by D C Tullis
The first three journals were mostly like that. Artistic renditions of nature, random scribblings, and natural guides, but upon skimming through the fourth and final journal I noticed something nearly immediately. It was the symbol that was everywhere around the town. Ben had gone through painstaking detail to accurately sketch it over the course of several pages. There were no comments or side notes about what the symbol was other than the header: “The Eastmouth Symbol”. The next sections were the spots located on the map with only a few extra words of context. Most were simply what I had already seen until I got to the part about St. Gabriel’s. The image that was depicted was a massive wooden door with a strange and ornate door knob. No other context or information was given but, I supposed it narrowed my search a bit. I flipped onward… finding that the rest of the journal was filled with scribblings of some strange runes. There was no context exactly about what they were or where they were from, but Ben did write about the ingredients required in some sort of strange ritual. A sizeable amount of chalk and salt were necessary. I couldn’t make heads or tails of how my brother had gone from writing about the mysteries of the town to the practices of the occult. Maybe the two were related?
As I put the book down, I resolved to search out each of the locations listed and survey them in their entirety. I briefly picked up the keys and fiddled with their structure for a moment, further confirming their age. I put them in my pocket, put the first three journals back in their hidey-hole, returned the brick back to its hole, gathered the final journal and the maps, and finished scarfing down what was left of my sandwich in a rapid flurry. Looks like I now had something to do for the day.
I wasted no time in getting dressed and was out the door as quickly as I could. Rays of sunlight pierced through cracks in the trees and illuminated touches of Maxence’s yard. I pulled my bike from its hiding place underneath some brush and wrapped the messenger bag, which held my resources and some extra adventuring gear, around my shoulders. I didn’t really know what I was looking for, but I felt just following my brother’s footsteps might give me some clarification on his disappearance. My first destination would be the statue of Pierre Dugua, which I had visited plenty of times in the past, but had never really examined in the detail Ben must have. I kicked off my bike and headed through the trail out of my sylvan enclosure. Before I knew it, I was past the school and through The Burns. It was another humid day, so it had been a good decision on my part to leave my leather jacket behind. The wind rustled my hair as I flew through the breeze and began the painful uphill climb to the park. It was an ascent I made nearly every day to my job. Never fun to do, but the payoff of soaring down it made it worthwhile.
I kept my eyes out for any sketchy black limousines and to my pleasant surprise found none. A moment later, I had reached the top of the hill and set my bike down on the grassy parkway right next to one of the curved metal benches. The cicadas sang loudly in their chaotic symphony, watching me from some hidden alcoves in the surrounding trees. Retrieving my notebook, the maps, and Ben’s journal from my bag, I headed right towards Pierre Dugua’s menacing mug. I set down my items and began to survey the base of the statue, moving bottom to top. He stood firm as if posing for a camera. His chiseled right hand extended outward while his left held a rapier lodged partly into the cement base. I quickly found the symbol on the statue. It was the strange mixture of moons with the eye in the center; the ‘Eastmouth Symbol’ as Ben had put it. It had been added on to the nape of Dugua’s neck, right below his excessively large feathered hat, some time after the state had originally donated the statue. I opened Ben’s journal to the page on the statue and found that he had sketched the symbol with perfect detail. Every line was symmetrical. Every groove was exact. It made me a little jealous to realize just how talented he had been. I scaled the statue again from bottom to top, inspecting its marble facade with immense concentration. I looked again, and again, and again… and fairly rapidly realized that there was nothing of real interest about the statue other than the symbol. Had Ben just documented specific locations where it appeared? Did the location even mean anything? Hell, did the symbol even mean anything? Maybe the founders of Eastmouth just thought it looked cool? It was a mystery. Possibly a mystery without any real answers, but as far as I was concerned, it was my only real lead towards finding Ben.
I collapsed with a sigh. I really had no idea what I was looking for. Absolutely none at all. I sat there thinking about the symbol for a while. The biggest question on my mind, beyond why it was everywhere in Eastmouth, was why the hell did no one know what it was or even care that it was there? It was a symbol specific to Eastmouth; and if it was on the locations on the map plus on some of the portside manhole covers, it was even more extensively spread than I had ever thought. I eyed the statue from where I sat once more... and then I saw it. I hadn’t really considered it of interest before when I had seen it, but maybe it held some significance. It must have been the date that either it was constructed or erected in Eastmouth. 1952 was scratched into his right palm. It also wasn’t very overt as his right palm faced the grass below it, extending outward almost as if asking for someone to kiss his ring. Very French. I scrawled the date down in my notebook, packed my bags, and headed for my bike. Not much luck here, but maybe my future inquiries would fare better.
I had several options for my next location, but geographically the town hall seemed the closest, so that would be my next stop. As I made a left turn on my bike and headed past the coffee shop, I briefly glanced in to check if Ellie was working but snapped my head back when I heard a loud sneeze from the park behind me. I looked over my shoulder and caught a brief flash of red. I stopped my bike for a second to get a better look, but nothing moved.
Had I just imagined that? Maybe I was hallucinating. If Ellie was right, this was becoming a trend for me. I rubbed my eyes and continued down the cracked road.
The port side of town was always whiffy with the fresh scent of fish. The smell was damn near everywhere. It was actually the largest reason I didn’t go down here all that often. That and the fact that I didn’t want to run into any of my dad’s old fisherman friends. He had been a fairly well liked local, so when news of my mother’s death spread and then ‘he and Ben suddenly went to live downstate’, it caused a bit of a ruckus. It didn’t take very long before the idea of having to explain how my family didn’t exist anymore began to rub me in all the wrong places. However, since it was both midday and a perfect day for sailing, my chances of running into inquisitive and gossiping locals seemed slim. I glided down the streets, passing by mom and pop shops, Gerald’s Gasoline, and one of the two major bars as I headed for my destination. However, none of these were my real focus as I was scanning for the eye. I doubted I’d see one just laying out in plain view, but stranger things have happened.
Anyway, I had finally rolled down Edgar Avenue about halfway when I stopped in front of the town hall. It was the oldest structure, beyond St. Gabriel’s, that still stood in the town. Most had been taken down as they became too rickety, others had collapsed or been claimed by fires. Time seems to do that. On first glance it was just a large building with jagged black slate roofing, however, if you ever ventured inside you’d see it was a three story fortress held upright by towering classical pillars and adorned with art depicting anything from shipwrecks, to kings, to even gods from various mythologies. It wasn’t quite bizarre enough to be considered tacky, but it was pretty close. As I stepped off my bike, I realized my misfortune. It was closed. I looked to the hours posted on the wall and grimaced.
***
Mon-Thur: “9-5”
Friday: “Closed”
Saturday: “8-6” (Meeting at 9:00)
Sunday: “Closed”
***
I have never really paid attention to them before, but if there were any ancient mysteries lurking behind the padlocked doors they would have to wait. This put a bit of a pin in my plans, but it didn’t quite condemn them to an early grave.
There could still be some lingering clues on the outside. I looked to the obvious clues first. The eye peered at me from a small plaque above the broad wooden doors. I had already known of its existence there, so it wasn’t really a clue of any sorts. I scratched my nose as I continued to scour the porch. I probably looked like some thief searching for an entrance, but I really couldn’t have cared less. I kicked the doormat aside, peered through the windows, and even looked along the hedges. There was nothing to be seen.
“Another dud,” I grunted under my breath.
That was unfortunate, but as I had previously realized, I didn’t really know what the hell I was looking for. I pulled out my cellphone to check the time. I may have slept in, but since it was midsummer and light lasted longer I still had plenty of time before the sun set beyond the maze-like forests which cushioned Eastmouth into its seclusion. I figured I might as well just get on to my next point of interest, St. Gabriel’s Chapel. It would be an easy enough trip. After all, all I had to do was keep travelling down Edgar Avenue and then take a left just before I hit Main St. I hopped on my bike, and I was off.
Ellie
Eastmouth, Maine
My shift at Hornes had been an absolute bore-fest. There was nothing to do at all outside of stocking the new arrivals, and sifting through the used books that people occasionally came in and dumped on my desk. It’s kind of funny actually that I work in a bookstore. I’m not actually a big reader, but the job was easy and the pay was good. It was the type of gig that would be simply unfair to complain about.
I’d finished stocking the shelves with the new week of releases an hour ago. Since then, I’d been mindlessly thumbing through my phone and playing games. There was no one to stop me as I was one of only three people who worked at Hornes’ and we never shared a shift. The owner, Derek, the grandson of the original Bigby Hornes, couldn’t care less what we did after the work was done.
The pile of used books which sat on the table next to me hadn’t been there the day before. That meant that someone must have come in during Derek’s shift in the morning and sold them to us. He obviously hadn’t gotten around to dealing with them, and seeing as how I had nothing better to do, I figured I might help him out.
Most of them were old and musty literary classics. None of them were my type of books. I find myself more intrigued by books with zombies, shitloads of guns, and evil space wizards. Though to give fair credit, I gave Frankenstein a chance and thought that it was pretty sick.
Out of all of the books in the pile, each looked worn to death. Not a single one of them looked newer than the 1980’s. I began to thumb each one through individually to check the quality of the pages. Most were completely undamaged, but there were a few with nicks or coffee spills. Nothing too out of the ordinary. It was a pretty typical haul… except for the second to lowest book on the bottom. The Count of Monte Cristo was a book that I had never read, but I was sure that it was considered a literary classic. The strange thing about the book was not its condition but its contents. I’d gotten rather tired of thumbing through the pile when a dated photograph slipped out. It was a color photograph of two people on what looked like a honeymoon at the beach. I flipped over the photograph and noticed that something was written on it. It was some kind of scribbling in Russian with the date 1966 placed next to it. I flipped over the photograph to the front to try and recognize who it was. It was a young blonde woman standing next to a tall, muscular, and well-shaven man. They were both wearing wedding rings.
Even after examining the photo for a period of time, I couldn’t quite make out if either of them looked familiar. That’s when I remembered the log. As any business should, Hornes’ Book Shoppe keeps a transaction log which describes every sale or purchase. Despite the fact that there are far faster computers available, we still kept our log on an ancient Pentium computer that had been running for more than twenty years.
I logged in with my credentials and then pulled up the transaction log. There it was at the top of the list. The last transaction had been from a Deborah Sherban. The young face of the woman immediately clicked into place. I’d seen her face in the town hall. She had been elected to the town council back in the 60’s and her much younger face was still perched up in the entry room.
That made my job a little bit easier, but I didn’t know where she lived by memory. Luckily, the computer once again saved my ass. Hornes’ Book Shoppe has a rewards program. An absolutely absurd thing to have in a small town bookstore, in my opinion, but Derek insisted on modernizing at least something when he took it over from his folks. Anyway, I pulled up the list which housed all of the given information by Eastmouth citizen on the rewards program and luckily enough Deborah Sherban’s address was listed. She lived in the stretch of land that divides the downtown area of Main St. from 5th St., the street where Hornes’ Book Shoppe and Cuppa’ Joe Coffee Shop stood. This stretch of land was a mile long chunk of forestry and open fields that had only a handful of houses stationed on it. Luckily for me, that meant that it was only a five minute walk from Hornes’ down to her place. She might not be home, but I figure that it was worth dropping by. I snapped a few photos of the photo with my phone camera for quick reference and then dragged my gaze around the store to make sure that there were no customers or sleeping elderly in sight. My lunch break was coming early.
✽✽✽
Deborah Sherban’s home was a quaint little unsuspecting property with a perfectly trimmed green grass lawn and a fresh coat of red paint on her walls. There was even a little grove of cherry trees next to the garage. It was the quintessential portrait of the 1960’s American dream and a little bit eerie because of its apparent perfection.
I walked up the symmetrically separated stones of the walkway and made my way to the front door of the house. I didn’t expect her to invite me in, and I always had the excuse that I had to get back to the store, but I wanted to return the photo even if I was getting just a little bit uneasy standing in such orchestrated perfection. I reached towards the doorbell and rang it. The sounds of birds chirping rung throughout the house, and I heard footsteps approaching almost immediately.
“Coming,” an elderly female voice nearly sang.
I waited for another fifteen seconds before Deborah opened the door. The scents of fresh blueberry pie drifted throughout the house and punctured my nostrils as it collided. It smelled delicious.
“Hello, deary. Is there something I can help you with?” Deborah asked me, snapping me out of my pie-fuelled daydreams.
“Oh, like, yeah. You left a photo of you and your husband in one of the books that you dropped off at Hornes’ Book Shoppe,” I said as I handed her the photo.
Her eyes quickly narrowed as she carefully removed the photo from my hands.
“This is awfully strange,” she declared. “That is me in the picture, but honey… I don’t have a husband. Never found the right man.”
“But you’re both wearing wedding rings in the photo,” I added, now slightly confused.
“I don’t know what to tell you, but I don’t have a husband. I’ve never seen that man before in my life, and I don’t remember this beach. I may be getting old honey, but I haven’t gone senile just yet,” she said with a chuckle.
“Right…,” I said. “Well, I’ve got to get back to my job. Just wanted to return your photo.”
“Oh, I do so thank you, my dear. Would you care to come in and have a slice of pie? It’s fresh and well… I’ve just baked too much for myself, dear.”
“I’m good,” I replied as I backed up a little. I could be completely imagining it, but the way she presented the option sounded a little threatening. “I’ve got to go back to work, but have a nice day.”
I waved as I speed walked away from her front doorstep. I didn’t bother to look behind me until I was back at Hornes’.
As I sat down pondering the weirdness of the brief encounter, I pulled up the photos on my phone and analyzed them. The woman was unmistakably Deborah Sherban, but the
man was a mystery. I looked at the photos of the reverse side and pulled up a translator app to give me a rough translation of the Russian.
***
“Honeymoon in Sicily. Time of fond memory and much love. - 1966”
***
I put down my phone for a second to think. A husband she didn’t remember and a threatening invitation… what did it all mean? I hadn’t the slightest idea, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to find out. Jason was right about one thing though. Those town council people are just a little off. Maybe there was something strange going down in Eastmouth. Or maybe Deborah Sherban was just going senile? Either way, the most important topic at hand was that I now craved blueberry pie. Damnit, I still had a long shift left ahead of me.
