watched him. "Like what?"
"Like another boat. Old one."
They went out onto the sundeck, Flanagan moving as far onto the bow as he could, both of them straining into the gloom and fog, following the groaning wooden sounds and the slicing of something through the water.
"Sounds like it's close," Flanagan said, his voice a whisper.
The sound drew nearer. They held their breath, though she didn't know why.
"Close ... close by."
"Don't you want the flare gun?"
Flanagan's eyes widened with realization. "Oh! Yeah!" He stumbled away and Kelly watched him vanish into the fog before his footsteps faded. She turned back to the haze, watching, listening, straining into the leaden blanket.
She heard the puff-hiss of the inflatable raft filling with air. She strained harder to hear the growing, stealthy sounds from the water.
A sudden black shadow emerged from the mist in front of Kelly, and she gasped, pushing herself backward as fast as she could, but the massive looming form came through the wafts of fog with abrupt silence and she didn't have time to cry out. A shuddering thump nudged the charter craft and sent vibrating shock from bow to stern, knocking it off center and slapping it aside like a gnat. Kelly screamed then, heard the chaos of voices in a terrified cacophony from the deck below as she toppled from the force of impact. Her midriff slammed into the railing around the deck and her hands closed around it, bending her over the cold chrome tubing. She couldn't see the black water below, but managed to keep her equilibrium in check so she didn't flip overboard. She pushed back as the boat pivoted, the bow moving away from the fading shape to the port side as it slipped by them like a wraith in the fog.
Flanagan was beside her then, helping her to her feet. "All right? You all right?"
She nodded, dumb with shock and fear, trembling hard. "Y-yeah, I'm okay. God, it came out of nowhere!"
"No horn, no lights, no nothin'," Flanagan said, staring at the vessel as it faded further into the gray. "And nobody's come out to see what the hell happened, neither." Kelly followed him across the sundeck and down the ladder. He turned to Jurgen. "What the hell's goin' on?"
Jurgen looked at him. "Can't tell, Skip, but she's slowed up now."
"Think they're having trouble like us? No 'lectronics, no motor?"
Jurgen looked with trepidation at Flanagan. "I don't ... can't tell. Looks like an old schooner maybe."
Kelly listened, and tried to make out the larger ship in the mist. The silhouette drifted through wisps of fog in and out of view.
"Send up a flare?"
"Nah, save 'em, he's right there," Jurgen said. He cupped his hands over his mouth. "AHOY! AHOY, SHIP! YA RAMMED US! ANYBODY HOME?"
His voice didn't carry far. It died flat on the surface of the waves. Only the lapping of the water on the sides of the vessels answered.
"I SAID AHOY! ANYBODY THERE?"
Jurgen looked up at Flanagan, confused. Flanagan gave his head an uncertain shake.
"Well, hell."
"Whatcha wanna do, Skip?"
Flanagan nodded, folded his arms over his chest and rubbed his stubble in thought. "I ... try a light, Willy. Get a flashlight an' see if we can get some attention that way."
Willy bounced into the cabin. The others were lined along the gunwale, staring and muttering. Kelly hugged herself on the flying bridge. Something about the ship didn't sit right with her. She shivered, and clenched her eyes shut.
Willy reappeared. "It's dead, Skip. Just like the beacon and radio and stuff."
"Aw, well that's just ... awright, then, suggestions?"
The passengers looked at Flanagan, Willy shrugged. "Board her? She's adrift. They musta known something happened. Why wouldn't they answer?"
Flanagan sighed. "Yeah, okay. Take a volunteer. Go over an' see what gives."
"Edward, you go with him," Sam said, and elbowed Edward forward.
"Me?! Why me?"
"Be a man, for God's sake!"
"I'll do it," Charles said, the welt still fading from his cheek. "I'll go with ya, Willy."
Jurgen looked at Flanagan, perked a brow. Flanagan gave a single affirming nod. "Thanks, Mr. Beausha--- Charles. I appreciate that. Willy, go on over and see what gives. Come back with the raft when you got some answers."
Willy nodded, and hopped over the gunnel into the raft. It skidded and squeaked under his boat sneakers, and he struggled with Beaushanks, helping him down. A minute later they were off, paddling into the dense fog toward the hazy shape of the ship sitting off their port side.
Kelly shuddered again.
Something struck her wrong about that ship and it chilled her insides deep. But she couldn't put her finger on what.
Kelly finished packing the plastic bottles of drinking water into a cooler, and stood upright. She winced and bent backward, stretching the complaining muscles in her lower back. She heard the thump of approaching footsteps and glanced at her watch as Flanagan drew alongside her.
"Got it all?" He inspected the rows of water in the royal blue box.
"All I could find, anyway," she said, and settled her hands on her hips. "They've been gone a while. You sure there's no way to get 'hold of Willy?"
The corners of his mouth dipped. "Cell phone's out. How 'bout yours?"
She checked it, and sighed. "Nothing. Oh well. At what point do we worry?"
He shrugged. "This is a new one on me. Sorry."
"Where are those guys?" Tension edged Sam's voice as she stepped from the cabin, Edward close behind.
"We were just wondering that," Kelly said, noting the needy touch of Edward's chunky, sausage-like fingers on Sam's elbow. She also noted when Sam gave his hand an absent swat and stepped away toward the bulkhead.
"Well, we don't have all damned day. I wish they'd hurry the hell up."
"They'll be back soon, sweetie," Edward crooned, and approached Sam again, but she moved away from his trajectory and stood beside Kelly.
"So how're we going to---?"
"Wait!" Kelly said. "Listen!"
They turned in unison. They heard paddling approaching through the mist.
"Willy? That you?" Flanagan called, his eyes narrowed into the fog.
"Aye, Skip, it's me." The form of the dinghy materialized from the ashen haze and the voice seemed to echo from the water.
Flanagan scooted around the others to the gunnel and took the bowline on the raft when it bumped into the side of the charter. Willy clambered over the side while the others watched, faces frozen into curious masks of anticipation.
"So? What's the deal?" Sam spat, wringing her hands at her chest.
"Well ... I dunno, 'zactly," Jurgen said, and gave a helpless shrug to Flanagan. "Skip, there weren't nobody on deck, and no lights in the cabin, neither. We called, but nobody answered us. All's quiet. But we decided one of us oughta stay aboard just in case, 'cause she's moving."
Flanagan's face went slack. "What?"
"What do you mean, 'moving'?" Sam demanded, a line forming between her brows.
"I mean, it's moving. Slow, but gaining speed. Don't seem to be nobody aboard her, Skip, but she's able to move. Didn't get a good look at her rigging though, so I can't say if she's sailing or drifting, but we're dead here, and she's moving. Figured we'd come back and get the rest of you before it gets away."
"Abandon ship?" Flanagan seemed stunned for a moment, but cleared his mind and stared at Willy. "How fast's she going?"
"Can't say, Skip, but if we don't hustle outta here pretty quick, she's gonna get lost in the fog, and Mr. Beaushanks didn't look too keen on staying alone aboard her."
"Damn it, Willy, what the hell are you---you forced my hand. We got no choice now." Flanagan set his jaw and sniffed a sharp breath through his nostrils.
Jurgen dipped his head. "Didn't mean to, Skip, but ... we ain't moving. She is."
Flanagan sighed again. "Why'd you leave Charles alone out there?"
"We agreed on it. Figured if the boat drifted outta sight, we could at least call out and he'd answer. Play a game of Marco-Polo and track it. But, Skip? We gotta go now. See?"
Jurgen pointed toward the fading silhouette of the ship, wafting and waning into the fog, growing fainter.
Flanagan shook his head, jaw muscles twitching. "Yeah, I see, and we're losing daylight. Awright, everybody get aboard the dinghy. Cripes, Willy, you shoulda talked to me first."
"How, Skip? How could I do that?" Willy's eyes pled for understanding. Flanagan's face softened.
"Yeah, I see your point. Hell, no sense worrying 'bout it now. We can come back for my boat when we make land."
"Even if she's only drifting on the current, the fog'll lift and we can use the flares, Skip."
"Yeah, I guess."
"So what the fuck're we doing, then? Going over to that other piece of shit boat? How the hell do we know it's not sinking?" Sam crossed her arms and settled her weight on one leg, throwing her hip into Edward's ribs and knocking him away from her.
"Well, we don't. But---"
"'But?' You're gonna say 'but' with that?"
"Honey, please, let the man---"
"Shut the fuck up, Edward, or the next trip you'll take will be to HR en route to civil court." She fired daggers with her eyes and Edward blushed and cowered.
"Ms. Whitaker, please. We ain't got a lot of options here. We're dead in the water, and that ship's moving. If it were sinking, it'd probably be listing or leaning or something. She's steady and stable in the water, and we don't have a choice."
"We sure as hell do," she fired back, and stepped toward Flanagan. "We can wait out the fog on this boat just as well, and fire flares from here, too. At least we know this one's not sinking. Don't we ... 'Captain'?" She didn't mask the venom in the last word.
Flanagan put his hands on his hips and squared against her. "Look, lady. I'm the skipper on this boat. We got a man alone over there on that ship, and it's setting sail without us. I have to make a damn decision here and I say we're going over. That boat's moving, this one ain't, and that makes the odds of getting help better over there. Clear enough for ya, Ms. Whitaker? If it ain't, you and your boyfriend can stay aboard this one, but I'm taking the provisions with us. Now, are you coming or not?"
Sam's teeth ground and her jaw muscles bulged, sank, bulged again. "Fine. But you'd better be right, or you'll ..." She huffed and turned from him.
"Yeah, whatever. Okay, get aboard the dinghy." Flanagan nodded to Jurgen, who hopped back into the lifeboat and waited for the others, while the skipper held the bowline taut.
Edward tried to help Sam step over the bulkhead, but she slapped his forearm viciously and he shrank back, yelped and rubbed the welt that leaped to the surface of his skin. "Touch me again, Edward. Go on. I dare you."
After she slinked into a seat on the raft, Edward threw a meaty, hairy leg over the gunwale to follow, but Flanagan pulled him back onto deck. His pate reddened and his jowls shook in confusion, his pig eyes glazing in fear.
"It's 'women and children first', Mr. Timmerman." Flanagan gestured to Kelly with his eyes.
"Oh ... right," Timmerman stepped aside, rubbing sweat from his forehead. Kelly took Willy's calloused hand and almost fell into the dinghy, her legs too short to extend over the bulkhead and down onto the bobbing raft in a single motion. When Jurgen caught her, he pressed her into his chest for a split second, and smiled a filthy grin of lust at her. She turned away and pulled from his grasp, losing her ability to be subtle with the force required to break his hold.
Edward gave a panicky, inquisitive look to Flanagan, who responded with a tired nod, and the butterball bolted over the side before Willy could help. Edward toppled face-first onto the pliable deck of the raft, let out an explosive expulsion of air when his considerable gut crashed onto the bench of the raft, and his thighs slapped against the inflated sides. Flanagan shook his head, grabbed a denim shirt and pulled it on, fumbled in a cargo hold and pulled up a second oar, then dropped with far more grace onto the dinghy as Edward crawled gasping to a spot next to Sam, who rolled her eyes in undisguised disgust. Once Flanagan and Jurgen settled into position, they nodded across the craft to one another and began rowing toward the vanishing shadow of the ship.
The looming dark blotch began materializing, and in moments the lapping subtle of waves against the slicing hull drifted through the fog, an ethereal background score to the damp quiet. Kelly reached for something, gave a soft gasp and Sam glanced at her.
"What's wrong?"
"My journal. I left it on the boat." Her eyes locked on Flanagan's, pleading. Flanagan shot a look over his shoulder, but the boat was out of sight, lost in the dense murk. He shook his head, face heavy.
Kelly shrank back.
"We can get everything after we get some help," he said.
Kelly nodded, but stared aft, into the gloom. The paddles pressed the water behind them.
"Hey, Mr. Beaushants?" Jurgen's sudden call startled them all. "Mr. Beaushants?"
"It's Beaushanks," Flanagan corrected. "CHARLES? YOU THERE?" His voice deadpanned on the black water.
No response.
"Sonuva ... he was supposed to wait on deck." Jurgen cupped his hand beside his mouth. "CHARLES! AHOY, CHARLES!"
Kelly and the others turned. The ship seemed to appear from the wisps of cloudy gray, and they could make out the weathered, wooden sides, the tops of the masts vanishing out of site above them.
"CHARLES! YOU THERE?" Flanagan shot Willy another look of concern, but Jurgen could only shrug.
The ship rose above the raft as they came alongside, but no human shape waited along the gunwale. The deck seemed to rise some twenty feet above the water, and Kelly felt a knotting in her middle as she thought of scampering up some rope hand-over-hand like an action hero to reach the top while the swirling black waters waited below.
"She's gained speed, Skip," Jurgen said, panting as he pressed harder with the oar to gain on the gliding vessel.
Flanagan nodded, sweat forming on his weathered brow. "Gotta ... catch her. How'd you board her?"
"There's a ... line dragging ... just aft." Willy gestured with his head, and Kelly turned to see a fat line of rope, knotted at intervals, trailing behind the ship. "But there was a ... rope ladder on ... deck, and we tossed it over ... so I could get back on the ... dinghy. Should still ... be down unless ... Charles reeled 'er in."
Flanagan squinted through the wafting fog. "Nah, I ... I see it, hanging. Make for it 'fore ... she gets any faster. There a ... current ... driving her?"
"Can't say ... but she's ... moving true an' straight." Jurgen perked a brow at Flanagan. "She's not spinning ... or tacking ... I can see."
Flanagan nodded and they pulled alongside the vessel. A rope ladder clattered soft and eerie on the bulkhead with wooden rungs clunking on the planking. The knot in Kelly's midsection tightened. She worried for an instant she might vomit, and drew a deep breath through her nose, letting it out slow through her mouth.
"All right?" Flanagan stared at her with brows knit, worry on his face.
Kelly tried a smile, failed, nodded. "I'm ... none too fond of heights. Or being stranded on the open ocean." She shrugged. She sure was glad to have been lucky caller seven.
Flanagan crooked one side of his mouth in a mischievous grin. "You're sharp," he puffed, pushing hard with the oar. "You'll be ... all right. I'd bet ... on it."
The two sailors dripped with perspiration as they heaved water behind the tiny raft and gained on the vessel, moving in swift lunges past it. Jurgen gave a final rake of his oar, then stood and leaned as far as he could, his fingertips brushing the bottom rung of the ladder as it slipped away. Flanagan rowed in desperate slaps, and glared at Edward.
"Could ... use a ... hand ... Mr. Timmerman," he gasped, exertion taking its toll on him.
"Me?" Edward pointed a meaty forefinger into his chest.
"Grab the goddamn oar and row, you little pussy!" Sam snapped, and shoved Edward off the bench. He landed on his hindquarters and toppled, flailing arms and legs before regaining his balance. "Hurry up, you pathetic pantywaist! It's getting away and we'll be fucked for sure then!"
Edward scrambled and took the oar from Jurgen, and tried to keep up with Flanagan's strokes. But his stubby arms didn't reach the water over the dinghy's fat roll of air-filled rubber and canvas sides, and his ineffectual slapping cost them precious distance as the ship started outdistancing them.
"C'mon, Eddie, harder!" Jurgen chided, and stretched for the ladder again. Edward whined and whimpered frantic gasps, his face turning an angry beet red as his heart labored in his chest to drive oxygen to his flagging arms. He teetered on his bulging gut on the side of the raft to stab at the water with the oar and pulled, but the water's weight knocked him off balance and he fell backward into the stern with a simpering cry.
"Goddamn you, you fat fucking asshole, give it to me!" Sam snatched the oar from Edward and elbowed him aside, stabbed the oar into the water and matched Flanagan stroke for stroke, driving the dinghy back alongside the ladder.
"I ... got it!" Jurgen held the nylon rope running around the top perimeter of the life raft with his free hand, pulling the dinghy into the bulkhead of the schooner. Flanagan set down his oar and waded toward Jurgen to help.
"Everybody else get on the port side! Get to port!" Sam and Edward crawled for the other side, and Sam shook her head with a snarl on her lips at the fat man, still huffing gulps of air. Kelly shifted to balance the weight in the raft to the opposite side of the bench, while Flanagan attached the rope on the dinghy to the bottom rung of the ladder.
"Got 'er!" he called, and Willy fell back into the raft, panting and dripping sweat.
"Damn, Skip ... didn't think we'd make it for a minute," he said, grinning at Flanagan.
Flanagan smiled. "Me too. I was 'bout outta gas. Thanks for your help ... Ms. Whitaker." He nodded at Sam once.
"What the hell," she said, and glared bald hatred at Edward, "someone's gotta be a man and help out. Glad to do it." She turned away from Edward and he flushed, eyes averted from everyone else's.
Kelly blushed with him. For a moment, she burned with envy for Sam's courage and commanding presence in the moment of need, and wished she had enough in her own character to be counted on. She was fine on the charter, but here ... in the middle of the ocean chasing a mysterious, seemingly dead ship in what amounted to an inner tube with a canvas bottom, she was scared. And her fear paralyzed her.
Sam caught her expression and came beside her. "How're you holding up?" She took Kelly's hand in her own and gave a reassuring squeeze.
Kelly smiled, then looked down. "I'm ... I'm sorry I didn't help you. Before, I mean. What you did was ... that was really amazing."
"Pff, please," Sam gave a dismissive wave, then smiled at Kelly again. "Look, we're all afraid of something. I'm scared of ... well, I'm scared of being stranded out here with Edward, to be honest. All my life I've had to do stuff for myself. I didn't mean anything---you know, toward you---when I said that stuff about being a man before. I don't want to be a man, but that fucking pussy Edward makes me sick. I ... I didn't mean to ..."
"You didn't hurt my feelings or anything. I just wish ... well, I guess I wish I had your ..."
"My balls?"
"I was going to say courage," Kelly grinned.
Sam laughed. "It's out of necessity. Besides, when the chips were down and people were panicking---including me---you and the Captain stepped up and got everyone's shit together. You just need to be a little more secure. Tell you what. We'll stick together on this ship and you'll see. You're gonna be fine. Stay by me until you feel confident and before long, I'll be following you. Watch."
Sam gave Kelly a comforting hug. Kelly embraced her back, with more emotion than she would have guessed. When they separated, Kelly's eyes stung with welling tears. Sam wiped at them with a gentle finger, then pulled her hand down with a surprised frown. "Ah, damn. Broke a nail rowing. Fucking Edward." She clucked her tongue and smiled at Kelly again. "We'll get through this together, okay?"
Kelly nodded. "Okay."
"I'm probably gonna need a shoulder to lean on, too, and---"
"Ladies? Willy's on deck, and he's ready for you to climb aboard." Flanagan stood between Edward and the rope ladder to ensure there was no breach of protocol this time.
"I'll go first so you don't have to deal with Stinky Willy and his wandering eyes up there," Sam said, and patted Kelly on the knee as she rose. "I'm up first," she said, and Flanagan nodded.
"Careful on the ladder, Ms. Whitaker. The rungs're wet, okay?"
"Gotcha, thanks, Captain," she said, and smiled. Her face set with determination and she took the first rung over her head, and stepped onto the ladder. Flanagan tugged on it to make it taut for her, pushing against the side of the raft with his feet to press it against the bulkhead of the ship, and the rubberized canvas squeaked and squealed. Sam scampered up the rungs like a spider traipsing its web, and Kelly admired her athleticism again until she vanished in the fog.
A slap drifted down, and a grunt and "ow" carried down. "Watch the hands, Jurg-off," Sam snapped. Kelly smiled despite herself. The girl was a spitfire, and she couldn't understand why someone like her would entangle herself with anyone like Edward. She shook her head to clear it, and Flanagan watched her.
"You okay, Kelly?"
She gave a nod and it was far more definitive than she felt. "I'm ready."
Flanagan gestured up the twisting ladder, rocking side to side. She took a deep breath and grasped the first rung above her head, just as Sam did, and a sudden swamp of sweat coated her palms and chilled her.
Flanagan saw the pause. "I'm right here if anything happens. I can be right beside you 'fore you can say 'Flanagan's Shenanigans'." He winked at her. "Don't be scared."
She tried to smile but nothing happened. She swallowed but choked on the dry lump in her throat. She stared straight ahead of her at the planks in the ship's siding and one after the other, she pulled rungs beneath her. The lapping of the waves on the sides of the vessel began to recede, and her head swam. Don't pass out, she chided herself, do NOT pass out!
"C'mon, Kelly, you're doing fine, hon," Sam's voice knifed through the mist and bolstered Kelly from the deck. "You're doing great. Just keep doing that. I'm right here waiting for you."
Kelly tried to focus on the bulkhead in front of her, beaded with condensation from the fog, and listen to the sound of Sam's voice.
"That's it, Kelly, just keep coming up, one at a time like that. I can almost reach you now."
"What's wrong, she scared?" Edward called from the deck of the raft.
"Shut the fuck up, Edward, or so help me God you'll never make it up here. That's it, Kelly, you're doing great. Just a few more steps and I've gotcha. Come on, that's it ..."
Kelly felt the warmth of Sam's hand grasp her arm and another embrace her shoulders. "I've gotcha, Kelly," Sam said soft in her ear, "just keep your eyes closed and I'll help you get over the---get away from her, pervert, she's not interested in being harassed right now, you slimy fucker---I'll help you get over the thingy here."
Kelly was on deck a moment later, and Sam led her toward the center of the boat. "You're okay now, hon," she stroked Kelly's hair, "you can open your eyes now."
Kelly didn't realize they were closed. She did open them and Sam smiled down at her. "You did great. Really, really great. I'm impressed." She rubbed Kelly's back.
"I'm ... thank you." Kelly threw her arms around the tall girl's neck and hugged. "Thank you."
Sam chuckled. "We're gonna stick together."
The sound of Flanagan's voice drifted up. "Awright, I've got the aft line secured to the cooler. Haul 'er up, Willy."
"Okay, Skip!" Jurgen shouted, too loud. He faded into the deep mist toward the rear of the ship and reappeared with the fat, knotted rope in his hands. "Ready below?"
"Willy, just haul it up. It's not a mountain climbing expedition, awright?" Flanagan sounded tired and just a hair fed up.
Kelly came beside Jurgen. "Can I help?"
"Nah, we got it," Jurgen said, then turned and grinned at her. "But thanks."
The cooler came aboard without incident. Edward was more trouble, but he finally fell, face-first again, onto the deck when Jurgen pulled him over the gunwale by the seat of his Bermuda shorts, grunting something about being like hauling a manatee aboard. Sam harangued Edward into helping Jurgen pull the ladder up with Flanagan clinging to it, leaving the deserted dingy, tied to the aft line, slapping and bumping against the side of the ship, lost in the heavy mist obscuring the water's surface.
"Okay," Flanagan said, rubbing his forearms and shaking his hands to return circulation to them, "everybody accounted for?"
A general assenting murmur confirmed their presence.
"Awright, then, let's put the cooler near the middle of the ship."
Jurgen nodded once and darted off, yanking the cooler behind him.
"For the rest of us, we gotta find Charles and see what's what with this tub. We'll search the ship in teams and cover more ground that way. Kelly, me and Sam will go fore, Willy and Edward'll go aft. We'll work from the deck down, and meet up back here so we know we're all okay. Everybody awright with that?"
"No! I wanna go with Sam!" Edward's whine was like fingernails on a chalkboard, and Kelly closed her eyes and drew a breath.
Kelly stepped toward him before Sam could speak. "Look, Edward, she really doesn't want anything to do with you right now. Why don't you just leave her alone? I mean, c'mon. You really do need to grow up and act your age. She doesn't need to hold your hand for you to go to the bathroom, okay? Leave her alone."
Edward opened his mouth to object, his cheeks blotched with ire, but Flanagan cut him off. "We don't have time for a lover's spat right now, Mr. Timmerman," he put his hand up to keep Edward from speaking. "Just go with Willy and let's find Charles. Period. Done. Okay?"
Edward shrank. "Fine. Fine!" He huffed away a few steps, pouting.
"Okay, then. Let's get started. Willy, how far'd you get when you were here?"
"Not far, Skip. It was dark below and I couldn't find no lamps or nothin'. We called and banged a few doors, but nobody answered."
"Awright, then, we're gonna hafta get farther. Charles could ... hey, you don't think he went overboard, do ya?"
Jurgen shook his head with certainty. "No. No way. We woulda heard him splashin' around, whooping and hollering or something. He's here somewhere."
Flanagan nodded. "Okay, let's get going. You two go aft and find a hatch. We'll go fore. Meet back here in say ..." he checked his watch, grimaced. "Damn. Watch ain't working, either. Goddamn storm. Oops, sorry ladies."
Kelly laughed. "Please. Let's just meet up here when we finish our searches. If there's no way to keep track of time, just make a lot of noise or something."
Flanagan nodded, smiled at her. "Sounds like a good idea. Make sure you stay with your team. Don't separate. In the dark it'd be easy to run into something down there, get hurt. Awright? Let's go."
They parted then, and Kelly gave a last look over her shoulder as the two men vanished into the swirling wisps of fog.
"Captain Flanagan," Kelly said as they approached a cocoa-brown teak wood door, glistening with moisture which collected and ran in fat droplets down the oily surface. A brass knob tarnished in the center.
"Yeah?" Flanagan focused on the fo'c'sle door and didn't look up.
"Why is this vessel moving when yours wasn't? Were we anchored?"
"No, we weren't anchored," he said. "I dunno why. This one might have a sail down, but we were in a dead calm far as I could tell. Storm came through and didn't budge us. No current to speak of, and even the bump by this big tub didn't knock us adrift. I been scratching my head over it since we set off. Can't figure why this one's moving and we were dead."
Kelly bit her lip. "You know what else? Before the ship hit us, I checked my watch ... you know, while you and Willy were working on the engine? And it worked. I noted in my journal that a couple of hours passed."
"Damn, Kelly," Sam said, "you're freaking me out. The watches stopped working too?"
"Yeah," Flanagan said, "and now that I think about it, it musta happened after this boat rammed us." He opened the door and a dark, musty staircase opened in front of them. "Matter of fact, I think Kelly's right. I think I used my watch before we got clipped and it worked."
"So this ship showed up and nothing works anymore?"
"No," Kelly stared into the middle distance, "not exactly. Things didn't work after the storm blew by. Engine, radio, GPS, stuff like that. But our watches stopped when the ship appeared."
"Know what else?" Flanagan cast a bleary eye to the fog. "I ain't noticed it getting darker, neither. Like ... like the sun's not setting."
"That's ... well that's just nuts. Isn't it?" Sam hugged herself and looked at Kelly with a mix of fear and hope. "Isn't it, Kelly?"
Kelly sighed. "I'd ... I'd've thought so before ... before today, yeah. But ... I wonder ..."
Flanagan held onto the door jamb and leaned as far as possible into the depths of the shadows in it, then popped back to look at her. "Wonder what?"
Sam tensed.
Kelly's eyes went from one of them to the other. "What if ... what if time's not working right? I mean, this vessel came out of nowhere. It's ... it's old, right? I mean, it's not a new ship, is it? Built to look old?"
Flanagan shrugged. "Can't tell yet."
"What if that storm was some sort of ... some sort of temporal anomaly?" Kelly felt silly once the words slipped past her lips, and blushed.
"That's ... that's like something out of Star Trek, isn't it?" Sam perked a brow at Kelly, but no smile mocked her. "I mean, that's Sci-Fi, isn't it?"
Flanagan nodded. "Yeah, it is. I've been on the water a long time, and I've never seen any sorta temp'ral anemone."
"Anomaly," Kelly corrected. "Maybe it's something like what goes on in the Bermuda Triangle."
Sam shuddered. "Kelly, you're scaring me."
"And it's a load of crap anyway. Triangle's a myth, nothing more, and we're a long way from it."
"I know ... I mean, I'm just throwing out possibilities, you know? What else could this be?"
"This might be a schooner set sail from some port and the crew had to abandon ship, same as we did. Maybe the same storm got 'em. Maybe it broke loose of its mooring somewhere. I don't know for sure, but I know it ain't a temp'ral ... whatever."
"Anomaly," Kelly said, her voice soft with embarrassment. "I was only thinking ... never mind."
"Right now we need to find Charles, so let's focus on that, awright?"
"She's just trying to understand the weird-ass shit going on, Flanagan, you don't have to be an ass with her." Sam put a protective arm around Kelly. She offered the statuesque blond a grateful smile.
Flanagan sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm bushed, it's getting dark. Well ... it should be anyway. And I've got other stuff on my mind right now. I wasn't trying to be a jerk. Sorry, Kelly." His face softened and she smiled, gave him a nod.
"I guess you're worried about lawsuits and stuff," Kelly said, nodding to herself. "I understand that."
"Lawsuits? Well. I wasn't 'til just now, when you brought it up. Thanks, Kelly. One more thing I need to be worried about." Flanagan shook his head with a smile.
Sam chuckled. "So are we going down there or not?"
"Yeah. I just wish we had some lights." Flanagan stepped through the threshold as if a lion lurked in the shadows.
Kelly hugged Sam soft. "Thanks for sticking up for me, Sam."
"Don't worry about it. You did it for me with Edward."
"You ... you didn't need my help. You'd have told him off yourself. I just opened my mouth first."
"You know, I don't know if that's true," Sam said, and stared off in thoughtful introspection. "I mean, I'm not shy and I'm not weak, but for some reason, where Edward's concerned, I've never ... well, I've never told him off, whatever the reasons. I can't tell you why, but for a couple years now, I've let him hang around, and hang around. I guess I was ... hoping."
"Hoping for what?"
"That ... well, never mind that. Watch your step."
Kelly turned, and saw Flanagan vanish into the inky stairwell. She followed, looked back, and saw Sam framed in the door jamb, staring off the port side of the vessel, wiping a tear from her cheek.
She sniffed and stepped into the gloomy stairwell behind Kelly, and took a firm hold on the handrail. "Damn! Dark in here."
"Yeah, watch your step," Flanagan said. "I can't see my hand 'fore my face in here. But I think there's a door at the bottom."
"Hopefully it won't be even darker in the main area," Kelly muttered.
"You're just full of happy thoughts, ain'tcha?" Flanagan said, and the wink he gave her was backlit from the open door to the deck.
"I think he likes you," Sam whispered in Kelly's ear.
Kelly turned back to Sam. "I hope not." Sam giggled.
"Yep. Door." Flanagan's hand rasped along the surface. "Louvered door. Huh. Weird."
"Why?" Kelly tried to see beyond him but only blackness reached back.
"Well, I'da thought you'd want a bit more weatherproofing, in case your outer hatch failed for some reason. But I ain't ever been on a boat like this before."
The door opened and a rectangle of diffused and dim amber light spilled through it.
"I'll be damned. I'll be damned."
"What the hell is it, Flanagan?" Sam craned around Kelly to get a look. "Get the hell outta the way so we can see, too!"
"Oh, sorry." He scooted in and held the door open for them to enter.
Kelly gasped softly when she stepped off the final riser onto the floor below.
Rich, blood-red carpet enveloped her shoe soles and cushioned her steps. The walls were the color of fine, aged walnut. Rows of sconces gave off the soft glow and ran down a hallway that stretched perpendicular to the staircase into more dimness. Doors lined both sides of the corridor. Kelly noted cross-halls intersecting the corridor about thirty feet away, to both the left and right of the staircase.
"How big is this boat?" Kelly scratched her head, and eyed Flanagan. His looked confused and a touch pale.
"I ... I don't know. Not this big, that's for damned sure. This is like cruise ship big."
Sam pivoted her head. "Holy crap. How ... how? It didn't look this big before."
Flanagan shook his head. "No. And this ain't right. There should be walls dividing the fo'c'sle from the main cargo hold, and the aft area too. Three main sections. I think."
"But you don't know for sure, right?" Kelly stared down the hall to her right, toward the aft. It ran out of sight, the weak lamps on the walls fading down the hall until they weren't visible anymore. "Could it be a mirrored wall?"
Flanagan's eyes flashed and he gave a large nod, the light bulb going on in his head. "Ah, yeah! A mirrored wall'd look like that, wouldn't it?" He strode toward the aft, hand stretched in front of him.
Sam's voice froze him. "A mirrored wall would show our reflections though. I don't see 'em. Do you?" She stared. There was no sarcasm in her voice.
Flanagan deflated. "No. No, I don't. You're right. It's..."
"It's impossible," Kelly said. "Just like everything."
Flanagan shook his head. "What's going on is weird, but not impossible. The ship's been modified to hold people instead of cargo, that's all. Took out the dividing walls and made cabins. Nothing impossible 'bout that."
"You said it's too big down here," Sam said, folding her arms across her chest. "That's impossible."
"Just looks that way is all, without the dividing walls." There was no confidence in his voice. He avoided meeting their eyes by looking down the corridor.
"Bullshit, Flanagan. Don't treat us like idiots, okay? There wasn't that much boat left in front of us when we came down here. It's not a tanker or cruise ship, for Pete's sake. It was what? A hundred and fifty feet long? Less? And there's too much hallway in front of us. Behind us it goes 'til we can't see the end. Now piss in your own ear and tell yourself it's raining, but don't try that with us."
Kelly nodded. "Sorry, Captain, I have to agree here. This hallway's longer than the ship."
Flanagan sighed. "I don't have an answer. A man's missing and we need to find him. Let's find Charles now and solve the mysteries later."
Sam huffed an exasperated sigh. "Damn, this is creepy."
The low ceiling seemed to squash their voices, deadening the sound into the plush carpet. Kelly nodded, and Flanagan ran his fingers through his tangled, matted hair, his hands stopping on the back of his head.
"Okay, any ideas? Where to start, I mean? Jeez, this is a lotta boat."
Kelly looked down the hall in both directions. "I say we start right here, where we are, and work toward the front of the boat. Then we'll have the stairwell to the deck to mark our progress. I don't know about you, but to me, all these walls, doors and carpet look the same. Having this landmark will help."
Sam nodded. "Fine by me."
Flanagan nodded. "Okay. Stick together. It's pretty dark in here, even with the lamps."
"And how are those powered?" Kelly wondered aloud, and the others stared at the sconces.
"I don't know," Flanagan said. "Probably not 'lectric, though. Boat's batteries would've gone dead a long time ago without running the alternator."
"But you said the boat might not have been adrift that long," Kelly said.
"If they're not electric, what are they?" Sam stepped toward one of the yellowish, glowing tulip glass lamps. "I think I see a flame in there!"
"That's impossible," Flanagan said, and came beside her. "Ain't nobody aboard to light gas lamps."
"We don't really know that," Kelly said and shuddered. She hugged herself. "I mean ... we just haven't seen anyone. That doesn't mean there isn't anyone."
"HELLO!" The sudden crash of Flanagan's voice scared Kelly and Sam into hard jumps and shrieks.
Sam punched his arm, and he winced and drew back. She leaned forward with her face flushed. "You dumb-ass! Tell us before you do that next time! You scared the hell out of us!"
"Sorry," he muttered, rubbing his shoulder. "Sorry. If someone's here, though, they damned sure heard me."
"No shit. You woke the fucking dead with that one."
"But I don't know ... I mean, yeah, they heard you ... but what if they're not able to answer? You know, if they need help?" Kelly shuddered again.
"What about Charles? He should be awright, shouldn't he?"
Kelly thought, bit her lip. "Well, what if ... what if they're not ... willing to answer?"
"Aw, shit, Kelly!" Sam's expression rolled from a moment of abject terror to worry. "Don't say shit like that! Damn, I'm freaked out enough already!"
"Why wouldn't they be willing to answer?" Flanagan dropped his brows and stared at Kelly.
Kelly shrank for a moment, then resolved, raised her head and stuck her chin out. "I don't know. Maybe ... they intend to harm us."
"For fuck's sake, Kelly, come on!" Sam's head swiveled around her, eyes wide.
"I'm sorry, Sam, but how else can we explain all this? I mean, a boat with no one on it, but lamps that are lit? Gas lamps no less? And a boat that's not powered by electricity and for all we know no motor either? How's it moving? Where's it going? I ... I just think we need to be careful. And not scream to ... you know, bring attention to ourselves."
Flanagan shook his head. "Look, you're working yourself into a froth. We need to find Charles and we're wasting time. C'mon ... unless you wanna stay here, Kelly."
Sam looked at her. "C'mon. We'll stay together. Okay?" Her eyes were pleading.
Kelly nodded, and Flanagan headed down the corridor to the fore of the ship, his footsteps so muffled Kelly couldn't hear them with Sam between them.
They stopped, Flanagan's head swiveling between a door on his left and one on his right. "Hmm. Do I ... should we be lookin' in these?"
"Well duh, Flanagan. How else're we going to find fat-ass? He's obviously not in the hallway." Sam stepped forward and turned the gleaming brass knob of the first door on her left. It opened to a dark, tiny cabin, with a bunk for two nestled into a wall, a desk adjacent to the beds, and a closet opposite the bunk. The closet door was open, the bunks made up and tidy. "Well, looks empty. Should I check the closet?"
Flanagan edged by her. "I'll do it."
"My hero," Sam rolled her eyes. Kelly blushed and smiled, pushing a piece of hair fallen from her pony tail behind her ear.
"Empty," Flanagan said, and drew a heavy sigh. "Damn. Lotta doors. Gonna take a while."
Kelly drew a long breath. "We'd better work together then. Sam and I will take doors on the right, you take those on the left. Sam, open every other door, and I'll get the ones you don't. Make sure you leave the doors open when you're done so we know which ones we've checked."
Sam snorted. "Sounds good. Glad one of us is thinking."
Kelly laughed, but not for long and it felt wrong. "Come on. Let's do this."
Flanagan threw doors open, leaned into the dark cabins to check the closets, then moved on, leaving the doors open behind him. Sam and Kelly alternated searching rooms on the opposite side of the hall, and moved faster, reaching the junction of the cross corridor first. Kelly tugged on Sam's elbow to stop her.
"Wait here for Flanagan." Sam nodded, and leaned against the wall. A few moments later, he joined them, and they gazed down the corridor running across the long hallway.
"I don't see no lights in this one," he muttered, rubbing his stubble-crusted chin.
"Me either," Kelly said, looking down the hall the opposite way. "Seems ... maybe shorter, too?"
"It'd have to be," Flanagan said. "Ship's not as wide as long."
"Pff, please, Flanagan. Ship's longer than it should be, who knows what the hell's going on with the halls?" Sam leaned back against the wall.
"Awright, we gotta check everywhere, and this'll take forever if we all go the same way." He put his hands on his hips. "You two keep going this-a-way. I'm gonna head the other way, far as I can before I can't see, anyways. If you get to the end before I get back, meet me here at the junction. Otherwise, I'll come behind you and we'll do the other side of the crossway on the way back toward the stairs. Okay?"
Kelly balked. "I don't know if we should split up..."
"Gotta cover as much ground as we can, Kelly." He screwed his mouth into a resigned grimace. "What else can we do? I don't really wanna spend any more time than I have to down here, y'know?"
Kelly looked down, her face confused and pained. "I ... I know ... but ..."
Sam put her arm around Kelly's shoulders. "He's right. C'mon, let's get this shit done."
Sam led Kelly across the junction, but she gave one more glance back to Flanagan as he headed down the cross hall. "Make noise, Flanagan. Bang doors and stuff, so we can hear you."
He stopped, looked back, and nodded. "Good idea. Will do." And then he vanished beyond the corner.
Sam opened doors on the left of the hall, Kelly on the right. They progressed, stopping every few doors to listen for the muffled bump of wood from behind them as Flanagan worked. Then they went on.
Sam froze. "You hear that?"
Kelly stopped and tuned her ears. "Hear what?"
"Music. It's music."
Kelly listened. Somewhere in the bowels of the ship, she heard a faint rhythm, a percussion cushioned by walls, carpet and wood. Distant and faint, it wasn't clear enough to identify, but just loud enough to detect in perfect stillness.
Perfect stillness. It dawned on her.
"Where's ... what happened to Flanagan?"
Sam started, looked down the empty hall. She listened too. "I don't hear doors."
"I don't either." Kelly stepped back toward the junction, stopped, listened. Silence. "Flanagan?" Her voice crashed onto the wooden walls and ceiling, and funneled down the corridor. "FLANAGAN!"
Silence.
They exchanged a glance and went back to the intersection, and stared down the hall where they last saw Flanagan.
Feeble lamps burned in the cross hall now, sconces casting the same weak, amber light onto the walls and ceiling of the cramped space.
None of the doors were open. Kelly's heart jumped to her throat and tried to push past her teeth and lips to flee. She swallowed hard to dislodge it, trembling like a leaf in a high wind. She took a step in the direction Flanagan went.
"Captain Flanagan?" Her voice was weaker than she hoped. "F-Flanagan?" She couldn't muster any power. She looked back at Sam, and found her wringing her hands in front of her, biting her lower lip, fear creasing her brow.
"Where'd he go, Kelly?"
"I don't know," she said, jaw slack. "FLANAGAN?" The strength she found to call out made her feel better. The way the sound died flat and unanswered frightened her more.
"I ... Oh no. Kelly, look!"
Kelly turned, and followed Sam's gaze down the hall the way they'd come.
Every door behind them was shut, all the lamps along the way extinguished.
Kelly felt a clammy sweat bead her hairline and breastbone, down the center of her back. She tried to swallow but couldn't.
"Kelly ... oh God, Kelly, what do we do?"
Kelly shook her head. "I-I don't know. Where's that music coming from?"
Sam looked back the way they'd come, farther to the fore.
"Shit! No!"
All the doors fore of the junction were closed too.
Sam moved beside Kelly, and pressed herself against her shoulder. "Kelly, I'm scared. I mean really scared."
"Me too." Kelly took the young girl's hand and held tight. Sam squeezed hard enough to cause a moment of pain, and they swiveled their heads up and down the hallway.
"I ... I think we should follow that music, Kelly."
Kelly shook her head. "Why?"
"Well, somebody's playing it, right? It's a stereo or something, right?"
"Not ... Sam, look at the lights. Who's working them? Who's closing the doors?"
Sam sniffled. "We can't just stand here doing nothing. Should we ... should we go back on deck?"
"I ... yeah, I think we should. That way we can at least---"
A thump from somewhere amidship down the hall made them jump and gasp.
"That had to be Flanagan," Sam said. "He must've finished on one side and ... and went down the other."
"He said he wasn't going that way until the way back." Kelly shook and her knees wanted to give out.
"I think it's Flanagan. Or Charles. We ... we need to check. Right?"
Kelly swallowed. She didn't want to check, not at all. She wanted to run screaming up on deck, get back into the dinghy and go back to the charter. She nodded though. "What if ... someone needs help? Yes ... we ... we have to check." Her palms sweated, her hands trembled, her insides were gelid and fluttering. She took a halting step toward the middle of the vessel, then another. She made ten paces with Sam still clutching her hand, when she stopped and pulled Kelly to a halt with her.
"Listen! I hear it! The music!"
Kelly perked her ears. The music was clearer, drifting from nearby. She couldn't pinpoint a direction but now could make out melodic sounds, notes, voices.
"It's ... Alabama."
"What?"
"The music playing," Kelly said. "It's Alabama, the band Alabama. Close Enough to Perfect. I can't make out the lyrics..."
"No, it's Coldplay! Viva La Vida! I can just make it out!"
"No, I'm sure it's---"
"Kelly, it's right down the hall!" Sam dragged Kelly toward the darker end of the hall, nearer the center of the ship.
"Wait! Sam, wait!" Kelly yanked her back, stopped her. But the music surrounded them.
They stared at each other. "It's behind this ... no, this door," Sam put her palm on a door behind her.
Kelly looked at the door across the hall. "It's ... right behind this door."
"What do we do?" Sam kept her palm on the dark wood. "I can feel the bass."
Kelly touched the door in front of her as if petting a scorpion. "I ... I can too. It's ... all right, what do we do? Go in one at a time?"
Sam shrugged. "We'll open the doors at the same time. We'll watch each other. I'll go in my room first, then you go in yours. You watch me, I'll watch you. Okay?"
Kelly shrugged. They'd always be in visual contact. It sounded reasonable.
"Okay, ready?" Sam put her hand on the shiny knob. Kelly followed suit, then nodded. "One ... two ... three ... open." They turned the knobs and pushed the doors in without losing eye contact.
They waited, staring at each other. "Yours looks empty," Sam said.
"Yours does, too. So ... you want to go first or ... or should I?"
Sam grinned. "I'll go first. I love Coldplay."
"It's Alabama," Kelly grinned. "I'm watching you. Keep one hand on the door jamb. Just make sure the room's empty, then get out."
Sam nodded, put her hand on the frame of the door and leaned into the cabin, her head vanishing around the doorway for an instant. Kelly held her breath then exhaled in relief when Sam came back. "All clear," she said. "Your turn."
"Okay, here goes," Kelly said, and Sam took a step toward her.
Kelly gripped the door jamb so hard her knuckles whitened with the ferocity of her hold, and then leaned into the dim cabin. The closet door obscured the tiny alcove, so she leaned farther, but still couldn't see into the closet. She left her hand on the jamb, and looked back at Sam. "I can't quite see. I have ... I have to step in." The panic in Kelly's eyes shined bright.
Sam nodded. "I'm right here." She took another step toward Kelly.
Kelly swallowed hard and stepped into the room as if walking on broken glass. She peered around the closet door, heart throbbing, ears ringing with her own pulse and the indistinct music. In a moment, she saw the closet was clear, let out the breath she didn't realize she held, and stepped out of the cabin.
"It's all---"
The hallway stood empty. Sam was gone. Kelly was alone.
Kelly screamed into the deadening wood and carpet of the corridor.
She didn't know the sound escaped her. Her vision narrowed into a tunnel and her knees quivered, threatening to collapse. Her vision blurred, and she blinked with frantic aggravation, the tears rolling down her cheeks her only clue that she cried.
She heard a raking, whimpering sound, and started when she found it came from her. Her breathing, in strained little sobs and fearful blubbering, came soft and distant to her ears. She snuffled hard. Something pressed against her sternum and got her attention. Her hands, knotted together and writhing with terror against her chest, moved independent of her remaining thought processes. With her last scrap of rationality she stilled herself, and with deliberate paces, unhurried and quiet, she moved back up the hall toward the juncture of the corridors.
The lights running along the walls were all out. In front of her, the lights beyond the juncture, where Flanagan went before he disappeared, were also out. Kelly drew a deep breath and listened into the dark.
The timbers of the vessel groaned, creaked, ticked. The waves slapped against the hull, lapping and splashing as the ship moved of its own volition through black waters toward some unknown destination. The humming melody of the music still played as background noise, faint, indistinct. She couldn't identify the song anymore.
Kelly held her breath, staring at the maroon carpet.
Moaning boat beams. Straining timbers as the sea twisted and squeezed the ship. And something else, under the rest of the sounds. Something deeper, softer, subtle and subversive.
Breathing.
A raspy, wet sound, like a great barrel chest filled with air and blew fetid exhaust through moist lips and nostrils. She felt herself spinning, head light and heart thudding relentless and hard. She focused, and could just pinpoint it, under the watery rhythm and fading music.
A grinding, grating sound, like something pushed down the hall against the dark wood walls, scratching on them. The thrum of impact on the floor boards by ... what? Heavy footfalls? She couldn't be sure.
Kelly turned and looked down the hall. She tried to hear, to isolate sounds ... was someone stumbling out of the dark toward her?
"Hello?" Her voice carried weak, but the narrow corridor channeled it like a megaphone and it came out louder in the coffin-like area than she wanted.
The ship creaked, moaned, groaned, tick-tick-ticked at her.
"Hello?" she called again, her hope fading. She could still feel the thump of the floorboards, but now couldn't tell if they approached or receded, or were just rhythms of the ocean on the ship.
Another deep, wet breath drifted from everywhere, and nowhere. A chill ran from the base of her skull to her tailbone. She shuddered hard, and fought back panic, trying to decide what to do.
The stairwell to the deck was in front of her somewhere, beyond the corridor junction. She stared in that direction and willed her eyes to focus, to see if a looming, shambling shape ambled and stomped toward her, to dispel the terror tickling icy and wet at her innards.
The ship creaked, moaned, groaned, tick-tick-ticked in response.
Kelly's heart fluttered, racing like a hummingbird's, and her eyes darted around in all directions. Sounds ... guttural, mucus-filled, animalistic ... she couldn't tell if she heard them or if her imagination held her ransom. Another shudder ripped through her and tore a tiny whimper from her.
She stepped toward the stern.
The ship creaked, moaned, groaned, tick-tick-ticked.
She took another step, then another, listened.
A rushing, wind-in-the-willows breath again, from somewhere, from everywhere, from nowhere, surrounded her, gave visions of dripping, rotting maws or dank cave openings teeming with crawling, slimy creatures. Kelly's head spun, the adrenaline nauseated her, made her dizzy.
Another step, then another, then another. She turned.
All the lights behind her still burned. Kelly turned around, and in the gloom of the hall in front of her she saw the pale patch of gray, the telltale spot of light falling down the stairs from the open door to the deck above.
Still daylight. Still hope to see, to at least be out of the tomblike catacombs of the ship.
She drew in a sharp breath, held it, and ran.
The hall lights behind her went out and the sudden dark drew a startled yelp from Kelly, but she kept her eyes locked on that patch of light, and pounded her feet. She felt cries and sobs escaping her while the hall seemed to grow longer with every step, as in a nightmare, stretching away from her faster than she could move. The maddening sensation, the sanity-breaking sounds, the breathing, the gooey, sopping breathing...
The light. She made it to the patch of light and turned, banging against the corner where the access emptied into the hall, and bright, hot pain stabbed through her shoulder and chest. She panted, clawing at the handrail to heave herself up the stairs, with the sensation tingling at the back of her neck, the sensation of a cold, wet something reaching for her, grabbing at her, clutching at her, and she screamed again, felt it erupt from her diaphragm, her feet moving too slow, too sluggish to escape, up the stairs, toward the sliver of light spilling through the open door, and screamed again because it narrowed, the door above her slipped and started to close, and her only hope, her only escape would be lost if something waited on deck and locked her below with the breathing, the grunting, phlegmy, stomping thing she wasn't sure was there, and another shriek tore from her, and vibrated and rattled the beams of the tight staircase.
Kelly exploded through the door into the gray, flat-toned mist, toppled onto the wet wooden planks and slid, her throat closing for a brief second, her legs pedaling wild and furious, knocking the door shut, slamming it with a heavy smash and a click of the brass works. She scrambled away from the door, from what she was sure would crash through, splinter the door and charge out onto the deck to eviscerate, disembowel, devour.
But the door stayed shut. She wanted to hear, to listen for the sound of the knob turning and latches opening, something stealthy turning the handle to spring open the door and crash through the portal, but couldn't, something made too much noise and she couldn't hear. It was her. She sobbed, gulped gasping breaths, gulped in salty mist air, she panted and her heart pounded, she muttered prayers and pleas.
It took a moment for her to catch her breath, to calm herself.
Kelly listened.
The ship creaked, moaned, groaned, tick-tick-ticked.
She stood up. The waves lapped against the hull, the boat sliced through the water, churned a spreading wake behind it, and the smell of the ocean around her came through the dense fog. Nothing else.
Then she noticed it.
Dingding ... ding ... ding ... ding ... dingding ... ding ...
Irregular, no set timing to the ring. A bell.
A buoy. A bell buoy.
Her heart leaped. She laughed, relief forced tears from her, and she wiped at them, annoyed and grateful and still afraid all at once, overwhelmed with emotion.
She was near land. A port, perhaps.
Kelly looked around, but only the fog stared back. She couldn't make out the edges of the ship in the thick, soupy gloom. She wondered for a moment about Jurgen and Edward, but only a moment. Flanagan, Sam and the others all met the same fate, whatever it was.
But a buoy sounded.
She stepped around the structure housing the door to the abyss of the ship's belly, gave it as wide a berth as possible while she moved. She went slow, watched for the gunwale to materialize from the fog. As much as she wanted to run, she dared not for fear of going overboard. She paced, hands wringing in front of her, breath shallow, thin. She couldn't stop herself from shaking. She saw it then, the edge of the boat, rising and sloping in a graceful curve toward the narrow bow, the bowsprit lancing into the fog.
Wafts and tendrils of fog swirled and parted as the ship knifed ahead through the water, and the sound kept her hope afloat.
Ding ... ding ... dingding ... ding ...
The fog thinned. A gap opened and Kelly saw the water ahead of the ship. And just beyond, a silhouette, a phantom floating ahead of her, was the buoy, rocking on the gentle waves, tipping in a lazy dance over the water's surface.
Dingding ... dingding ... ding ... ding ...
The ship creaked, moaned, groaned, tick-tick-ticked beneath her.
The bow rose and fell in slow swelling surges, and she breathed deep.
She covered her mouth to keep from screaming in joy when the buoy slipped past on the starboard and she saw gables, sharp and steep, cupolas, and the dark masses of structures begin to form, the lower portions obscured yet in the haze, the tops black outlines against the grayness. From the foreground ahead of them, clustered like a master's painting of an old New England or European fishing shanty port town, the pilasters of a pier and the heavy planking of the boardwalk grew out of the inky mist, thinning as the ship drew closer to port.
Tears raced down Kelly's face, her hands over her mouth, and she wept with relief, with joy.
The ship creaked, moaned, groaned, tick-tick-ticked under her.
Ding ... dingding ... ding ... ding ... dingding ... The bell's tolling faded behind her as the ship slid on, unhurried and calm. The shapes of the buildings sharpened, and Kelly took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
Then she heard it.
A murmur. Voices.
She opened her eyes, then her mouth to call out, to hail the first person she saw.
But something silenced her.
She listened.
The murmur was indistinct, many voices. Deep. Baritone. Guttural. Grunts, growls, sounds of wild boars, tigers and lions ... and yet unlike them. Unlike anything.
Her heart shattered in her chest, and her blood ran cold. She listened.
The murmur changed. It became laughter. Thick, wet chuckles and chortles.
Kelly stared wide-eyed.
Along the pier, and the base of those welcoming, shanty-like port buildings, something glimmered through the fog.
Eyes. Baleful eyes glowed with their own amber, red and orange luminescence. They winked on, shining stars in the gloom, first six ... then ten ... two dozen ... more.
The laughter drifted faint and deep under the piggish sounds and wet breath. Kelly saw those shifting, glowing eyes as they moved, shuffling on the dock, along the waterfront. Waiting. Waiting for the ship.
She backed up, shook her head in disbelief. What place is this? Where had she come?
She backed away, faster, eyes locked on the glowing ones along the shore, dotting the shadows of the port.
She yelped when she backed into something, and turned, afraid of what it might be, but it was the ship's forward mast. Her eyes ran an involuntary trace of its length up, and she noted she could see its top for the first time, and the boom crossing high above. No sail flew from it, but ... she saw something. She peered up, into the fog, and it thinned for her, and rolled back, and she saw them.
Bodies. Bodies dangled from the rigging high above deck, strung upside down from their feet. They swung with the gentle rolling and rocking of the sea beneath the ship, the limbs swayed in a macabre dance, tattered clothing hung and flapped. She couldn't see their faces, only the shapes, their clear forms ... more than twenty carcasses strung from the ship's elaborate rigging, jouncing and swaying and bumping with a horrible thump, thump, thump against the boom, the mast, the lines.
She screamed again, because she couldn't do anything else.
And the ship creaked, moaned, groaned, tick-tick-ticked in reply.
Tim Keegan watched the horizon through the powerful binoculars, staring into the clear sky. The thrumming thump of a beating helicopter rotor roared, fanning the water into a white-skinned mist skittering off the mellow waves on the aqua sea.
He pulled them down as his executive officer, Jake Harmon, bounded up to the cutter's bridge and through the door. He had something in his hands, Keegan noted. A book.
"What's the story, Jake?"
Harmon shook his head. "Wish I had something to give you, Cap'n, but ... nothing. I mean, the boat's intact. The motor's working fine. The GPS, the radio, and of course the emergency beacon are all functioning perfectly. I don't get it."
"No sign of the crew?"
Harmon shook his head. "Not one. No flotsam and jetsam, either. No debris of any kind. Divers say the hull doesn't have a scratch on it. There's a little nick above the water at the bow, on the port side, like maybe they bumped a dock pulling in, but other than that, she's ship-shape and sea-worthy. No water on her anywhere."
Keegan shook his head. "This is damn peculiar. How far offshore was she when we picked up the signal?"
"Twenty miles, maybe a hair more."
"Pirates? Terrorists? Kidnapped maybe?"
"Six people on a day charter? What would anyone get from them? Few hundred bucks? Why hit a small boat like this? She's 42 feet. Why not a cruise ship, with butt-loads of money and valuables and rich people? Wouldn't that make more sense? Besides, we don't have any reports of pirate or terrorist activity around here. None. Drug runners maybe?"
Keegan scratched his chin, and shifted the cap on his head. "Could be, but that'd be new for them. This is damn weird. What would cause a skipper to pull his emergency beacon and then abandon ship?"
"Didn't abandon ship in his dinghy, whatever the cause. They went swimming."
"You got the dinghy?"
Harmon nodded. "It was tied alongside her, just off the aft port. Inflated and ready, both oars on it. A cooler of water and food stowed. Life vests. Nothing else. No sign they ever left the boat."
Keegan sighed, and stuck his chin at Harmon's hand. "What's that?"
"A journal. One of the passengers kept one like a diary, I guess. Looks like it got left behind when they went overboard."
"Lemme see it." Keegan took the black, leather-bound book in his hand, and skimmed through it. He found the last entry, and his brows lowered over his eyes. "Huhn."
"What is it, Cap?"
"The last couple entries here ... they're odd. This one says a storm blew in. It's dated yesterday. Did we have a storm yesterday?"
Harmon screwed up his face in confusion. "No sir, we didn't. Weather's been like this most of the week and all weekend. Clear skies, calm seas. Good days for chartering a fishing trip."
"That's what I thought, too. So what's this talking about?"
"You sure of the date?"
"Yeah, I'm sure," Keegan nodded and flipped back through the pages, "and up 'til then, there's pretty much an entry every day. Nothing for today, though. Last one's yesterday."
"Yesterday afternoon's when we picked up the emergency beacon."
Keegan nodded. "This must've ... I dunno, I guess she left it behind."
"She?"
"Says it belongs to someone named 'Kelly' here on the inside front cover."
"Hm. Weird. A storm? I wonder what she's talking about?"
Keegan looked out at the vast sea, stretching away to meld with the cerulean sky at the horizon, placid, deceptive in its calm. "I don't know. No storm came through, though. And she says the storm had lightning, but no thunder, and moved quick but no wind. Ever heard o' anything like that?"
Harmon shook his head. "Nope. Can't move a storm without wind."
Keegan shook his head. "No. Guess not." He sighed. "Well, keep the 'copter circling for a while. How far you figure they could've drifted overnight, if they're in another raft?"
"Not that far. No major currents 'round here, no big wind to push 'em along ... we'll circle a few times. It's drifting inland anyway, so they'd might've made land, or seen it, anyway. If they were adrift."
Keegan scratched his head again. "Jesus, this is just weird."
Harmon sighed. "We'll keep looking, Cap'n. Should we make ready to tow the tub back in?"
Keegan nodded. "Yeah. Got her numbers and owner?"
Harmon chuckled. "Registered to a small-time skipper, name o' Flanagan. Steven Flanagan. His mate's William Jurgen. Passenger list's on file with the port. His reg was kept up. Payments, too."
"So he didn't fake his death to get out of paying for her."
"Doesn't look likely. He had a good, solid business going. Decent income, and a deal with some radio show syndicate. They sent him passengers once in a while. I guess one of the missing folks was a contest winner."
Keegan snorted. "Yeah, great. Quite a prize, huh?"
Harmon chortled. "Yep."
"What's the tub's name?" Keegan leaned over the console in front of him and stared down at the little white charter boat, bobbing carefree in the sea beside the Coast Guard cutter, small craft buzzing around it with personnel investigating the missing crew and passengers.
"She's Lucky Caller Seven, Cap'n."
"Lucky Caller Seven. If that don't beat all."
My Childhood Friend
When I wrote to my childhood friend to tell him of my plight, he took great pity on me. His immediate response invited me to visit him at his country house, atop a cliff near the sea. He said the sound of the pounding surf would soothe my embattled mind, ease my fatigued heart, and calm my tormented soul.
It was, of course, an invitation I could not decline. I made ready at once to be received, though the journey of many days would prove a strain on me in my current state. Never mind, I bade myself, the reward shall offset the effort tenfold. I departed in haste.
The coach jolted and jounced over roads infrequent of use, and my very bones ached in my flesh by the time we arrived at the final trestle which arced in a gentle convexity across a great ravine. In its depths lay the rapids of a white river rushing to the sea, and its sheer sides and jagged outcroppings gave me shivers. I dared not look out the coach window, for the acrophobic responses it triggered in me, but rather lay back into the soft velvet seat of my compartment and let the clip-clop, clip-clop of the horses' hooves lull my eyes closed. The almost imperceptible swaying of the bridge beneath the weight of beasts and carriage wrung sweat from my pores. When the rocking subsided, and the coach found solid purchase on the far side of the ravine, on terra firma once more, I exhaled a sharp breath I did not know I held. I forced my fingers open from their death-grip on the edge of the velveteen seat, and daubed perspiration from my brow with my kerchief.
Through the sharp ascent of the hills the road strolled, around larger rocky protrusions and through lazy valleys. White tree trunks shot arrow straight into the forest canopy spread over the road in an arch, leaves of brown, gold, red, orange and silver spilling from its recesses to tumble and skitter over the deepening bed of them across the road, rutted and overgrown from lack of traverse. In the distance the sun faded and blurred beneath the gray haze of flat, featureless clouds oppressing the forest, devouring the tops of the trees, and swirling into a heavy mist. The minuscule droplets spattered along the clattering carriage window glass and coated the world in a glaze of light moisture, never raining and never ending, as if we rolled through a heavy-laden cloud fallen from the heavens.
The grayness descended with the sun, and soon obscured all but the nearest of trees, now dark silhouettes against the flat silvery backdrop, wafting like wraiths in and out of the haze. I leaned from the cabin window, and smelled the salty tint of the fog, felt it fresh and cold and wet on my face, removed my hat to allow the cool caress upon forehead and face and neck, and breathed the deepest breaths possible, to soak the ocean into me.
I sat back into the plush luxury of my seat again, leaving the coach windows open to allow the briny scent of the mist to fill the cabin, when the horses cried, trepidation and nervousness flicking their heads up and down, feet stamping in place, both animals dancing upon the hassocks, refusing to move. Their sudden halt jolted the carriage, and which forced me to steady myself against being hurled forth into the opposing seat and thence into the cabin wall beyond. When at last I found my equilibrium, my ire tempered with shock.
I leaned out the window and shouted over the horses to the driver.
"What's the problem there?"
He looked back around the coach, hands wrapped with reins, his voice wavered. "I don't know, sir! The horses---they won't go on!"
"Well, whip them, man! We're nearly there! I must arrive before dark if possible!"
The driver cursed loud, the profanities falling flat against the dense misty air. "I have whipped 'em, sir! 'S no good! They won't go! I danno what's wrong with 'em! Never seen 'em act this way before!"
I sighed in irritation, and racked my brain for an alternative to the beating. "What can be done, then? I must get through!"
The driver turned to me with a half-hearted shake of his head, his facial expression clear: nothing could be done. The horses would not pass.
"Danno what's got 'em so spooked," he muttered, but his voice carried over the agitated whinnying of the skittish beasts. I heard the crop flail, the whip snap, and the driver curse the ancestry of the horses. The coach edged backward, and no amount of beating made them move ahead.
A sudden whoosh ripped through the still mist, and the cloud swished and swirled as if stirred by a mighty wind, though the trees neither moaned, whistled, or even fluttered their flame-colored foliage. A final cry and rearing from the horses, and they composed, calm in the middle of the road, huffed snorts of air through moist nostrils and blew wet flapping lips together around their bits. They pranced at the ready. The driver muttered again.
"What happened? What's the matter now?" I called.
He leaned around the carriage side again, his face a stubbled, lined mask of confusion beneath his salt-and-pepper bristle-brush of hair. His arched bushy brows perched just below the brim of his hat, tipped aside by his fingers to dig in wonder at his scalp.
"I danno! That blow went through an' now they're dandy again! I never saw the like!"
"Are we able to proceed, then?"
"I'll try, sir, and double-quick to make up for the stall!" He snapped the crop and the horses jerked forward, trotting fast through the tunnel of trees over the irregular, choppy road surface.
Somewhere the sun receded, but I could not see it through the impenetrable fog. The road then slid to a slow rise after the ravine, and it appeared even less used, if possible. No path or side route presented as we moved through the gloom, and the amount of light filtered through the blanket of cloud, diffused and pale and uniform, dwindled with each hoof beat.
At once the road took a stark upward angle, so steep and sudden the horses had to redouble their efforts to drag the lurching, pitching carriage up the grade. An instant before the rise, the rutted path gave way to a cobblestone drive, black and glistening with the moisture of the thick mist. The wheels steadied beneath the carriage and the cabin stabilized. I relaxed a trifle when the road began to slope level, and the fog at last parted to reveal the estate of my childhood friend.
A massive gray stone wall swung in a graceful curve around the front of the property, and the courtyard formed therein was paved with the same coal colored stones comprising the drive. A servant, ashen white and cadaverous thin, dressed in bleak gray-black rags with a damp gossamer trail of spider silk hair trailing down his neck, took the horses by the gear and helped halt the coach. The squat, barrel-shaped driver scrabbled over the back of his seat, and took the lantern from its hanger to untie my luggage strapped to the carriage top in the waning light. Above, the violet western sky faded to a deep, blackish purple, speckled with points of flitting stars. The evergreen spires and spears vanished against the dome of the coming night, overshadowing the estate at the rear. The vertical face of a cliff wall rose just above the house, and from this bluff the wall emerged to embrace the house and courtyard. Amber lights flickered in majestic panes of leaded windows, the glow prismed onto the wet cobbles. The sound of surf roared from somewhere beyond the house.
From the house, down the majestic and broad stairs leading to the entry, a wispy, scarecrow of a valet approached, still as a grave, also ashen-white and spectral, floating over the courtyard to my side. He spoke not a word but exchanged a glance with the other servant, and my bosom fluttered with a sense of fleeting, flighty dread that lighted upon my heart momentarily then danced away before I could identify the source.
With my trunks unloaded, the coach house servant led horses and driver to the left of the house, beneath gray stone arches into the coach house. The scarecrow valet nodded with eyes closing in formal silent greeting, and gestured to the mansion, a three-storey gabled stone façade braced by thick gray columns. Ivy-laced stone crawled up the building to the eaves, the entire structure appearing the same flat, featureless slate hue of the wall and bluff beyond.
I tucked my cane beneath my arm and pulled my fingers from my gloves, tugged the collar of my cape higher against the damp chill of autumn's early evening. The valet swung wide the doors of the house and a bath of warm ochre light flooded the courtyard. I swept my hat from my head and dropped my gloves within, then examined the warmth of the interior, in stark contrast to the harsh coldness of the stone exterior. Wood tones and firelight, candles and gas lamps, rich colorful tapestries and mauve or dusty rose upholstery, Persian rugs in warm maroon or burgundy and patterns of white, cream and yellow, fringed with contrasting filaments. I stepped into the rich opulence of the foyer and the huge crystal chandelier above the gleaming varnished floor puddled the light at my feet, driving my shadow from every side.
A heavy thud slammed my heart to a stop when the servant behind me closed the entrance. He took my cane and cape, hat and gloves wordless and purposeful, and gestured toward the sitting room, right of the foyer, then headed for the broad, carpeted staircase that ended above in a causeway running to either wing of the house. I noted the armaments, crests, shields, swords, suits of gleaming silver armor lining walls, the silver and brass bric-a-brac shimmering on table tops, ornately carved statuettes of marble, jade and glass strewn over the horizontal surfaces of furnishings, underlain with doilies.
My childhood friend did well for himself, I noted. His lavish home indicated the extreme wealth compiled from centuries of well-bred familial ties. He must have inherited some, or perhaps his parents did, or some sort of trickle-down effect occurred, I reasoned, for no single man could amass such fortune in a single lifetime. The age of the house, the weathering of the stonework and wall, the rich antique décor within---all spoke of money layered in dust rather than fresh-mint.
I led myself to the parlor, where river stones as large as my head stacked into a weighty fireplace piling through the high, coffered ceiling, its broad mouth yawning to expose a roaring, crackling fire, rife with embers and billowing heat into the elegant chamber. Rich, oxblood leather wing-back chairs flanked a mahogany table, a Tiffany-glass lamp and a decanter of honey-colored alcohol beside a set of deep brandy snifters. A throw blanket lay across the back of each chair, in ready reach of visitors on chill autumn evenings. Bookcases lined the walls, a brass rail with sliding ladder for reaching high, obscure volumes forgotten in a distant corner, shrouded by the dancing shadows and flickering firelight. A reading desk splayed under a high, narrow window, tall and pointed, that reached into the dim coffers above.
The clap of a hand on my shoulder gave me a deep and profound start, and nothing short of all my willpower prevented me from shrieking. I turned, and the broad smile of my childhood friend greeted me.
For a moment, something peculiar flashed over his visage. A subtle, almost subliminal wave rippled beneath the flesh, the piercing dark eyes, the shimmer of the flames reflected on his tears, his moist lips, his teeth ... something I could not pinpoint. A shudder twisted through my frame before my own smile curled my mouth and I extended my hand to him.
His smiled deepened and broadened, the maturity lines in his face black against the fire's glow, and ignored my hand in favor of throwing his arms about my neck and embracing me, warm and welcoming. In an instant I returned the brotherly gesture and when we broke, he shook his shoulder-length hair out over the lapels of his smoking jacket and waved a hand at the leather chairs.
He sailed his lithe frame into one and tossed one ankle over his knee in a prim and deliberate maneuver, and cocked his head to me in quick, bird-like stutter. His smile never fluctuated.
"My friend, how are you?" His sultry, smooth voice, like warm tea, soothed and comforted.
"It's been so long, I'm happy to see you." My eyes locked with his, unable to wander from his gaze, and a dancing, swirling light came into them from somewhere ... perhaps a trick of the firelight, but something so intoxicating seemed to keep me there. I felt my muscles, jarred and vibrated into near-numbness from the journey, melt into pools of jelly within me.
"And I am happy to see you again. It has been so very long, has it not? And after all this time, you've finally come to see my country home."
"My circumstances ... I never thought to need your charity, your kindness. I'm sorry to be a burden."
He chuckled and dismissed my embarrassment with a wave of his elegant hand, clad with rings that flashed as reflected fire passed over the facets of the jewels. His head turned aside and I at last managed to blink.
"You are never a burden. You've been my friend from my youth. What friend would not offer comfort to a man in crisis, to a person in need? No burden. You are welcome here. Wanted here, in fact." He gave a little giggle, rather reminiscent of our time as school boys. It bore a ring of the mischievous in it, a hint of imp, as when he led me merrily down paths of naughtiness as a boy. He always carried an elfin quality, a sort of charm, which led me astray at his whim. It seemed nothing had changed with the years, his imp still alive and well within him.
"I'm grateful to you. I needed a respite, a repose from the worries of my day to day existence. I'm only sorry it took so many years for me to come to you."
Another wave dismissed my qualms. "Never mind. You're here now. That is all that is important to me. A drink? To warm you, take the chill from you?"
I nodded, the smile tracing over my face at the idea of a brandy or sherry after the arduous trip. He opened the decanter and with deft and skilled hands tipped it over the snifters, first mine, then his, and corked and settled the heavy glass container down. I took the drink he held out to me and he circled his below his nostrils, inhaling softly.
With another grin, he held the glass aloft in my direction. "To you! May better times lie ahead!"
"Hear, hear!" I said, and nodded and raised my glass to him. A tinkle of glass as they touched, then I took a long, warming sip of the amber fluid. I felt the sweet sherry run down my gullet and the warmth it provided spread through me. I closed my eyes and hummed in deep appreciation of the goodness.
"You must be hungry from your trip," he said after a deep sip from his wine. "Dinner will be soon. Or would you rather take your rest instead?"
I sat, torn between the offers. Exhaustion weighted my eyelids, tugged on my chin. But hunger gnawed at my insides, and no food had passed my lips since my carriage left the Inn early that morn. I turned to my friend and smiled.
"Dinner would be lovely," I whispered. "I shall retire shortly after, I think."
His grin broadened again, and he gave a sympathetic nod. "I suspect you'll sleep as the dead this night."
I nodded, the alcohol already slowing my motions. "Indeed. I look forward to seeing the rest of your estate in the daylight. It's magnificent."
"A cottage, really. I've been quite successful in recent years. This house ... it's a place for me to escape the labor of building wealth."
"Then you've made your own fortune? You've received nothing from the wealth of your family?"
He snorted a laugh. "No, no ... my family is far from wealthy. All I have is inherited, provided to me, but not by my parents. No, I found a benefactor. He cares for my material needs---and luxuries!---and I do work he is no longer able to. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."
I nodded, mute and slack-jawed, the warmth of the fire and sherry, the penetrating tone of his voice, the dancing light in his eyes. There again came the strange, slithering sensation, like the movement of a snake beneath a blanket, a subtle shift beneath his face, his very being. He drained his snifter and set it beside him on the table, and rose.
"We should dine, then. You'll need nourishment after so hard a trip, so difficult a time in life, to refortify, and keep your strength up. Come!" He gestured grand and magnanimous, and caught me up in his hospitality. I drifted beside him up the stairs, still cupping the snifter of sherry in my hand, with a silly smile branded on my lips. He spoke of childhood memories, and times we shared. His memories, sharp and focused even over the years apart, amused and enthralled me. To hear of things familiar, things rummaged from dusty chests and cobwebbed corners of memory's attic, carried me away down summer lanes and meadows, flowers and fields, streams running through tall grasses and soft mossy banks.
I watched him, entranced, my eyes captive in his gaze. Even in the hall, grand with long runners of exquisite carpet and carved furnishings, walls hung with magnificent tapestries and majestic towering paintings, sconces and candles aglow, the light much less stabbing than the licking flames in the parlor---even here, his eyes burned with a mysterious glow, rimmed about the irises with a dancing fire of their own. I could not look away, could not rip my gaze from him, and he smiled and put a hand gentle and caring on my shoulder, guiding me toward the end of the hall.
"When will I meet this benefactor?" I managed to speak at length, and his eyes darted to me for an instant. He perked an elegant brow at me, and winked. I smiled, a euphoric sensation of floating, levitating above the floor, filling me.
"At dinner, my friend. Of course I meant to introduce you then. Had you opted for sleep instead, it would have been at breakfast, or dinner tomorrow."
"I didn't realize we would have someone joining us," I said, "I've not dressed for dinner."
"Nonsense! Your attire is not important, and I am seldom formal."
I nodded. "You're certain? I won't offend your friend?"
His rich and bubbling laughter lifted the corners of my mouth with it. "Of course not! He is even less formal than I!"
He turned the handles of a double door at the end of the hall, in a dim corner of the corridor. They swung wide and a slipstream of musty, dank air rushed by and rustled my garb, sending gooseflesh racing over my exposed skin.
The lightless interior of the room, a black vacant maw, stared at me across the threshold. I hesitated, and my friend noted my falter. He came beside and stared over my shoulder into the inky depth of the room.
"Hm. A draft must have blown out the candles. I'll light them again at once. Please, go in. I'll be a moment."
He padded brisk and sure down the hall, leaving me at the doorway of a room whose depths my eyes could not penetrate. I took one halting step, then another. I saw a slit of light, bluish white, pale, spectral, ease up the wall like the pupil of a feline, broadening and thinning as it ran. I stared, incapacitated in fear, watching the ethereal illumination, frozen in my tracks. My mind found foothold in my childish terror, my banal fear of the darkness around me, and deciphered I beheld the part between curtains; a window caught a ray of moonlight from beyond and let it spill in through the odd shape of the fissure.
I exhaled, and took another wavering breath before I realized I held it all the while. I took care to keep one eye on the door to ensure my friend's stealthy return did not cause the jolt I experienced on his last entry. I extended a hand before me, and waded as if in a black swamp, a moonless lagoon at night, groping for the dining table or a chair or some sort of obstruction. Shadows shifted, crept, crawled along the high walls, reaching for me, encircling me, surrounding me and pressing on me. I felt the icy grip of panic reach for my throat, tighten my chest, drawing my breath close and fluttery to my---
My friend poured into the room like a rushing wave from the sea, and he shot a winning and disarming smile to me, his face lit by the candle lighter behind his cupped hand. He steadied the flickering flame for a moment, then stretched it away from him into the dark and an instant after, a lamp began to glow, pushing the rim of gloom back. I saw the outlines, faint and indistinct, of the massive wooden table that rolled away into murky shadows. A second extension of his hand and the wall sconce behind me, beside the door, sprang to life, and this corner of the room warmed and livened with quickening light.
"Ah," he said at last, and snuffed the candle lighter with a puff of breath through pink and cheery lips, "that is much better, is it not?" Again his smiled warmed, comforted and calmed my jangled nerves.
"Yes," I said, and noted the light didn't penetrate the abysmal shadows at the far end of the room. The light cascading from the part of curtains over the window died somewhere among those shifting shades, and did not alight upon table, floor or chair. It simply vanished into the room with nary a trace, and I marveled an instant at it before my friend spoke again.
"Our dinner will be here shortly. May I refresh your sherry, dear friend?"
He scooped the ringing crystal from my hand before I could protest. From the ebon shadows he whisked another shining decanter and with the faintest clink I heard the warm pour of fluid swirling in the bowl as the glass filled. I dropped my sagging jaw farther to object but only found a smile traipsed over my face when the smooth container slipped into my upturned palm again, heavy with new wine. He laid a comforting hand on my shoulder and I dropped mine atop it, patted it with sincerity. I thought it good to see him again, after so long a time, with so little communiqués exchanged. I lifted my chin and he offered down to me a warm smile, and gave his hand the slightest shake.
"It is so good to see you again," he said, voice soft and deep, warm and clear. I felt the wine spread through my tired form, coursing to every extremity and tingling at my fingertips and the end of my nose. I closed my eyes and felt his firm gentle grip guide me to an opulent and lush chair, thick upholstery engulfing my body as I sank into its embrace. I tipped my head back, eyes still closed, and felt the wear of the road flooding out of me, replaced by weariness and the precipice of sleep. I heard a chair adjacent slide across the wood floor and when I lowered my head and opened my eyes my friend sat beside me and beamed.
And there again, just the least hint, the barest trace, of something underneath, something slithery and shifting, as if beneath a set of clothes upon another form, and in an instant it fled, such as to leave me uncertain I saw it at all. I blinked back sleep and when I snapped open my heavy lids, I saw the sweeping entry of the spectral-white servants, laden with gleaming silver platters lidded with shiny domes, carts gliding silent as ghosts over the flooring, loaded down with servings and helpings of food, the odor of which wafted to me and stirred the harsh rumbling within my abdomen. I found my mouth lathering with anticipation of the warm, sweet meats steaming on plates while the wraith-servers filed about their tasks and set the table ready.
"Where is your guest?" I said, and struggled not to slur the words through heavy lips and stiff, uncooperative tongue. He nodded and a wistful smile traced his elegant lips, his stare deep in the flickering candle before him.
"Oh ... I imagine he shall join us directly," he said, his voice again full of mischief and play. He cast his eyes on me without moving his head, and the smile widened. In my beleaguered state I could scarcely focus on his features, my eyes drooped and my muscles flagged. I let the weight of the snifter pull my wrist to the table top and my hand slid useless away from the bulb down the stem of the fine glass, shimmering with oily streaks of pink, blue and aqua, betraying the fine leaded quality. My hand continued unhindered to drag from the edge of the table and swung lifeless and numb beside my chair.
"I ... I ..." I stammered and stuttered, unable to force my jaw to work, to form words. My clouded head swam, and a damp wetness pearled over my brow when at last it dawned on me I could not move. My entire system, paralyzed and helpless, I could feel nothing -- legs, face, fingers, hands, arms ... all numb, all thick and puffy, as if stuffed with feathers as a pillow on a fine satin bed. Like a drug coursed through me and reduced me to senselessness.
"Yes ... yes, it's quite true, dear friend. You indeed imbibed a narcotic. You cannot resist. And, it is so much better if you don't endeavor. Simply enjoy the gift I bestow on you now. As it was offered to me, so I offer it to you." He smiled, and reached out to pat my shoulder again. I felt pressure from his touch but not the touch itself. Panic seized me, but I only watched as the world shrank down, a tunnel before me, the edges of my vision blurred, murky, a charcoal cloud at the periphery of my view. My head lolled on my neck and rolled aside.
My friend rose, to hunker beside me, and with tender grasp took my chin and turned my face to stare into the dark at the other end of the room. The phantasm servants drifted from the murk, ethereal and eerie in the dimness, and moved to surround my chair. I wanted to scream, to flail, to cast myself about, but I sat stationary, a mannequin of flesh. They bound wrists and ankles to the chair with silk bands, and as they did another group rolled something in, large and looming in the dark, the occasional flickering flame catching and flashing on something. They stood it upright, and my heart throbbed in my chest, pounded like a steam piston, pulsed and wrenched within. I tried to turn away, to force my head free from the grasp of the man I thought my friend, but only whimpering, drool-slathered sounds gurgled and choked in my incapacitated throat.
"It is a gift I give to you," he crooned, voice smooth and steady, comforting and warming, but my terror locked me in an icy grip. "Trust me, you will be so much happier. All worry of your circumstances can fade away, like shadows blending with nightfall! He will provide all you need, and more than you can imagine, and all for the most meager of costs!"
A pale figure cast aside the silver dome before me, and on the platter, ringed with greens like a delicacy from a distant land, lay the head of the coach driver, eyes bulged in perpetual terror, mouth agape, crusted with dried blood, brown and caked over pulled, tight lips. The ragged cut along his neck beneath his chin showed sinewy tangles of stringy material, flesh bruised and tattered. My breath caught in my throat and I would have fainted if possible, but no merciful loss of consciousness blessed me. And I saw the servants at the far end of the table moving again, and my eyes drifted helpless to them.
The ghost-like servants creaked open a groaning door, its hinges squealed and wailed. In a sudden quickening, they darted to and fro, some lighting more candles at the opposite end of the table from me, others scattering and scrambling like insects away from piercing light. And as the warm amber glow rose on wicks in receding wax, I beheld a sight which froze my blood in my veins, stabbed through my heart and ripped through my mind like a bolt of lightning.
A white figure draped in baggy, sagging black clothes, arms crossed over concave chest, its skeletal, bone-hued hands and curled, gnarled fingers poking like dead tree limbs from the dusty cuffs, and wispy white gossamer cobweb hair spilling over shoulders and rail-thin neck. The eyelids, so thin the irises bulged and cast shadowy color through them, nestled deep in sunken sockets, purple and bruised over sharp cheekbones and stark, papery tissue-thin skin. Ragged deep lines carved through the valley of the cheeks, drawn and parched, the feathery lips of parchment puckered and cracked, the temples recessed behind sharp ridge lines of the brow, the wrists, thin as a child's, huge knobs protruding so far as to threaten to pierce the flesh, and the neck nothing but a taut stretch of blue veins and skin wrapped over corded sinews.
I tried in vain again to scream, the sound unable to escape the paralysis of my body, my chest heaving with the effort, a tear streaming down my cheek. I stared at the cadaver in the casket, nestled amidst folds of pale satin, and my heart lurched and tore in my breast when the doors of the chamber slammed shut, leaving me with this man, this evil I thought a friend, and the dead man in his coffin.
"Isn't he beautiful?" his voice sang, his breath soft on my face. He moved away from me to better admire the corpse in its bed, and I saw them, from the corner of my eye I saw them, his impossibly long, gleaming fangs, slicked with spittle, sparkling reflections of candles flames writhing over their white enamel.
He turned to me, still holding my face toward the carcass in the casket across from me, and smiled again. "It's so easy ... and he shall provide all you need, and you will live forever."
In that instant the eyes of the cadaver popped open, the maw yawning wide as a sucking breath gasped into the lungs, jaundiced sclera webbed with crimson veins, the gray tongue rolling over the cracked lips and fangs, the canine fangs, stretching long and glittery until at last the dead, the undead, rose full from its slumber. The baleful eyes fixed on mine, and the hideous lips, the horrible face, broke into a smile which folded the leathery skin around its nose and mouth, and I shivered, but only in my being, within my psyche, for my body lay paralyzed, and my friend, the one I thought was my friend, smiled warm and welcoming into my face.
"You see, you've met my benefactor before. In the forest, dear friend. It was he who flew low over your carriage, hiding in the dense fog, of whom the horses were afraid. He saw you, inspecting you as you might inspect your meal before dining."
Another tear rolled over my lashes and raced down my cheek. I could not speak, could not move, and watched as the undead cadaver across the table began to shift, to pull itself from the silk-lined casket. And the ripple, the shifted shading which I perceived but could not apprehend with my eyes before---that ripple crawled over what was once my friend, and he desiccated before my very eyes, drawing gaunt and pale, just as the living corpse in its casket. His eyes burned with demonic fire, teeth pressing his crumpled and ruined lips forward and outlining them in his mouth, a black and purple, death-dry mouth, with those gleaming bony canines savage and raw and exposed within.
"It will all be over soon, my friend," he whispered to me. "So soon. Just be still."
And stillness overtook me.
She was more beautiful than the sea, more beautiful than the moonlight that drizzled lovingly over her, more beautiful than the music she danced to. She was more beautiful than anything I'd ever seen.
The night wasn't cold. It wasn't warm either. I sat on the dunes, watching the flat full disc of the moon play off the water as it rolled, crested, crashed and foamed against the sands. The dark tree line sheltered the cove and shielded it from prying eyes, so only the sea watched me sit and stare. The lighthouse at the cove's point, nestled among the rocks and shoals, shined its beacon to warn the hapless of the dangers beneath the deceptive calm. But the lighthouse keepers appeared asleep in the calm, cloudless night. I sat alone with the ocean and the trees and the black, stoic tower of the lonely lighthouse.
I love the ocean, I always have. I love the smell of the mist as it caresses my face. The breeze's gentle, loving fingers run through my hair, tickle my neck and kiss my cheeks. I smile at the beach with no reason to smile, with no other company than the mysterious deep stretching away from me. It's beautiful, powerful, alive. And she was all of those things, and more. So much more.
I noticed first a black spot, tiny, just beyond the crests of the incoming waves. It rose above the textured water's surface, the small blackness, a bump or smudge, and grew higher. As the rolling, playing sea foamed and misted, it became more clear.
A form. A head. Shoulders. A body. A beautiful, shapely body, swaying while it moved, almost one with the water. It was like the ocean came alive and stood up and the tide carried its newfound shape toward the beach.
Toward me.
Strange, I didn't hear her or see her among the waves. Her clandestine swim must have happened against the darkness of the woods to my left, her splashes and strokes lost to the throaty seduction of the surf. I only saw her now, as if she finally wanted me to, like she was ready to be seen. The waves overcame her, roared down and swallowed her, and I thought her a dream, a mirage. But she strolled on as if nothing happened, as if the sea were an illusion and the waves harmless visions. She came out of the water, the foam around her ankles, and the way she moved---the way she carried herself, with salty water running from her in tiny waterfalls, the curved outlines of her face and body, captured in the moon's white-blue glow---was ethereal.
I knew then, even blinded by the dark and deafened by the surf, I knew then she was beautiful. More beautiful than anything I'd ever seen, more beautiful than anything I'd ever imagined.
And she was coming toward me.
I still couldn't see her, not clearly, but she came up the beach and beyond the waterline. She seemed to float over the dunes to stand near me. I couldn't see what she was wearing, couldn't see anything but a strange light from her eyes. It captivated me. It was a trick of the moonlight, of course, but the way it played ... it was hypnotic. She was hypnotic. I couldn't tear my gaze from her, though I knew it was rude to stare. I couldn't do anything else. I saw her smile, and she wiped her face and pushed a sodden strand of hair behind her ear with a delicate finger. The move was so ordinary, and so seductive, so erotic, so enticing, I worried I was drooling.
She looked right at me. I was alone on the beach, so I know she was looking at me. There was no one else to look at. She shone with the moonlight playing on her wet skin, glistening and shimmering. She was like a sea shell gathered from a tide pool, radiant and glowing and spectacular. I wanted so much for the lighthouse beacon to flash our way, to race over the beach by some mysterious accident, to stray off course and wander over her body. I wanted the light to linger on her, the way I wanted my hands to linger on her, to trace her curves, her shapes, her contours. I wanted to know her, all of her, every inch, every detail. But the lighthouse didn't cooperate, and I had to be content with the moon, shining full behind her.
Music emanated from her then, a symphony, the most wonderful song. It would've made birds weep with envy, made Beethoven and Mozart give up trying to create melodies and harmonies, made the angels gasp in start, and it made my heart slam to a stop in my chest.
She spoke, and the music was her voice.
"Hello," she sang to me, and it was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard. I wanted to cry with its beauty, the way it touched my soul, the way it held me.
Instead I smiled awkward and gawky, and answered her. "Hi." It sounded like the braying of an ass compared to her voice.
"Have we met?"
She was so tender, so sweet with her query. I smiled again, and felt gooseflesh rise on my neck and arms. I was grateful then for the moonlight's pale glow, because she couldn't see me blush.
"I don't ... think so," I stammered. "But we can change that now. I'm ..."
"No, don't. Don't tell me. I know your name."
I sat stunned, confused. "You do?"
"Yes. I've always known your name."
"I don't ... I don't understand. You just asked if we've met."
She tinkled a laughed then, a lilted, gentle, gold bell chime. It was like the sound of a child's laugh, free and unrestrained, but rich and throaty, sexy and desirable. I wanted to take her in my arms, hold her and kiss her, wrap myself in her like I would wrap myself in a blanket.
She tipped her head, and for a fleeting moment I thought she read my thoughts, or sensed my desire, or smelled my lust. She only smiled again.
"Sometimes a mystery is fun. Don't you think?"
"But you said you knew my name."
"How do you know I don't?"
"Tell me what it is, then."
"Not now," she smiled. "Soon. Not now. I know you watch the ocean, and I know you wonder at its power and majesty. I know you're drawn to it, like a moth to a flame, without understanding why or how. You don't question the longing. You come, sit, stare. Feel it."
"Feel it?"
"The connection. You feel it, don't you? That thread tying you to the sea, that vibrating cord that binds you to it. Like an umbilical cord, feeding you, nourishing you, drawing you near, keeping you near, holding you bound."
I was nodding as she spoke, and continued after she finished. She could have told me the moon above her head was green cheese and I would have nodded. She could have told me I was growing a sausage from my chin and I would have nodded. I wanted nothing more than the sound of her voice. It was like listening to the ocean waves break on the beach. There was a comfort, a soothing, a demulcent effect to it.
"I feel it too. I always have."
"I ... I didn't see you swimming. You surprised me. I thought I was alone in the cove."
"No? You were somewhere else, perhaps. Out to sea. Far from here."
I nodded again. She was like a siren. I couldn't resist her. "Maybe. I'm here now."
"Yes." She smiled and moved closer.
I thought for a moment she'd sit beside me, but she only tipped her head and gazed her quizzical bird-gaze at me. I smiled back, because I didn't know what to say. I didn't think I could stand in my present physical state. I thought it best to stay seated or betray too much of my first impression of her.
"Do you dance?" Her question was so strange, I knit my brows and cocked my head.
"I'm ... what?"
She laughed again, and I melted under its gentle warmth like a candle's flame melts the wax.
"I said, do you dance?" She stirred the sand with a toe, one knee seductively overlapping the weight-bearing leg. I was entranced by its movement and shape. I wanted to feel its texture with my hand, my cheek, my tongue.
"Do you?"
I started, tore my eyes from her legs. "I don't ... no, I don't dance. Not well. Not often. I love music, though."
"The music is playing now. Shall I dance for you?"
"Music is ...?"
"Yes. Don't you hear the song of the ocean, playing for us? Shall I dance to it for you? Would you like that?"
My jaw was agape. It worked, tried to form words, and her smile took them from me. I tried to nod, but no movement was possible.
"You've always liked to watch me dance, haven't you?"
I nodded again. I had no idea what she was talking about and it didn't matter. I would have nodded if she told me to hang an anchor around my neck and throw myself into the cove.
And then she danced.
She undulated, her midriff liquefied, and I swear I watched the water coming alive again. She rippled and swayed, swelled and crested, her hips moved like living beings, apart from her, with minds of their own. She held her arms over her head and they writhed like serpents, her hips led her over the sand, twisting her, grinding and pumping and rolling. She undulated like the ocean, like the water behind her, somehow in time with it, somehow in concert with it, somehow one with it, somehow commanding it, controlling it, mistress of it. She moved like a part of the sea, like a thing born of it. And I burned for her as she danced. The more she moved, the more I burned. The more she swayed, the more my blood boiled. The more she tipped her head, hands playing and plying, neck open and exposed, muscles rippling under her skin, the more I wanted to have her, to become part of her, to take her and claim her and hold her and feel her around me, over me, plunging into her as one plunges into the sea, into the depths, into the mysterious fathoms.
But I couldn't move. I could only stare at her, my breath ragged and short, sweating with desire and lust, shaking. I could only watch her as she danced and danced and danced and danced, and the ocean made the music for her, the surf moved in time with her, and together they were one entity, one being, one essence, one dancing life moving on the beach beneath the pale full moon.
I don't know when she sat beside me. I don't know when she stopped dancing. She was close to me but I couldn't feel her warmth. She crossed her ankles delicately, leaned back on her hands behind her, head propped on one shoulder as she stared. We stared out to sea and never said a word, and exchanged so much in that silence, in that sharing. I have no idea how much time passed. I sat with my arms around my knees and felt her presence. I didn't stare at her, only at the ocean, but all I saw was her.
The sky paled. The wispy clouds high above the cove, over the tree tops, changed to vivid pinks and purples, oranges and yellows. The slow transgression of daylight on the cove crept on us unaware, and she spoke, like a whisper, so she wouldn't disturb the cove in its peace.
"Let's go inside. The sun is coming."
"Inside? Inside where?"
"The lighthouse. The sun is coming."
"But the lighthouse is someone's home. I---"
"Yes, the lighthouse is someone's home. Let's go there before the sun comes."
"It's someone's home! We can't just---"
"We can. I can. Come with me. Please."
She held her hand out to me, and I saw then she wore something like a swimsuit, and something like a wrap around her waist, but couldn't see the details. It was like she shunned light and it shunned her, refused to illuminate her, to show her to me. Or, like details didn't matter. I couldn't tell which, and didn't care. The azure sky above us receded faster now, fainter, brighter colors rose from the horizon.
I took her hand, and she pulled me along, her movements urgent, her grip desperate.
"Hurry. Before the sun comes up. Before the day breaks. Hurry."
I hurried and didn't ask why. I hurried, my heart pounding like the world would end if I didn't. We raced, ran like chased animals, hand-in-hand, legs pumping over sand, then rocks, to the lighthouse standing vigil over the sea. She ran and didn't speak, and her feet pranced over the terrain light, sure and true, familiar with the path, certain of the way. I followed without knowing why, without knowing where. We darted up the rocks and away from the lighthouse keeper's residence, down a carved niche in the crags lined by stairs, to a door in the lighthouse foundation. She turned the knob, knew it would open, and it did. She never let go of my hand, never turned back to look at me. She led me into a dark passage in the lighthouse bowels, and down again, farther, until we were below sea level, out of sight and deep inside the rocks, where the lighthouse foundation kept the ocean's pounding, throbbing, seeking, probing waters away.
Breathless, we panted, chests heaving close together, the two of us faint outlines in the gloom. I felt her breath on my cheek, like a sea mist breeze, her hand still in mine. It was chilled, as chilled as the water in the cove, but I took it in both of mine, and it warmed. Her fingers held mine hard, as if she feared I'd leave, disappear, if she let go. And when her lips touched mine it was like kissing the surf. She was cold when I embraced her, cold as the ocean, cold as the currents beyond the beach. So cold I caught my breath, but I held her and she warmed so quickly, and her lips were so soft, so sweet and tender, so hungry and longing. She kissed me and pulled my senses from me and we fell into each other, fell together the way the white foam rushes back to the waves, and we meshed and merged and became one like swells from the open water crashing to the beach, to wash it and pummel it and embrace it all at once. We were like that---crashing and pummeling and joining and different but one.
She was more beautiful than the sea, more beautiful than the moonlight that drizzled lovingly over her, more beautiful than the music she danced to. She was more beautiful than anything I'd ever seen, before or since.
And I was hopelessly lost to her then.
We made love for hours. The tiny cubbyhole she took me to had a bed pushed against one wall and a rustic, crude nightstand, an ancient oval braided rug and a sink in one corner. A ragged curtain covered an alcove that served as a closet in the distant past.
She astounded me. I spent myself on her and she reciprocated, both of us collapsing, panting and sweating and groaning. When I thought I couldn't respond to her anymore she found new ways---probing, sucking, kissing, caressing, kneading, licking. We went for each other again, raw and untamed, like wild animals frothing and screaming. I pounded her and the pleasure was so intense it burned the tip of me, the shaft, a clenching in my loins pulsing and throbbing as I exploded in her again and again. The guttural shouts were torn from me and her carnal screams joined them while she convulsed and spasmed on me in her climax, a cacophony of ecstasy and flesh. My muscles cramped and I fell on her, explored, felt the surface of her like a blind man, memorized her terrain. I kissed soft, on every part of her I could reach, and she tasted of saline, smelled of a coastal flower. I gently sank my teeth into her tender flesh and a moment later she was ready again, taking me to new sexual places I'd never known before and may never visit again. No orifice was off limits, no position untried; she did things to me I didn't know could be done, showed me things I never knew existed. Finally we slept, bodies entwined and exhausted, glazed with fluid and perspiration.
Later, I discovered a window well cut around a pane in the wall when sunlight trickled into our den of iniquity around its shutters. The shutters were heavy slats and cleats, roughly nailed together, as if made from lumber left over from the lighthouse's construction. Light spilled delicate through the gaps around them, and I saw her in clarity for the first time as she slept. Her hair spilled over the pillow in a pool and ran down her back. She had a rough woolen blanket pulled over her against the damp of the musty cavern-room.
The sun poured onto the bed just beyond her, and she faced the wall on her side. She seemed like a shadow at dusk, almost gray-blue, like the dingy sheets and charcoal blanket tinted her skin.
I smiled, and the sensations of her rushed back to my memory. I rummaged for my clothes, finally found my jeans and pulled them on. Then a sound sent a shiver down my spine.
I was sure she made it, but it was choked, strangled, as if...
I turned to her. It sounded like she was drowning.
I went to see if she was all right. I touched her shoulder and yanked my hand back as if bitten by a viper.
She was cold. Ice cold. Cold as a puddle in a mausoleum, cold as a frozen lake. My retreating grasp pulled her and she rolled onto her back.
She stared with unseeing eyes, a white cataract over them, her lips black and purple, her swollen blue tongue lolling in her gaping mouth, teeth jaundiced against her grayness. A flaccid strand of kelp twined like a gruesome ribbon through her hair, and movement in her mouth, deep within, sent me scuttling toward the wall as I fell, movement from clicking, hard-shell scavengers, clawing and digging at the flesh of her mouth, feelers wiggling and legs clacking.
I opened my mouth to scream but terror took the wind from my lungs. My blood ran icy and I shut my eyes, cringed away, shielded my face from the mask of death, and then---
I heard the music again, the lilting melody of her voice.
"What's wrong? What is it?"
I forced my eyes open, forced my face to her, and it was her. Just her, more beautiful for the diffused light in the dust-mote clouded room, propped on one elbow, full breasts against the mattress, her voluptuous curves raising rolling hills under the ratty, threadbare blanket.
Lines in her face showed worry, fear. I let my breath out slow, but the shiver twisting down my spine made it come out in spurts and gasps. She sat up, radiant and picturesque, like the brush strokes of a great master. She pushed the blanket away, her nakedness vulnerable as she came and hunched before me, took my face in her hands.
"What is it? What's the matter? Tell me."
It was just her. Gorgeous, warm, soft, desirable. I threw my arms around her neck and pulled her to me, enfolded her and clung, buried my face in her sweet, flowery hair.
"Nothing," I whispered. "It was only a dream. A bad dream."
She held me, her hand stroked the back of my head, her arm crushed me to her. We sat that way for a time, my heartbeat slowed, my breath became calm at last. She pulled away.
"Tell me your dream," she sang to me, and I almost did. Almost. But I caught myself before it spilled from me under her spell.
"It's nothing. I've already forgotten it."
"You're not telling the truth."
"I am, I promise. It was nothing."
"Don't you dream of me?"
I managed a smile and prayed it reached my eyes. "I will forever now."
Her fingertips traced my cheek. "Where are you going?"
"Going?"
"You're getting dressed."
"I'm hungry. You must be too."
She sighed, laid her head on my chest. "Not now. Maybe later. Will you be gone long?"
"I hoped you'd come with me."
"No. I'm tired. Do you mind if I rest while you're gone?"
I stroked her hair, my fingertips light as a zephyr on her skin, I moved my hand until gooseflesh raised on her.
"No, I don't mind. I'll be back soon, unless ..."
She waited for me to finish. "Unless?"
"Come home with me."
She was quiet. I thought I'd made a mistake.
"I-I'm sorry, I meant if you want to."
She put her fingers to my lips. "Shh. So tired now. Come back to me. Here. We can go home later."
I nodded and kissed the pads of her fingers as they rested on my lips. "I'll be back soon."
"Will you?"
"Yes, of course."
"I'll wait for you."
"What's your name? I don't even know your name."
"Does it matter?"
"What do you mean? Of course it matters. I ... how will I know what to call you?"
"If you never leave me, you won't need to call me."
I chuckled. "You won't tell me your name?"
"There's time for that later. For now, hurry back. I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too."
She got up and made her way to the bed, her body swayed like the dance she'd done the night before. She was weary and her walk was heavier, as if she'd collapse under a stiff breeze. She stretched out and moaned, and it was the sigh of a storm coming in from the sea.
I waited until her breathing became rhythmic and steady before I gathered the rest of my clothes and dressed. I slipped quietly from the tiny room, our little love nest, and realized I'd have to get off the lighthouse grounds without being seen.
It was easier than I thought. There was no one around. The lighthouse keeper's residence was quiet, shut up, like it was abandoned. I made my way down the rocks and across the beach. I passed through a shady stand of trees where the forest stretched a finger around the cove, and over the pine-needle bed to the road winding past. I traversed the short distance to town lost in thought.
The image of her as a corpse stayed with me. I don't know why. I tried to force it from my mind, push it from memory by recalling the incredible passion, the raw physicality of our lovemaking. When I came back to the present, I stood outside a tiny Chinese take-out store front. I lazed in and placed an order for two.
The petite Asian lady behind the counter told me in broken English it would be twenty minutes, and I should come back. I thanked her and went out to the busy little main drag, the day's brightness warming my skin. I looked up the street and a swinging sign beneath the eaves of one of the ancient buildings caught my attention.
It read, USED BOOKS.
It was all the invitation I needed to kill twenty minutes.
The paned glass wooden door swung easily aside and rang a bell on a curled wrought iron hanger above it. I noted the books, propped and displayed in neat stacks on tables near the entrance. Old biographies, worn and cracked leather editions of classics, tattered and ragged paperbacks packed shelves that lined the rest of the store.
Nautical-themed signs designed to look like nameplates from old ships designated the store sections: Fiction, History, Reference, Non-Fiction. I wandered among the aged, dark wood shelf rows and let my fingers brush the weathered spines.
I don't know where I drifted to---History? Non-Fiction?---but one of the books caught my eye. My finger lighted on it instinctively, and tapped it.
It was a coffee table book, large and square, and stuck proud of the other books on the shelf. I took it down, hefted its weight in my palm. The white-lettered title on the cover broke a lead-gray sky background, a lighthouse silhouette perched on a craggy outcropping stark against it.
LIGHTHOUSE MYSTERIES AND LEGENDS.
I flipped the pages, thumbed through them, and found stories of lighthouse keepers disappearing, storms sweeping ghost ships in from the sea, widows watching in rain from the tops of those beacons waiting for husbands that never returned. In those tales and legends, one caught my attention. The story of a lighthouse couple and their only daughter, a tragic love affair and her disappearance. I only glanced through it, scanning, not reading. I checked my watch. Time to pick up the Chinese. The minutes flew away from me. But there was something about that story, that legend. I couldn't put the book down. I paid for it and a mousy woman with half-glasses roosted at the end of her narrow nose rang it up. The ruffles on her jabot waggled when she told me to have a nice day. I said I would, and went out with the book tucked in a plastic bag bearing the store's logo laced over my wrist.
I don't remember the trip to the cove. When I got back to the lighthouse, the sun was sinking. No wonder I was hungry; the whole day had gone by while I was with her. I wouldn't have traded it for anything on Earth, but concern about finding her again, trespassing on the lighthouse grounds, gnawed at me.
I waited for the sun to settle farther, and decided to peruse my book and still had enough daylight to read. I thumbed through it distracted, though. In a moment, I set it aside.
But the legend of the missing daughter and the lighthouse keepers kept calling me. I wanted to read it, but the fast-fading light was too weak now. I'd kept her waiting longer than I planned, too.
Why wouldn't she tell me her name?
Finally, I dared not let it darken further before I stumbled over the ragged crag to the lighthouse's little basement chamber. I didn't have the surety of her steps to lead me this time. The trees surrounding the cove deepened toward a uniform black with the orange sun dying in the west. The lighthouse stood majestic and stoic over the cove's point, its bright beacon eye still dark.
The lighthouse keeper's domicile still looked empty. The windows were dark despite the impending night. No smoke rose from the chimney even with the crisp snap in the air. I kept one eye on the house as I minced across the rough surface toward the stairs in the niche, shrouded in dark in the waning light. Stars winked on above me. The moon, just a sliver past full, rose over the sea, fat and silver, the reflection shimmering over the cove's waves until they broke over the sand.
I turned the knob of the room's door.
It was locked. The knob spun perhaps a quarter turn, but no farther. I rattled it, then tapped the door with my knuckles. I was afraid of who else would hear my request for entrance, and my eyes roamed and twitched over the beach and trees for signs of detection.
No response.
I knocked again, harder. Nothing.
I looked around one more time, and banged on the door with the side of my fist. I thought residents in town heard it, was certain the lighthouse keeper did. Still, the residence stayed quiet and dark.
And she didn't open the door.
I tried to calculate where the tiny window might be, and thought I might work my way around the lighthouse to knock there. I sighed when I remembered the shutters.
I didn't know her name to call out to her.
I ascended back to the rock's surface, and stepped clear of the lighthouse. The day was gone to dusk, and only a faint orange band of light swathed the horizon. The cove was a collection of silhouettes with white, blue, and green stars above it, the silver moon swashed over the water's surface. I stared at the beach, wondering what to do, and saw it.
A tiny black dot on the water, less reflective in the middle of the moon's white splash on the surface. Just beyond the combers, it rose from the waves. The familiar shape, the seductive feline movements toward the beach.
It was her.
I smiled, and worked my way down the crag, to the beach. I walked over the sand with the now-cold Chinese food in a soggy paper bag, and saw her on the sand, dancing. The silken, almost reptilian motions of the dance she'd done for me the night before, beneath the full moon. An eternity later, I reached her, as she continued to pulse and swing like the tide behind her, arms overhead, hands cloying and stroking the air over her. When she came around to face me again, she smiled. She stopped her rotation, but kept the movement of her hips and midriff, swinging them to and fro, hypnotizing me again. I realized my desire for her raged in my jeans again, and the mysterious glow radiated from her eyes under the moonlight.
"Hi," I said.
"Hello there," she traced her smile with her tongue.
"What are you doing out here?" I knew a stupid grin had pasted itself on my lips.
"Dancing," she answered, her voice patient and warm.
"I mean, I thought you were going to wait in the lighthouse and rest."
"Did you? How could I resist the music?" She lowered in a graceful gyrated bend of her elegant knees, then rose fluid and slow, never breaking the rhythmic motion of her hips and shoulders, her head held still and tantalizing. I stepped forward before I knew I had, and had to snap my hand back from touching her. I wanted to---oh, how I wanted to!---but I didn't want to stop the dance. I could hear my heart pound. It made my ear drums hiss.
"We should go. Someone may not want us here."
"Soon. Not now."
I found myself chuckling. "Everything is 'soon-not-now' with you."
She smiled at me. "Now is everything. There is nothing else."
"What's your name?"
"Why?"
"I want to know."
"Does it change how you feel?"
I shook my head. I didn't care if her name was Pippy Longstocking. I just wanted something I could call her.
"Then why wonder?"
"I want to know. I want something to call you."
"Call me yours."
I laughed. "That'd make for interesting looks in public, don't you think?"
She moved into a graceful ball and lowered her head into it. Like a swan, tucked beneath its wing, she held the pose a moment before she spiraled to her feet again, and continued her writhing hypnosis. Her hands lowered and stroked my chest, then my abdomen, then lower. I shuddered at her touch.
"We should go home," I said, my jaw bordering on slack. Every muscle turned jelly-soft. "You're driving me crazy."
She laughed, and the sound was godly. "Patience. First the dance. Then you can take me home."
"Really?"
She nodded. "I want you to."
"You do?"
She nodded again. "I want to be with you. Don't you know? I want to share forever with you. And we will. Soon."
I tried to speak, to say something, but nothing happened. I could only watch her grind and pulse, my mind saw only sexual images of her and the indescribably delicious things she would do to me again.
She held me entranced for hours. I sat on the sand and watched her until I was certain it was near dawn.
She finally smiled at me. "Do you live far from here?"
I was surprised. I expected her to know where I lived, just as I believed her when she said she knew my name.
"No," I said. "Nothing in town is far from the ocean."
She looked relieved. "We should go now. Before the sun---"
"Comes up, I know," I finished for her. "Don't you like sunshine?"
"I like the water more."
She took my offered hand and I led her across the beach, over the dunes, up the gradual slope toward the trees.
"What's this?" She tugged the bookstore bag draped on my wrist.
"I bought a book while I was waiting for the food."
She peered into the bag. "Ooh, lighthouses. Are you as fascinated by them as you are by the ocean?"
My head tipped as I considered. "No, but they're interesting."
"This book is very old," she said.
"It's a used book store. I thought some of the stories would be interesting. There was one in particular, about a lighthouse keeper's daughter that vanished. I thought it might be fun to read that one."
She smiled and rubbed her hand on my thigh. It was very hard to concentrate. Very hard.
The short trip to my tiny bungalow was normal. There was no sexual play between us, no groping or fondling. But I don't know if I've ever been more aroused.
Her hand on my thigh was cold through my jeans at first, but warmed fast with contact. She didn't rub me or move in any way, but something went from her to me through the fabric and settled directly on my libido. She stared into the distance while we wound up the narrow streets of the tiny fishing village.
My Cape Cod bungalow sits on a street atop the first hill after the ocean. It's tiny, windswept, aged by salt mists and sea storms, but I love it.
The neighborhood is quiet and still. From the porch we heard the distant surf, steady and pulsing. She smiled at the house and smoothed her hair back over her head. She took my outstretched hand, and I unlocked the front door and pushed it open, reached in to turn on the weak table lamps, and let her in. For a moment, I thought she'd ask me to carry her over the threshold. I would have.
Instead she looked around at the wooden plank floors, plaster walls and ceiling, the rich wood furniture and plaid couches. Her feet padded soft and delicate over the woven throw rugs and she traipsed her fingertips along table tops and couch backs.
"Well," I said, "it's not much, but this is home."
"It feels familiar to me."
I didn't know what to say to that.
She looked over one shoulder at me. Her eyes glowed that weird way when the light caught them just so. I wondered how the dim lamps did it the way the magnificent moon had.
"Where is the bedroom?" Her voice was husky with lust.
By the time dawn's first traces paled the sky, we were emptied into each other again. We spiraled toward sleep, our limbs tangled and wet. I slept most of the day again. I awoke to water running in the bathroom.
I went to pop my head in and check on her, but she'd locked the door. I staggered on still weak knees to the kitchen and got the Chinese. I brought a plate for her too, and a bottle of soda. The water stopped in the tub, and her soft humming drifted through the door. It was a sweet melody I wasn't familiar with. It was old and innocent, like the songs of days gone by, full of hope and romance and tenderness. I set her food on the nightstand and devoured mine. I should have waited but I was ravenous.
I don't know when I fell asleep to the sound of her gentle humming, but soon the long lost melody lulled me to oblivion.
When I woke, the clock hands showed an hour passed. I wound the alarm out of habit. I got up and wandered into the hall. The bathroom door was still closed. I tried the handle, but it was locked.
I knocked, not too hard, so I wouldn't startle her.
I waited. Silence.
I knocked again, more firmly. The bathroom is tiny with a pedestal sink, a single cabinet with a mirrored door hung above it, and a claw-foot tub. There's nothing else in the room except the commode, between the sink and tub.
I knocked again. My heart beat faster.
Nothing.
I turned to get the skeleton key from the china cabinet drawer downstairs when the water sloshed in the tub.
My tension eased, and I went back to the bedroom to wait for her.
I drifted off again before long, spent from our lovemaking.
I woke up as the day waned. The golden light tinted the world in amber tones. I opened my eyes and listened.
The house sat silent.
I got up and listened in the hall for her. Only silence carried to my ears. I strained them into the quiet, and they rang with the effort. Nothing.
I went back into the bedroom. Her food was untouched, the soda unopened and warm, the condensation dried from the bottle.
I went back to the bathroom and turned the knob.
Locked.
I was stricken with the sudden image of her, pale blue and gray, laced in wet, dead seaweed, ocean-bottom scavengers feeding on the soft flesh in her mouth.
I shook my head to clear the hideous vision and knocked again, hard, loud, rattled the door in its frame.
I jolted when she tore it open, a look of adrenaline-fueled fear on her face, brow furrowed.
"What's wrong? What's the matter?" She stepped out and looked past me down the hallway toward the stairs. "Is everything all right? You look frightened."
She put her hand on my bare chest and I gasped. It felt like meat straight from the refrigerator. I shrank from her touch involuntarily and my back hit the plaster wall, my hands going to the spot she'd touched.
Her hand went to her mouth. "Oh! I'm sorry! My hands are cold, I didn't mean to---"
"You're always cold. Why are you always so cold?"
She tipped her head, brows furrowing again. "What do you mean?"
"I mean your skin, your flesh, it's always cold. What's wrong, are you sick or something? Why are you always so cold to the touch?"
Her ire swelled a blush to her cheeks. "What are you accusing me of?"
"I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm just asking---"
"You didn't think me cold in bed. Or last night." Her words scraped through locked molars and her jaw muscles twitched. "Why is it when you're getting pleasure you don't find me cold?"
"You're not cold then, that's why," I spat, more vehement than I intended. "I'm only concerned, that's all! I'm not accusing you of anything."
She softened, head lowered, and shied. "I ... of course. I'm sorry."
"No." I took her in my arms, and she was warm. As warm as when we made love, our body heat driving moisture to our skin. "No, it's my fault, I'm overreacting. I'm sorry."
She nestled into my chest and embraced me, and I looked over her into the bathroom. The tub squatted directly behind us, the toilet to its right, the pedestal sink nearest the door. The cabinet over the sink was ajar and the mirrored door reflected part of our embrace. My elbow around her shoulder, her hair wet from the bath cascading behind her.
And what little of her flesh showed in the mirror was pale gray-blue.
I jerked my gaze to her, and saw her tanned, vibrant, alive; there was nothing off about her. She smelled of coastal flowers in a gentle ocean breeze laced with sea mist. I shut my eyes.
I didn't want to see. I steered us away from the mirror toward the bedroom.
"I got you something to eat. It's ... well, it's not as fresh as before."
She kissed me full and deep, her fingers wrapping in my hair as she pulled me in. It would be more screaming, grunting, sweating, sopping hours before I slept again, but when I did, it was deep and sound.
When the alarm went off I jumped out of my skin. I rise before the sun most of the year though I don't know why. I rose in darkness, and expected she'd be gone.
Instead she sat up on the bed, arms folded across the top of the bookshelf headboard, staring out the window. The moonlight touched her face and it reflected luminescence. Her eyes glowed like a cat's in a flashlight beam. I wondered again how they did.
"Are you all right?" My voice was still asleep, came out a croak.
"The moon is fading."
I followed her gaze through the plantation shutters. The moon shaded toward three-quarters full.
"Time is fleeing," she muttered.
I watched her glowing eyes, at once frightened and drawn by them. The horizon lightened as the moon sank. She didn't move.
"I have to go," I said at length.
"Where are you going?"
"I have to work."
"Why?"
I blinked. "I ... need an income."
She tipped her head and sighed. "Are you eager to leave me because we quarreled?"
I reached for her and fought the repulsion from her clammy and cold skin beneath my hand. "NO! No, of course not! I don't want to leave you. I have to."
She nodded.
"Will you ... be here when I get back?"
"I don't know."
Her words stung. "Why?"
"I'm tired. I need to rest. I may go to the cove later. It's not far, is it?"
"You don't remember the walk?"
She nodded. "It's not far, is it?"
"No," I said, confused. "Shall I look for you there? When I come home?"
"When you come home," she repeated, and her melodious voice played a minor key, a sad note. I fixed my eyes at her.
"Is everything all right?"
"When you come home," she said again. "When will you come home?"
"As soon as I can."
"You will return, won't you?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
"I don't know. But you will?"
"Yes," I assured, and kissed her clammy shoulder. The coldness bit my lips, startled me. Her fingertips traced my cheek. Warm.
"All right." She turned to stare at the moon. "The sun is coming."
"Yes."
"I'm so tired. I want to rest now. May I?"
"Of course, all you'd like. I'll be home as soon as I can."
I leaned toward her, and she snaked her arm around my neck, pulled me in a long, warm kiss, probed my mouth with her tongue, drew my senses from me and cast them away. At length she laid back on the pillow, and pulled a sheet over her naked beauty.
"When you come home," she murmured, and floated into slumber.
I left, and spent the day in a blur. I can't recall what I did or where I was, or why I did anything except be with her, make love to her, talk with her, watch her dance. When the day began fading to dusk I returned to the bungalow and she was not there. Despite the stabbing disappointed pang in my chest, I knew she wouldn't be.
The days reeled like that. I don't remember how the daylight hours passed, what I did, even where I went. I only knew I was away from her and filled by maddening, terrible, torturous, longing. Thoughts of her dancing on the beach tormented me, and when I returned home, she wasn't there.
She was never there when I came home. The silent, dark house almost mourned her absence. I would search every room, just to be sure, but they were always empty.
Every night I went down the hill along winding streets and through the narrow band of trees to the cove, and the lighthouse. I waited on the sand for her, and gave up my ritualistic scan of the tree line or the breakers for her swimming form. I never saw her bathing. The moon progressed across the sky through its phases and narrowed as it went, casting less and less light over the playful waters. If I could not see her in the full moon's glow, I wouldn't as it weakened, either.
But if I sat on the sand and waited, watched the water, I would see it. That black little mound rising, slowly emerging from the waters just beyond the breakers, and she'd stride to the sand, hips swaying seductively, waves cascading over her as if she weren't there, never disturbing her path or balance, never weighing on her. Like one of them---her or the water---didn't exist.
And she would stand in front of me, smiling and silent, and dance. Every night, dance to the sea's music, the ocean's symphony. She moved and swayed and undulated and pulsed and writhed. Erotic doesn't begin to describe it. And every night, with reckless abandon of decency, we ravaged each other in the dunes while the surf harmonized to our ecstatic cries and convulsions.
Afterward, we walked back to the bungalow. She would pick at something to eat, but her glowing eyes burned into my soul, a wordless demand for my attention, sexual servitude. We took each other on the kitchen table; the living room couch; the foyer floor; the hallway outside the bedroom; in the bathroom with her bent over the sink, in the tub, or against the wall; in bed---everywhere, anywhere, every chance we could. An urgency grew in her every time we mounted each other, something clinging and desperate and frightened, and it made the sensations more erotic and sensual. I couldn't contain myself, stall the climax, could never tease and play. She pushed me, urgent, needy, and I gave willingly and repeatedly.
And every night I awoke and found her sitting up in bed staring out the window at the changing moon phases. It moved from three-quarters to half, and toward one-quarter.
"The moon is fading," she said, every night.
"Yes. Why do you fear that?"
She looked at me with her glowing feline eyes. "Why do you question everything I say?"
"I don't. I just want to know you. I don't even know your name, for God's sake."
"Of course you do," she said, and returned her gaze to the moon.
"No, I don't. You won't tell me."
"You've known it all along. I don't need to tell you, any more than you need to tell me yours. You already know me. I am yours, and you are mine. We belong to one another. Why don't you know these things?"
Her voice rose in pitch, like a flute playing a concerto. I knew she was irritated. She'd become more irritable, more agitated, each night. But her voice stayed so beautiful, elegant and musical.
"Why won't you tell me?"
"I don't need to, I said!" Her brows lowered, teeth bared like an animal, cheeks flushed with anger. "Damn you, why don't you listen to me? Why don't you understand? You know me already, you've always known me! Why don't you see?!"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" An instant guilty pang hit me. She was troubled, and I wasn't patient or understanding. But something flared hot and burned in me. "You won't tell me your name, you won't leave the house with me, every night you're at the cove swimming in the dark, you don't tell me how you spend your days or where you go or what the hell your name is! I don't know you at all!"
"You bastard! How dare you say such things!"
She snarled, flung herself at me, and clawed at my chest and face. I seized her wrists and toppled back, but she pulled hard against me and her muscular legs straddled my chest. Growling, head shaking violently, her hair whipped like a lash on my face, chest, neck. I exerted my strength and rolled her over. She squeezed my waist viciously between her powerful thighs, and I grunted and threw back my head, the air crushed from me.
I pressed her wrists into the mattress, but her strong legs locked around me. I yanked with all my strength, snapping her up from the bed, and snatched her hair in one fist. I ripped her head back, she scratched and pounded at my chest with her free hand, eyes wild and wide, teeth gritted. I pulled harder and her back arched. She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Now!" she panted, "Now! Take me now!"
I seized her breast in my mouth, with teeth and lips and tongue, and she gasped, almost a scream. We joined again, with a new rhythm, a new force driving us. Anger, frustration, fury.
Afterward, she lay on my chest, her arm across me and mine draped over her. The raging fire before made the tenderness more intense.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what came over me."
"I don't know what happened with me either. I'm sorry too."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
It was strange. The words felt natural, as if spoken daily for years, the way elderly couples say them in their fifth decade together. It was unrehearsed, and I don't remember ever saying them before, but they flowed from me.
She stroked my chest and abdomen with in silence for a moment. "The kelp bed."
I looked down at her head. "What?"
"The kelp bed. You asked where I spend my days. The kelp bed."
"In the cove?"
She nodded.
"What are you doing there?"
"Just ... waiting."
"Waiting?"
"For you."
I said nothing. It was strange to me. Very strange. But if she wanted to spend her days swimming out to the kelp bed and make me her sexual plaything at night, she would get no argument from me.
Time rolled by like ocean swells under a trawler. We rose and fell with it, finding heights of joy and passion, and depths of anger and vehemence. She became more volatile night after night. Our fights became more frequent, more physical, more intense. They ended in increasingly passionate and physical sex. I drove into her from behind. She swore at me over her shoulder during her climax, and I slapped her buttocks red and tender during mine. We rolled over face to face. She hammered my chest with the side of her fist and left bruises, and I grabbed her arms and wrists until she cried out, pinned her like a trapped animal and tore locks from her scalp in my wrath. And the orgasms were stronger every time, and I don't know how that was possible.
But when I awoke in the night I'd find her weeping instead of staring. Her eyes glowed an eerie, aquamarine-amber hue, and tears streamed from them, like an angel crying over the sorrows of the world. I would hold her, and almost became used to the clammy damp flesh until it warmed. I knew better than to speak. It would only spark another outrage. Instead, I held her and she sobbed harsh and racking into my shoulder. She was inconsolable. I didn't try. I simply held on.
The moon shrank and she seemed so upset by it. I couldn't understand.
That morning I tried not to wake her. The sun was coming, as she'd say, but it hadn't arrived yet. I dressed in the bathroom and went to steal a kiss from her. As I stepped near the bed, a shallow splash startled me.
I waded into a puddle.
As deep as my shoe sole, it spread across the floorboards under the bed. A steady rivulet trailed from the sopping sheet dangling over the mattress. Her limp hand dripped into the puddle with a blip, blip, blip sound. Something lay over the pillow and in her hair, a wide, oily black-green band. She lay on her stomach on the sodden mattress, her breasts welled out beneath her weight, face turned away from me. Her flesh had that sickly gray-blue pallor, a stench wafted from her like rotting fish, dirty salt water, putrid, gagging, and something stuck out near her ear, like a feeler or tentacle and I didn't see which, didn't care which, didn't want to know. I ran, ran down the stairs and crashed through the front door and vomited into the flower beds in front of the porch, retched and gutted, spat sputum and bile. I raced down the hill, with all my might, didn't look back, never slowed to see if she came to the window, because I didn't want to see those cataract-whitened eyes, those yellowing teeth, black lips and protruded purple tongue hiding clicking, clacking bottom-feeders in her mouth that probed with claws and feelers and shells.
I ran, ran away as the sun began to crest over the dark tree line.
The moon waned toward new. She became more and more agitated, unpredictable, explosive. She screamed for no apparent reason, threw things across the room. Anything could set her off. Sitting in the same room with her could be dangerous. Only the sea calmed her, eased her. We spent a lot of time at the cove in the evenings watching the moon drift across the sky, and the waves.
Less than one-quarter of the platinum disc remained now, waning toward the crescent. The tides grew stronger as the new moon approached. And as the tides strengthened, so did her emotional outbursts.
I never knew how she'd be when we left the cove. She might attack for any question, any difference of opinion, any wrong word or facial expression. Or she might be the most tenderhearted, loving, caring person I've ever known. She vacillated between extremes, sometimes within moments. Her instability heightened as the moon, and the tides, continued to change.
I couldn't resist her. I knew I should stay away from her, she wasn't balanced. But when she rose from the sea, I was powerless to keep myself from her. I watched her hypnotic dance and the raw passion and uncontrollable lust took over. After, the sheer power and depth of the tenderness threatened to crush my heart.
I couldn't leave her. Ever.
I loved her.
And the moon waned on.
But I worried about her. How much more strain, how much more upheaval, could she tolerate? I worried her mind would snap under the stress of the shifts, as sure as the tides in the cove, just as inexorable. When she was all right, her happy musical laugh lilted, she challenged me with her ideas, thoughts, opinions, insights. When she wasn't, though, she really wasn't. She wept as if heartbroken, sobbed so hysterically she couldn't stand. And if anything opposed her, if any insignificant event caused diversion from what she wanted in those waning moon nights, she exploded in violence and uncontrolled fury like a rabid beast.
We always reconciled soon after, always with physical intimacy. Our carnal times became more brutal during the anger, more tender during storm eyes. She peaked and plummeted, like the crests and troughs of squall-driven waves. I stood in the tempest face and its rain, hurled by violent emotional winds, stung my face like needles, threatened to flay me like pellets. Then the eye broke, the sea calmed, and she'd be herself again. For a time.
Night after night, the tides shifted. I left in the morning, and she was not there when I returned. I went to the cove and waited, found her, and she danced. Every night.
I considered the change in her, its conjunction with the change in the moon, in the tides. I wondered, pondered. But no one, no matter how much they love the water, is linked to the sea, tied to its behavior and shifted when it did. No one.
Coincidence, I asserted. Or perhaps, just perhaps, I'd fallen in love with a lunatic. Literally.
I sought answers, beside myself. I didn't know where to begin. To ask caused her volcanic temper to erupt. It escalated to violence, devolved into sex, and ended with loving softness and caresses. It was too much sometimes. And I could not drive myself from her. I sought her every night no matter how her actions, or her words, confused me.
She insisted I knew her. I had no memory of her. Surely I'd remember such a remarkable woman, so beautiful, intelligent, such a force of nature. How could a man forget her in his lifetime? I didn't know her, didn't know her name. I stopped asking. It only infuriated her.
She promised eternity more than once. I never knew what she meant. I merely sat and listened when she did. She clung to me in her sorrow as if to a life preserver on the open sea, and I held her. I stopped caring about her clammy moistness. I made myself ignore the drenched mattress in the morning, the pooled salt water on the floor, the stench of rot, sour brine. I left in the mornings and didn't look back, afraid to see her decayed visage, those clattering hidden miniature monsters in her maw, those unseeing staring eyes and icteric teeth. I ignored it all and my pounding heart, and wanted more than anything to know why I saw her like that, why her eyes glowed in even the dimmest light, how she knew me, what her name was.
She was almost catatonic the night before the new moon. She didn't eat. She didn't speak to me. She stared at me instead of the moon, arms on the headboard. I wanted to say something, ask what was wrong, but didn't want to upset her. She appeared so frail, fragile. I touched her warm, sensuous knee.
"The new moon is tomorrow," she whispered, her luminous gaze riveted on me.
"Yes."
She paused, sighed, laid a hand on mine. "What's my name?"
I looked at her delicate fingers, her smooth hand as it stroked the back of mine.
"Tell me my name," she repeated, her music-voice enthralling, chiming.
"I ... I can't."
"Why?"
"I don't know what it is."
I braced for her explosion, the fiery blast, to rip me to the bone and burn me to a crisp.
It never came. Instead, she shook, her eyes poured tears as clouds pour rain, hand over her mouth. She sobbed, sobbed, sobbed, and I reached for her, but she stayed me with a hand on my chest. The pain, the torture in her eyes was more than I could bear.
"You don't love me," she choked through her weeping. "You don't, do you? Did you ever? Or have you just forgotten?"
The knife of her words pierced my heart and twisted. Tears burned my eyes, seeing her so despondent, mournful, injured. I shook my head, pulled her to me, held her against my chest.
"No, I do love you, I do! More than anything, more than anything I've ever known! I love you! I do!"
Moments passed. She clung to me white-knuckled and cried into my chest. I stroked her hair, ran my hand down her back, and held on for dear life. I couldn't imagine she didn't know, couldn't tell, wasn't able to see as if it were branded on my forehead that I loved her. Every thought was her, every breath was her, every moment was longing for her. How could she not know?
Why did she expect me to know her name?
Helplessness swept through me. What could I do to find out her name? If she wouldn't tell me, how can I know? I wondered if asking around the village would bear any result. She collected herself presently and shifted her body to lay back on my chest. I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her hair soft. She brushed my arms with her nails absently and stared unseeing into space. The tears dried for a moment, and she sniffled.
"It's our last night together."
Another white-hot bolt of shock laced with fear stabbed through me like a whaler's harpoon. I froze and my heart throbbed so hard I felt sure she heard it.
"Our last? Why? What have I done? You're leaving me? You've never told me---"
"My name? You already know my name. You always have. But you never remember. I have to go. I don't want to. But tomorrow is the new moon, and our time is over."
"Our time is over? Our time doesn't have to be over. You said we'd share---"
"Eternity. Yes. I thought we would. I thought this time it would be so."
I tried to remain calm, and held her closer to me. "I can't let you go. I ... I'm mad for you. Everything I see is you. Everything I feel. Everything. All I have is you. I don't ... please. Please don't go. I'm sorry, when did you tell me your name? When?"
She squeezed my arms to her and held me. "Oh, my love, you still don't remember. It's been so long, so very long. And you still don't remember."
"Please, why is this our last night?"
"Because you can't say my name."
I shook my head, helpless. "I don't understand."
"I know. You never do."
"I never do? What do you mean? What are you saying? What can I do to prove my love?"
She chuckled then, but it was mirthless, empty. "Say my name. That's all."
The world blurred in front of me, and I blinked. My vision cleared when fat tears slid down my face. My anguish wrenched my being, like I was physically hurt. I couldn't bring myself to let go of her, though I only knew her for two weeks. She was everything to me, and I wanted her for my own.
"Please. Please, I'm begging you. Tell me your name, and I'll say it. I'll shout it. I'll run through the streets screaming it, pay a pilot to tow a banner with it. I'll do anything. Anything. Please. Please tell me."
She turned to me then, still in my lap, and her gentle hand lit on my cheek.
"I can't. You must say it."
"Wh---I don't understand."
She gave a sympathetic nod. "I know. You never do. But I hoped ... you seemed so much like you this time. You had moments when I thought, this year you'd finally remember. I thought it was this year. But no. You can't say my name, and so it's our last night together."
A sob escaped me before I knew it was there. "No! Please! Don't leave me. I love you."
"Say my name. Just say my name."
I wailed in agony. I'd never known such pain, such a hollow, gutting sensation. It disemboweled me, like a prize fish for mounting. I sank against her. She held me, her sea mist and flower scent filled me as she shushed me, stroked my back gently, kissed my hair tenderly. I felt her tears splash on my skin while she enfolded me.
"Please," I mewled, weak as a kitten. "Please."
"I can say no more, love," she whispered, her breath soft on my skin, her kiss that followed softer, sweeter. I didn't want life without her anymore, and I was losing her.
"Please! Tell me your name! Please!"
"I can't, love. I can't."
"I want to say it, I want you to stay."
"You have to remember."
"Remember? Remember what? Your name? The name you've never told me?"
She nodded. "Among other things. But you can't."
I cried, partially angry with her, partially in agony. Felt like an animal caught in a trap. Fear, frustration and pain swirled in an emotional fog. My thoughts silted, muddied, I didn't know what to do. I held her, desperate and frightened.
I wanted to comply. I wanted to remember. I didn't even know what I had to remember, but I struggled for it, thrashed like a maniac through my memory, searched for some piece of her. Everything was gray in my head; only the last two weeks with her came clear in memory. Nothing before her mattered. I couldn't find it, didn't want it. When did she tell me her name? What moment did I miss, did I let slip by, now so critical? Why couldn't I remember her uttering it, her voice so sweet, musical, melodious, like a song played in heaven. How can it be she let her name pass through those beautiful, sweet, soft lips and I missed hearing it?
It wasn't possible. I heard every honeyed note her mouth played, every guttural growl of carnal pleasure, every climactic scream, every sensual curse. I heard everything she said, every sound she made, and I didn't remember her saying her name.
She hadn't.
"Shh," she hushed, and touched my lips when I raised my head. "Don't struggle so now. It's our last night together. Let's be fully one, once more."
She untangled from me and disrobed, her beauty stole my breath, and lay down on the bed and covered herself with the sheet. Her outstretched arms beckoned, and I discarded my own garb, then slid beside her.
She was cold. As cold as death.
"You're so cold," I lamented, and pressed myself against her, letting her draw the warmth from my own flesh. I didn't care.
"Warm me. Warm me one last time."
"Please don't say that."
She touched her fingers to my lips. "Shh. The sun is coming. We have only a little more time. Don't be sad now. There is time for mourning later. For now, be with me. Be with me."
"I want to be with you forever."
"Be with me now."
I took her in my arms, and she warmed. She warmed like the sun on a chill autumn dawn warms the world as its rays embrace it. I held her so close, as tight as I could, and tasted her skin. I tasted the saline of her tears and softness of her lips, the delicate texture of her cheeks, hands and breasts. I tasted the musky part of her and the smoothness of her stomach and the firm muscles, rippled from dancing, under her skin. I tasted the recesses of her ears, her navel, the backs of her knees. I bathed her with my tongue and savored every inch of her. I memorized her with my mouth, hands, tip of my nose, my bare chest, my hardened nipples. I ran my hand through her hair, and clutched the back of her head in our crescendo. Again and again, over and over I went to her, needy and yearning, and always the pang of sorrow, of loss, of anguish, lay just beneath the ecstasy, the exquisite physical sensations. Somehow, our lovemaking was more passionate, more satisfying, more explosive than any other night. And when we finished, we held each other, never moving, never releasing, until pure contact aroused us again. We united, bonded, and shuddered and moaned in our joy time and again.
I fought sleep as long as I could, watched her, but at last my eyes slipped closed and I fell off.
She slept fitfully before I left that morning. I didn't wait for deep sleep to overtake her, and wondered if it would. I showered in the claw-foot tub and dressed in the bathroom. She tossed and moaned in her sleep, the sun still behind the horizon. I knew leaving today was a gamble. I knew I might never see her again, but wanted to do whatever I could to learn her name, to say it to her before the new moon took her from me. If it did, I would never know why I had to remember, or what.
I watched her for long moments. I knew she'd rise soon, but would probably be gone before I got back. I bent and touched my lips to her cheek, flower petal soft, perfume sweet. I breathed her, inhaled her essence. Part of me panicked at the thought of her leaving.
She said so many strange things I didn't understand. She believed with all her heart I knew her, knew her name. She believed if I said her name, eternity was ours.
Eternity with her. My eyes wandered the length of her body, nude and pure, beautiful, smooth, sensual, enticing. The dimness of pre-dawn couldn't blanket her beauty. She lay on her stomach, torso rising and falling with her breath. Her voluptuous curves, the lines of her jaw and cheek, the way her hair played over the bedding, like a master's painting, perfect, pristine, deliberate. I was overpowered by her, the very woman of her. I leaned and kissed her shoulder, and squeezed my eyes shut against the thought of losing her for lack of a name.
A single tear fell from my eye and splashed on her shoulder. I licked it from her, and her taste bloomed in my mouth.
She aroused me even while she slept, but something more stirred too. Emotion, as powerful as an ocean storm, as crushing, as relentless, as irresistible.
I loved her. Truly. With all my being. I loved her more than the sea, more than breath, more than life. I stood. I had to find a way. There was no alternative.
She stirred, blinked open her eyes, and without their ethereal glow they turned toward me. Her smile didn't touch them, and faded like St. Elmo's Fire in a moment.
"Are you leaving me?"
The accusation in the query wounded me. "I'll be back soon. I promise, I'll be back."
She nodded. "I know. You promised before."
"Didn't I come back as I said?"
She lay silent.
"When I come home we can ... I'll ..." I didn't know what to tell her. That I would say her name? I didn't know if I'd find it. That we'd be together forever? I didn't know how. That I'd remember all she wanted me to? I didn't know what it was. I had no idea how to finish the statement, and it hung like a fog between us for a second.
"When you come home," she murmured, voice choked with sorrow. Her hand wiped a tear from her cheek, and one elegant finger hooked a rogue lock behind her ear. "When you come home."
"Please. I'll come home."
Her eyes locked on mine. "It doesn't matter."
"It does. Very much. I want to be with you forever."
She was silent.
"I won't be gone long."
Silence.
"I will be back."
She sighed, nodded. "Yes. Eventually, you come back."
"Will you be at the cove tonight?"
Another regal nod. "I'm going to the kelp bed tonight."
"Why? Why do you go there?"
"To wait for you."
"Wait on the beach."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because I sought you. I wanted to join you, be with you forever. So I go to the kelp bed."
"I don't understand."
She sighed again, like a breaker dying on the beach. "I know."
"Please wait on the beach for me."
"You're afraid still. But I'm going to the kelp bed."
I didn't know what she meant by afraid still. "Don't, please. The water's too cold to swim."
"It was colder the first time."
"The first time?"
"Yes. Colder, darker. I went to wait for you."
"On the night of the full moon, when I saw you in the cove?"
"No. On the night of the new moon. When I knew you'd left me. I went to be with you and waited at the kelp bed for you. I'm waiting for you."
I was thoroughly lost in her mysterious words.
She sighed again, the sound of an ocean swell collapsing on the shore. "I never knew what happened. Maybe you were hurt. A head injury. Maybe that's why you can't remember."
I tipped my head. Time I needed to find out who she was, her name, slipped through my fingers. But I couldn't pull myself from her.
"I don't ... I've never had a head injury. I don't ... I don't know what you're telling me."
"I know," she sniffed, and wiped a second tear that followed the track of the first. "I just wish ..."
I waited. "Wish what?"
"I could do something to remind you. I've done everything I know how. I've let you go everywhere you wanted, do anything you wanted, given you all I have to give. And you don't remember."
I shook my head, confused, in agony at her sorrow. "What can I do? What can I say? How can I change your mind, convince you to stay? I want you with me, and want to be with you. I love you."
She nodded, but the motion carried no conviction.
"I do. I love you. I've never loved anything so much as I love you."
Her eyes locked on mine, head still on the pillow. "Do you? Really? I wonder. I've wondered for so long now, and you never remember."
I hung my head. What could I say? She seemed convinced we'd met before, I should remember something, know her name.
"Tell me," I said, voice low and gentle, "is it possible you've mistaken me for someone else? Perhaps I resemble him, perhaps ... perhaps similar facial features, or ... is it possible?"
She looked at me, the pale radiance back in her eyes, lighting the pillow around her face.
Her resolute voice dropped, its music weighty. "No. I'm not mistaken." She paused, stared at me. "Do you think I'm mad? That you've been tricked by an insane woman?"
"No," I said without hesitation. I don't know why, but I was sure of the words. "No, I don't think you're crazy. I just..."
"You just don't remember, and wondered if it was me, my lack, my error. No. It's you ... it's always you, every year."
"Every year?"
She nodded. "So many now. I hope, each time, you'll remember. You never do, and I've given up trying to figure out why you've forgotten. How could you? With all you promised, all we shared---how could you forget?"
"What? What did we share, what did I promise?"
Her eyes closed, another tear danced over her lashes and down her cheek. She drew a deep breath and let it out slow and long.
"You promised eternity."
The words hit me like a swinging ship's boom. "Eternity?"
She nodded. "We shared everything. Each other. You promised eternity."
"How ... when ...?"
She sighed, eyes still closed. "You can't remember now. How could the bond be real, the promise true? So much doubt. How can we share eternity when there's so much doubt? You can't remember."
I wanted to! Oh, how I wanted to! I wrestled with my memory, struggled to find it, whatever she wanted, until my head ached.
"The sun is coming," she said, eyes still closed. I didn't know how she knew. The wee hour's faint light hadn't brightened much. I put my hand on her shoulder and she sighed again, a sorrowful, mourning wind on the open water.
"Before you leave me, know I love you. Please just know I love you, and always have. I always will." Her hand found my chest and rested there. "You should go now. You haven't much time."
More mystery, confusion. Part of me wanted to stay, hold her, make her a prisoner in my embrace until today passed and dawn broke tomorrow. And she'd see, it didn't need to be our last day, she didn't need to tell me we couldn't be together.
"Go now, before I lose the strength to let you leave." Despair cracked her voice.
"I ... I could stay."
"You can't. Go now. Do what you must."
"When I come home ..."
"When you come home," her mouth caressed the words, as she might kiss a lover. "Those words ... please, don't speak them anymore. Go, leave me. It's almost time. Hurry."
She turned away. Then I felt her hand go cold on my skin. The smell of briny rot crept up, her skin faded, lost its tanned glow, turned sallow. Her soft sobs became choked gurgles, and I knew. Knew I'd see the hideous decaying corpse, so I stood and paced to the door, the stench of rotten sea water, putrescence, filled the air with each step. I heard water drip behind me, and knew.
I didn't turn around. I went downstairs, through the living room, out the door. I didn't turn back for fear of seeing her, the image of her, dead. And I wondered what caused that, what made me see her so horribly. Instead of questioning her sanity, I should question mine.
I went down the hill, and thoughts of how I might find her name hammered in my head.
I was gone much longer than I wanted. I made no progress with my task. I floundered in failure so complete, so utter, I couldn't remember what I did. I didn't know her name any more than when I bathed in her sorrow at first light. I'd lost most of what she called our last day. The sun languished in a pool of its own blood near the horizon. I wanted to scream at it, stop it from slipping further. Rage and frustration confounded me, mocked me, tormented me. I sprinted toward the bungalow, strained to get there sooner than before, even if only by minutes, to catch her, stop her, hold her. Keep her somehow.
I banged through the door and the darkened room answered my internal question: she was gone. I failed. I'd missed her, with her convinced this was our last day.
I screamed my furious rue at the ceiling, my fists shook at my sides, my throat strained. When the sound died flat in the empty house, tears stung my eyes with salt, and I dragged a savage wipe over them with my fist. I pounded the wall and the tiny Cape Cod's frame rattled.
More senseless, useless time wasting. I knew where to find her, but didn't know what to do. My dread grew at the thought of the cove. Something horrible, frightening, slithered up my spine. Would she already be swimming toward the kelp bed? A shiver twisted down my back at the image of frothed, foam-laced breakers tumbling up the beach.
I paced, hands on my head. Think, think! What can I do? How can I stop her from leaving? Think, damn you, think!
I raged past the coffee table between the worn sofas, my legs brushed the edge and rattled it. I glanced down, unfocused, uncaring.
The Lighthouse Mysteries and Legends book lay open on the table, covers spread to a full-page photo of the cove down the hill. The photo framed the lighthouse against one side, the cove's edge jutted into the sea beyond. It was the exact view I had as I clambered nervously over the crag where the lighthouse perched sentinel.
My mind reeled, my brows knit. I sat on the couch in front of the book. I had precious few moments but could not ignore the short, concisely written story. It held me like gravity, pressed me to sit and read like the pressure of the ocean's depths.
It was the story of the missing lighthouse keeper's daughter. The very one I'd been eager to read when I bought the book two weeks ago.
The words hit me like bullets.
The lighthouse keeper and his wife lived in the beacon's residence from when they were young. Their daughter was born in that house. She lived there her entire life. She grew up happy and nurtured, and spent most of her free time in the cove. She went to school, and eventually grew into a beautiful young woman. She watched ships come and go from port, and met many fascinating people. She learned to belly dance from foreign women who came from far away. She practiced without music on the beach for hours, and swam every day.
One day as she danced, a young sailor came to the beach and watched her. He told her about Middle East women who danced as she danced, told her she was more beautiful, more seductive than they by far. He spent hours with her, watching the sun set, watching the moon rise, watching her dance. They saw each other every day until he shipped out. But he always came back and stayed in the tiny port town, spending his time with her.
You already know my name. You always have.
They fell in love and became inseparable. They sparked envy among gossips and busybodies and their affair caused whispers in the tiny town. He went to sea and other sailors put in to port. So many asked her to marry them, but she declined them all. She belonged to someone, and waited for his return. And when at last he did return, they spent their days dancing, watching the ocean and the moon. Finally, when his love for her couldn't be denied anymore, he bought a house in the tiny port town, not far from the cove where the lighthouse stands.
One night under a full moon on the beach, he asked her to marry him. He had no ring, but promised when he came home, they would be married.
You promised eternity.
He was to ship out two weeks later, on the eve of the new moon. They spent those weeks together, but few townspeople saw them. The rumors grew. Where did they go? What did they do? How did they spend those days, those nights, before he left?
It's our last night together.
He promised a wedding when he returned. When he came home.
The morning he shipped out, she stood on the dock and waved until his vessel disappeared beyond the horizon. She ignored the whispers and disparaging looks from other women seeing sailors off. She didn't care. She only wanted him.
But the port received a distress call from the ill-fated vessel that night, cut off short. No further transmissions received. The ship didn't respond to signals from land and was never heard from again. That night an extensive search embarked. Coast guard ships traced the route. They returned after dawn, with grim news.
All hands lost.
Wives found out first, but she wasn't his wife. It took time for word to reach her. She found out just before sunset, when widows of crewmen came to the lighthouse keeper's door in veils and black clothes, wailing and mourning. They asked for her; she was on the beach, dancing. The widows found her and told her she'd lost her lover. They accused her of being a whore. They dumped the sorrow of their own tragedies on her. They spoke the things they kept as whispers before, and left her in the cove to mourn alone.
She stared out to sea from the beach. The lighthouse keeper and his wife watched her, but left her alone to grieve.
They never saw her again.
There, the story in the book ended with a series of questions. What became of her? What happened to the ship, caused it to go down with no further communications? But I lost interest in it and slammed the book shut.
On the night of the new moon. When I knew you'd left me. I went to be with you and waited at the kelp bed for you. I'm waiting for you.
The story wasn't in the "Legends" section of the book as I thought, though. It was under the "Mysteries" section.
Because it was real, documented, true.
No one knew where she went. But I remembered her state the night before---the eve of the new moon---so quiet, still, catatonic, despondent.
The lighthouse keeper's daughter.
You've always liked to watch me dance, haven't you?
Yes, the lighthouse is someone's home. Let's go there before the sun comes.
The lighthouse keeper's daughter!
She told me she already knew my name and that I knew hers, but couldn't remember.
She must be! How else to explain her actions, her words? She's the lighthouse keeper's daughter, and she believes I'm ...
She disappeared the night of the new moon.
Tonight is the night of the new moon.
So sad, so tortured, such pain ... she's reliving her loss.
I went to be with you and waited at the kelp bed for you. I'm waiting for you.
I bolted for the door. If she isn't the lighthouse keeper's daughter, she thinks she is. But insanity didn't ring true, didn't explain her mystical rise from the sea that full moon night. It didn't explain how her flesh---so real to the touch---was clammy and wet, or the images of her as a cadaver with glazed eyes, scavengers feasting on the tender flesh in her mouth, the stench of death and rot on her, the kelp.
The kelp. In her hair.
I started down the hill, fighting the idea of making love to a dead woman, being in love with a dead woman, so much I couldn't let her go, then realized I left the book in the house. I wanted to show her, ask her, to know for sure if it was her. Did she leave it for me to find, to read? Why did she think I was the lost sailor? I'm not. That's why I don't remember her name, or their love affair, or engagement. I can't remember those things because I'm not him. But I love her, as much as he did perhaps, and want her to stay.
I skidded to a halt, arms wind milling, one eye on the dying sun. I wheeled to face the house, and froze. My blood ran cold.
The house was nothing but a shell.
Boards covered gaping window holes, paint cracked and spider-webbed on molded siding, fell off in huge flakes and chunks. The roof sagged, shingles fell into ragged black pits. The porch lay broken off, planks nailed helter-skelter over the front door that dangled from broken hinges. Missing clapboards exposed rotted supports in the ancient frame.
It was completely dilapidated, as if no one had been there in decades.
I went to the door, confused. My home---in an instant, aged to decrepit ruins.
How?
I peered between silver-aged boards across the door frame, the door I just came through.
Dust sheathed the charcoal, ashen, hollow, empty house.
When I knew you'd left me.
It can't be. It can't be!
I dashed for the cove, my heartbeat a merciless throb, my head raced to understand, grasp. It can't be!
I flung myself down the hill, across quaint streets. The slope took me to the wedge of forest which embraced the cove, and I pounded through it and erupted on the other side as the sun splashed orange in the west and azure in the east.
She danced on the beach, cloaked in shadows and impending nightfall. Even from this distance her body undulated like the sea behind her. They seemed one beautiful creature then, the swells causing her midriff to ripple. She danced with arms overhead, her hands played in the air, as she learned from those exotic dancers so many decades ago.
Eight decades ago.
She danced on the beach, and I watched her, as real as I am, as real as---
--- as I was?
I can't remember anything before the two weeks I've spent with her. I don't know how I spend my days. I can't say where I go, have no recollection of my doings.
As real as I am.
I threw myself forward. I saw her finish her beautiful, alluring dance, head tipped skyward, hands held above her in a graceful pose. The light from her eyes beamed bright as the stars blinked into view above her, as if her dance beckoned them forth.
I dashed on, but she lowered her arms, then head, and turned toward the surf that crashed and wallowed before her.
One step, another. White foam raced around her ankles and up her calves.
I shouted, at the top of my lungs. I don't know her name, couldn't shout her name. I shouted "I love you" instead.
It worked. She stopped, and I ran on. I bounded through sandy dunes, breathless, and stopped at the water line. The panicky dread seized me short of the tumbling waves.
High tide. New moon.
"I love you," I panted again.
She opened her eyes, and they burned with their own luminescence, like miniature lighthouse beacons. Their light fell on the beach, obscured her face, pierced me. Again my blood ran cold. But I couldn't rip my gaze from her.
"Every year we go through this. Every year."
"Are you ...?" I put my hands on my knees, gulped down air.
"You know who I am. You found the book."
"Yes."
"You read it."
"Yes."
"Then you know. That's different than before. The book. I thought maybe it would help. It's the same every year."
"For eighty years." I straightened. Her white-amber eyes blinded me.
"Yes. For eighty years. Do you remember? Do you know my name?"
I hesitated.
"You don't. It didn't help. I have to go to wait for you again."
"NO! Please! Don't go!"
She turned again. The water foamed at her knees now. I wanted to go to her, hold her, but adrenaline shot through me and my palms slicked with sweat when I thought of approaching the water.
"Please!" I called. "Please, I'm begging you! Tell me your name! I'll say it! I'll say it!"
"I can't. You have to remember. Remember you loved me, remember your desire for me, for always. If you can't, it wasn't real. There's doubt. Love can't survive in doubt. There must be no doubt."
"Please ... please, I love you! Don't you see?"
She nodded and her eerie eye-lights bobbed in the dark. "I know you do now. Because you fell in love with me during our time. But you must remember."
"What if I'm not him? What if I'm not?"
Water foamed at her waist when she turned again. "Where were you born?"
I opened my mouth to answer. I couldn't remember. I couldn't remember anything before I met her.
"You see? What were your parents' names?"
I groped my mind, strained for answers. There were none.
"What is my name?" The tone of her bell-voice changed again, a minor note, a sad song. "Just say my name, and we can be together forever."
My foggy mind swirled with images, all of them her, and all of them since the full moon. Our night in the lighthouse, our times here in the cove, in the house---nothing before she walked out of the sea.
She stared at me, cocked her head.
"You don't remember."
I tried to step forward and a wave frothed at my shoes. My heart slammed to a stop and I leaped back, a small cry escaped me.
"Do you still deny the truth?" she called, gentle and warm. "You're still afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Yes, afraid. Afraid of the ocean that took you from me."
My jaw worked, nothing came out.
"The ocean took you by force. You must have been afraid when you died. You never come near the water. Every year I try to get you to swim with me like we used to, but you won't. Every year for eighty years. You're afraid of the water."
"I'm not ... I wasn't ..." Another wave chased me farther up the sand. My pulse quickened. I looked back at her, and breakers tossed and rumbled at her chest now.
"Just say my name," she spoke, and the music of her voice hypnotized me. "Just say my name, and we can be together for all eternity."
My helpless tears answered her.
"I wanted to believe mine was the last name on your lips, just as yours was on mine. But until you can remember, I'll never know for sure, and we can't be together. Love can't survive under doubt. Don't you see?"
I watched her moonbeam eyes, her body unaffected by the tide and waves crashing over her shoulders. She stood still, as if on land, and gazed at me.
She was more beautiful than the sea, more beautiful than the moonlight that drizzled lovingly over her that first night, more beautiful than the music she danced to. She was more beautiful than anything I'd ever seen.
She turned away, and her sorrow pierced me.
I bit my lip hard, so hard it bled, and plunged into the waves after her.
Images swirled over me, through me, in me. Images of something, the walls of a house---no, a ship! A ship's bulkhead. It rocketed toward me, because the boat capsized, and tossed me like a pebble in an empty can. I remember a calendar fell off the wall and flailed and flapped like a frightened bird. Someone screaming, not me, but someone. I remembered the world stopped, went blue and green, cold. Bubbles, rays of light spearing jade depths. Cold, so cold!
And a name, the last thing in my mind was a name, and I screamed it now, splashed against the surf and screamed it, unable to see her, unable to stand.
I prayed it was her name.
War is Hell
Let me tell you a couple things I've learned about war.
One, it's hell. Nothing can describe it. I can't tell you what it's like because words can't give you the real experience of war. This isn't war like we're used to seeing. Shit, we thought by now androids would be doing our fighting. But no, people still do it. And it's hell because war's not like it was on TV or in movies. In this war, you not only have to fight, you have to win. I mean, goddamn, you have to win.
There's no second chances, no make-up exam. You go through basic and that's nothing like the field. Simple things, like taking a dump or eating, are nerve-wracking. There's concussions all over the place. Artie fire, mortar shelling, tank rounds, plasma fire cracking all the goddamn time, carbon-pulse mines and who knows what the fuck. Your hands shake all the time. You can't sleep. Not soundly anyway. Used to be able to lay on your pillow and snug down into your blankets and get all toasty and shit, and before you knew it, it's morning and you'd been off in dreamland. Not now. Not anymore.
Sleep's scary now. If the nightmares don't wake you, the screams of somebody having 'em will. And in the field? Fucking forget it. Nobody sleeps with more than one eye closed. You might end up dead.
This has to be what hell is like. Frazzled nerves. Tight asshole. Shaking hands. Screams in the dark. And somewhere, the enemy lurks, waiting, stalking.
I didn't smoke before but fuck if I don't now. Roll 'em myself when no one's got any. You do what you have to when you're in field rotation. Field rotation sucks, more than I can say. Seems like a fire's always burning, like there's always smoke. Then there's rubble and burned-out vehicles, some of 'em older than me. Dark holes in what used to be buildings along the streets hide the enemy, but which ones? Is it that building? This one? The next? Around that corner? Down the next block? Doing sweeps blows. Doing sweeps and being point is hell. It's the hell of hell.
The enemy's bad enough, but then there's mistakes. When your own people fuck up and take a bunch of you out? Yeah, that's fun, huh? Or a drooler gets one of you and you hear that horrible high-pitched scream for help when they dig in, and one after another join the banquet, and your buddy's firing his plasma blaster blind, taking out a bunch of his teammates too. Yeah, those're some good times right there.
I didn't follow the news when it started, so I don't know how it happened really. Civilian communication comes through the bands or not at all now. Spin the dial; it's static until you find one.
I thought someone said maybe rats carried it. Nobody was sure, but it started in urban areas. In the third world, things got out of hand quick. Unprepared forces went in, put down a bunch of droolers, and figured it was over. Droolers aren't the problem, though. Marys are. Marys carry it and it takes a while to incubate. Sometimes weeks, sometimes months. When it finally blooms, there're waves of 'em. They call 'em Marys because they carry it like Typhoid Mary back in the day. I don't know who Typhoid Mary was, but she must've been a bitch.
Marys don't turn. By the time they're detected, who knows how many infections have been spread. A Mary goes to a restaurant, and the busboy gets cut on the Mary's knife. Six weeks later busboy, the girl he's fucking, her parents and sister, and their nephews all turn out droolers. Then it gets fun. Who's the first Mary? How many contacts each? Where? Fun.
Nobody ever figured out if it traveled through blood or spit or piss or cum or what. It wasn't airborne, they knew that. But resources in most places got overrun. If anybody's working on it now they ain't telling us.
You know one in six is a Mary? One in fucking six. The only way you know one of you is a Mary is when someone in your platoon turns drooler. Most of the time, we get 'em before it spreads. They get shipped off to a quarantine unit somewhere. Like Willie Laren.
He got scratched on rotation in some crappy city. Bastards came at us from all the fuck over, and he got scratched. Not bad, but enough. Medics scrubbed him down, shot him full of sedatives and a hazmat team showed up and shipped him off. We never heard from Willie Laren again. We kept sweeping that shithole too. We turned back when we ran low on grunts. When that happens, a napalm juicer goes in and does what it can, but napalm costs money, and you know what? There just aren't that many taxpayers left.
We can't stop 'em in urban areas. Too many hiding places and not enough resources. Resources -- you know, grunts. Ammo and stuff too, but mostly not enough grunts. They thought about going to a draft, but it got crazy before they could. A lot of communication went down and goddamn Marys keep 'em comin'. We can't even kill Marys. They haven't done anything wrong, don't even know they're sick. And brass wants to study 'em.
I can barely light my cigarette, and writing is hard with my hands shaking like this. Fuck, it's quiet here. We're in some rat-hole city. I don't even know where. Our territory expanded the other day. That means another unit went down and we have to cover their asses. They're fucking droolers now.
I hate when it's this quiet. Did I write that already? Droolers make noise but you gotta be close enough to hear 'em. They could be anywhere, smelling us out, gettin' hungry.
Yeah, good and hungry.
I'm on sweep point tomorrow.
War is hell.
Over Troubled Waters
Through his tears, Martin saw the bleary light of a streetlamp off to his left. He stood up on liquid bones but managed to stay upright. White spots fired into the black of his eyelids and his ears rang before he sagged against the buttress beside him. He pushed sweat-soaked hair off his brow and pressed his cheek against the metal superstructure. The unyielding cold revived him a bit.
The water boiled and roared past the bridge pilings far below. It would carry his limp, lifeless body away and it would be days, maybe weeks, before anyone found him. Saline stung his eyes, and he shook his head to clear them. No more crying. Time to do what he came to do.
Martin drew a bracing breath and lifted a leg onto the wide, flat railing. He climbed up against the buttress and kept his right hand on it as he stared down into the blackness. He heard the water but it was too far to see in the dark. He closed his eyes to marshal his resolve.
He dangled one foot in front of him in space.
He held his breath.
He lifted his face heavenward.
"You think that's a good idea?"
The voice startled Martin so hard he almost fell. He wheeled his arms and cried out as adrenaline stung his palms and cheeks. He scrambled, sat hard on the railing, and pushed his back up against the buttress.
"That's what I thought." The voice drifted from beyond the streetlamp's puddle of light. A plume of blue-gray cigarette smoke and the grind of shoe soles on the pavement followed. "If you was serious, you'd've done it."
"Who...who are you?" Martin shielded his eyes with his hand as a figure emerged from the darkness.
The narrow, tall man stopped, hands in his front pants pockets. He rocked back on his heels, adjusted his wide-brimmed hat, and blew another plume of smoke. Martin habitually fanned the cloud and grimaced.
"Oh, don't like smoke? What do you care? Weren't you 'bout to sling your hash over that railing?"
"I said who are you? Mind your own business."
The man hooked his thumbs under his suspenders and rose on the balls of his feet. "How do you know I ain't doin' just that?" His baggy shirtsleeves, rolled to the elbows, rippled in the breeze.
"Wh-what?" Martin blinked, tried to see the face. He caught a hint of stubble beneath the shadow cast by the hat brim. Deep shadows suggested deep lines in the long face. He shook his head, and clambered down from the railing. "Look, I'm just gonna go---"
"'Course you are. That's what cowards do. They run."
Martin froze. "Wha---coward? What are you---"
"Oh yeah, coward. Cowardly people do like you. They cop out. Make excuses. Can't pull their heads out of their asses to see daylight. Can't face the world, the real world anyway. Nowadays most of 'em just set at their computers. They make up names and lives and pretend to be somethin' or someone they ain't. Troll the Internet for little kids to rape and kill. But in the real world they ain't shit so they hide. When they can't face real life no more they do somethin' like you're doing." He gestured over the side of the bridge.
Martin squirmed under a gaze he felt rather than saw. It pierced his soul. He tugged at his loosened tie, and straightened his rumpled lapels.
"Look, mister, I don't know who you are, but I---"
"Yeah, you don't even have the guts to use a gun, do this right. What's the matter, afraid you'll spoil the beautiful corpse? Ain't that what women and queer-cowards like you do? Try to leave a beautiful corpse behind?"
"Wait a minute, I'm not---"
"See? You can't even muster the balls to tell me to take a flyin' fuck. Coward."
Martin drew a long breath. "Damn it, listen to me, you don't know---"
"Don't know what? That you lost your job? That your investments and retirement fund and mutual funds and what the fuck have tanked over the last two years? That your girl still works at the comp'ny that canned you and now she's ridin' your boss's knob? That what I don't know?"
"Wha---how do you---who the---"
"You think you got it bad, boy? Think you're unique somehow? Think your little world fell apart and that's it, the universe came to an end? That what you think?"
Martin swallowed. His eyes fell.
"Better think about life in a bigger way, BB-balls," the man said and drew long on his cigarette. He inhaled deep and held it a few seconds before he blew another bluish smoke cloud. "Set your ass down. I got a few things to say to you."
Martin balked for a second, but the figure under the hat never flinched. Martin sank to the bridge pavement and stared at him. He felt like a child.
"Our Ol' Mamma married for the first time at fourteen. She buried six husbands 'fore she finally died herself, but that first one ... well, he blackened her heart good." He blew out another plume. "Ol' Mamma was tougher'n shoe leather and twice as hard to shine after he finished with her. She'd as soon knock you on your ass as look at you. Didn't take kindly to quitters and whiners, neither. Like you."
The man turned and pitched his butt over the side of the bridge against the furious wind, but it sailed true. He stuffed his hands into deep, worn pockets and rocked on his worn heels.
"Ol' Mamma said there wasn't no point to wishin' things better," he said. "She'd say you could wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which gets filled first. That first husband, though ... he taught her a thing or two about being mean enough to get by on little or nothin'. He'd drink up their food money after earning shit wages all day. Then he'd expect a king's banquet for dinner. But there wasn't nothin' left to buy groceries with, most times. He didn't care much for beans and rice and let her know by blacking her eyes or breaking her nose."
He fished into the breast pocket of his billowy white shirt and took out a soft pack of unfiltered cigarettes. A blue-headed match appeared from his right front pants pocket. His thumbnail struck the sulfur and he held the hissing flame to the cigarette until smoke wafted away on the breeze.
"Ol' Mamma told her daddy what that bastard did to her, but he didn't want to hear none of it. Neither did her mamma. They were glad to have her married off. Told her she ought to be grateful any man would have her at all. Never mind all them bruises on her arms, legs, face and back where he pounded on her while she cowered in a corner.
"She quit cryin' 'fore long, though. Decided she had two choices. Either shut up and deal with her lot in life, or do something about it."
Smoke billowed from under the hat brim when he turned his head toward Martin.
"Know what she did, limp-dick? She waited. Waited until that drunk came home demanding beef and beer. She told him to set at the table, she'd bring it. What she brung was a hammer from the cellar. Hit him on the head so hard the chunk of skull she knocked loose stabbed him in that so-called brain of his and he dropped dead on the spot. She kicked over the table, knocked things around the room, even bloodied her own nose. Then she took herself down and told Sheriff Markley he'd beat her and she fought him off but he wasn't moving no more. Sheriff went down to the house and saw that mess, what all she'd tossed around or broke, and said it was clear self-defense. Didn't even press charges. She left town next day and never looked back. Like I said, married five more times before she finally turned to dust back in '83."
Martin blinked. "This person told you she murdered someone? She told you?"
The man stared down at Martin a moment, then shook his head and snorted. "Pathetic. She was our Ol' Mamma. That means great-granny, BB-balls. 'Course she told us the story."
Martin swallowed. The stranger shook his head again.
"Daddy had an Uncle Zak---name was Isaac, but they all called him Zak---who walked into a general store and found the proprietor dead behind the counter. Shot right in the face. Uncle Zak was leaving to get help just as some other folks showed up. Well, they told the law Zak must've did it, and Daddy's family, dirt poor like they were, couldn't get a fancy lawyer or nothin'. So Uncle Zak went to prison."
The ember at the end of the cigarette flared in the dark.
"Zak wasn't cut out for prison life though. Got raped. Beaten. Raped some more. And that was just the guards. 'Fore too long he ran out of things to say to himself to make himself feel better. Well, they come for him again, but he fought back. Beat a guard to death with his bare hands, and shot another before they tackled him. 'Course they found him guilty of those so-called murders. Sentenced him for all three killings. Zak said if he was gonna be found guilty, might as well be guilty.
"Said that right up 'til they hanged him."
He leaned on the rail with one elbow and crossed his feet. He stared at the cigarette in his fingers.
"I reckon neither of them would've thought much of you."
Martin dropped his eyes between his feet and sniffed.
The stranger adjusted his hat. "When I met my cousin Sharon she was something like seven. She was a barefoot tow-headed kid in a red dress with little yellow flowers on it. We ran, hid, played tag, chased lightning bugs... kid stuff. Became fast friends, even though I only saw her a few times. One summer we visited her family, and Sharon wasn't there. I asked after her, and her mother looked at me with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face. Said she was sorry, she thought my parents told me. Sharon had passed on the previous fall. Seems she had an aneurysm in her brain. Busted wide open one night. She cried and screamed about her headache until she fell still and quiet. Never woke up. Her parents never did get over it, I think. They say we ain't meant to bury our children. It leaves a hollow shell where a person used to be, and that's what her mother was. A shell."
Martin looked down again, ran his hand through his cold, moist hair.
"But they had other children, so there wasn't much time to grieve their only daughter. They went on about their business for their boys, who were younger than Sharon. Late in life they had another little girl, and she's the apple of their eye to this day. Wasn't easy to go on, but they did."
Martin opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He closed it.
The stranger rolled the shrinking cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, studied it, then turned his hidden face back to Martin.
"Now, Mamma was a different story altogether," he said. "She didn't let on about the pain she felt for years. Years. One day she couldn't reach over her head to get the supper plates no more. Daddy found her crumpled in a heap on the floor, took her to a doctor and sat with her while he told her she had six or seven weeks to live. Said if she'd come when she first suspected something was wrong he might've been able to help her. She looked that bonesetter right in the eye and said he'd have just made her sicker with his 'treatments' and 'medicines' and she'd end up a burden on us. Least this way, she said, she could die her own way and not be a bother."
The man turned to the river, leaned on his elbows and stared out over the water. "She did die, of course. Lived seven more years though. Seven years, in pain and suffering. Daddy moved the plates down low so she could reach 'em if she wanted to, and we all helped with chores. She'd get pissed if we did too much, though. Said she felt useless. Can you imagine that? She felt useless if we helped her too much while she rotted away."
He turned his head back toward Martin. "No ... I don't guess you can imagine it, can you? Chickenshit like you can't understand that kind of courage."
The cigarette crackled when the stranger dragged on it in Martin's silence.
"After Mamma died, Daddy wasn't the same. But he never did quit, bein' he had all of us to rear. He had to work until the day he died to provide for us all, but one by one we got out on our own. Became people Mamma would be proud of."
Martin cleared his throat but couldn't speak.
The stranger snorted again. "Know why Mamma lingered seven years after the doctor said she'd be dead in a few weeks, boy?"
Martin stood up. "Because ... because she never quit fighting. And goddamn it, I'm not going to either. You're right, mister ... about everything. I'm being stupid to do this, to even think about doing this. I can overcome this crap. The people in your life overcame worse obstacles. I can do this. Thank you, mister. From the bottom of my heart, thank you."
The stranger turned toward Martin and rested one elbow on the wide, cold railing. He chuckled, and shook his head again. "No, limp dick, no," he said, and Martin blinked.
The figure leaned toward him a bit. "Mamma lived seven more years because she cast a spell on herself. Can't stop the Angel of Death from coming, but you can stall him a while. She turned into a full-on witch, bought herself time. She conjured and brewed potions all the time, when she wasn't passing out in pain or cooking and cleaning. Cast a spell on anyone who wanted one, too, and had the money for it."
Martin knit his brows, struggled to comprehend. The stranger tipped his hat back just a hair, and the weak light glinted on his eyes. "She cast one on Daddy so's he'd work long as he had to for us kids. Cast one on Ol' Mamma and kept her around a good long while, too. Did one for Sharon's parents so's they have a chance to have another precious baby girl. And on each of us kids. I mention there are five others besides me?"
Martin blinked, shook his head. "Five...? Siblings?"
The stranger nodded. "Yeah. The six of us, we're scattered all over now. Hell, we scattered when the South lost and Sherman burned Georgia asshole to appetite."
Martin blinked, shook his head, his face screwed up in confusion. "What?"
The stranger snorted, shook his head in disgust. "You ain't just weak, you're stupid too. We don't die or get real old or nothing, on account o' them spells. It takes a little human flesh every once in a while to keep going though. Just a few bites, you understand."
His hand shot out lightning-quick and clutched Martin by the throat. Martin gasped, struggled, clawed at the hand. It was like iron. The stranger, face still hidden beneath the shadow of the broad-brimmed hat, hefted Martin off his feet. Martin flailed and kicked futilely as the man tipped his head to one side.
"They'll still find your corpse, boy," he said, a trace of a smile in his voice, "but it won't be beautiful. Might look like you jumped though. Hell, ain't that what a candy-assed sissy-prick like you would do anyway? Ain't that what you come here for, limp dick?"
Martin tried to scream when the stranger set upon him, but there wasn't anyone around to hear.
Acknowledgments
The inspiration for this book---and any subsequent books I electronically self-publish like this---was my close friend and very first non-spousal fan, Raga. She got a Kindle a few months before the book was compiled and almost begged me to try and offer my wares in the Kindle store. She felt sure the reading public would adore my work as she does, and fame and riches would soon follow. Whether or not that actually happens, I want to take a moment to acknowledge what Raga means to me.
She's been there from early on. I was posting an online serial-form novel on my blog, and somewhere in the ether, Raga found it and started reading. She read it straight through in a couple of sittings, only stopping for bathroom breaks and the occasional meal for her family. She adored the story and my writing style. And one day, when I challenged lurking readers to come forth and say hello, she did. We've been fast friends ever since.
But Raga isn't the first one who believed in my writing. That credit goes solely to my wife, who knew from dreams she had before we even met that I did something---or would do something---in the world of editing, publishing, journalism or writing. Somewhere, somehow, it would fit.
She loves me and offers me her not-inconsiderable experience as a reader for everything I write, including these stories. She struggled to find a nice way to tell me my first full manuscript stunk, to gently dissuade me from self-publishing the 140,000 word tome at the expense of almost a thousand dollars, plus any additional (read: "hidden") costs for "marketing" the doorstop. She fell in love with the same serial that Raga did before Raga ever saw it, and encouraged me constantly to continue writing it. Even when I didn't want to.
And now, some six years after my first pie-eyed look at vanity publishing, my wife is here again, encouraging me to self-publish an e-book full of stories she loves, has read and re-read a hundred times, still cares about, and hand-selected. They're stories we both felt wouldn't be published because the industry just doesn't like short story collections anymore. But they're also stories we felt people would enjoy, which might make someone out there happy and offer them a little bit of entertainment. And so here they are.
I got a lot of help from friends Bryce Beattie and John Simpson along the way. They helped me decipher how to do this and do it well, to make sure the product I turned out is a quality one. (We'll see if I followed their advice adequately or not, I guess!) Their input was invaluable in producing this book, and I'm grateful they were there to support me when I needed it. Thanks guys.

