by Gaby Triana
“Get rid of her!” Bellamy shouted, a shiver of repressed fear running through his veins.
The woman went on, as Bellamy’s crew paused in rapt attention. “…forever to wander, marooned on land between life and death. You will never know peace again. So mote it be…”
Seeing no one exterminating the wench, the captain lunged at her, determined to push her off himself, but the woman stepped off the plank and plunged into the seas on her own terms, irons dragging her to the sandy bottom. When one crocodile moved upon her then floated belly-up, the captain knew he was doomed.
Bellamy watched the rest of the crocs retreat and the woman’s body sink, her last breath rising as bubbles to the surface before exploding like dying stars. As Moses’ staff turned the Nile to blood, each of her bubbles ruptured into black tendrils spreading toward his ship.
Vanquish’s men gasped and scattered to hide.
Bellamy stared into the water. “A demon be upon us...”
The poisoned mist whirled toward him and the waters receded, exposing a jagged seabed, as if the Devil himself had taken a deep breath before exhaling. Low on the horizon, a wide green mist tumbled toward them, bringing lightning and rumbling dark clouds.
“Rogue wave!” the watch shouted.
The seabed trembled. A folding wave of green water rose then raced towards them.
This was it…
“Lash yourselves!” Bellamy ordered. Never had he imagined waking upon calm waters this morning, that he would be condemned to a watery death by a wicked woman.
The crew scattered for rope and threw themselves against the rails. They tied the rope tightly and prayed to the last. Some men abandoned ship, but Bellamy would not leave the Vanquish. He lashed himself to the helm and held his arms wide at the inbound wave, challenging it to take him.
The wave struck mid-ship, lifted Vanquish high on its peak, tossing her inland where ravenous crocs, serpents, and God knew what other swamp creatures awaited to feast on them. Bellamy knew how to sail the ocean, not a river of grass. The very idea of wild lands frightened him.
The grasses would serve as a prison from which the ship would never escape.
Vanquish rolled from keel to deck, pushed ten leagues north of the bay deep into the marshland. Her masts and bulkheads crumpled and snapped like bones in a wolf’s maw. All of Bellamy’s crew drowned or were crushed, slashed to bits through the sawgrass and coquina crags.
As for the captain himself, the green mist rose and enveloped him, as he cast his last words into the night. “This be witch’s work. Nigh be time to die.”
TWO
Present Day
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the tale of the legendary pirate ship doomed to roam the Florida Everglades forever.”
The setting sun cast its perfect palette of orange and purple shadows over the sawgrass seas, and my work day was done.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed my airboat tour of the River of Grass. Any questions?”
A small child of about seven raised his hand high in the air. “Is that a gator tooth on your necklace?”
I pinched the charm between my fingertips. “Yes, you like it?”
He nodded. “Is it from the crocodile that ate the people?”
“No,” I laughed, leaning into the boy. “That was just a spooky story I told.”
A spark of curiosity twinkled in his eyes. “But can we see the pirate ship?”
“You mean, does it still exist?” I asked. He must not have understood that my tale was a famous Everglades legend.
He nodded, his proud parents taking pics and videos behind him.
I crouched, looking at the boy straight in his dark brown eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Nathan.”
“Well, Nathan. They say that on dark nights when the moon is only a sliver, you can still see the doomed ship sailing along, searching for a way out, its ghostly crew trapped in a prison of watery grass.”
“The River of Grass.” The kid parroted the nickname I’d used throughout my tour. Most tourists mistakenly thought the Everglades were a stagnant swamp, but I always made sure to clarify that it was a wide, slow-moving river. It overflowed from Lake Okeechobee then headed south until it emptied into Florida Bay.
“You were paying attention. I like that.” I smiled.
“Are there other ghosts out there?” Nathan’s mouth parted ever so slightly, hesitation at his lips. His parents’ enthusiasm dampened slightly.
I could have told him no. Or that my tribe didn’t dabble in the paranormal so I wasn’t sure, or that because of my culture and religion, I wasn’t supposed to speak of such things. But I knew ghosts were real—I’d seen them.
I didn’t want to lie to the boy. “Some people say there are,” I answered carefully.
“Have you seen them?” he asked.
Everyone in the airboat, not just Nathan or his parents, watched me, hinged on my reply. Nineteen people stared at this thirty-one-year-old Miccosukee woman, and I knew what they wanted. They wanted thrill. Entertainment. It was why they had paid for my airboat ride, besides to learn about the Kahayatle’s ecosystem. They wanted a good time, a story they could post to their Instagrams.
I nodded. “I have.”
Maybe not the pirate ship, per se. But I’d seen spirits. My little brother’s, for instance—the day he passed away—but that was one ghost tale I would never tell again. Not to anyone.
Nathan leaned back to sink into his mother’s arms, as she whispered that it was just a story, nothing to worry about. A shadow of blame cast over her steely-eyed gaze at me.
I left it at that—didn’t want to spook the child anymore than he already was. But the Everglades were most definitely filled with the spirits of many who’d refused to move on. Most nights when I sat outside, quietly meditating over our camp, I could feel them, see their silhouettes in my mind’s eye. Lost souls crawling their way out of forgotten memories, begging to be acknowledged, wishing to walk again.
Pushing the thought from my mind, I navigated the airboat back to the Miccosukee Indian Village, our camp out on Tamiami Trail thirty miles west of Miami. The village was a roadside stop where people could get to know our culture, watch alligator wrestling, or buy colorful necklaces made by one of my tribe members. Tomorrow was Gale’s turn to do airboat tours, while I’d sit with my grandmother to make beaded craft parrots and gators.
Day after day.
Sun up, sun down.
Make fry bread, beaded animals, put in hours at the daycare, give airboat rides to tourists. Sometimes my life felt like an endless cycle of rote existence, like a residual haunting caught in a replay.
I enjoyed my life—it wasn’t that I didn’t. But I was past thirty and not much had yet happened. Our family was traditional, so we wore traditional clothes, ate traditional foods, and lived in a traditional way, in our camp instead of in the city like many of my cousins who’d distanced themselves from the camp lifestyle. We weren’t as hardcore as the traditional Miccosukee who refused to live on the reservation, though. To them, we were sell-outs.
It wasn’t true.
All of us on the reservation were committed to preserving Miccosukee culture. As my uncle had told me a million times: with every passing year, our way of life was disappearing. It was up to us to maintain it. Forget the modern world and focus on our established ways, otherwise one day, all six hundred of us would become three hundred, and three hundred would become one hundred. Before we knew it, the Miccosukee Tribe of South Florida might become another extinct culture. Our blood would continue, the Kahayatle would continue, but our lifestyle would perish.
It made me sad to think, but it also left me longing for more.
What if I didn’t want to live this way, day in, day out? What if I wanted to move to the city, buy a nice car or big house like many of my cousins? The casino down the road made enough so I wouldn’t have to give airboat rides if I didn’t want to, but that wasn’t the point. The point of the shows, the t
ours, the festival every year after Christmas Day was to share our art, music, and activities with the world. So they wouldn’t forget. So they’d know we were here and continued to be.
To leave our mark.
I did my part to keep things going, but every time my boat arrived back at the dock, and my tour group hopped out, and some of them handed me dollar tips like they did now, and they took their selfies and returned back to the parking lots…sometimes I wished I could go with them.
Get me out of this place, my heart would scream. I want to see the world.
I reminded myself that the grass was not greener on the other side. Lots of people with complicated lifestyles wished they could live in a simpler way like mine, telling spooky stories on the airboat, enjoying the sunshine, a life with few bills to pay, pointing out flora and fauna before returning to the village to discuss the day with family. I’d remind myself that life was good, even if I didn’t whole-heartedly feel it.
Still, I wanted to feel it.
“Gracias. Muy amable,” I told a woman who made her teen daughter give me a five-dollar bill. I had heard them speaking “Spanglish” during the tour. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” The last family handed me two crumpled dollar bills for my two hours of carefully disseminated information.
Good thing I didn’t depend on these tips. I cringed to think how others survived in the modern world on these meager earnings. “Drive safe. Careful with those speed bumps.”
The white family turned their faces over the shoulders to giggle at my joke. On the tour, I’d mentioned moving speed bumps, otherwise known as alligators sunning in the middle of Highway 41.
“Thanks for the great tour. What was your name again?”
I turned around.
Two of my tour passengers—a man and a woman—stepped up to me. They were a couple, judging from the way the woman had her arm slinked through her boyfriend or husband’s the entire tour like her life depended on him.
“I’m Avila Cypress,” I said, shaking the man’s hand.
“Pretty name.” The woman tapped it into her phone.
She was fair-skinned with luxurious long black hair pulled into a thick ponytail. Her nails were painted a bright blue to match the hull of the boat, and her khaki shorts, green polo, and white visor told me she’d carefully planned this as her “Florida Adventure” outfit.
“Avila,” she said. “I am going to write a review online of that presentation because it was just that wonderful. Thank you so much.”
“Oh. I’m so glad you enjoyed it.” I was relieved. I never knew how people would react to the airboat rides. Generally speaking, people found them to be either extremely interesting if they loved nature, or extremely boring. Hence why I added the spooky tales. Throw a little excitement in there.
“We did,” the man said, a handsome black guy in his forties, I would guess. “In fact, we’re familiar with all those legends and ghost tales you talked about. We heard about your tour and were hoping you’d mention Villegas House.”
My ears burned.
A tremor shuddered in my chest.
How did they know about Villegas House? Very little was written about the dilapidated old depot out in Big Cypress that’d once belonged to a famous environmentalist. They must’ve read about it on that crappy Deadly Florida website that’d been circulating the internet a few years now, because as far as I knew, only locals knew about Villegas House, and God knew, it was taboo to even discuss it.
“Was it something we said?” The man cocked his head.
“Sorry.” I blinked. “It’s just, nobody ever mentions that house.”
“Ah.” The man reached into his pocket and handed me a twenty-dollar bill. “Well, we’re Kane and Eve Parker. This is for today’s tour, but we were hoping you’d be available to give us a private tour of Villegas House in your free time. It has a reputation for being haunted.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I didn’t mention it.” And it would take a lot more than a twenty to get me to even consider going to that place.
“Why? It fits right in with your other ghost tales.” Kane cocked an eyebrow. “Doesn’t it?”
“No, it doesn’t.” I folded the twenty and slid it into my bag. “Villegas House is an actual place with actual history, not good history either. It’s not a campfire tale, Mr. Parker. Besides being haunted, it’s a rotting death trap. No one in their right minds would go there.”
“Well, you see…that’s just it.” Kane looked at his wife and chuckled. “We’re not in our right minds.” He adjusted his baseball cap. A flashy Rolex told me that twenty-dollar bill was chump change to him. “We’re interested in seeing it and were told you’re the only one who knows where it is.”
“Who told you that?” My eyebrows knit together.
It wasn’t true. Many of us knew about it. We just never mentioned it.
“Sources.” Kane smiled a row of perfect teeth.
The only person I knew, besides me, who had a fascination with Villegas House was John, our airboat tours manager, so much that he’d gotten in trouble with my uncle once for mentioning it to tourists. Miccosukee folks avoided the place like the plague. Not only were we traditional but also Christian, so venturing into a haunted, condemned house was not our idea of a good time.
And so, we stayed pretty much silent on the topic. But that didn’t stop me from thinking about it. Or having nightmares about the place since I was a kid. In them, I’d see them lying all over the forest floor. The bodies…
“Hello?” Eve peered into my lost gaze.
I looked at them again. “I’m sorry. Nobody in my camp would ever set foot in that house, and nobody has gone out that way in years.”
“Does anyone else, besides you, know where it is?” he asked.
“No,” I lied.
Uncle Bob knew, John knew…I was pretty sure at least ten people in my camp knew. I only knew because of my dreams. In them, I’d follow the river upstream to Big Cypress, turn right into a dense cypress island, then end up smack in front of the old two-story, hand-built home.
“Maybe the Miami-Dade Police Department?” I added. “They might have records of the place. Because of what happened there.”
“Something about murders?” Mr. Parker asked.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“Avila, we would so appreciate it if you could show us where it is,” Eve said.
I shook my head. “You don’t get it. The place is dangerous. It’s falling apart. It’s a huge liability. I could go on and on.”
“We’ll sign forms,” Mr. Parker said. “Releasing you and the tribe. No worries there.”
I sucked in an impatient breath. “It doesn’t matter how interested you are in that house, it’s bad news. Besides, it’s in the middle of a delicate ecosystem that’s been undisturbed for fifty years. You’d get eaten by mosquitoes, not to mention pythons who snack on alligators.”
I employed all the monsters I could think of to keep them away.
“The spirits there aren’t the happy kind either,” I added. “They don’t want to move on to the other side, they don’t care how peaceful the Light is, and trust me, they don’t believe in God.”
A stare-down took place between the Parkers and me. Something told me they weren’t going to back down. They were used to this sort of thing, and my words meant zero to them. One way or another, they would get their wish.
“Perfect. Exactly what we’re looking for.” His charming smile unnerved me, and I envied his determination. If only I had the courage to insist on the things I wanted the way Mr. Parker did. “Alright, I get it…”
I watched as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Hundred-dollar bills shuffled out. Two, then three, then five, then a few more, all in the palm of his hand. With a smooth motion, he folded the money between his fingers and held it up. Tangerine-tinted bills flashed in the light of the sunset. “Would a grand make it worth your time?”
Good Lord, this man.
“I wasn’t quiet because I wanted money. I was quiet because I can’t take you. End of story.” Part of me hated the fact he was trying to tempt me with money and another part of me…hated myself for saying no.
The truth was, I itched to see Villegas House for myself. I could face it once and for all. Get it out of my system. Shelf that obsession away forever.
A thousand bucks right there in his hand, but that wasn’t the possibility that buzzed in my ears. It was opportunity—to see something new, to finally meet the old creepy house, to hang with new people, for once. It didn’t have to take long. All I had to do was airboat them out, show them the error of their ways, and call it a night. Show myself there was nothing to be scared of, then go home.
Speaking of home, it was getting dark out, and tonight was my turn to make dinner. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t. I’m headed home now. Thank you for the gratuity.” I smiled and moved past them, bustling toward the rental shop before I changed my mind.
From the slow crunch of gravel, I could tell they were casually following me. “We’re staying at the resort and casino,” Eve called out. “We’ll be here ‘til Monday. If you change your mind, just give us a call.”
Kane and Eve Parker were different from other families on the boat—more put-together, polished, rehearsed. They’d done this before.
I faced them. “Thank you both for the offer. But I can’t take you. It wouldn’t be right. I’d be in hot water with my tribe.”
Mr. Parker’s gaze connected with mine again, as though sending silent messages to try and alter my decision. His wife handed me a business card—ShadowBox Productions with an old-style television set for a logo.
“I think I’ve insulted you, Ms. Cypress.” He reached into his wallet and pulled out more hundreds. “Two thousand. Your time and trouble is worth more than my original offer. I apologize.”
I stared at the bills in his hand. They really wanted to see this house, didn’t they?
THREE
Worse than staring at two thousand dollars was someone watching you stare at two thousand dollars. Kane and Eve Parker clearly didn’t realize that I didn’t need their financial assistance, but I may as well have been a hungry dog salivating over a nice, juicy steak from the way I stood there, staring at the money.
