Devil Ship: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Devil Ship Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  “The prophecy,” said Mama Bondurant. “It is a simple one, told by my people for centuries. When she returns to the island, he will be free.”

  Sara waited, but the woman said nothing more.

  “Is that it?” she asked. “I thought it would be more, I don’t know, mystical? More like a riddle, I guess.”

  The tall woman turned to face her, and the blind eyes seemed to scrutinize Sara’s soul. She felt a sudden chill, despite the warm evening. The gentle breeze seemed colder and a shudder ran up her spine to the top of her head.

  “He will be free,” the woman repeated. “Free to do what, no one knows. But perhaps history teaches us a lesson in that regard. Miss Mountjoy might help enlighten you.”

  The two pre-teen girls appeared, moving silently over the sand, and took up their positions on either side of Mama Bondurant. Sara watched as they gently guided the woman back to the gap in the undergrowth by what she now thought of as the hanging tree. The brightly colored clothes faded into the green shadows.

  Sara began to breathe again.

  “Honey? You okay?”

  Joe’s voice returned her to the mundane world of hosting an informal dinner party. Through the open door, music played—a local station that specialized in Caribbean light pop, not too loud, suitable to create a relaxed atmosphere. It was all so normal. Sara walked back to the bungalow and embraced Joe.

  “Yeah,” she said, “I’m fine. Just had a visit from the queen bee of the boucaniers. She was miffed she didn’t get an invite.”

  Seeing Joe’s concern as he scanned the fringe of the forest, she squeezed him a little tighter and assured him the priestess had gone. But she had delivered a message.

  “About our favorite dead pirate?” Joe said. “Hit me, I’m not going to let him spoil things.”

  Sara told him what Mama Bondurant had said. Joe was dismissive.

  “Free could mean free to be properly dead,” he pointed out. “Hey, maybe the whole thing has been a kind of expiation of the guy’s sins? Taking evildoers down the centuries until he works off his karmic debt, kind of thing?”

  The idea had never occurred to Sara but, put like that, it made a kind of sense. After all, why would Lemaitre be allowed to harm anyone? It reminded her of The Exorcist, a movie a horror-obsessed friend had made her watch years ago. Spiritual evil, according to the priest in the movie, could only do harm with God’s permission. But something told her that Joe’s explanation didn’t quite hold water, attractive though it might be.

  “You could be right,” she admitted. “But I guess we’ll find out, one way or another. In the meantime, I think I hear Keri talking about dessert with her usual modest restraint.”

  They went back inside to find an improbably large homemade cheesecake being doled out. Sara pointed out that Keri might be better employed as head chef of the resort rather than a diving instructor.

  “I can do both!” the girl replied. “Though not at the same time. Who needs soggy pudding?”

  “A question to which there is no decent answer,” Theresa Mountjoy said, taking a laden plate. “This looks delicious, thank you.”

  Sara decided to tell the entire company what had transpired outside. The Mendozas looked suitably serious at the mention of the priestess. The librarian listened carefully and emitted a little ‘hmph’ when Joe added his theory about the curse coming to an end.

  “You don’t agree?” Keri asked. “You think Lemaitre might simply get worse?”

  “There’s no statute of limitations on curses, or on exorcisms,” Miss Mountjoy pointed out. “We have no idea what forces were unleashed when Father Bertrand tried to protect the island, and then faced that demon creature on the beach. He had the power of good on his side. But goodness, in a fallen world, can never prevail absolutely.”

  “What happened to Father Bertrand?” Sara asked. “The stuff online doesn’t say.”

  “So far as I know,” Miss Mountjoy said carefully, “he returned to France and lived out his life in tranquil obscurity.”

  “What about the governor who ordered the exorcism?”

  The old lady finished a mouthful of cheesecake and dabbed her lips elegantly with a napkin before replying.

  “The governor who ordered the exorcism was found dead in his bed at the next full moon, hideously mutilated, his eyes plucked out. There was also a curse written on the wall—low down, perhaps due to the stature of the intruder. In French, it stated that Lemaitre was the mortal enemy of ‘toutes les hommes de Sainte Marie,’ i.e. of all the men of the island. The islanders’ lives were forfeit—’des vies sont perdues.’”

  This prompted more discussion. Sara suggested that ‘of the island’ might mean anyone who owns property or is otherwise part of island life, as opposed to mere visitors like tourists.

  “A nice distinction,” the old lady agreed. “But remember, in folklore, things are often blurred around the edges—especially any supposed rules limiting the antics of supernatural beings. But my faith tells me that means Lemaitre will remain severely limited despite this talk of him somehow being set free.”

  “Yeah,” said Keri, “but can any kind of magic or whatever last forever? Like, if the sun lasts another few billion years, the exorcism holds?”

  The old lady stared, lost for words for once, and then laughed.

  “You’re quite right, my dear,” she said. “It’s unreasonable to assume Father Bertrand’s faith and ritual could hold Lemaitre at bay indefinitely. But look at it from the other viewpoint. What makes you think Lemaitre and his ghostly crew could last forever? If ghosts did not fade away, wouldn’t we be up to our necks in them?”

  Ryan laughed.

  “I never thought the population crisis would affect ghosts.”

  They all indulged in some half-serious speculation about ghosts, human and otherwise. Thanks in part to the wine, Ryan was soon defending a theory that stories of dragons were inspired by people in ancient times seeing the ghosts of dinosaurs. This prompted much joshing, and Sara felt relief at the commonplace frivolity of it all. A pleasant evening socializing with new friends was actually happening as planned.

  Later, when the guests had gone home in Rudy’s cab, the four Americans sat around the kitchen table discussing Pirate Cove. Joe was moderately upbeat about the situation. The small jetty was nearly finished, their small motorboat already moored there. The dive school was halfway done, along with the guest bungalows and various storage buildings. Tomorrow, concrete would be poured for the parking lot.

  “We can be ready for the winter season,” Sara said, “there’s plenty of potential there.”

  “Yeah,” Joe agreed. “But it still pisses me off that the Deep Star gang are out there, on our patch of sea, messing with island politics. So long as that ship is cruising up and down the reef, we can expect interference.”

  Sara was about to commiserate when Ryan surprised her with a suggestion.

  “Maybe we should reach out to them? We’ve shown them we’ve got balls—they’ve taken a lot of flak from the bad PR. Suppose we offer them a deal—if they leave us alone, we’ll leave them alone? A quid pro quo?”

  Joe nodded thoughtfully, but then startled Sara by banging a fist on the table.

  “No, no, that’s not enough,” he said grimly. “We’ve taken an enormous financial hit thanks to their dirty tricks. They owe us compensation for the harm they’ve done. If they do recover any of that gold, they should offer us a cut.”

  The idea left Sara open-mouthed. Given how questionable the Deep Star operation was, it didn’t feel right to take a cut. She could see from Keri’s expression that her friend felt the same. But Joe and Ryan were enthusiastic, with the latter agreeing to ask his dad if he could approach the salvage consortium.

  “I can’t believe we didn’t think of this before!” Ryan added. “It solves all our problems. No more obstruction and a new injection of cash to tide us over until we can open the resort!”

  “Guys,” Sara said, as the men high-f
ived each other as if their team had just won a big game. “Do you honestly want to get involved in something this sketchy? I mean, we’d basically be asking crooks for dirty money. That makes us no better than Charity Lomax and her dad.”

  She got conciliatory noises and reassurance, but Joe’s mind was made up. Keri joined in but she, too, was told to be more realistic. Things seemed to be spiraling toward a full-blown argument, but Ryan smoothed things over by pointing out that they didn’t know if his dad would play ball. And even if Martin Gale did approach the consortium, there was no guarantee of a deal.

  “Hey, we’ve got plenty of other stuff to keep us occupied, anyhow,” Sara said finally, resigned to the situation and wanting to dispel the tense atmosphere. “Let’s focus on what we can do now. Like administration! Everybody loves that!”

  “Yeah, spreadsheets and contracts and three kinds of cement and other exciting stuff,” said Keri. “Bring—it—on!”

  They laughed a little at that and decided to go for a walk on the moonlit beach. Landward, the only signs of human habitation were the lights of the bungalow. Out to sea, they could see the red light on the side of a fishing boat.

  “I can never remember if it’s red on the right and green on the left, or if it’s the other way around,” Keri commented. “If it was moving, we could tell. Unless it was going backward. Argh, I’m overthinking this. Hey, fishing guys, go home so we can tell which side your lights are on. Your ladies are getting restless!”

  Sara admitted she couldn’t remember which color light went on which side either.

  “This is where a detailed knowledge of Star Trek is essential,” said Ryan. “The starship Enterprise has a red light on its right side…”

  “Does it?” asked Sara.

  “No, hang on, I meant green. I think.”

  “Red for port, green for starboard,” Joe said decisively.

  “Yeah, but we were talking about left and right… right?” Ryan responded.

  “You mean right and left, right?” Keri shot back.

  More discussion and laughter, and then they fell silent. Sara, barefoot, flexed her toes in the warm sand. Maybe things would work out. Maybe Lemaitre was now free to go where he damn well liked. Perhaps he was already in Hell, or purgatory. Among friends, with the man she loved, under the canopy of tropical stars, she could believe in almost anything, even a bright future.

  Ryan and Keri walked back to the bungalow first, leaving Joe and Sara to joke about just what ‘those crazy kids’ were planning to do. They stood together, hand in hand, watching the faint light of the fishing boat disappear around the headland. The sound of the breakers on the reef combined with the noise of night birds from the jungle to make a kind of natural symphony.

  “We’d better get going,” Joe said finally. “A good night’s sleep and then we’ll be ready to face anything Sainte Isabel can throw at us.”

  They walked back up the beach. As they neared the bungalow Sara glimpsed something moving along the shallow rooftop. She tensed, her hand tightening on Joe’s.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  At the same moment, a bird, its wingbeats startlingly loud in the darkness, launched itself from the roof and over their heads. They ducked, and then stood watching the bird as it flapped out over the sea.

  “Sometimes,” Sara observed sagely, “nature is a jerk.”

  ***

  The following day, Keri decided she was ready to go diving again. Ryan tried to dissuade her, and the Hansens were concerned. But Keri was adamant that she needed to ‘get back on the horse, only in this case the horse is the sea… kind of.’ She was also keen for Sara and Joe to come with her, on the grounds that Sara had been ‘stuck in front of a screen looking at numbers’ for far too long.

  “We’re in a tropical paradise,” Keri argued. “Why don’t you get a taste of what you want your customers to pay for?”

  “Okay,” said Joe. “But somebody has to stay and keep an eye on the work. Jimmy’s a good foreman, but he likes to grouse. Maybe one time in fifty, it’s something only management can deal with.”

  It took another day to rent a small dive boat from Port Louis, whereupon Sara and Keri brought it around to the cove. Ryan agreed to be the ‘schmuck who stays on board’, a basic safety requirement that they had to conform to from now on. Sara could see that Ryan would much rather be with Keri, but as often happened, he deferred to her judgment.

  They spent the evening before the dive checking equipment, testing each other on safety rules, and not specifically discussing what had happened last time Keri dived.

  The next morning was perfect, a cloudless sky and the gentlest of sea breezes. As they breakfasted, Ryan checked messages and announced that his dad was on board with what he called ‘the quid pro quo’. Again, Sara felt uneasy. The thought of striking a deal with corrupt people was not exactly alien to her. She had worked in real estate since leaving college and had seen plenty of murky dealings. But only from the outside. Now Joe was determined to involve them.

  She had raised the issue a few times. His responses varied, but they always boiled down to the same thing.

  “It’s for a good cause—our economic survival.”

  “We need the cash, honey.”

  “Nobody’s hands are clean here.”

  And, finally:

  “If we’re going to live on this island, we have to do business the Sainte Isabel way.”

  All good arguments, up to a point. But as she helped load the diving gear into the boat, Sara felt unease. It was not just the shady nature of the arrangement. It was what it implied about them. She disliked Joe’s willingness to compromise with ‘the bad guys’, but she was dismayed by her inability to change his mind. Until now, they had been equal partners, more or less. But something about the current situation had revealed an aspect of Joe she could not like or respect.

  “From here, it looks normal enough,” Keri mused, gazing at the work Joe was supervising.

  Sara looked back at the construction site, where the resort was starting to resemble the impressive model Randy Hobart had shown them, so many months ago.

  “It’ll be finished before you know it, Sara,” said Ryan. “This time next year, you’ll be complaining about the humdrum routine of running a luxury tourist trap.”

  “I guess,” she said, smiling as best she could.

  Ryan had been on his best behavior since Keri’s accident. Sara again felt guilt at unearthing the guy’s criminal past. And she wondered if the reason Joe was friends with Ryan was precisely because of their contrasting personalities. If opposites attract in romance, why not in friendship?

  “Woolgathering?” Keri asked, then seeing Sara’s expression she laughed. “My grandma used to say that when I was being even more vacant than usual as a kid. Seriously, let’s have some fun, and stop worrying for an hour or two. And we diving instructors need to keep in practice.”

  Keri untied the boat, and Sara started the engine. As she steered it carefully clear of the jetty, she could make out the shape of the Deep Star beyond the ragged white breakers that marked the reef. She resolved not to think about it, and instead, focused on the task in hand like a professional.

  “How about here?” she shouted over the outboard motor.

  They were about a hundred yards from the reef. A few minutes later, Sara and Keri were ready to go. Sara rolled backward off the boat into the sea, relishing the splash, the sensation of the water, the familiar muffled sounds as she submerged. Keri plunged in beside her, and they began to follow the line to the sandy bottom. Small silvery fish, startled by the appearance of these two strange creatures, darted away.

  They made their way toward the reef, Keri easily powering ahead, then pausing to wait for Sara to catch up. Sara made a mental resolution to exercise more, maybe join a gym. She would never be a teenager again, but she could try to be a fitter thirtysomething. Now the reef was in sight, white sand giving way to a bewildering edifice of living coral. More life became visibl
e—shrimp, a dozen or more types of fish, then a gray shape that proved to be a small shark. The streamlined predator, about four feet long, was cruising along the inner edge of the natural barrier.

  Sara recognized it as a young reef shark, an apex predator but one unlikely to attack humans even when fully grown. It was also, she recollected, one of a group known as requiem sharks, a bizarre term for killer fish. Requiem sharks included tiger sharks, black tips, and… Sara forgot the rest. She couldn’t recall where the name came from, but the word made her uncomfortable, given what she knew of the reef. How many ships and its crew had come to grief here? How many people had served as food for the undersea life?

  Keri gestured at the requiem shark, tapped the knife at her belt, then made an okay gesture that Sara returned. Her research had told her months ago that the risks from predators in these waters was minimal, but not zero. It paid to be careful. She continued to follow Keri as the better swimmer turned and started to follow the reef, going the opposite way to the shark. More fish dodged away, the fast and streamlined kind darting sideways, while others ducked into cover amid the coral fronds. The beauty of the reef began to entrance Sara, the mixture of shapes and colors more impressive than any work of mere human art.

  Then the colors faded, the bright patchwork suddenly dull, washed out. The sound of her breathing, the regular outflow of bubbles from her scuba gear, seemed to dwindle. Instead, she heard human voices, men shouting, and something else—a maddeningly familiar ringing noise, a shrill mechanical sound that had meaning. Then she saw it, a red object, round on top, standing on a kind of metal post. A hand grasped a handle at the top, wrenched it over to one side. There was an indicator, a half-moon shaped white dial, and some of the words were legible now.

  STOP. AHEAD. FULL. HALF. SLOW.

  Engine room telegraph, that’s what it’s called, she thought, wonderingly.

  Around her, men were clinging to handrails, and a sudden roaring noise almost deafened her as a door was flung open and another man reeled in. She was on the bridge of a ship; that much was clear. The quaint uniforms of the men and the spoked steering wheel told her it was not a modern vessel. The captain, to judge by his more elaborate uniform, was shouting at another officer. She could barely make out the words, something about engines, but the accent was British.