* * *
When a call did finally come in, we didn’t have far to go. Pat Finlay’s voice was one of the most recognizable in town—as well as being the oldest man in the area he also had the thickest accent.
“Get yersels down here, b’ys,” he said. “The auld shed roof has collapsed and we need to get the boats out and somewhere else right sharpish.”
At least the boat shed was just at the foot of the road from the depot, but that was the only good thing about the next half-hour.
Pat had been right—the boat shed—a building at least a hundred years old—had fallen inward, under the combined weight of snow and wind. Only the fact that the roof hadn’t completely caved in—yet—was saving the three boats inside from being crushed.
It looked like a lost cause to me—the seaward wall was already in the water and floating slowly away from us with the wind behind it and the side of the building nearest us was listing some three feet off the vertical. I wasn’t totally convinced it was safe to be trying any work in the area at all, but the boats weren’t just old Pat’s livelihood—they were vital to the summer economy of the town. There would be an outcry if we didn’t at least try to save them.
George sat in the small plow moving as much snow away as he could without causing more damage to the building. It wasn’t going to be easy. The roof sat almost on top of two dinghies and a small crab boat. One of the dinghies wasn’t salvageable, having had its rubber punctured in many places and the fiberglass portion of the hull cracked and broken into three distinct pieces. Jimmy and I managed to get a winch and strapping onto the crab boat and old Pat’s pickup had just enough pull in it to drag the small vessel up onto the shore. Its bottom scraped hard on the shingle until it came up hard against the banks of snow and had nowhere else to go. By this time, the listing wall was at a perilous angle—if it came down—and it looked ever more likely it might—it could very well fall on top of us.
But that’s why they pay us the big bucks.
I tried to ignore the danger and moved closer. The second dinghy proved more troublesome than the crab boat. It was the largest of the three vessels—a twenty-two footer that was used in summers to take tourists up and down the coast on nature cruises. If we didn’t get it out of the shed fast, it was never going to go any farther.
Old Pat climbed out of his pickup to supervise and George finally gave up on the plow and came down to give us a hand, but even with the three of us heaving and tugging, we couldn’t get the dinghy to budge. It didn’t look like it was wedged in anywhere but the sucker wasn’t for moving anytime soon. The snow spattered in our faces, the wind whistled in our ears and my hands felt like I’d stuck them in an icebox for an hour. The tips of my fingers poked through holes in the left-hand glove, and it was just as I remembered the glass cracking in the plow door that I realized the light had improved—but not for the better.
I had my back to the sea, but I could tell from the look on old Pat’s face that whatever was behind me wasn’t anything I wanted to see.
“Don’t look back, boy—just get yersel over here.”
George and Jimmy had already started backing away up the small slope toward the road—George even beating the lad for speed despite giving away more than forty years. I had time to note that whatever was behind me was casting soft dancing shadows ahead of the departing men—then I felt it; a tingling at the nape of my neck. A high, sibilant whisper called out of the wind, voiceless yet strangely seductive.
“Come away, boy,” old Pat shouted, and he too backed off quickly as the shadows got sharper and the tingling got more marked, as if I’d inadvertently touched a live wire.
I finally persuaded my legs into action and stumbled away from the dinghy as fast as I could manage. Old Pat’s eyes went wide and stared at a point over my left shoulder.
“A bit faster might be useful,” he shouted, and I took the hint. I was almost running as I reached him. I started to slide as I hit the slope, but Pat put out a hand, firstly to steady me and then to half drag me up onto the road.
I turned to see the pale glowing fog hanging over what was left of the boathouse. I heard the whisper in the wind, louder now, more insistent, but felt no inclination to answer the call.
A fresh flurry of snow blew in my eyes. I brushed it away and, when I looked again, the fog was drifting away out into the bay. There was no trace of boathouse or dinghy in its wake, not even any debris, just a patch of clear water already starting to develop a skim of ice on top.
* * *
We stood on the roadway looking down into the water for long seconds before the howling wind and driving snow forced us to retreat. George halfheartedly offered to drag the crab boat farther away from the water, but Pat waved him away.
“It ain’t coming back, boy. Not to the same place twice. Besides—we all saw the direction it took.”
I hadn’t mentioned it, but it had been in my mind. I nodded.
“It was making for Dunfield—back to the bay and the spot where…”
“Aye,” Pat said, and spat on the ground at his feet. “Back to where it all started.”
Jimmy was last to turn away.
“Did you see that? Did you?”
“Aye, boy,” Pat said. “We all saw it.”
“I thought it was just the auld folks trying to get a rise out of the young un’s,” the lad said as we led him away, heading for the depot, warmth and coffee.
Pat clapped Jimmy on the shoulder.
“A’body thinks that,” he said. “Until they see it for themsel’s.”
I followed several paces back, lost in a memory. I’d been as skeptical as Jimmy—once upon a time. That had all changed for me in the winter of ‘96.
4
1996
I was twenty years old and all was right with the world. I had a steady job working for the town, I got engaged to Bettie Walker from Catalina at Christmas and now, on New Year’s Eve, I intended to party hard with Joe and Harris Pollock, my best pals from school who were home from college for the holidays. Bettie wasn’t happy—she had her hopes on spending a cozy night in with her folks, but I figured I had plenty of time for that in years to come. Joe and Harris had been in my life for as long as I remembered, and now I could feel them slipping away—who knew where we’d all be in a couple of years? I wanted one last night—marking the end of childhood was how Joe put it. I wouldn’t have gone that far, but it did kinda feel like the end of an era, especially when we had arranged to meet outside the Bank—starting point for many adventures in summers gone by.
We walked down into the old town, passed the Village Inn without going in—there was a singsong going on over an accordion and fiddle combo. We weren’t in the mood for the old songs that night—we were in the mood for jukebox classics and maybe a dance or two with any local lasses who’d ventured out for the festivities. That’s why I thought we were headed for Rick’s Bar and some games of pool to get the evening started, but the twins had other ideas. Instead of turning into the bar at the top of the next slope, they kept walking up and over the point to the far end.
“Where are we going?” I asked. “The beer is back that way.”
Joe opened his jacket and showed me a full bottle of Screech.
“I’ve got the booze covered. It’s a fine night. Let’s take the boat out.”
Fine wasn’t a word I’d have used—it was a few degrees below freezing, and clear, with a sea of stars twinkling overhead. There was no wind to speak of, but I knew that out on the water even the slightest breeze would be apt to try to strip our skin off.
“Come on, guys—it’ll be bloody freezing out there. I’d like to still have my balls attached in the morning.”
“Is that so you can present them to Bettie Walker?” Joe replied, and dodged as I aimed a punch at his head that was only half in jest.
“Seriously—this is a bad idea,” I tried again.
But the brothers wouldn’t be dissuaded.
“One last adventure,
for old time’s sake,” Harris said.
“Come on, Frank—all for one and one for all and all that happy shit,” Joe added. “This might be our last night out together for a long time—maybe even forever if the jobs take us away after graduating. Let’s do it right—just a quick spin out to the lighthouse and around the bay. We’ll get some of this rum inside us, then head straight back to Rick’s for a burger and the serious drinking.”
When he put it that way, it didn’t sound too bad and five minutes later I was helping them get their dad’s creel boat out of the small, secluded boathouse in the sheltered harbor in the west bay.
Even then I thought they’d back out at the last minute—it was indeed as cold as I’d expected, and we were still inside the boathouse.
“Cast off at the blunt end,” Joe shouted, and laughed loudly. Harris joined in, and that’s when I knew they weren’t going to be dissuaded. I decided to play along and see how far they were willing to push it. Maybe I should have tried to be the voice of reason for a while longer, but it was New Year’s Eve, I was twenty, and these guys were my best friends in the world. Besides, adventure needs to be taken where you can find it—you never know how long it might be until you get another chance. I undid the ropes and jumped aboard as the boat started to drift out of the shed.
Harris turned the ignition, and I was still halfway hoping it would chug on an empty tank or flat battery, but the Honda two-stroke kicked in just fine, too loud in the quiet night. The three of us stood up by the wheel, Harris taking steering duties, as we headed for the lighthouse that marked the entrance to Trinity proper. Even in the dark we all knew we had to tack close to the starboard shoreline for a while to avoid the shallows. We passed the fish-drying decks and right on cue, Harris turned to port as we drew level with the old church. He pointed us straight at the mouth of the bay.
“First star to the right and straight on until morning,” Joe said, unscrewing the rum bottle, taking a hit and passing it over to me.
“Not too far, please,” I said, taking my first hit of the Screech and feeling the warm spiced rum hit like fire in my throat and stomach. “If we get in trouble, there’s nobody around to get to us in time.”
“Relax, boy,” Joe said and clapped me on the shoulder. “Have we ever led you astray?”
The twins laughed at that, and I smiled ruefully, remembering the disaster that was our first visit to a local dance—the one where, at fourteen, we all got hopelessly drunk and were driven home in ignominy by the RCMP. Then there was the time we took my dad’s pickup over the hill and burst two tires in a pothole—or any of half a dozen other occasions where a bright idea, usually from Joe, had only led to trouble. I wasn’t blameless though—the three of us had always brought out the best—and worst—in each other. Judging by the rate we were getting through the Screech, I couldn’t see tonight being any different.
I had to admit it was a glorious night for a sail. Harris cut the engine as we got level with the lighthouse and we drifted under as clear a sky as I have ever seen. The moon hung, almost full, just above the horizon away to the east, casting a silver path across the water with its reflection. The Milky Way was clearly visible in an arch above us, and Mars winked red off above Trinity itself. The outgoing tide slowly took us toward the harbor mouth and the Atlantic Ocean beyond, and the only sound was the lapping of waves on our hull.
It didn’t even feel that cold—I was well wrapped up, and the Screech gave a pretense of warmth that was enough to stop me complaining. I was happy for a time, just drifting there, watching the reflected lights of the old town twinkle and dance in the water.
My calm didn’t last though.
“Hey—we should go and check out the wreck,” Joe said. “On a clear night like this, I bet we’ll be able to see it just fine.”
“That is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” I replied, and turned to Harris for confirmation. To my dismay, he was already reaching for the ignition and turning the boat—not back to the town, but facing out to the open sea.
Joe handed me the Screech.
“Fifteen minutes each way—then straight back to Rick’s and you get to decide what we do for the rest of the night. That’s a promise. Deal?”
I took a long look at the town, turned my back on it, downed as much rum as I could stomach, then pointed along the shore toward Dunfield.
“Onward,” I called. “And don’t spare the horses.”
* * *
I knew it was a bad idea, even before we passed Indian Head Rock and got to the more open water beyond. The cold bit deeper—even the Screech couldn’t mask it, and we started to roll and yaw in a growing swell. But Harris knew these waters well—he spent most of his summers out in this same boat, hauling crab and shrimp with his old man. He handled the boat as if born to it, tacking back and forth across the waves, always heading straight for the gap that was just visible straight ahead—and the spot where all the stories originated.
The wreck was the stuff of local legend—a British battleship that sank in circumstances that could never be talked about, the theories for which ranged from “fucking aliens” to Nazi skullduggery, top-brass cock-ups to catastrophic accident. Whatever the cause had been, the wreck was obviously there—local fishing boats had to give the area a wide berth at low tide, and most of us chose to stay away from it completely, for it had developed an evil reputation in a very short space of time.
Of course, like the haunted captain’s house on the hill above town, it was an almost magnetic draw for kids of all ages. We’d cruised around it—in this same boat—many times in our youth, looking for a glimpse of twisted hull, the hint of a skeleton—a shock or thrill that never came, until eventually we stopped coming around so much when the lure of beer and lasses proved stronger. This was our first time in the vicinity for several years—and our first ever at night in winter. The cold added an extra shiver to the one that ran down my spine.
Neither Joe nor Harris seemed to share any of the trepidation I was feeling. Now that we were out of the harbor and onto open sea, it felt like we were the only people in the world. The lighthouse winked at our back, but ahead of us there was only dark sea punctuated by solitary rocks. Tall cliffs loomed over us to starboard, lone stacks like shadowy sentinels watching our passing. Harris must have seen something in my face, for he laughed loudly.
“Come on, Frank, lighten up. It’s supposed to be an adventure.”
My sense of fun was fading fast as we got closer to the wreck site. The only adventure I fancied at that moment was chasing some beers after the Screech down into my gut, and my mood didn’t improve as we sailed passed the Tern Rock and into Dunfield Bay itself.
At least here the swell died down and we had some signs of civilization—several lights showed in the houses on the far shore, reassuring me that we were not completely alone. Joe and Harris took lines of sight from the lights and the rocks on the horizon, and we sailed parallel to the shore for a bit before heading for deeper water. Finally Harris brought us to a halt.
“Here—as close as I can judge it.”
He cut the engine and we came to a standstill again. Apart from a slight swell, there was no sign of drift, and no sound but the gentle lap of wavelets on our hull.
“Okay—we’re here. Job done,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Joe leaned over the hull, peering into the black waters.
“Come and see,” he shouted. “There’s something down there.”
Harris and I joined him in peering over. The boat listed so much that our noses were almost in the water, but I wasn’t worrying about capsizing—all my attention was on what I saw beneath us.
At first I thought it might be a sleeping whale—humpbacks are often seen lying still in the water in these parts—but not at this time of year. And humpbacks, as far as I knew, weren’t luminescent.
Whatever was beneath us glowed—silver and blue and gray, shimmering like jelly in sunlight, just lying there, no more than twenty feet beneath us.
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“Is that a bit of hull?” Harris whispered, but to my eye there was nothing that resembled a boat down there. The thing I was looking at seemed more like some vast jellyfish, hanging in the water waiting for prey to swim past—or float past, for even as Harris pointed, thin wispy tendrils began to wend their way up through the dark, as if tasting for our presence.
“Okay,” I said softly. “Now can we go?”
Harris stepped away so quickly that the small boat rocked and yawed alarmingly, almost throwing all three of us off our feet. By the time I caught my balance, Harris had got the engine started, but Joe hadn’t moved, standing at the stern staring at the sea. He seemed to be lit from below, the light throwing his face into skeletal shadows, his eyes sunk in deep black pits.
The light got stronger, brighter than the almost full moon, and for yards around us the sea glowed and pulsed as if alive.
“For fuck’s sake, get us out of here,” I shouted. Harris didn’t need to be told twice. He throttled up the engine to full revs and we started to pull away. I looked back at the glowing patch of water—a light fog rose up from the surface, glowing faintly, hovering over the spot where we had just been. Fingers of wispy nothingness drifted in our direction, then were pulled back into the main body of mist.
We headed out of Dunfield Bay at full speed. I looked back just as we started our turn back around Tern Rock. The mist was still there, hanging in a dome over the wreck site, and as I watched, it seemed to collapse on itself and fall into the dark water until there was nothing left to see but the sea and the stars.
* * *
We didn’t have a very happy New Year, all three of us doing our utmost to drink ourselves to oblivion, and mostly managing it.
The Dunfield Terror Page 4
