by D C Tullis
Jason
Eastmouth, Maine
Before I knew it, I was standing in front of the mountainous gates of St. Gabriel of the Message. It was a massive snow-white fortress built in the vein of nearly every other colonial American settlement church. Stained glass windows filled the front walls which cast beautiful lights at sunset. Two cobbled pathways led around the back of the structure to the graveyard in the back. It was one of the two cemeteries in Eastmouth. The other lay southeast of the docks and was nestled within a small grove of white cedar, hidden away from the rest of town life.
I found the gates to the church unlocked. This was a stroke of luck because I didn’t really feel like hopping fences in broad daylight was the smartest idea. Especially with how well revered the place was. Passing over the cobbled path, I made my way up the steps and opened the sturdy oak doors. They were adorned tip to base with countless Christian symbols of purple and gold compiled in an unnerving yet artistic arrangement. Symbols of crosses, fishes, crowns, representations of the holy trinity, and some ugly creature with seven heads and ten horns all fiercely protected the doors. Whoever they got to design this place must have had a field day. The doors weren’t the only location covered with religious runes and uncanny designs. The outer walls of the church had several symbols painted on them as well. They ran all the way back into the graveyard.
I pushed the archaic doors open, and they responded with an uncomfortably slow creak before eventually giving way. The church was illuminated gently by a few candles running along the walls. They penetrated the darkness and lit a straight pathway down to the altar. Before it sat Father Caino deep in some sort of meditation. Father Caino had been the replacement sent in after the previous priest, Father Michael, had a stroke and died overnight. One year prior, this event had taken the town by surprise. There had been mass prayer and three candlelight vigils mourning the passing of one of Eastmouth’s most beloved figures. A bit ironic, but even for me that thought might be a bit cruel. Even though the town had taken a better liking to Father Caino, Father Michael had been a genuinely good man. Though he had been a wiry old man in glasses, he had enough energy and charisma to raise the spirits of an entire room of weeping people. He spent nearly all his free time in prayer or doing various volunteering and outreach programs. Further, he wasn’t doing those things for status or to feel good about himself. He was one of the few truly selfless people I had met. The thought made me shrivel a little inside. Some people really didn’t deserve the end they got. Such was his fate. Either way, over time the town had come to quite like Father Caino. Though not as charismatic or energetic, he had a calming and wise presence, and an impeccable understanding of the Bible and ancient times.
I crossed the crimson carpet towards where he kneeled. Father Caino remained in a near trance-like state until I was but a foot away. He turned slowly and gave me a gentle smile as he rose to his feet.
“Hello, young man. What can I help you with today?”
I didn’t actually know quite what to ask him about. I certainly did not wish to mention Ben’s journal or just pry aimlessly, so I thought for a moment before speaking. Three things came to mind. Primarily, the name Passamaquoddy which had been scrawled on the first map to locate the church. Secondly, the, for lack of a better name, ‘massive fucking castle door’. And finally, the symbol around town. I had never had a chance to ask Father Michael about it, but maybe Father Caino knew something. He was after all proficient in ancient knowledge and linguistics.
“I don’t know exactly if you can help me, but I stumbled on some interesting stuff in the library that could be related to the church.”
Father Caino’s eyes lit up.
“Fire away, son,” he replied.
“So I was reading a history book on Maine, and the author actually referenced this church. He referred to it as ‘Passamaquoddy’ though. It sounded possibly Native American in origin. Do you know what it means or... refers to?”
Father Caino scratched his gruff beard before shaking his head.
“I do not know, young man. The name might ring a bell, but it brings nothing to mind. Something that happens at my age, son,” he replied with a hearty bellow.
He didn’t look a day over forty, but who knew.
“Is that all?” he asked.
“Um... no. Does St. Gabriel’s have some kind of odd wooden door anywhere? Something built into it a long time ago?”
His eyes narrowed for a moment before an intrigued look spread across his face.
“I might actually be able to help you there, umm...what is your name, young man?”
“It’s Jason, sir.” replied Jason.
“Okay, Jason, in the cellar below the first floor there does happen to be a rather large wooden door. I don’t possess the key to it unfortunately. If Father Michael had ever made a copy of his key, he didn’t leave it in a place that could be easily found. I have considered calling a locksmith in from one of the neighboring towns but never had a real inclination for it. Come with me this way and I’ll show it to you.”
He beckoned for me to follow as he lead towards a door to the right of the altar. It was an office of sorts littered with religious texts, various papers, and an open laptop. He had evidently taken a note from Maxence on tidiness. He beckoned once more as he opened a door which lead to a set of crumbling stone steps. After what felt like a three story descent, they finally spiked off to the left and lead out onto an antique cellar. It had been converted into what looked like a nuclear bunker; probably sometime in the 50’s. Racks of old canned goods, bottles of water, and medical supplies lined the walls. There were six folded cots burrowed into a back corner right next to… the door from Ben’s Journal. It was an enormous wooden door, probably at least eight feet high. Ben’s drawing had rendered it in immaculate detail. Every scuff, niche, and the strange pattern which snaked around the brass doorknob. Ben had really been underselling his artistic ability.
“Is this what you were looking for Jason?”
“I think so. Do you know where it leads?”
“Rather humorously, I do,” replied Father Caino. “I certainly don’t know it’s origins, but I do know that it is a direct route to the cemetery above. It’s where the landscapers store the tools. Was there anything else this book spoke of that you might be interested in asking?”
“Well no… not from the book anyway. I do have one question though. This might be a pointless one, because no one else seems to care about it, but have you ever noticed the symbol around town? The one with the eye between the two moons?”
His gaze immediately tightened.
“I have seen it of course…,” he spoke cautiously. “...But its nature has never interested me. Who can know why the builders of Eastmouth were enamored by it?”
“Seriously... it’s a symbol that I haven’t seen anywhere else? And it’s never mentioned online anywhere.”
“Strange,” he declared now scratching his beard. “It’s likely there somewhere if you research it enough. Anyway, I have only been lodged here for a year and a half. I still have much to learn about this town’s past.”
He checked his watch immediately after speaking.
“Do you have any other questions? If not, I would like to finish my preparation for evening mass.”
“No. I suppose that’s it,” I replied.
“Very good then. I will be in my office if you need me.”
He quickly scurried away.
I may be good at reading people, but I doubted one would need to be skilled to see that he was hiding something. I didn’t know what, but something made me trust him less than Father Michael. He didn’t seem to be a bad person, but something about him felt… sketchy.
I looked behind my shoulder briefly and after making certain he wasn’t lingering, I pulled Ben’s keyring from my bag. The first one slid into place awkwardly but refused to turn. The second key wouldn’t even fit into the lock.
I was certainly a little disappointed. If Ben had t
aken the time to actually sketch the door down, there had to have been something about it of importance beyond aestheticism. Unfortunately, aside from destroying the door itself, I was out of options. Maybe I’d sneak back and scrounge around for a key in the night some time later. I’d investigate during some time when no one was around. Hell, I might even just hide behind one of the decorative curtains or lay still beneath a pew. But not now. I still wanted to finish my exploration checklist and… I pulled my phone from my pocket… I was losing daylight. Not rapidly, but still.
I turned around and began my ascent up the stairs, passing Father Caino on the way out. He sat in his office furiously typing away on his laptop. I called out to him, and he gave me a brief nod as I passed beyond him. The next moment, I was back on the street outside.
✽✽✽
The ocean breeze had begun to come in, so it was just a bit chilly. I hopped on my bike and began my path to my next location, the lighthouse. While I had been occupied, the streets had filled some. Men walked in groups to the local bars or diners, and a few elderly folk sat chatting on corner benches. The dockhands and sailors had also returned. With their return they brought either the melancholy of misfortune or the joy of a good catch. It was a calming sight to see the town actually populated. Something that wasn’t always so clear during mid-day.
My speed accelerated as gravity guided me downhill on Hawthorne Avenue and towards the port; passing the pharmacy, Sylvia’s Flowers, and Fix It Hardware. The marina was always colorful, and today was no exception. The coral sky burst through the clouds and turned the water into an impressionist landscape. Once I finally reached the port, I swooped left and followed the winding road through empty parking lots and a secondary dock before I finally reached my destination.
The light exploded from the tower beaming out onto the eastern seaboard like prison lights in desperate search of an escapee. I pulled my bike up the side and secured it to the black railing at the base of the outer stairs. The lighthouse itself was a massive gray tower elevated above the ocean by a long manmade strip of concrete. Railed off on each side and four stories tall, the Lighthouse had been considered a pillar of local history since the inception of Eastmouth. We had been taught that it had been turned off during the British invasion of The War of 1812. Because of this, three ships had crashed on the craggy rocks around the port. It had been a vital victory since Eastmouth was considered an important French Port which could’ve have been an entrance for the British on American soil.
Naturally, I didn’t know how much of this was true or exaggeration, but apparently after the battle the French had named it the Luciole Grande, or the Great Firefly. Even to the present day, the Great Firefly withstood the raging waves of storms tearing against its mountainous stature. It was truly a sight to behold. Though never mentioned in legend there was something alluring about it that I couldn’t place my finger on. I crossed the pathway and made my way to the metal door. Unfortunately, my luck failed me once again that day as I tried the handle and found it to be locked. Just as a precaution I tried to use both of my keys, but neither fit at all. I banged my fist against the door twice and a third time just to see if anyone was home. There was no response.
“Dammit,” I groaned.
I was really hoping that one of the locations would turn up something, but maybe my brother had just been interested in sketching the town’s most appealing sights or specific locations with the symbol. Who knew if anything on those maps actually had importance. I certainly didn’t, and that just added to my frustration.
“Whatever,” I once again spoke under my breath, further adding to the negative trend of making myself look crazy.
The sun was beginning to fade and as such the sky’s floral hues leaked into each other like a dripping canvas recreation of an orange and pink Van Gogh piece. Pre-insanity cut off your fucking ear and give to your girlfriend era of course. I transferred to the other side of the lower deck and began to sit down leaning against the stone behind me before I noticed something. I was sitting on another eye symbol. One I hadn’t known of before. The symbol was there of course, but this one wasn’t exactly the same as the others. The eye was branded on the rustic platform in a copper-based triangle cast. Further, it was slanted almost as if the triangle was an arrow pointing to something. If it was though, I couldn’t discern what it was aiming at. It pointed over the edge of the platform and into the seafoam abyss below. Maybe at one point there was some structure erected towards the ocean cliffs it pointed to, but whatever once had been there was now swallowed beneath the beach tides.
I scratched my chin for a second before jotting down a note in my notebook. There just always seemed to be some information I was missing. I was definitely in dire need of a date with the library.
I shrugged and pulled out my phone to text Ellie.
***
You there? - 8:32 P.M.
She replied near immediately.
Yeah. My shift ends @ 9:30. Wanna chill? - 8:34 P.M.
Definitely. I’ve got some questions about some coordinates I found. Also, found some cool shit about Ben. - 8:35 P.M.
Dope dude. C you soon. - 8:36 P.M.
***
Looked like I had some coffee to grab. With that I hopped on my bike and soared away from the bleeding pastel light.
✽✽✽
The bookstore was absolutely deserted when I arrived. That’s not to say it usually had customers, which it didn’t, but tonight the only person in the premises was Ellie sitting behind the counter blasting away at aliens on her phone. For such a small town, one might be surprised to see how many books Eastmouth had amassed over the years. Hornes’ Book Shoppe was of comparable size to really any widespread bookstore outlet. Each section was divided by mossy green genre signs hanging above the aisles. There was even an ‘Adult Fiction’ section to satisfy the old widows of the town. It could more simply be renamed to ‘Book Porn’, but that name might cause them to consciously realize what exactly they were reading.
I passed from the entrance and looped behind the counter through the ‘Sci-Fi’ section to gain a vantage point. Ellie never saw it coming as I tickled her vulnerable armpits, to which she replied with a frantic squeal and slammed her phone down hard against the wooden countertop.
She turned to meet my gaze before releasing an exasperated, “You bastard, Jason! I had almost beaten my score. Fucking asshole!”
I didn’t reply. I just grinned.
“Ugggggggh,” she groaned. “Don’t sneak up on me. That’s so not cool.”
“It was an opportunity I just couldn’t pass up,” I teased.
“Whatever.”
She paused to put her phone away and regain her composure with a few deep breaths.
“So… you said something about Ben and coordinates or something?”
“Oh yeah,” I replied. For a moment I had completely forgotten why I had even come. I sometimes got like that when talking to her.
“Yeah,” I declared. “So, this morning I found a set of Ben’s journals in the secret room with the mirror. They were hidden behind a loose brick. Definitely a stroke of luck to find it. There were also two maps and a key ring with two antique keys lodged behind it.”
“Oooh… jackpot!”
“Totally. The journals were pretty odd too. They started innocently with some stories of Ben playing with faeries and exploring Eastmouth, but it got more interesting over time. There’s some art also, and he had some insanely detailed renditions of knots, plants, and locations around town.
“Lemme see,” Ellie said as she snatched Ben’s final journal from my hands with viper-like speed.
She flipped through the journal temporarily pausing to ooh and ahh at Ben’s artistic scrawlings. Eventually, she finished her observations and put down the journal.
“Okay, you said you found some other stuff in the secret room,” she said.
“Yeah,” I replied. “There were these two maps and an ancient key ring. Of the two maps, one was
of the storm drain system under Eastmouth...”
“How’d he get that?” She butted in with another question. “That isn’t publicly available information.”
“Must have mapped it himself,” I said. “Anyway the other map had a bunch of different locations written on it with keywords to help identify them in the book or somewhere else. St. Gabriel’s had the word ‘Passamaquoddy’ written on it. No clue what it means though. Ring any bells?”
She sat there for a moment deeply browsing the innards of her mind before replying, “No, I don’t think so, but like it does sound very Native American.”
“My thoughts exactly, but I’m not certain. Definitely worth an internet search.”
“I can get on that,” she declared as she reached for the desktop stationed upon the bookstore counter.
She whisked away at the keyboard for a few moments before the screen returned an answer.
“Okay, J, it says right here that they were a Native American tribe which lived in the New England region.”
“But why the church?” I responded.
“Maybe there was a massacre there at one point. Or… maybe one of the churchgoers Ben talked to has some Passamaquoddy lineage. He seemed kind of religious before he disappeared. Hanging out with Father Michael and all.”
“Possibly,” I replied as I bit my thumb. A bad habit, I know, but it was something I sometimes did when I was absorbed in thought.
“Yeah. I probably can’t get much more than that if there’s no more context. Can I see the map?”
“Sure thing,” I declared as I withdrew it from my bag.
She studied it for a moment before returning with a puzzled stare.
“Yeah… no context anywhere dude. This isn’t much to go on.”
“I figured as much. But that’s not why I came here. Check the backside. There’s a set of coordinates listed and since I know nothing about coordinates I figured you might.”
Ellie flipped the map over again. Her emerald eyes scrolled down the page till she found the line I was referring too. She typed the coordinates into her browser and seconds later the screen was alight with results. Thank god for the internet.
