by Rick Hautala
“Yeah, yeah. We all know the story, Glennie,“ Tony said before raising his beer and taking a few noisy swallows. “We don’t need to hear it again. But you said you wanted us to go with you in the morning. You mean to say you left that guy out there?“
Again, Glenn shifted uncomfortably on the barstool. His throat felt suddenly dry again in spite of the beer. “I didn’t exactly leave him out there. He just never showed up.“
“Amounts to pretty much the same thing, don’tcha’ think?“ Butter said as he crushed his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray at his elbow. Glenn’s was smoldering, unnoticed, between his fore- and middle finger.
“He asked if I wanted to walk over to the lighthouse with him,“ Glenn went on, “but I figured it was better to stay with the boat. The ocean’s still pretty heavy since that storm the other day, ’n I didn’t wanna get stranded myself.“
“But you didn’t mind leavin’ him behind, huh?“ Tony said.
“I told you, I didn’t leave him. He never showed up.“ Glenn finally noticed that his cigarette had burned out, so he dropped it into the ashtray and continued. “I waited plenty long, ’n then I went lookin’ for him, but I couldn’t find him. I sure as hell wasn’t about to stick around all night. I figure either he ain’t ever comin’ off that island...alive, anyway, or else he’s sacked out some place, just waiting for dawn.“
“He have a cell phone with ’im?“ Butter asked, looking proud that he’d thought of this angle. “I mean, these days, you gotta put some effort into it, if you want to be left alone.“
In response, Glenn slung the carrying case off his shoulder and placed it carefully onto the bar. A few of the regulars moved closer, no longer trying to mask their interest as Glenn unzipped the black leather case.
“It’s in here, ’long with his camcorder, a tape recorder, ’n a couple of notebooks. I found all this stuff scattered around outside the lighthouse when I went lookin’ for him. Looked kinda like he dropped it in a hurry.“
“You really did go lookin’ for him?“ Tony said with a sniffing laugh. “You ain’t just sayin’ that?“
He was scowling as he picked up the small tape recorder and inspected it for a moment or two. The side of the black casing was scuffed gray, and the small speaker hole in the front was clotted with dirt and turf. He sniffed softly as he placed it down on the bar, then threw back the rest of his beer and slid the empty toward Shantelle, who was standing close by, also listening to Glenn’s story.
“’Course I did,“ Glenn said. “After I told him I wasn’t interested in checking out any of the buildings, I told him to make sure he was back by nine o’clock. That’s when the tide was up. You know, the dock that used to be there got washed away a couple of winters ago, so I had to run my boat up onto the shingle. I was only gonna wait for the tide, ’cause if I missed it at nine o’clock, I wasn’t gonna get off there ’till morning. No way I’m gonna freeze my ass off out there all night.“
“Neither time nor tide,“ Butter said nodding sagely and smiling to expose his big, yellow tooth.
“And he never showed?“ Shantelle asked, her dark eyes narrowing with concern. She, too, knew all of the stories about NephewsIsland.
“I hollered and hollered for him, but he never answered. It was dark by then. I got the flashlight from my boat and looked around some, but I never seen hide nor hair.“
“You think the ghosts got him? ’S that it?“ Tony asked.
Glenn couldn’t see it, but he was fairly sure Tony was smirking at him behind his beard.
“I don’t know what happened. He might’ve fallen off one of the ledges, for all I know. The door to the lighthouse was open, so he might’ve gone up to the top where the light used to be, but I didn’t see any evidence of him being up there. I didn’t see his flashlight or anything.“
“Shouldn’t you call the Coast Guard?“ Shantelle asked. She had taken Tony’s empty glass and returned with a full one without asking. Glenn and Butter were still working on their beers.
“If we don’t find him tomorrow, I guess we’d better,“ Glenn said. “But the Coast Guard ain’t too keen about anyone bein’ on that island, so I ain’t about to admit that I been ferryin’ writers out there.“
“Good point,“ Butter said, nodding again, and he was echoed by Tony, who said, “Damned good point!“
While he was talking, Glenn was absentmindedly handling the contents of the writer’s carrying case. As he looked down at the micro-recorder, he noticed that the tape inside had run about halfway through. He suddenly sat up straight and snapped his fingers.
“Wait a second. He was askin’ me all sorts of questions about the island. Tapin’ ’em. This is probably the tape.“ He inspected the recorder until he found the controls, a small series of indented buttons on the side. After a little experimentation, he found the rewind button and pressed it. The tape made a faint hissing sound as it rewound a short way. Then Glenn pressed play.
“...saying you don’t believe in ghosts, or that you just don’t believe the stories about this particular lighthouse and island.“
“That’s him. That’s the writer,“ Glenn said, addressing no one in particular as the small machine in his hand played back the recorded voice. The barroom had suddenly gone totally quiet as everyone moved closer and listened.
“I’m not sayin’ anything either way,“ Glenn’s recorded voice said. “It’s just that—when you live ’round here and you earn your livin on the ocean, you hear all sorts of tales, and you take ’em for what they are, just tales—unless you experience somethin’ yourself that you don’t understand.“
“Are you saying flat out that there are no ghosts in the lighthouse or the lightkeeper’s house on NephewsIsland?“
“I ain’t sayin’ there is, and I ain’t sayin’ there ain’t,“ Glenn’s recorded voice said.
“Christ! You sound like friggin’ Einstein,“ Tony muttered before quaffing some of his beer. Shantelle and Glenn both glowered at him to keep him silent as the voices continued.
“So tell me,“ the recorded voice of the writer said, “have you personally ever had any strange or what you might call supernatural experiences?“
There was a lengthy pause on the tape, and once it was clear that Glenn wasn’t going to answer, the writer continued, “There have been numerous reports from fisherman and sailors passing by NephewsIsland, especially late at night, who have heard strains of piano music. Some people have even said that it was a particular song they heard: ’Listen to the Mockingbird.’ Have you ever been out here at night and heard anything like that?“
“I’m not usually out this way,“ Glenn’s recorded voice said. It sounded fainter, now, like he had turned his head away from the microphone. “Most of my traps are set south of the harbor.“
Butter jumped on his stool and turned to Glenn. “That ain’t true,“ he said. “You have thirty or forty pots out near the Nephews.“ Glenn snapped the recorder off and glared at his friend.
“I wasn’t gonna tell him that,“ he said, fighting back the sudden rush of anger he felt at Butter. “Listen to him. He’s grindin’ me like I’m some kind of authority or something. I wasn’t about to tell him a damned thing.“
“But you’ve heard it,“ Butter said, pressing. “You know damned right well you have. You ’n me were out that way a couple of summers ago. ’Member? ’N we both heard—“
“Nothin’! ’Least nothin’ that guy needed to know about,“ Glenn said softly, still struggling to control his anger.
Was it anger? Glenn wondered. Or fear? Years ago, he and Butter had been out by The Nephews one night, and they had heard and seen—something. The memory of it still sent an icy wave rippling up between his shoulder blades.
But he didn’t want to talk about it now, and he certainly didn’t want Butter talking about it, so he clicked the recorder on and pressed the fast forward button. For a second or two, there was a high-pitched squealing that sounded like a chipmunk on helium. Then Glenn press
ed play again, and everyone in the bar leaned in as they listened to the recorded sound of the visiting writer’s voice.
“...not even sure of their names or the names of the lighthouse keeper and his wife—if, in fact, she even lived out here on this lonely rock. There are numerous gaps in the historical records from the late eighteen- and early nineteen-hundreds. Of course, it’s possible that—“ The writer’s voice was suddenly cut off by a loud bang. Most everyone in the bar couldn’t help but jump.
“That must’ve be him, opening’ a door,“ Butter said in a whisper. “Where d’you think he is—the lighthouse or the keeper’s house?“
“That was probably the front door of the lighthouse,“ Glenn said, impatiently waving him quiet with one hand while leaning forward. “’Least that’s where I found his stuff. Shush.“
The tape played back the heavy clump of footsteps on either the front steps or a wooden floor of the lighthouse. They seemed halting, as though the person was hesitant, unsure if he should proceed. Then, with a low, fear-tinged voice, the writer’s recorded voice said, “What the hell is that?“
There was another loud banging sound and then several seconds of hissing silence on the tape. Everyone in the bar seemed to be holding their breath as they listened. Glenn was so focused on the tape, waiting to hear the writer’s voice again, that he realized he’d been hearing something else for a several seconds before it finally registered.
“Hold on a second,“ he said.
His hands were tingling as he stopped the tape, pressed rewind for a few seconds, then started the tape again.
“Listen,“ he said, his voice a raw whisper as he leaned both elbows on the bar, raised the small tape recorder, and held it close to his ear.
The sound was so faint it was almost nonexistent, but Glenn recognized the echoing, tinkling sounds of a piano. It took him a heartbeat or two to acknowledge that the sound was actually on the tape, not coming from the next room or outside. He turned the volume up as high as it would go, but the faint, teasing sound faded away, lost in the static hiss of the otherwise blank tape.
“D’you hear that?“ Glenn asked, his eyes leaping back and forth from Tony to Butter to Shantelle and back to Tony.
“I didn’t hear a goddamned thing,“ Butter said. His forehead was furrowed with confusion, and he cocked his head to one side, looking like a dog that was listening to a high frequency whistle that humans can’t hear.
“No, no. Listen again,“ Glenn said.
He rewound the tape and played it again, making sure the volume was turned all the way up. Once again, he heard the writer say, “What the hell was that?“—followed by the loud bang, then silence. Through the tape hiss came the unmistakable sounds of a distant piano, playing “Listen to the Mockingbird.“
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,“ Butter said, gasping as he sat back and let his shoulders slump. His mouth hung open, exposing his single yellow tooth. His eyes were wide and held a wild, confused glow.
Glenn quickly rewound the tape, and they all listened one more time. This time, everyone in the bar said they heard the faint strains of the distinctive tune.
“You ain’t fucking with us, are you Glenn?“ Shantelle asked. Her eyes were wide, dark pools in the dim barroom light.
Glenn couldn’t speak. He could barely shake his head, no. His fingers were tingling so badly he’d all but lost his sense of touch. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold onto the tape recorder. A numb, hollow feeling slid open inside his chest, and the cold sensation between his shoulder blades spread like invisible fingers up the back of his neck.
Glenn clicked the tape off and looked around at his friends. They had all heard it, and they were all staring at him as though they expected him to say something profound. But it was Tony who finally spoke up.
“Wanna know what I think?“ he said gruffly. Before anyone could draw a breath to speak, he continued, “I think, if you ain’t playin’ some kinda trick on us here, if this is for real, there’s only one thing you can do.“
“What’s that?“ Glenn asked, looking at him, his eyebrows raised in desperate query.
“I think you oughta take that damned tape recorder, zip it back into that carrying case with all that other stuff, put a heavy stone in with it ’n drop it overboard when you go out lobsterin’ tomorrow mornin’.“ Tony raised his hand and pointed a gnarled forefinger at Glenn, shaking it like a schoolteacher who was scolding a child. “’Cause if that tape’s for real, there ain’t no one ever gonna see that writer fella alive again. Not on The Nephews, ’n not anywhere else.“
Tony leaned his head back and drained his beer glass with a few deep swallows. After wiping his chin and beard with the flat of his hand, he leaned forward and pinned Glenn with an intense, earnest look.
“That fella drove up here, you say?“
Glenn’s throat was so dry he could barely swallow as he nodded and said, “Uh-huh.“
“Well, then,“ Tony said, heaving himself up off the bar stool, preparing to leave. “If I was you, while it’s still dark, I’d think about drivin’ his car out to Nickerson’s Quarry and pushin’ it off Big Derrick Ledge where it’s deepest.“ Tony wavered, a little unsteady on his feet as he took two twenties from his wallet and dropped them onto the bar in front of Shantelle. Before he turned to leave, though, he belched before leaning close to Glenn. His breath was sour with beer and stale with cigarette smoke as he whispered into his ear, “’N I’d think ’bout movin’ them thirty or forty traps you got out there by the Nephews.“
Nightmare Transcripts
This is what you say: “I don’t know which is worse—when I’m having the nightmares, or a couple of nights later, once they stop.“
Then you take a deep breath and hold it as you settle back against the couch cushions and roll your head from side to side. The crackling sound your spine makes is like a string of firecrackers going off inside your head. It hurts.
“Well, then,“ says your current psychotherapist.
His name is Bob Marshall, and you don’t like him, not one bit.
“Why don’t you tell me about both situations?“
When you shrug, the leather-covered couch on which you’re lying makes another, deeper creaking sound that sets your teeth on edge. You wince as you inhale slowly between your teeth.
After taking a moment to collect your thoughts, you say this:
“You see. I’ve even been keeping track of them—the nightmares, I mean—trying to see if they come in conjunction with the full moon or something I’ve eaten just before I go to bed or something. So far, though, there doesn’t seem to be any pattern. None that I’m aware of, anyway.“
Bob asks: “Do you mean that you don’t see any pattern to your dreams or to the occurrences of your dreams?“
Your anger suddenly spikes, and you glance over your shoulder a Bob and see that stupid smirk he seems to have on his face for most of the time during your appointment. You hate it when he looks at you like that, like you’re something he stepped in or something.
“They’re not dreams,“ you say.
You’re trying hard not to shout, but you put as much firmness as you can into your voice.
“They’re fucking nightmares, okay? You got that?“
Bob nods, and you clench both hands into fists so hard they start to ache all the way up to your elbows. Your body is tense, and it begins to tremble, especially your legs, like you just finished running. The couch kee[ps making those seep creaking sounds that hurt your ears so much you have to close your eyes and block your ears before you finally gain a measure of control and don’t scream.
“Right...right,“ Bob the therapist you don’t like says. “They’re nightmares.“
His voice remains calm even though you can sense—hell, you can practically smell that he’s as frustrated and full of rage as you are, only in a different way or maybe he just hasn’t realized it yet.
“So tell me,“ he says, using that fake, friendly voice. “Is it that you
don’t see a pattern to the … nightmares or to the occur—“
“Yes...yes,“ you say, breathing out harshly between your teeth. “Jesus, I told you that the last time I was here. They’re all the same—the nightmares. Night after night. The same fucking thing! It’s just that it...that they get really intense for a few nights, and then, over the next week or so, they’re not as detailed...not as scary.“
Bob shifts in his chair and says this: “But then, maybe two or three weeks go by, and they start coming back again, getting even more intense, right? That’s what you told me in the last session.“
His voice rises suggestively, but the only response you can manage is a low grunt because what you really want to do is leap off the goddamned couch and throttle the living shit out of Bob. Your arms are hurting all the way up to your shoulders, now, and you think you can hear a high-pitched buzzing sound in your ears.
“Well, then...can you tell me exactly when that is? Bob asks. “When they start getting intense again?“
You grit your teeth and shake your head, feeling totally exasperated with this guy.
He just plain isn’t going to get it, is he? You ask yourself.
And then you answer yourself: No, he isn’t. Not any more than any of the other head shrinkers you’ve seen over the last three years.
Bob is...what?
The fifth shrink you’ve worked with so far. That’s not counting those useless talks you had last year with the school therapist. What a fucking waste of time. But you’re already beginning to think that it doesn’t matter how many sessions you have with him or any other shrink. You can tell that Bob—just like the others—just plain isn’t going to get it.
“So why don’t you review for me how this dre—I mean, how these nightmares go?“ he asks. He still sounds so calm and patient, like he’s talking to a goddamned imbecile or a little kid or something. You can tell that he’s putting it all on for you. It’s nothing but a fucking show.
