Dreaming Darkly

by Caitlin Kittredge

  I declined politely, again, and got my stuff. At the dock, Betty got out of the truck with me. “I’m sorry everything at my home is so crappy,” she said. “I know after this you probably won’t talk to me anymore, so I have to say it now before—”

  “Betty,” I said. “My mood has nothing to do with staying at your trailer.”

  Her expression perked up. “Really?”

  “Really,” I said. “I had a nice time. I’ll see you tomorrow at school.”

  “Okay!” she said. Her father honked, and she started for the truck but turned around and ran back to me. “If you really do want to know about those commune people, you should ask Bob Brant. He’s my cousin. My aunt is my dad’s sister, so she got married and they have a different last name, but he totally knows all about all of Grandpa’s old cases.”

  “Officer Brant?” I said, holding up my hand to stem Betty’s verbal tidal wave. She stopped and took a breath.

  “Yes. His first name is Robert but he goes by Bob. Never Bobby.”

  “We’ve met,” I said.

  Mr. Tyler honked again, and Betty waved at me. “I have to go. Good luck, Ivy!”

  I looked down the dock at the empty slip where Julia’s boat was usually tied up. I looked back across the street toward the main cluster of Darkhaven buildings, including the police station and the courthouse.

  I knew what I was going to do even as I jogged across the street and started up the sidewalk. I’d made the decision to find answers, even if I didn’t like them. And it was clear to me there was something dark about my family’s island, something that gathered tragedy to it like a magnet. Thirty years ago four people had vanished without a trace. My great-grandfather had massacred the Ramseys. My mother had gone mad there. And now Neil Ramsey was dead, and near as I could tell, somebody was following me, on Darkhaven and now the mainland.

  Maybe I was fooling myself that I could use one to make sense of the other, but I’d tried lying my entire life, and it had gotten me here. I needed to know what was true about my uncle, my family, and the island. Then I could figure out what to do next.

  The cop at the front desk glanced up when I opened the door. The police station was tucked into an annex of the courthouse, and the waiting room was tiny, barely bigger than a walk-in closet. A window of cloudy bulletproof glass separated us. “Can I help you, sweetie?” she asked through the little speaker grill.

  I tried to smile and tamp down my instinctive reaction to cops, which was hostility tinged with a desire to run. This was definitely the first time one had called me “sweetie” and meant it.

  “I’m looking for Officer Brant,” I said. She shook her head.

  “He’s working nights this month, hon. He’ll be on at seven.”

  Hon. That was also a first. I must have showed the strain of keeping a pleasant look on my face because she sighed, giving me a pitying stare.

  “Is this about the school outreach program?”

  I nodded, hoping it was the right answer. She reached for a card, scribbling on the back of it. “He said if anyone from his at-risk group came around to give them his home address. Are you all right? Do you feel safe right now?”

  I accepted the card she slid through the slot at the bottom of the glass. “I’m not in crisis,” I said, borrowing a phrase from one of the many ER shrinks who’d seen my mom. “I just really need to talk to him.”

  Brant lived in a tiny wooden house on a street of almost identical houses—everything about the street screamed quaint, from the pocket-sized lawns to the wind chime hanging on Brant’s porch, swaying in the cold breeze trickling off the harbor.

  I rang the bell, and when that didn’t work I started knocking. After a few rounds of my fist on the weathered wood of the door, Brant opened it, staring out at me with bleary eyes. “Ivy?” he said, surprise waking him up. He was wearing pajamas and a faded Darkhaven High tee.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “This is going to seem really weird, but I need to ask you about a case your grandfather worked.”

  “Come in,” he said, stepping aside. His house had that obsessive neatness that only a certain type of young single guy possesses. Everything in its place, nothing decorative, muted colors, almost as generic as a motel room. A gun safe in the corner of the living room was the only off note.

  “Want some coffee?” Brant asked.

  I shook my head. Keyed up as I felt, caffeine was the last thing I needed.

  “So what’s up?” Brant said, pressing buttons on a silver machine that whirred and dispensed espresso. The smell of the grounds filled the air.

  “I’m really sorry to come here like this . . . ,” I started.

  Brant held up a hand, wincing as he sipped the jet-black coffee. “It’s my job to help you out. You and anyone else in Darkhaven who needs it. You said it was about an old case?”

  “The Children of Cain,” I said. “The four people who went missing in 1985.”

  Brant sat opposite me on his sofa. “Let me guess,” he said with a laugh. “Betty?”

  “She said you knew your grandfather’s cases,” I said.

  Brant nodded. “I got all his case files when he died. I became a cop because of that, really. More than to follow in his footsteps. He was pretty much every bad thing you can imagine about a small-town chief. But some of the stuff in those files is dark. I figured I owed it to the town to try to do better.”

  “Somebody died on the island recently,” I said. “And I just . . . I . . .”

  “Neil Ramsey’s death was ruled accidental, Ivy,” Brant said. “You have nothing to worry about. And if anything happened to those hippies, my grandfather never proved it. It was a lot easier to disappear in the days before computerized records.”

  “I’m not worried,” I lied.

  Brant gave an approving nod. “Good. Stay away from the Ramseys, and you’ll be fine. They’re the real problem on that island. They’ve been on the wrong side of the cops since way before my grandfather’s time. That Doyle kid who goes to school with you and Betty is the only one without an arrest sheet.”

  “There are a lot of stories,” I said. “About the island, about my family. The cult thing too.”

  “Look,” Brant said. “I can give you the case file if you really want it, but I’m afraid it’ll be boring compared to the stories. There’s witness statements, and some background on the people who went missing, and that’s about it. There weren’t many people to interview—just the Ramseys, and your grandparents.”

  “My grandmother?” I felt my head go up. Brant nodded, getting up and going to a bookshelf stacked with old cardboard file boxes. He ran his hand across the labels, pulling out one labeled DARKHAVEN ISLAND ’85 and blowing dust off it.

  “Ivy,” he said, handing it over. “Take it from me—people in small towns love to gossip, and they’re cruel a lot of the time. Whatever people are saying about your family, all that’s there is a lot of tragedy. You don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

  “My great-grandfather did hack up six people with a hatchet,” I said.

  Brant checked his watch. “That’s not your fault, though. I’m going to go for a run. Feel free to stay here and read that file.”

  I sat back, opening the box but waiting until Brant came back from his room in shorts and a hoodie and headed out the door to start reading.

  He had been right—the case file was slim. The statements took up the bulk of it, and I read through the Ramseys’, which basically amounted to eight versions of “we didn’t see nothin’” and hesitated before flipping to the first page of my grandmother’s. It had been retyped, but I could imagine her posh elocution, the kind that nowadays only exists in old movies, dripping off every carefully chosen word.

  I did not know the campground residents well, but never noticed any untoward activity. I take daily walks on the advice of my doctor and they would always be sociable and friendly when I passed their campsite. One of them even carved a rattle for my daughter, Myra, and often ask
ed after her. They were a quiet and courteous group, and I never saw anyone else at their camp.

  I thought back—in the summer of 1985 my mother would have been a little under a year old. It was weird to think about her as a baby. Simon wouldn’t even have been born yet.

  I hadn’t been to the campsite in several weeks when Mr. Ross appeared at the manor, asking to use our phone. My condition had deteriorated again, and I was on strict bed rest. Mr. Ross appeared upset but coherent, and while we waited for the police to arrive from the mainland he expressed his sympathies for my illness and even apologized for inconveniencing me.

  I dug through the box, and found the name in the main file—Peter Ross. The one person left at the campsite. His witness statement was just an empty folder, with a note clipped inside—Interview File #22565.

  I went through the rest of the box but there was nothing else. I went back to Brant’s bookcases, until I found another box marked 1985 that was full of half-mildewed crime-scene photos and reel-to-reel audiotapes. Even for the eighties, the technology was ancient. Darkhaven was lagging behind the times way back when, too, just like the island and the manor. I pulled the reels with the right file number and shoved them into my jacket pocket, then replaced the box, careful to line up the edge exactly with the dust line on the shelf.

  I was back on the sofa with the paper files when Brant banged the door open, damp from the fog outside. “I’ve got a boat,” he said, taking a bottle of water from his fridge. “I’ll run you home—my shift doesn’t start until seven p.m.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I really appreciate all your help.”

  “I appreciate you spending time with Betty,” he said. “That poor kid needs a friend.”

  I felt the tiniest bit of guilt for stealing the tapes from Brant, but only the tiniest bit. “It’s no problem,” I said. “I’m not exactly winning any popularity contests myself. I get it.”

  Brant changed and drove us back to the marina in his civilian car. His boat was smaller and way less fancy than Doyle’s, but it got the job done, and we were back at the dock on Darkhaven just as the sky was starting to get pinky-orange from the impending sunset. It was getting dark earlier and earlier—soon we’d have barely eight hours of daylight.

  “Ivy, you really can’t put too much stock in what people say about your family,” he said. “They’re just stories. Strip away the ghosts and all you have are people. People are flawed, but they’re not evil, and if anyone tells you that you are, they’re wrong.”

  “Thanks,” I said, climbing out of the boat. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I watched the boat leave and climbed up the hill to the manor. Brant was a nice guy and obviously thought I was a little bit of a lost soul in need of guidance, but he didn’t know me. I wasn’t worried about what other people whispered about my family. I cared about what the members of my family were telling me—or weren’t.

  The manor house was always dark, even when it was still daylight, and I missed that there was someone standing just inside the door, and screamed when Simon shouted at me.

  “Where the hell have you been?!”

  Simon looked angrier than I’d ever seen him. “I said be home by noon!” he yelled. “It’s practically sunset, Ivy!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, holding up my hands. “I just decided to spend a little more time with Betty, and we lost track of time.”

  Simon grabbed me by the upper arms, squeezing to the point where it hurt. “I was worried, Ivy! You can’t just ignore my rules!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, quieter. This was not the Simon I’d come to expect. I didn’t know what to do—I couldn’t get away from him, and I couldn’t make him less angry.

  “You can’t do that to me! It isn’t okay for you to just do whatever you want. I tell you to be home at a certain time for a reason!” Simon shouted. I flinched away, and he finally let me go.

  “I think you should go upstairs,” he said. “I’ll have Veronica bring you dinner.”

  “Okay,” I whispered. I felt tears blooming just behind my eyes, and I wasn’t entirely sure why. It wasn’t like I’d never gotten screamed at before.

  “Ivy,” he said as I reached the kitchen door. I turned, and he pulled a plastic bag off the coat hook by the door, taking out a thin white box and tossing it on the table. “I went to the mainland yesterday and did some shopping. I’m going to be in New York this week, meeting with the manager of the Bloodgood trust, and I’d appreciate it if you keep that on so I can reach you.”

  I picked up the smartphone box without a word and practically ran up to my room. I shut the door behind me and felt my heart pounding against my ribs.

  Maybe Simon really was just worried about me, but I’d seen the same look in his eyes when he’d lost his temper at Mrs. MacLeod. He hadn’t been worried because I hadn’t checked in. He’d been pissed off at being defied.

  If I was going to keep sneaking around on Simon, I was going to have to come up with an ironclad cover story.

  I curled up on my side facing the wall. I was still shaking. I’d gotten used to laid-back, soft-spoken Simon. His rage had more than surprised me; it had actually scared me. I didn’t like being scared. It made me feel like a helpless little kid again.

  I jumped when Mrs. MacLeod knocked, and swiped at the tears on my cheeks before I opened the door. She came in without a word, holding a tray with a bowl and a sandwich on it.

  “Thank you,” I said, sitting up and trying to smooth down my hair and look like I hadn’t been crying. Mrs. MacLeod grunted as she set down the tray and then squinted at me.

  “He means well,” she said at last.

  I sighed, really not in the mood to hear Simon apologia. “Seeing as I’m stuck in here until school tomorrow, could I just eat my dinner?” I said.

  Mrs. MacLeod surprised me by putting a hand awkwardly on my shoulder. “You’re lucky,” she said. “He’s willing to be patient with you. He’ll forgive and forget. Don’t push his kindness too far, miss. Take it from one who’s known him since he was a boy. Forgiveness isn’t in his blood.”

  She left, and I stared after her, suddenly not all that hungry. Still, chicken soup and a PB&J was probably the most normal food I’d been served since I got here, so I took advantage and ate.

  I tried doing homework and sleeping, but it was a nonstarter. I was still up when the sky started getting light, and I heard the Jeep grumble away, taking Simon to the boat. I was going to get up and go for a walk, but I felt the tape reels I’d taken from Brant in my pocket when I reached for my jacket.

  A house this ancient and stuffed with junk had to have a reel-to-reel player somewhere. I took the tapes and went hunting in the library, I found a player with a bunch of other obsolete technology stacked on a shelf below the grim family photos that adorned every free space of wallpaper.

  I plugged the player in and perched the old-school padded headphones over my ears. I threaded a tape, glad I’d paid attention when PJ went on about all his old sound systems and the reel-to-reel demos he collected of unknown punk bands. Static hissed for a few seconds, and then a gravelly voice with a thick Maine accent spoke.

  “Chief Tyler interviewing Peter Ross, July 27, 1985.”

  There was a sound of chairs scraping, breathing, the clicks and buzzes of the tape. It was in bad shape, wrinkled and dusty, and crackled as it fed through the player.

  “Peter, tell me what happened,” said the chief. I heard a shuddering intake of breath, and then a young voice spoke. It surprised me how young—he didn’t sound any older than guys I went to school with.

  “I woke up and my brother and Steve and our buddies Fred and Lance were just gone,” he said. “I already told all this to the other officer.”

  “Tell me,” the chief said. “Because, frankly, a lot of what you said isn’t making sense.”

  “Their sleeping bags were empty,” Peter said. “There was blood. Blood on the grass, blood on their sleeping bags. Their packs were gone.” />
  “See, this is where we run into a problem.” The chief sighed. “We’ve had men out to that island, dogs, we even got the state police to fly over with their helicopter.” The tape clicked. “There’s nothing there, Peter. No blood. No sign anyone but you had been there.”

  “They wouldn’t just disappear,” Peter muttered. “Not my brother. He wouldn’t leave me.”

  “Son,” Chief Tyler said. “You five come up here from the city, you stay a summer, you don’t cause trouble, that’s fine. But I know what kind of people you are, and I’m not surprised your friends packed up and left. Telling stories won’t change that.”

  “I saw the blood,” Peter insisted. “I know something happened. Ask Mrs. Bloodgood! She saw us. We talked, a lot.”

  “You and Mrs. Bloodgood,” Tyler said. “What’s going on there? Lonely woman, all on her own, husband always off in New York.”

  Peter’s voice was much steadier and harder when he answered. “Nothing like that happened. She’s all alone with a new baby, she had a complicated pregnancy, and she didn’t have anyone to talk to. I gave her a recipe for some herbal tea my grandmother and my mom used when they had babies, and I let her talk to me about how she couldn’t have any more kids and how it made her feel. That’s all. You want to insinuate, that’s your problem, man.”

  “So you woke up, and your friends were gone,” Tyler said, abruptly changing tones.

  Peter sighed. “I told you. I woke up; they were gone. There was blood everywhere.”

  “And you didn’t see or hear anything before? You slept like a baby?”

  “We heard plenty while we were camped out there,” Peter said. “All kinds of weird noises in the night. People stealing shit from our camp. I just figured it was those redneck pot farmers on the other side of the island.”

  “Those folks aren’t your concern,” Tyler said. “We haven’t found any evidence of lawbreaking. We haven’t found anything. And unless you’re going to be honest, and have more to back you up than some hysterical housewife doped up on painkillers sitting in that big house, then I’m either gonna close this case, or I’m gonna arrest you.”