by Bryan, JL
“Great,” Stacey said, all trace of enthusiasm gone.
“I appreciate you staying on-site. It’s expensive to pay the ferryman every day.”
“Where do you and Gary stay?” I asked.
“Gary has the old gamekeeper’s cottage, and I have the guest house. I used to stay in the butler’s cottage, but…” Darika shook her head slightly, cutting herself off.
“But what?” I asked, with probably more curiosity and less tact than I should have.
“We can discuss it later. Please feel free to begin your work. I hope we can resolve all of this quickly.” She was visibly tense, like a wire stretched to its greatest length, just before it snapped.
“We’ll be happy to get started,” I said, ready to start earning that big retainer she’d paid.
“You cannot fail at this,” she said. “So much has been invested already. Can you guarantee you will remove the problem?”
“We have a pretty good success rate, but we’re not perfect. And some places are so haunted it’s best to just abandon them to the ghosts.”
“That is not an option here.” Darika’s eyes smoldered like they would burn holes in my head if I suggested abandoning the place again.
“Okay,” I said. Then added, “Sorry,” because the comment seemed to anger her so much, like she was offended by any possibility of failure.
“I’ll show you the way,” Gary said, stepping in to defuse the tension, or perhaps lumbering in entirely unaware of it. “The road’s pretty rough. You can follow my patrol vehicle.”
“It’s a golf cart,” Darika muttered. To us, she said, “Gary will be your primary interface around the island.”
“I’ll issue walkie-talkies,” Gary said. “We have more security equipment than personnel. You’ll need code names. Mine’s ‘Beach Hawk’—”
“That’s not really necessary,” Darika interrupted.
Gary shook his head as we returned to the entrance hall, weaving through the crumbling, cracking specimens of African wildlife.
Outside, Gary’s patrol vehicle—an extended golf cart painted black, framed in mesh to keep out mosquitoes—waited ahead of our van, ready to escort us. Gary passed us the promised walkie-talkies before we climbed into our vehicles.
The road was bumpy, littered with heaps of dirt and scattered with gravel from all the construction activity. Behind the house was even more chaotic construction, with lots of open, ripped-up soil and idle earth-moving equipment amid the remnants of a lawn and gardens. A statue of a muscular man armed with a spear was lying on the ground next to a wide, muddy trench where an underground pipe had been exposed.
A pleasant-looking two-story brick house with wraparound porches on both floors appeared beside us, nestled among the old-growth oak trees.
“Is that our cottage?” Stacey asked hopefully into the walkie-talkie, holding down the big button on the side.
“Guest cottage. Darika’s place,” Gary’s crackling voice replied.
We rounded a bend, away from the house and the ruins of its imported gardens, into the native live oak forest, the wind ruffling the gray beards of Spanish moss and the resurrection ferns that grew thick on the winding oak limbs like miniature forests within the trees. The ferns must have enjoyed a good rain recently, judging by their refreshed bright green color. Resurrection fern looks dead when dry, but restored to life as if by a miracle when it rains.
Finally, we saw a small, one-story building, much more modest than the first, with a screened corner porch positioned to catch the ocean breezes.
“Is it that one?” Stacey asked into the walkie-talkie.
“That’s the butler’s cottage,” Gary replied. “Darika saw something there. Don’t ask me what, because she don’t tell me much.”
We followed the black golf cart down a bumpy dirt side road that took us to a kind of village in the woods. The buildings were large and low, the siding freshly restored yet still flimsy-looking, definitely not brick. I didn’t see how it could survive a major tropical storm.
“Looks like the servants’ village,” Stacey said as we got out.
“You’ve got the old chambermaids’ cottage.” Gary stepped up onto a tiny front stoop and inserted a key into the rusty lock.
“Darika mentioned that, yes,” Stacey said.
“Of course, now it’s a workers’ temporary boarding house,” Gary said. “When the restoration work was still going, the workers took the ferry to the mainland every Friday and came back on Monday. We had fewer and fewer coming back each Monday, though, until it got to where there weren’t any at all. You know it’s bad when folks will turn down a good paycheck to stay off the island.”
“Do you know who the real boss is?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah, I do, but I’m not at liberty to say.” Gary grinned and shoved the reluctant front door open.
A pungent, rotten smell greeted us just inside.
“Ugh!” Stacey covered her nose. “What died in here? And what did it eat before dying?”
“The housekeeping staff quit, too,” Gary said.
“I can see that. And smell it.” I took in the mess. The front room was furnished with futons and futon-like chairs, their cushions mostly knocked to the floor, facing a television on the wall. In the kitchenette, cabinets had been left open, crackers and other dry foods spilled everywhere. A box of Stoneground BerryStix cereal lay overturned on the table, the purple compressed-fiber twigs spilled out onto the knotty pine floor below.
“What is that stink, really?” Stacey asked.
“Could be an animal got into the walls and died,” Gary said. “But I’d check the trash and sinks first. I suppose I could stick around, help you straighten up and unpack your things. I’m supposed to be interfacing with you two, whatever that means. Sounds kinda weird to me.”
“We’ll be fine,” I said while Stacey and I hurried to open windows and let fresh, salty air inside. “I appreciate it, but feel free to de-interface. What I’d really like is a map of the island.”
“I’ll see what I can rummage up. But only this main road from the wharf is in good repair, and only as far as the cemetery. The beach road’s a nightmare, pond road’s not even accessible. Here, let me at least help with the luggage.”
With Gary’s help, we grabbed our things and carried them through the TV-futon-kitchen area to the back hallway with the bedrooms and bathroom.
Each room had a row of four single beds, and the housekeepers hadn’t passed through these rooms on their way to tender their resignations, either. Linens and towels lay strewn on the floor or bunched up on partially bare mattresses.
“Ew,” Stacey said, appropriately.
We dropped our luggage in the two least wrecked bedrooms and assured Gary he could go on his way. He seemed reluctant to leave. Maybe he’d grown bored on his lone patrols, and he was definitely a talker. He didn’t seem to want to open up about any paranormal experiences he'd had on the island, and I got the sense there was more he wasn’t saying on that subject. He had plenty to say on any other subject, unfortunately.
“Yep, just buzz me if you need anything,” he reminded us, yet again, tapping the walkie-talkie on his belt. “If I’m not answering and if it’s an emergency, but only then, you can come wake me. I’m in the gamekeeper’s cottage past the stables, by the kennel. They had dozens of horses here in the old days. Big old hunting dogs too. I’ve heard the feral ones in the woods, descended from those hunting dogs. I'd hate to see one up close.”
“Should we be carrying a pistol or something?” I asked.
“Or just a tranquilizer gun, maybe?” Stacey asked, giving me a side-eye.
“Hey, I was going to fire a warning shot in the air,” I assured her.
“I don’t have a spare tranq rifle lying around to loan you, sorry. Usually the animals don’t come close and bother people. But if they do…” Gary reached into his cart and handed me a battery-powered airhorn with a Florida Gators logo, the kind one might honk obnoxiously at a foot
ball game. “Just give ’er a toot. Dogs, they got sensitive hearing. Pigs and horses don’t like loud noises, either. Can’t think of an animal that does.”
“Are you sure that’s enough?” Stacey frowned. I wasn’t feeling too confident, either.
“If you stay out of the woods, the animals’ll stay out of you,” Gary said with a chuckle that failed to set me at ease. “Stay close to the buildings, out of the forest and marsh. The beach is usually okay during the daytime, unless the horses are out. They mostly graze up at the grassy north end—avoid that, too, on account of the horses—but they also come down and run around in the ocean water. It gets the bugs off ’em.”
“Aw, I want to see the beach horses playing in the water,” Stacey said.
“They’re real territorial about the beach, like a surfer gang in a Frankie Avalon movie,” Gary said. “But don’t hesitate to call me if you need help. I don’t fear pigs nor dogs of any size. Horses, I’d stay back from.”
“Great,” I said, while not feeling great. “I’ll get in touch if we have any questions. Thanks again for all your help.”
“Yep, there’s a lot of history on this island,” Gary said, leaning against the wall of our living room instead of leaving. “I'm not saying I know much of it, but there must be a heck of a lot. Just look at the big old house, for instance. That’s all kinds of historical, I’d say.”
“We plan to do that later,” I said. “Like you said, we’ll get in touch if needed. Feel free to drop by with that map of the island, though.”
“Yep, must be an amazing past, but nobody knows much about it.” Gary yawned and gazed out the window. “Could be rain this afternoon.”
“We’ll catch up with you later.” I stepped past to open the door for him, then plucked the key out of the front door lock and pocketed it. “Thanks again, Gary.”
“You got it.” He gradually ambled outside. “Stay safe, and remember what I said.” He climbed into his elongated golf cart and, at long last, drove away.
“To honk at wild dogs?” Stacey asked after he was gone. “Wow, thanks for the sage advice, oh wise one.”
I would have sighed at the state of the cabin, but that would have required breathing in too much of the foul air.
Pulling our shirts up over our noses, we got to work.
Chapter Five
Well, that wasn’t fun. We’d been promised private accommodations on the island, but given the great expense of restoring the old estate, I had also assumed we’d be dealing with a hotel company, and staying in some appropriately decent rooms. Not the presidential suite, obviously, but at least something around Motel 6 quality.
While it wasn’t clear who’d hired us or what kind of paranormal issues they faced, it was clear that the last people who’d stayed in the chambermaids’ cottage had fled in a hurry, leaving behind socks, work gloves, and phone chargers. From the laundry remnants and overall smell, we guessed it had been previously occupied by male workers, ones who did sweaty jobs around the humid island.
Fortunately, the cabin did have a broom closet full of cleaning supplies, which looked very lightly used so far. There was a small washing machine where someone had abandoned wet jeans and shirts some time ago. The rotten laundry only added to the cottage’s not-so-welcoming aroma.
After we tossed the rotten laundry and the toxic bag of kitchen waste into the community dumpster outside, the smell finally began to clear out, though not as quickly as we might have liked.
Reluctantly, we cleaned up the place and made it habitable, an exhausting but sadly necessary waste of time.
“Why did we turn down Gary’s help, again?” Stacey asked.
“I didn’t want him standing around watching us. And I was annoyed they didn’t get this place ready for us. I prefer privacy when I’m annoyed.”
“Yeah, it’s kinda rude to give your guests a filthy cottage. I thought accommodations on the island would be luxurious, but I wasn’t thinking about servant-level accommodations.” Stacey drew a giant blue circle of bunched-up cloth from the closet. “Look, it’s one of those bed tents.”
“For only the most spoiled of servants,” I said.
“Huh.” Stacey set it up, a big blue cylinder like a hamster tunnel that completely enclosed her narrow single bed, except for an open zippered flap like the entrance to a tent. I hated to admit that it looked kind of cozy in there. “It’s totally private once you zip it up. I would have loved this back in the college dorm.”
“If you’re going to use it, make sure you Lysol it,” I told her, and she recoiled slightly from the tent.
“Yeah. I mean, I think this one’s brand new, but…” She went for the Lysol can in the kitchen.
In the end, it wasn’t so bad. The workers had left in a careless hurry, but they hadn’t damaged the house or made it truly filthy. Or left any dead animals in the walls, as far as we could tell.
Outside, the low, gray cloud cover had begun to rain. We sprinted to the van through what felt like cold, wet needles hurled from above by vicious sky spirits, targeting us in particular for some reason.
The return drive was no picnic, with the rain washing holes and gullies into the dirt road. The van bounced and shuddered until we finally reached the paved oyster-shell road.
Gary met us at the main house and helped carry our first load of gear through the front doors. “Darika’s busy,” he told us. “She’s in her office—I mean, the study—and her mood's close to boiling. I’d avoid that area. You might not see her again today, if you’re lucky.”
“Works for me,” I said.
We set up audio and visual gear in places where paranormal disturbances had been reported, like the dining hall, where so many auditory apparitions had been heard, and the bowling alley, where the carpenter had seen the ghostly girl. A sphinx sat at the end of the two bowling lanes, the two sets of wooden pins set up between its paws. There was no automatic ball return or pin reset. Like everything in the house, it was built to be serviced by humans rather than machines.
Gary lent a hand with the heavy lifting, which we did appreciate, though it felt like he was there to keep an eye on us and make sure we didn’t damage his unnamed employer’s property.
Activity had been reported in a few rooms upstairs, but that wasn’t what interested me most.
“Let’s see this mysterious door down in the basement,” I said, and Gary frowned.
“I don’t like going down there,” he told me. “Usually, I avoid it. I recommend you do the same.”
“Why do you avoid it?”
“Just a bad feeling. And what the locksmith said. I don’t want to sound yellow, but maybe whatever’s down there, we ought to just leave it be.”
“You might be right,” I said. “But Darika made it clear that abandoning the island isn’t an option, so we have to look into the problem spots. That sounds like a big one.”
Gary fell quiet for several seconds, as if chewing over what I’d said, then nodded. “You’re going to check it out sooner or later. I can’t help that. I’ll do what I can to keep you safe, but we better make it quick.”
We passed through a room of glass-fronted display cases, most of them empty. A few contained blunt, ornate rifles and curved pistols of another era, all of them scratched, missing parts, or disassembled. “This is the gun room. I imagine it used to be more impressive.”
Old West animals were mounted and preserved here: a wolf with its canine teeth bared, a grizzly bear rampant with its claws raised high, a mountain lion with its ears back, crouched as if ready to spring.
“Next up is the smoking room. How’s that for an outdated term? No fancy rich folks’d let you smoke in their house these days. I quit the coffin nails ten years ago myself, chew JuicyFruit instead.” Gary opened double doors into a Moroccan-style room with hanging lamps of curled wrought iron and amber glass, though the glass was all broken. Silk curtains were tied back in the corners for that royal-tent-in-the-desert look. A raised dais with an overturned piano bench
occupied one corner; the reddish-brown stuffed corpse of a Barbary sheep occupied another.
Finally, we reached the dining room, with its many heads and fireplaces, and Gary pushed open a jib door at the back that I hadn’t even noticed. It had no handle or knob, designed to blend invisibly with the oaken woodwork wall panels.
“This is the butler’s pantry. Watch your step here. The crew gutted it but never rebuilt it before quitting.” He led us into a long, narrow room littered with tarps and lumber and tools. Beyond a plastic sheet at the end were stairs down to the basement level.
“After Grolman and his pals returned from hunting, the kitchen staff would butcher their kills and store the meat down in the meat cellar. Hides and heads went to the taxidermy shop, if they were worth keeping as trophies.”
“Taxidermy shop?” Stacey grimaced. “I’m not sure I want to see that.”
“Ladies first.” I gestured for Stacey to follow him down.
“Gosh, thanks.” Stacey rolled her eyes and descended the stairs.
The basement stairs and walls were of gray rock, carved out of the bluff itself, unlike the dark golden brick of the house’s facade. We crossed through a wine cellar full of empty racks and into a dim central corridor.
Gary pointed out the open door to the meat cellar, hung with chains and hooks like the guys from Hellraiser had swung by to redecorate. We passed the taxidermy room, where skulls lined the walls, mostly deer with towering antler spreads, but also a few wild pig skulls with impressive tusks.
“Here’s where it gets interesting.” Gary led us farther down the basement corridor to a crude hole in the wall the size of a small door, possibly busted open with a sledgehammer. Quite recently, too, given the amount of fresh dust and broken bricks lying around.
“What’s through there?” I asked.
“Good question. They discovered this area by accident. It was all sealed up, meant to keep everyone out forever, it looks like. Wanna go in?” He ducked and stepped through the wall.
