Island of Bones

by Gaby Triana

  What? Not yes, not may I help you? My goodness, this woman needed hospitality courses. I didn’t let it bother me. “The light in my bathroom isn’t working,” I said, allowing her time to respond. No such a thing took place. “I was wondering if you could move me to another room.”

  “All I have is Room 3,” she muttered going back to her sunflower seeds.

  “Okay. Is there something wrong with Room 3?”

  She looked at me as though I should know. Then, as if suddenly remembering I was the weird guest who’d mentioned Casa de los Cayos by name, the one new to town, she sighed. “We don’t usually rent it out. It’s old, but the lights and water work fine.”

  Why wouldn’t she have rented it to me in the first place, then, instead of Room 2? “Works for me.” I smiled to counter the feelings of negativity Syndia was emitting.

  “Where did you say you were from again?” Her good eye narrowed. The glass one didn’t move.

  She should’ve known this from the info I’d given her at check-in, but I humored her anyway. “Boston.”

  “Are you the daughter of Mariel Drudge?”

  Well, well.

  Someone had spent some time digging. After my question about Casa de los Cayos, I shouldn’t have been surprised she’d taken to investigating. It wasn’t hard to track me or my mom down by name. We were both on social media and always linked as mother-daughter.

  “I am, though it’s Whitaker now,” I said. “Not Drudge.” Then, figuring since we were getting nosy with each other, I’d ask a question of my own. “Are you related to the family who runs the resort?”

  “That side…” She pointed to the half where I was staying, “used to be my home when I was little, where my sisters and I grew up. When my grandparents passed away, we opened the inn on that half, where you’re staying now, and moved to the other side of the compound.” So, family house on left, guest rooms to the right—check.

  “Your sisters live here, too?” I asked.

  She took a while to answer, as though the question caused her physical pain. “They’re in Miami.” She ground the sunflower seeds between her teeth. “They only visit when they need something. My mother and I are the only ones left. Why are you here?”

  Hostile, accusing tone. I swallowed and tried to ignore the feeling of pressure on my chest like I was unwanted here. “My grandmother passed away. She’d always talked about growing up in this place.”

  “Your grandmother being…?” Her question seemed more for her own confirmation. She already knew.

  I indulged her anyway. “Leanne Drudge.”

  Syndia froze, dissecting eyes staring at me. Then, she suddenly remembered to breathe. I thought she would ask more questions, and we’d begin a dialogue about how our families knew each other, but she didn’t pursue it. She reached into the drawer and pulled out another key. “Wait an hour for us to get it ready then bring back the other key after you’ve moved.”

  “I will. Thanks.” Teetering off, I felt dread and anguish all rolled into one come over me. Why would she have been offended to know who I was? And why did I feel like I wasn’t welcome here?

  My mother’s apprehension came to mind when she’d told me she felt this placed was cursed, that Nana hadn’t left Key West under the best of circumstances. I hated not knowing the whole story and hated myself even more for not getting it when I had the chance.

  Walking through the garden at night brought out the worst of my OCD. Before I knew it, that oppressive feeling of doom I felt in the center hub enveloped me completely. I knew it was a symptom of my disorder, so I ignored it the best I could. Still, it was hard not to imagine every shadow as a person out to get me or every bug that flew past as a spooky orb of light.

  Something was following me.

  I stopped right then, sniffed the air, and looked around. Nobody. Alright, enough of this. I pulled up my phone, ordering more sertraline from the local pharmacy. I’d have to go without a pill tonight but could pick them up first thing in the morning.

  A voice spoke near my ear. Whore…

  “Excuse me?” I whirled around. “Who’s there?”

  I scanned the wild landscape but no one was around. God damn it. What was happening? I’d probably heard a guest speaking from one of the rooms or caught a sound byte carried by the water. You’re freaking out for no reason, Ellie.

  “Shit.” I wiped my brow in the thick heat and headed to Room 2 to collect my things. Since Syndia had asked me to wait an hour, I took a few more minutes and searched up my grandmother, Leanne Drudge, just to see what came up. Nothing except the obituary we’d printed back home. I added “Key West” to the search, and this time, a PDF result came back. I clicked on it and found her name on a list of residents from 1940-1950 underneath Bill Drudge, my grandfather.

  That was it. No other information, which was both a relief and a mild disappointment. Part of me had hoped her whole history would show up, so I wouldn’t have to dig for answers or talk to Syndia again.

  I took another minute to check the reviews of La Concha Inn on various sites. No surprise that it only had one star, and most of the reviewers said they would’ve given it zero had the website allowed it. Most of the reviewers also mentioned sensing an oppressive presence throughout the compound, and several wrote full paragraphs about the eerie things that had happened in their rooms, everything from cold spots to the sensation of being watched by unseen forces, to outright apparitions walking through the walls.

  Yeah, okay. I laughed. More undiagnosed patients of hallucinogenic brain disorders.

  No mentions of weird happenings in Room 3, though, so that was good.

  I dragged my stuff to Room 3 and unlocked the room. Musty humidity seeped out, as the space seemed to exhale then draw its first breath in years. I clicked on the light switch, and a dirty yellow glow illuminated the space.

  Syndia was right—it wasn’t much, but it was better than Room 2 only because everything worked. Besides looking like another cheap hotel room, I could tell it’d also been used as storage, because of the brooms, mops, and buckets shoved inside the closet. The furniture was heavy teak, the kind of stuff you couldn’t move once you’d set it down, and I wondered if any of it were original to the house. For all I knew, it could’ve been around for decades.

  The art on the walls were crappy posters that had faded in the sunlight over the years, one of a parrot sitting on a branch and one of a footprint in the sand. Tacky. In the corner of the room, however, with an old lamp on it, was one, unique beautiful piece—a mosaic tile table.

  Curious, I walked over to it and ran my fingers along the hand-placed tiles. Cobalt blue, light blue, and white gave the impression of ocean waves. An odd sensation came over me. Had I seen this table before? Of course not. I’d never been here. It looked handmade and had fallen several times judging from the cracked tiles on each corner.

  A memory flitted through my mind all of a sudden—of me when I was about twenty, wearing a yellow sundress, happy like crazy that my boat captain fiancé had finally made it back from lobster trapping between Key West and Havana.

  Only…I’d never lived in Key West or Havana before.

  I’d never owned a yellow sundress before either, nor had a boat captain fiancé. Sinking onto the edge of the bed, I gripped my temples and tried to make sense of the thought. Where had that vision come from? I’d lived my entire life in Massachusetts. Those memories weren’t mine.

  Something shuffled out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned to face it head-on, nothing was there. Shadows, disembodied voices, a feeling of dread, hallucinations. All symptoms from my childhood days, though they usually affected me in sleep. All indicated deep stress infiltrating my psyche.

  Then again, I’d had four margaritas today. That would make anyone hallucinate.

  It was time—time to spread my grandmother’s ashes then vacate. Split this place. Make like a tree and leaf. I might’ve felt different in the morning afte
r doubling up on my medicine, but right now, I needed to get this over with. Grabbing my bag, I left the room, making a beeline for the unsettling garden. The moon sculpture would be the perfect place to honor her.

  The ocean, I heard someone else’s voice.

  Nana?

  She wanted me to release her into the ocean, I somehow instinctively knew.

  But it couldn’t have been her voice from beyond nor a gut feeling. It was just common sense. She’d lived by the sea. She’d lost her husband to the ocean. She would’ve wanted to be reunited with him. Fine, I’d spread half her remains at the sculpture and half at the water’s edge. When I reached the rocky quarter moon, I placed my flat palm against it, waiting for some cue that it was time.

  “Alright, let’s do this.” I couldn’t wait any longer. My mother had been right. This place had a weird vibe about it. The only way to alleviate the discomfort would be to do what I came to do then go as quickly as possible. If that storm was heading anywhere near this place, it’d be the best choice anyway.

  Opening the plastic bag containing the sandy granules that had once been my grandmother, I reached in and pulled out a handful of ashes and bits of bone. Did it feel odd holding her charred, decimated remains in my hand? Yes, but oddly, I felt close to her having this control, giving her soul—if there was such a thing—what it wanted.

  I closed my eyes and called young Nana to mind. Beautiful, golden blond Leanne Drudge dancing in the breeze as a child living at Casa de los Cayos, pale green eyes staring out at the ocean, full breasts on a thin frame as a young woman, a sight for a weary sailor’s sore eyes. Like coming home to pure love itself.

  “Rest in peace forever, dear lady,” I said, pushing my hand out and releasing her ashes all over the sculpture. I watched the particles swirl and dance on the breeze. I waited for, I didn’t know, something magical to happen.

  Nothing did.

  I only felt sad and nostalgic and as far from peaceful as one might imagine. What had I expected? To feel fulfilled?

  “Well, that’s that.” I began walking away from the sculpture when the wind picked up, or maybe I was imagining one. Not really a wind but not really a hallucination either, but something blew up from the inlet over the garden, rattling the plants and leaves. I watched as dust particles twirled in the light of a full moon above. It was probably the alcohol still coursing through me, but I also felt the ground shake just a bit, like a jolly giant from a fairy tale had taken one step before sitting down to rest.

  Like the island itself had just coughed.

  Taking the path to the seawall, I reached into my bag and pulled out another handful of Nana, holding out my arm and slowly releasing the bits and pieces. The grains fell from my hand like sand out of a funnel all over the dock, getting caught up in the cool ocean breezes, spiraling out to sea.

  Finally, a certain peace came over me like I hadn’t felt in the two days since I’d been here. Like coming home. Like being reunited with a loved one. Two things I’d never known.

  But something new—I felt like I’d just unleashed hell for everyone else.

  I wasn’t alone. Down below on the dock was the old woman again in her wheelchair, only she wasn’t staring out to sea or space. Instead, her head was bent upwards, and she stared blankly, awkwardly at me at an unnatural angle, like her neck had been twisted to look up. Her mouth gaped open, vacant eyes forced out.

  What the hell?

  Was she dead?

  To add insult to injury, I’d just sprinkled human remains over her by accident. Her nurse, the same woman from Syndia’s office, sat on the nearby bench reading on an iPad. She hadn’t noticed anything amiss, and I wasn’t going to be the first to tell her the old woman seemed to have expired.

  Catching my breath, I whirled around and bulleted through the garden, back the way I came. This place was cursed. Shut up, Ellie, curses don’t exist. The real Ellie, the rational Ellie, wanted to stay and learn more about Casa de los Cayos, wanted to know more about Syndia and her family who’d purchased my grandmother’s home. But before the night was over, she’d be dealing with the death of the woman in the wheelchair.

  She deserved it.

  A male voice this time. Nobody sat in the lounge chairs talking. No other guests whispered in the night from what I could tell. Who deserved it? The old woman? I couldn’t wait to buy more Zoloft in the morning and start doubling up, doctor’s orders be damned. I had to stop these voices hell bent on talking to me.

  Cutting through the unkempt garden, an army of shadows followed me like they’d all woken up at once. I desperately wanted to escape them. I wanted to reach my room and lay down for the night. The banyan tree looked like it wanted to break free of its chains and chase me.

  None of it made sense.

  I needed sleep. I needed my meds. They’d suppress whatever this attack was on my brain. All I had to do was go to bed and wake up tomorrow, clear my mind of the weirdness. Then, maybe I could stay an extra day, finally relax, sip that lemonade I’d been dreaming of since Boston, then go home. Mission accomplished.

  I reached my room and closed the door, relieved to be away from the garden.

  And then I saw him standing in the corner—the native man from my dreams.

  SIX

  The moment my gaze connected with his, the man disappeared.

  But I saw him—I know I did. Full body apparition. He’d worn nothing but a loincloth and a beaded red-and-white overlay on his shoulders. His hair had been picked up in a bun, and he’d held a spear. Sun-baked skin. Lots of details for a hallucination.

  I didn’t know what to think. I only knew I was exhausted as hell. And now, I’d have to sleep in the same room with a ghost. But ghosts didn’t exist, or so I thought? They were manifestations of an overactive mind. If my own brain had fabricated him, then why this man in particular? A man I’d never seen before in my life? Was he someone I’d met long ago and forgotten?

  He hadn’t seemed menacing. More like a quiet observer, watching over me. I didn’t get any sense of danger, but I didn’t like it either. Maybe this was why they didn’t rent out Room 3.

  I opened the windows for fresh air, leaving the shutters closed with the slats open. I showered, changed into fresh T-shirt and undies, and climbed into the old creaky bed. Looking around, I could tell I was in somebody’s former bedroom from the old armoire, old pine floors with chair scratches near the wall, and perfect view of the garden. If I narrowed my eyes just right, I could imagine myself watching the inlet, waiting for that fishing boat to come back, the one that carried my husband.

  What the fuck? I pressed my palms against my eyelids.

  What fishing boat? What husband?? I needed sleep. I needed my sanity back.

  But neither came easy.

  He told me not to worry, that everything would work out fine, I would see. I would see, because he’d meticulously planned this trip down to the last detail, and today was the day of its execution. He kissed me goodbye, and when he did, I felt it was the last time I’d ever see him. I wasn’t sure how I knew, but I just knew.

  The baby in my arms and I watched him go. He waved his hat, jumped into the fishing boat down by the pier, and away they went. “Come back to me,” I whispered. “I can’t live without you.”

  Then, the woman came.

  Or rather, the creature next door.

  She smoked something fierce and liked to watch me plant herbs in my garden from her yard. Sometimes she hung out the window, sometimes stood on her back porch. Soon you’ll be husbandless, and I’ll take your house. Like hell you will. My husband is working hard for us. He’ll come through. The words seemed not to come from our mouths but from some ethereal place like watery echoes. Sure he will, honey, she said. Sure he will.

  A little girl kneeled in the weeds, plucking them and putting them in a pile. “Can I get some water now?” she asked, exhaustion all over her face.

  “It’s ‘may I have some water?’ And when
you’re done, girl. You just got started.”

  Wasn’t sure who these people were, and yet…I knew them deeply. Had seen them millions of times.

  The man was the love of my life, and the woman could’ve been a witch from the way she spoke to me with hatred pouring from her soul. A bad witch anyway, like the green-skinned ones only with pale skin and curlers in her hair. The little girl, I had no clue.

  We’re sorry to inform you, the policeman said.

  He was lying straight to my face. How could he?

  But your husband is dead.

  Something about that statement made him randy. An opportunity had opened up. He wanted into my house. He wanted me for his own...

  I blasted awake in the center of the bed, a sheen of cold sweat breaking out over my entire body. Gasping, I gripped the sheets and fought for air. I scanned the room. I could almost see them standing there—the officer, the husband, the horrible woman. How could she have been so cold? I was a young woman with a baby, no threat to her, yet she treated me like I was something to be feared.

  “Wake up, wake up, you idiot…” I wasn’t any of those things.

  I was Ellie Whitaker, unmarried, childless, and twenty-six years old. And I’d been dreaming. I wasn’t dreaming as myself. I was dreaming as Nana.

  Something had happened here. Something terrible, but not to me.

  Outside, a rogue wind blew through the center courtyard, whistling and forcing open the shutters. For a moment, I thought I saw my husband from the dream looking in through the window—Nana’s husband, rather—my grandfather as a young man. Standing still, gaping wound across his neck, blood dripping down his sweaty chest.

  His wide open eyes watched me through dirt-covered face. He wanted me to know. To see. Jesus Christ, I needed my meds. When I blinked him away, another figure appeared to replace him, that of a cat—a large, gray cat.

  “Bacon,” I gasped. “What the hell?” I took a moment to catch my breath.

  Then, jumping out of bed, I went to the window and opened the shutters, petted the cat’s head once before pushing him off the sill into the courtyard. He protested with a loud mrwow, and I closed the shutters, this time locking the clasp and the slats as well.