Highland Cove

by Dylan J. Morgan

  “Fresh out of university, eh?”

  “Finished up last summer, actually.” Codie turned in his seat and motioned towards the others. “Let me introduce you to them.”

  “That willnae be necessary.”

  The last thing he needed was too many people—regardless of their age—crowding his table. He didn’t need to know the names of a bunch of smart mouth kids he’d probably never see again. At his age the less O’Connell knew the better, and there were always things he wished he didn’t know.

  Taking a soft pull on the pipe, he released smoke slowly and inhaled it through his nostrils as he did so. Codie watched him, the kid’s fingers twitching softly against the timber of the table’s surface, each movement a symbol of his waning patience. It didn’t matter, they weren’t going anywhere without him—it wasn’t as though they could swim to the island.

  “I assume you’re familiar with the island’s history?” O’Connell asked.

  Codie shrugged. “Of course. The first building was built centuries ago by reclusive monks, and then it was used to house plague victims—”

  O’Connell held up a hand and cut the kid off. “Ah ken the history, was just asking if ye did.”

  The island was tainted with the ashes of the dead. All the prayers uttered by those monks and all of their devotion poured into the island’s soil weren’t enough to save the infected or those with infirm minds. Evil always had a way of winning.

  Clearing his throat, Codie glared through the drifting smoke haze with his young face illuminated by the prospect of an adventure O’Connell had learned to survive without. “The entire island is haunted, man. It’s the reason why we’re going there.”

  “If I were ye,” O’Connell lowered his voice, “ah wouldnae go there at all.”

  Breathing out a sigh of exasperation, Codie gestured towards the bag. “I’ll take this money and find someone else willing to make the crossing. You don’t have to take us, you know.”

  Leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, O’Connell spoke almost in a whisper. “Ye take the money, son. Try and find yourself another captain brave enough to get ye close to the island. In the meantime I’ll sit here, get stotious, and wait for ye to come back with your apology.”

  Looking to his right O’Connell glanced out of the panelled window to the landmass dominating the nearby horizon. The sun inched its way towards the sea, its decline throwing shadows over the island. Darkness seemed to bleed from the soil like a contamination seeping into the surrounding ocean. Waves flourished in the channel, fanned by winds of the passing storm. The squall had bruised the sky and turned the underbellies of bloated clouds a threatening grey. The rains had dispersed yet left the world greasy and damp.

  Heat inside the tavern closed around them, the air thick with smoke and the stench of whisky. A log popped in the fireplace. The kid hadn’t moved, sitting motionless, watching him.

  “It’ll take about an hour to cross the strait,” O’Connell said at last. “Be almost dark when ye get on the island.”

  “Then we’d better get underway.”

  Finally relinquishing his gaze from the window, O’Connell settled back in his seat. He grabbed the bag by its handles, lifted it, and placed it on the floor near his feet. Picking up his tumbler of whisky he lifted it to his mouth but didn’t drink.

  “Leave the pub and take a right,” he said. “Head doon the path until ye get to the harbour; my boat is the one nearest the inlet. I’ll meet ye there.”

  Snatching up his business card Codie rose from the seat without saying a word. O’Connell sipped at his bourbon and watched the man’s back as he advanced on his table of friends. Keeping his voice low, the kid said something to his group, eyes glanced at him, and the girl no longer smiled. The tavern’s other patrons glared at them as they busied themselves with luggage, scraping wooden chairs over timber flooring. One of Codie’s group opened the door and the wind screamed in his face. They departed the tavern, slamming the door in their wake.

  When the door rattled into its jamb and muzzled the weather, the bar’s old men returned to their evening of card games played to the calm of drinking.

  O’Connell eased the last of his whisky down his throat and shifted his attention once more to the haunting vista beyond the window. The island had grown dark, as though it were the very place where all of night’s terrors emerged. The ancient monastery sat as a foreboding silhouette against failing sunlight, a fiery dusk throwing the building’s shadow onto the surrounding ocean.

  The coastal waters were a dangerous place, and harboured the persecuted souls of many unfortunate victims.

  The island concealed many more.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Weather-beaten and powered by a motor in desperate need of a service, the craft struggled against the strait’s stubborn current. Each time a wave slammed into the bow the entire boat shuddered, almost stalling in the water. The old guy didn’t seem to care, had probably trawled this stretch of water a million times and become immune to the force of each impact.

  Codie feared the vessel would disintegrate.

  Pressing himself into a shallow nook to the rear of the cabin, he’d linked one arm through a metal handhold bolted to the wood and locked his knees in order to remain upright. The small housing provided scant protection from the wind screaming around him and slapping his bare skin with stinging spray. Water dripped off his saturated coat onto his legs, pants soaked through and thighs itching with a grating cold. He glanced back towards the boat’s stern; at sunlit trails of disturbed surf spreading out behind the craft and cutting a broken path back towards the mainland. Twilight cloaked the land in deep shadow fragmented by sporadic lights from buildings dotted along the coast. Codie wasn’t sure which of them belonged to the tavern but he longed for its comforting heat and tranquil ambience.

  The boat struck a wave and shook, the blow sliding him along the cabin wall. He locked his arm tighter on the handhold and pain flared through his elbow. If the ship sprung a leak he wondered how long it would take to go under and speculated about his chances of survival. His wet clothes would drag him under and weigh him down. The icy temperatures would incapacitate him quickly. Without a life vest, his chances were virtually zero.

  With only two life jackets on board, Codie had insisted Kristen wear one. She stood next to him, pressed in close, both hands wrapped around his free one. Cold tremors filtered through her gloves and he wished he could wrap his arms around her and offer some warmth. They’d end up on the floor if he did, the moment the ship hit another wave. The life vest didn’t fit her well—it belonged to O’Connell but the old man said he’d never worn it—oversized and loose fitting, and Codie wondered if it would do her much good if they were tossed overboard. She’d probably slip right out of it and sink. He glanced at her and she gave him a soft smile. It didn’t contain much joy though, she appeared thoroughly miserable: cold, wet, and no doubt wishing she was somewhere else. She should have been back in London, trying to reconcile with her mother, but she’d insisted on joining them. The original plan was to be just the four of them, without any girls to distract them from their project, but Kristen and her mom had fought again and she’d been thrown out. They’d probably argued about the same thing as always, but he wasn’t going to ask Kristen about it. Her memories were haunting and traumatic enough without him digging deeper. She’d turned up in tears on his doorstep on the eve of this trip; she’d tell him in her own time.

  She looked away, tried to tuck her chin inside her jacket for added warmth. Her eyes closed and he wondered if she felt as tired as he. It’d been a two-hour drive from the city to reach the coast, made a half hour longer by losing their way on winding backroads leading to the isolated village. There weren’t any signposts directing travellers to the old asylum’s location. Ferry services to the island had been stopped once the institution had closed its doors for good. The island was quarantined and fenced off when two members of a paranormal investigation team died t
here a few years back. An accident, by all accounts: one of them fell down a stairwell, the other suffering head trauma when a section of the chapel collapsed. Rumours pointed towards an administrative cover-up, that the government didn’t want the public to know the island’s evil spirits were responsible. But people like Webb Enterprises were always willing to go there, and sailors such as O’Connell would always make the trip if the coin was good enough.

  Codie glanced ahead, through the cabin’s spray-covered windshield. The island loomed closer on the horizon, the asylum dominating the skyline. It wasn’t an iconic structure, but he’d read so much of its history that a stab of nervous excitement cramped in his gut.

  His best friend had always wanted to travel here, had jumped at the chance when invited to join the group, and Codie wished his buddy could truly enjoy this moment.

  Looking towards the rear of the craft, Codie watched Liam lean over the gunwale and retch into the waves. He probably didn’t have much left to bring up now, but the rocking boat wasn’t helping his situation. The other life vest hung around his shoulders, its orange hue almost luminous in advancing dusk. Once Liam had admitted to suffering from motion sickness, O’Connell had given him the vest and told him to sit to the rear of the boat. ‘If he falls out while puking,’ the old sailor had said, ‘at least he’ll stand a chance.’ A twinge of pity pinched at Codie’s emotions as his friend grappled against the vessel writhing on the swell. In spite of his predicament, Liam held a waterproof bag in his lap, all of his equipment secured within. O’Connell had told him to store it underneath in the sleeping quarters with the rest of their luggage but Liam refused. Codie suspected he would rather drown than lose his gear to the sea.

  Tied off to the stern, a battered rowboat lurched over waves in the ship’s wake. It looked older than O’Connell’s vessel and he wondered why the old man had bothered to bring it with them. Probably couldn’t untie the knot around the hook, the old rope saturated and fused solid by the weather.

  Finally tearing his gaze from the rear of the boat, Codie glanced over at O’Connell. Stern-faced with his body stiff against the buffeting tide, the old sailor stared out the cabin’s window at their destination. If he were at all troubled by journeying to the island he didn’t show it. Perhaps he’d been there before; maybe he’d delivered others to its shores over the years. Codie almost asked if the old man had been chartered to transport the investigators who’d died in the building, yet swallowed his words. Trying to hold a conversation against the wind and crashing sea would be an impossible task. He doubted he’d get much information from the old man anyway. Instead, he followed O’Connell’s gaze and stared through the cabin’s windows as the island filled the horizon.

  Tendrils of late afternoon mist drifted through underbrush on the atoll’s expansive south lawn. Spray from crashing waves blossomed white near the shore. Battling against an ever-present wind the plumes quickly dispersed, yet for the briefest of moments they resembled wraiths dancing on the beach, eagerly awaiting their arrival.

  Codie swallowed hard, and squeezed Kristen’s hand tight.

  ~~

  The cold, wet air inside the small cabin clung to his skin. The panelled walls were damp, as if all the years at sea had caused water to soak through the wood. A solitary lamp hung from the ceiling, its bulb dead, and it swung like an ancient pendulum with each push of a wave.

  Julian Foster started his tenth game of Candy Crush even though he knew he probably shouldn’t. The battery level on his phone had already dropped below forty and he wasn’t sure how he would charge it on an abandoned island. Maybe they could kick-start one of the generators—if the building still had any—but he doubted they’d have much luck. He told himself to close the application, but this journey was so damn boring that he continued with the game. Their gear covered the seats, and he’d placed his own luggage nearest him. Alex sat on the other side of the tiny table, arms folded across his chest and eyes closed.

  Julian lost the game, and glanced over at their documentary’s narrator. Alex Webb, self-proclaimed owner of Webb Enterprises, their small-time independent film company that would probably amount to nothing more than a waste of time and money. Not that cash was a problem; Alex claimed he funded this trip, but it was no secret that the finances came out of his dad’s bank account. Julian didn’t care, as long as he wasn’t out of pocket it didn’t matter who footed the bill. He owned all the camera gear, but Alex provided the tape, which suited him just fine. The guy might have provided the money and chosen the location for their first shoot, but everyone knew Codie controlled things. He’d done all the research prior to this trip, had written the script, and he’d be directing too, so to Julian the name Webb Enterprises was a misnomer. Money talks, though, and when it did everyone listened.

  With a sigh he locked his phone screen and set it upon the gnarled wooden table. As it was barely big enough to hold plates to eat a meal on, Julian suspected the table dropped down to provide a base for a bed that the old guy would construct from the seat cushions. Sleeping down here would be a chore, and with the room’s cold and damp atmosphere he doubted anyone would be able to sleep at all.

  Leaning forward, Julian looked up the steps through the hatch. Kristen stood on the deck, close to Codie, and Julian settled his gaze onto her wet jeans clinging to her thighs. Nice legs, good figure; he’d always admired her looks throughout school but had never really gotten up the courage to ask her out. She’d probably have refused him anyway; her kind—popular and pretty—always went for the likes of Codie. And good luck to him, Julian was over that schoolboy crush, anyway. His pregnant girlfriend waited at home; they were probably starting a family about five years too early but when a dozen pints dulled your senses and made you not care about wearing a condom, these things happened.

  He was scared, but at the same time could barely contain the excitement of his impending fatherhood.

  “You also wondering why she came along?”

  Julian removed his gaze from Kristen’s legs and looked at Alex; head resting against the cabin’s wall as his body swayed in motion with the tide. “Yeah, kind of. Codie said she wasn’t coming and then here she is.”

  “He tell you why he brought her with us?”

  Julian shook his head but realized Alex still had his eyes closed. “Nah, he didn’t say anything to me. She probably argued with her mum again, though.”

  “It might work out for the best.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Well, having a woman screaming and freaking out on camera might get more viewers.”

  “I guess we’ll have to put her name in the credits now, too.”

  Alex opened his eyes. “Only if she craps her pants.”

  Julian laughed, and Alex chuckled with him. Alex Webb was a strange guy; silent most of the time, which Julian often thought meant that he was in a bad mood. He could be very negative about people or situations, and Julian suspected the guy had an extremely short temper. But he came out with some good one-liners at times. With a shake of his head, Julian picked up his phone and guessed it was impossible to figure some people out. He entered the code to unlock his phone, and tapped into the Candy Crush application.

  “You think the island really is haunted?” Julian asked.

  “Nah, there’s no such thing as ghosts. We’ll just bang a few things at the opportune moment and edit in disembodied voices once we get back to the studio. No one will be any the wiser once we sell this thing.”

  Julian didn’t answer, concentrated on the game, and tried to control anxiety gaining a foothold in his emotions. He’d done some crazy things in his time, just like everyone else he guessed, but spending a weekend in an abandoned mental institution would be a first. Sometimes, walking from his own bedroom to the toilet down the hall at three a.m. freaked him out. He had no idea how he’d cope wandering through the asylum’s halls in the dead of night. Don’t use that phrase; don’t use the word dead. Just the thought of people having been experimente
d on in the same room as he’d soon be in was enough to give him the chills.

  His own bedroom … London seemed so far away: not just at the opposite end of Britain, but almost as distant as the other side of the world.

  The boat’s motor changed tone, dropping power, and the force of impact in the water lessened. Looking up from his game, Julian glanced at the overhead light as its motion slowed. Alex stifled a yawn. Moisture on the walls reflected the dim lighting filtering in through the hatch and for a moment Julian thought the ship had sprung a leak. Condensation, he figured, caused by their body heat in the cold room. Not that he felt any heat; he was freezing.

  He locked the phone and slipped it into his pocket.

  Footsteps caused the deck’s steps to creak, and Codie ducked his head into the cabin. “Get the gear together, boys. This is our stop.”

  Julian closed his eyes to take a breath. In the darkness of his lids he saw his girlfriend on their sofa, one arm draped across her ballooning abdomen, a tissue folded around her fingers to dab at tears on her cheek. Anxiety finally exploded inside him, and Julian wanted to go home.