Island of the Forbidden

by Hunter Shea

  Sometimes, the dead are best left in peace.

  Jessica Backman has been called to help a strange family living on a haunted island in Charleston Harbor. Ormsby Island was the site of a brutal massacre two decades ago, and now the mysterious Harper family needs someone to exorcise the ghosts that still call it home. The phantoms of over one hundred children cannot rest.

  But something far more insidious is living on the island. When the living and the dead guard their true intentions, how can Jessica discover just what sort of evil lurks on Ormsby Island? And why is Jessica the only one who can plumb its dark depths?

  Island of the Forbidden

  Hunter Shea

  Dedication

  For Carolyn and Tom, the editor and the salesman, among many other wonderful things.

  TRANSCRIBED EXCERPT FROM AUDIO RECORDING OF PETER MONTGOMERY, REPORTER FOR CHARLESTON JOURNAL NEWS

  “I know the area is off limits, but I had to see for myself. The police left about an hour ago. I watched them go by while I pretended to fish in the harbor in my rented rowboat. The outboard motor has seen better days. My main concern at this point is the boat’s ability to get me back to the mainland.”

  “I have my suspicions as to why other news outlets are barely covering this story, if at all. Might be another case of ‘follow the money’, but I’ve always had the sense there’s something more here. I don’t know whether it’s fear or shame or both that have draped this area in mystery since well before I was born. [heavy breathing]. As expected, there’s more yellow tape and little red flags sticking out of the soft ground than I can count.”

  “It’s weird, being out here, all alone, with the night creeping in. Thank God I brought extra batteries for my flashlight. I know there’s nothing to be scared of out here. Aside from the birds, squirrels and constant hum of crickets, anything that can do me harm is dead. But still, I can’t help but feel uneasy, and it has nothing to do with trespassing on an active crime scene.”

  “I’m not a superstitious person, but it’s hard not to have odd thoughts as you walk over the grounds where just a day ago, so many bodies lay rotting into the earth. Was it a mass murder or suicide? I guess I have to wait for the coroner to get back to us on that. Like most people, I’m still on the fence whether it’s a nightmare or a rare sort of blessing. I know how the world outside the county will see it. It’s hard to fathom things, I mean, truly see them for what they are, when you’re on the outside looking in.”

  [Scuffling sound heard in the distance]

  “Not sure what that was. I’m going to take as many pictures as I can, then head out. It smells odd. It’s hard to describe. Kind of like a mix of damp earth and rotten apples.”

  [Unintelligible voice]

  “What the hell was that? I think it’s coming from somewhere to my right. I counted all the cops that came and went, so I know it’s not one of them. Not sure whether I’m stupid or brave, but I’m going to check it out. Gotta put the journalism degree to work.”

  NO FURTHER RECORDING RECOVERED

  Chapter One

  The five-seater boat skidded over the turbid surface of Charleston Harbor, a fine spray misting the silent occupants.

  This was not a good day to show the house on Ormsby Island, but the fact that anyone had interest in the crumbling mansion was reason enough to hit the water, despite the oncoming storm. Renae Rudd gripped the seat cushion as the nose leapt over a whitecap, slamming the water so hard, she bit her tongue. She dabbed it with a wad of tissue. The Kleenex came back red.

  Just think of the commission.

  The property had been vacant for close to twenty years now. The couple sitting behind her was the first interested in seeing it since it went on the market. Renae was sure once they saw the state of the house, they’d tear it down and build new. She could only imagine what the place looked like now. Two decades was more than enough time for nature to devour it like a python with a guinea pig. What they were buying was an island, in fact, the only available island in all of Charleston County.

  Do they know? She’d have to gauge their reaction when they got there. If they didn’t and she told, that would definitely sour the deal. But if they did know and they still wanted the place, what did that say about them?

  Who cares, Renae? They’ll be on this little island, far away from you. All that matters is that the check clears.

  She stole a glance in their direction. Tobe and Daphne Harper looked like they came from a big northern city, but she couldn’t place their accents. It was something between Boston and Cajun, a strangely melodic pairing of tongues that birthed a dialect all their own. When she’d asked where they were from, Daphne had said, “Here, there, everywhere,” with a highly affected, airy wave of a pale, delicate hand. Renae doubted the woman had ever scrubbed a dirty dish. Everything about them screamed money, just as her inner voice, the one that praised Maryanne Lange’s success in the office while hoping her commission check bounced, shouted, “Give that money right here! I have more kids than Maryanne and a husband on disability. Buy this albatross and I’ll get the first pick of every buyer that steps in the door for the next year!”

  It was the middle of summer but the couple was as pale as Minnesotans in winter. Daphne Harper’s fiery red hair was swept into a tight bun. Her lipstick matched her hair. She wore a form fitting maroon jacket and a skirt that ended just above her knees. Her shoes looked like they cost more than Renae made in a month.

  Tobe Harper’s ginger hair was sprinkled with gray, with deep-set eyes hidden under so much shade, she couldn’t fathom their color. Tall with broad shoulders, his pinstriped suit was, to her, too fine a thing to wear on an open little boat. Traipsing along the island would do a number on it. But he looked like he could afford the dry cleaning bill.

  “Almost there,” Nelson said. Beads of moisture quivered atop his bald head. He’d been kind enough to interrupt his plans to watch the Braves and drink beer until the cooler was empty. Thank God she caught him in the first inning. Any later, and he wouldn’t have been in any shape to drive the boat.

  “If you look to the left of the pine trees on the hill, you’ll just be able to make out the eastern side of the house,” Renae shouted over the boat’s motor.

  Tobe and Daphne Harper tilted their heads in unison and nodded.

  Their frugality with words made Renae nervous. She hated what she called dead space. Her compulsion to fill the dead space set her mouth in motion.

  “Back in the 1800’s, Ormsby Island was one of South Carolina’s crown jewels. The island was owned by Maxwell Ormsby, a very wealthy man who liked to entertain everyone from heads of state to artists and authors and anyone who knew how to make money in business. An invitation to the island was a declaration that you were someone on the move. Once a year, Ormsby opened the island up to the public and hosted a huge fair. It was the social event of the year in these parts. My family still talks about the days when my great grandmother would take the family out to enjoy the festivities. It must have been some party.” She laughed uneasily, hoping for some kind of reaction. The Harper’s gazes remained locked on the island.

  Nelson eased off the throttle, letting the boat quietly glide into the slip. He jumped out, tying the boat to the dock. He held his hand out to Renae to help her up.

  “I’ll wait down here while you do your thing,” he whispered.

  What was said between the lines was there’s no way in hell I’m taking one step more than I have to. You’re on your own from here. He assisted the straight-backed Harpers, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans when they looked away.

  Renae went into her
pitch. “As you can see, you’ll definitely need a boat to come to and fro. There’s room down here to moor at least five, seven if you wanted to upgrade the dock over there.” She pointed at the splintered, rotting remains of the farthest dock.

  Tobe Harper said, “That would be low on the priority list. We don’t expect to have much company out here.”

  “Of course,” Renae said, changing tactics. “That’s the appeal of an island. It will be your private getaway. Come, let me show you the house.”

  Their heels clacked along the dock. It ended at the mouth of a dark, narrow tunnel of trees. “It’s a little overgrown now,” Renae said, extracting a small flashlight from her messenger bag. “Those overcast skies aren’t helping much. It’s probably best you stay close to me and watch your step.”

  Stepping under the canopy, the air instantly felt colder, sharper, with none of the humidity that had settled over Charleston since late May. Locals were more than used to it now. No sense complaining about something that was here to stay until September.

  The flashlight’s beam waved back and forth as Renae navigated the rough terrain. Once upon a time, before she’d joined the real estate agency, there had been wooden steps hammered into the earth leading from the dock to the house. Now the timber, what wasn’t overgrown with wild vegetation, was desiccated with rot. The buzzing of unseen insects cut off the moment they entered the natural tunnel.

  “I myself haven’t seen the house, except in pictures,” Renae said. Tobe and Daphne were close behind, seemingly unaffected by the uneven ground. For Renae’s part, even in flats, she found herself lurching forward and sideways with each misplaced step. “I can’t guarantee that we can go inside safely.”

  “That would be a shame,” Daphne said, more to her husband.

  She didn’t want to lose them now, not when they were so close.

  “Then again, I could be wrong. These old homes were built like forts. I know everything was boarded up tight when the last occupants—left.” A spindly branch whipped across her forehead. “Oh!” Wincing, she looked up and again hushed. “Oh.”

  The Southern Colonial seemed to come from nowhere. The immense old house covered the expanse of the entire hilltop, a peeling gray monolith from an era of lawn parties, philanthropic pursuits and southern gentility.

  Daphne gasped. “Tobe, look. It’s bigger than I thought.”

  The strange couple brushed past Renae in their anxiousness to see the house up close.

  A cold current flowed through Renae’s stomach. This was the first time she’d ever set foot on the island, much less seen Ormsby’s estate in the flesh—or wood and stone. The square, symmetrical two-story Colonial resembled a ghost ship, its battered exterior barely surviving tumultuous years at sea. The paint had long ago been blighted by sun and rain. Tall tufts of grass, gone a dusty brown from lack of available sunlight, sprouted all along the house’s foundation, doing little to conceal warps in the woodwork and chips in the stonework.

  Oddly, the central door, flanked by two sets of windows, retained the bright, crimson luster as if it had been painted just the day before.

  What the h-e-double hockey sticks? Renae wondered.

  The front of the house was framed by four Greek-style columns, all of them riddled with long, winding cracks. It looked like they’d have trouble holding up the roof to an aluminum shed.

  Renae fumbled for the keys as she struggled to catch up with the Harpers. She nervously eyed the front porch roof, watching for the slightest sign of an imminent collapse.

  Piles of withered leaves as high as her ankles scrunched and crackled as she shuffled forward. “Would you like to look around the outside before we go in?”

  Tobe Harper considered it with an odd twist of his lips, then said, “Actually, I’m more curious about the interior. If you don’t mind.”

  “No, not at all. Let me give this old lock a try.”

  The door was held tight by an old padlock fastened to a thick, steel hasp and bracket. Without the key, it would take a welder to cut his way through.

  Flakes of rust rained down on her hand when she pushed the key into the hole. At first, it wouldn’t turn. She gave it a little elbow grease, and was relieved to hear the tumblers click into place. With a heavy tug, she pulled the lock open.

  “All of the window boards look to be in place, so I don’t expect to be greeted by any critters.” Daphne and Tobe were unfazed. Renae hoped her words had a ring of truth. The thought of bats or rats or some fat possum spilling out of the open door set her hair on end. “Here goes.”

  She grasped the cut glass doorknob and turned. The swollen wood protested a bit, the door popping as it opened for the first time in a generation.

  “Oh my,” Renae whispered.

  They came upon a twisting wooden stairway leading to the darkness of the upper floor. She traced her flashlight from the foot of the stairs, along the wall and to the top of the raised ceiling.

  They stepped inside, their footfalls echoing throughout the vast, empty house.

  To their left was the great room with its built-in bookcases and dormant fireplace. To their right was a breakfast room, one wall adorned with beautiful, hand crafted cabinets and another, smaller fireplace. Aging, mismatched bits of furniture were piled in the corners of each room with no traces of dust. Chairs were stacked on a long, leather sofa, while a table lay on its side against a wall in the breakfast room.

  Everything was immaculate.

  The absence of warping wood, peeling paint and wallpaper sent tiny yet insistent shivers down Renae’s spine. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear they had just missed a horde of contractors by mere minutes.

  Even the glass of the windows were as clear as still, spring air.

  This isn’t right.

  “May I borrow your flashlight?” Tobe Harper asked, jarring her from her momentary stupor.

  “Uh, ye…yes.”

  “We’d like to explore a little on our own, if that’s okay with you,” he said, taking the flashlight from her hand.

  It’s more than okay with me, she wanted to say. “Sure, sure. I can wait right here if you like, or even outside to get some air.”

  For the first time that day, he smiled. “Wonderful. You’ve been so helpful.”

  He glided into the dark. She saw him reach for something in his jacket pocket, some kind of rectangular box that was about the size of his hand. It made odd clicking and chirping noises as he waved it around. His footsteps clacked through the breakfast room and into the belly of the great house.

  Daphne placed a lithe hand on Renae’s shoulder.

  “I think we should all stop at a liquor store when we get back to the mainland. I do believe you’ve just made a sale.”

  Renae caught Daphne’s emerald gaze, seeing the mirth dance like the faint drops of a sun shower on a still pond. Renae couldn’t hold back a shiver so great, she felt as if her joints would dislocate. The stories told to kids and teenagers about the great haunted house on Ormsby Island weren’t true.

  No, something far, far worse was present in Ormsby House.

  Renae wanted nothing more than to be on Nelson’s boat, heading back for the coast. She was certain that even a shower with holy water couldn’t cleanse her soul, tainted as it now was in the presence of something she didn’t dare to understand.

  Chapter Two

  Eddie Home leapt from his bed, gasping. An empty bottle of whiskey keranged off the radiator.

  His heart raced as if he’d just finished a hundred yard dash. His sweat stung his eyes and his head felt ready to split into quarters.

  “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”

  Untangling his foot from the sheets, he paced around the room, his fingers tugging at the wild curls in his hair.

  A voice, faint, the echo at the bottom of a deep well, a remnant of a recurring dream, whisper
ed, “Perfect.”

  “Leave me alone! Just leave me the hell alone!”

  He found the whiskey bottle and smashed it against the wall. Shards of glass stabbed at his face. Dropping to his knees, he buried his face in the mattress and wept.

  Chapter Three

  “Can you please answer your phone?” Angela pleaded. She pressed the trigger on the nail gun, securing a support beam in place with several nails. “It’s driving me crazy.”

  Jessica Backman tightened the red bandana on her head, peering at the phone she’d left atop an upturned plastic bucket. “It’s my aunt. I’ll call her back later.”

  “You’re going to give the woman heart failure. That’s the fifth time she’s called this morning.”

  Jessica replied by flipping plastic goggles over her eyes and firing up the circular saw. Foot-long blocks of wood clattered onto the unfinished flooring. When she was finished with the first batch, she scooped them up and loaded them into a barrel. She noticed Angela’s concerned stare, choosing to bite her tongue, and fished her Sennheiser wireless headphones out of her backpack. The pounding beat of Tesla’s Mechanical Resonance drowned everything out, including her thoughts. Especially her thoughts.

  The Sunny Wisconsin afternoon had a crisp edge to it, making it feel more like the start of fall than summer. Dozens of volunteers purposely worked around her, most doing true handiwork for the first time in their lives. This was her fifth house for Habitat for Humanity so far this year.

  Since inheriting her father’s lottery fortune a year earlier, she’d taken her Hofstra degree in anthropology and her checkbook, jumped into her battered Jeep and headed out on the road. A lot of graduates dreamed of traversing Europe to explore life and eventually find themselves. Jessica had no interest in seeing other countries until she’d fully explored her own. The pot at the end of her rainbow wasn’t discovery. It was no great and terrible secret. She was out to lose herself. A Buddhist monk she’d met in a diner in Ohio, of all places, had told her the best way to avoid suffering was to invest oneself in the wellbeing of others. His orange and tan robes made him an uncomfortable standout in the small town eatery, but the man couldn’t stop smiling.