Residuum

by ID Johnson

  Residuum

  Ghosts of Southampton Book 2

  ID Johnson

  Copyright © 2018 by ID Johnson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Cover by The Graphics Shed

  Created with Vellum

  For all the survivors, those who have overcome the odds and made their way in the world despite any obstacle that comes their way.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  A Note From the Author

  Prologue

  “The water was so cold, little crystals of ice immediately formed atop anything and everything that crested the surface. The sensations below weren’t any better, however. It was as if a thousand tiny pins were plunged into my flesh all at the same time. Even through my leather shoes, my coat. It didn’t matter; so I took them off. The entire Atlantic Ocean was already pulling me down. I didn’t need anything else hastening my journey to the abyss.”

  The man in the brown leather chair cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. “And then what do you remember next?”

  There was a long pause of consideration as thoughts fought to both spring to the surface and hide deep in the recesses of his mind. At last, a sentence was formulated. “I didn’t have a lot of time to decide what to do. There’d been plenty of chances, mind you, to climb into one of the lifeboats. I’d declined. Even though I’d been below deck and had seen what it was like down there, had seen the water crawling up the walls, lapping up the staircase, one concrete step at a time, I suppose even then it was difficult to wrap my mind around what was actually happening. But I was determined not to take the seat of another, particularly a mother or child. And though I had given great consideration to what I might do when I inevitably found myself in the Atlantic, my plan wasn’t as developed as I would’ve liked.”

  “You say you had a plan though?”

  “Not really. I suppose I’d like to think I had one, that I would come up with something spectacular at the last moment to save myself. That’s what I’d reassured everyone else, all those who beckoned me aboard the lifeboats with them. In retrospect, it wouldn’t have mattered to the hundreds of women and children who ended up in the ocean if I had climbed inside a lifeboat. No one else filled those seats. Hundreds of empty seats. Did you see that? In the papers?”

  He glanced up from his notes. “I did. I read it later, after the reports were filed.”

  “Right. So, here I was trying to be… heroic or chivalrous, I suppose. It turned out my efforts were wasted, and I ended up dying because of it. Momentarily, anyhow.” He remembered what it had been like to slip away and then come crashing back to his own existence and pushed those thoughts aside, returning to his previous trajectory. “I believe there’s another word one might use to describe my actions in turning down a perfectly good lifeboat.”

  He scratched his balding head beside a thin line of light brown hair touched with gray. “And what word might that be?”

  “Foolish.”

  There was a “hmmm” sound in response, which was neither an agreement nor a disagreement. “So once you were in the water, what happened then? Do you remember exactly?”

  The words were having difficulty placing themselves in the correct order again. It took a moment of forced introspection. “I had intended to find something that would float. I assumed a ship with that much lumber aboard—deck chairs, tables, doors, what have you—would have enough debris to easily find something I could mount and wait. I was under the impression that the lifeboats would come back—the half-empty ones for certain. It made little sense to me to think that those people, the thousand or so who had made it safely aboard a life vessel--would sit idly by. I assumed it would only be a matter of moments before there was a rescue party, if you will. I also remembered seeing a light on the horizon before we went under. I thought this other ship would be our salvation. It turns out I was mistaken in all of my optimistic assumptions.

  “In answer to your inquiry, however, there really is no order of things, no chronological account I can replicate for you. There was no time. Curious souls often ask me how long it took for the rescue boat—that’s what they like to call it, which I find quite ironic—the rescue boat to come back and begin to check to see who was still alive. I can’t answer that question, honestly. It was an eternity. It was the blink of an eye. I can’t precisely tell you what happened after I found myself completely submerged in the Atlantic. Nothing happened. Everything happened. All at the same time.”

  There was a long pause as the thin man in the upright leather chair seemed to ponder how to proceed. “Can you describe how you felt?”

  He pushed the palm of his hand into one eye socket, pressing hard enough to feel an ache before running his hand through his brown hair and straightening the hem of his jacket. He cleared his throat. “I felt like I was going to die. My body was both on fire and frozen solid at the same time. It’s hard to describe, but at some point, the human body becomes so cold it burns. I had the fleeting thought that there were three choices that lay before me, and I didn’t truly have any options because there was no time to weigh the potential outcomes. I only had time to react.”

  “What were the choices?”

  “The first one was to fight—to swim as fast as I could in any direction; it really didn’t seem to matter which. Thrash about, try to make a headway in one bearing or another. I couldn’t see any of the lifeboats, so there was no sense in attempting to reach one, but swimming would be action, and action seemed to be an option.

  “The next was to do nothing. To stay perfectly still and allow the ocean to take me, as she so clearly wanted to do. As I said, I could feel her pulling me. It wasn’t the suction created by the ship or some such rubbish would-be scientists will try to explain in their overly-wordy, overly-educated statements. It was the ocean itself. She wanted me, wanted all of us, and her lapping waves were an invitation to let go of everything I’d ever known before and simply cease to exist.”

  He went quiet again, and the man across the room seemed perplexed as to whether or not he should issue another prompt or simply wait. He tried the latter for a lengthy while, and then, just as his thin lips parted to probe, the story was continued.

  “The third option never really existed. I just thought it might. I thought there was a chance that I could employ the same tactic I had every other time I’d been in such a precarious situation, sure of nothing but certain death. It didn’t work this time, however.”

  “What tactic is that?” he asked, squinting behind his thin-rimmed glasses.

  The answer came more quickly than expected. “Wake up.”

  The inquisitor absorbed the answer and then gave one short nod of the head. “I see,” he said quietly, as if it had never occurred to him that a person might even think that was an option. “I suppose it makes sense one might assume, under the circumstances, they must be having a dream.”

  “A nightmare,” he corrected.

  “Indeed.”

  “Once I realized that my preferred escape method was not a true possibility, a parade of familiar faces skirted through my mind, people I wished to see again, and I be
gan to look around for an alternative. That’s when I saw the collapsible lifeboat.”

  “About how far away do you think it was?”

  “In truth, not far at all. At that point, it didn’t matter, however. Any sort of movement whatsoever was excruciating. All of my joints had frozen stiff after just a few minutes in the water. It could’ve been a hand’s breadth away and reaching it would’ve been nearly impossible. I’d say, it was less than ten yards’ distance. It may as well have been floating up next to the mocking moon which didn’t even bother to show its face.”

  “And yet, you were able to reach the collapsible, eventually.”

  “I was. I’m sure I don’t know how. When I started out on my journey, there was quite a commotion surrounding the upturned vessel as those nearby struggled to gain traction and buoyancy. By the time of my arrival, everyone was much more… still. Some were grasping hold with all their might. Others slipped below the surface and were not strong enough to recover from the siren call of the abyss. There was no helping them, no matter how badly the others wished they could assist. At that point, it truly was every man for himself.”

  “You were able to find a spot somehow, and to grab hold?”

  “Somehow,” he agreed. He began to strum his fingers on the arm of the couch intermittently, as if typing out a message using Morse Code.

  “And you’ve no idea how long you were there, you say?”

  “No.” The answer came quickly, unlike all of the other words that refused to form coherent sentences.

  “Do you remember being plucked from the water, then? When the lifeboats finally returned?”

  “No.” Equally as easily accessible. “I don’t remember anything again until after I awoke on Carpathia.” He was quiet for a very long time again, before he reconsidered his statement. “That’s not true. I do remember something else.” His voice was soft now, just above a whisper, and the man across the room leaned forward in his chair, straining to hear. “It’s the true reason I’m here.”

  “What’s that?”

  The strumming stopped, and he looked up, a shift in his countenance. “The photographs in my mind are one thing. I see their faces. That’s… troubling. It’s not the worst of it. But every time I close my eyes, I distinctly see each of them. A woman with short, curly hair. A man with some sort of wrap on his head, his face frozen in anguish. Literally frozen. A little boy, maybe six, clinging to a woman I presumed to be his mother. A baby wrapped in layers of blankets and nestled between an arm stiff with frost and a bosom that would never feed the child again. Their faces are haunting, and they are everywhere. Despite that daily terror, it isn’t the worst.”

  “It isn’t? What is it then? What could possibly be worse than seeing the faces of the dead everywhere you look?”

  “Dr. Morgan, have you ever considered the different definitions for the word ‘drown’?”

  The question seemed to take him aback, and he scooted his shoulders into the chair. “No, I can’t honestly say that I have.”

  “I looked it up in the dictionary because I was curious as to precisely what it might say. It’s such an interesting word. It doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, does it? Drown. Drown. Drowning. It sounds almost as morbid as the meaning behind it. The latter definition is almost as unsettling as the first, though, when you think about it. You can’t just stick to the first definition, mind you, doctor. You have to read them all. ‘To die under water of liquid or other suffocation.’ Yes, of course, we all know that one. We were all trying so hard to avoid it that night, though I’m not sure any of us thought of the true cause of death—freezing. Nevertheless, the Atlantic that night was full of over two thousand persons trying hard not to succumb to the first definition of the word drown.

  “If you’ll read further, however, my good man, you’ll come up with another definition. ‘To overwhelm as if to render inaudible, as by a louder sound.’ Dr. Morgan, since I’ve arrived back in New York City, I’ve heard all sorts of loud sounds. Whistles, horns, people shouting, doors slamming, music playing. Some of them startle me because I now have a new association with each of them. I can’t describe what happened the time I heard the loud popping sound of a firecracker exploding, much like the distress signal that was fired off that night. But one thing that still eludes me, Dr. Morgan, is the second part of that definition—a louder sound, one that renders the original sound inaudible.”

  “I’m not sure I know exactly what you mean.”

  “It’s quite simple, really, Dr. Morgan. I’ve come here, I continue to come here, because I’m hoping that you can help me extinguish, or otherwise drown out the constant noise I’m hearing, not with my ears, but with my mind. Not just while I’m sleeping but even when I’m awake. It never stops. It’s there all the time. And, Dr. Morgan, while I’m quite certain that a psychiatrist of your caliber is just as capable as anyone in the world at helping me with this problem, I must admit I’m afraid it might be a lost cause.”

  “Why do you say that, Mr. Ashton?”

  “Because, Dr. Morgan, it’s been nearly six months since Titanic sank, and I still hear them. I still hear the screams, the wails, the cries for help. I still hear the thrashing sound of two thousand people desperately trying to survive, trying to accept option one and fight for their lives, for the ones they loved, many of which were right there with them, freezing to death, being dragged under by the pull of the Atlantic. I’m afraid, Dr. Morgan, that I’ve reached the startling conclusion that, despite the irony of the word itself, there’s no helping my situation. Quite frankly, kind sir, I’m of the opinion that nothing drowns out the sound of drowning.”

  Dr. Laurie Morgan was silent for some time, taking in the statement his patient had so decidedly declared, not sure how to respond. Eventually, he cleared his throat, and taking off his spectacles, he picked up a cleaning cloth from his desk beside him and began to carefully clean the lenses. “Mr. Ashton…” he began.

  “I’ve told you, doctor. Please, call me Charlie.”

  “Right. Charlie, I do think there is an answer, that we will find a way to make the noises stop, or at least lessen. I understand you’ve been through the sort of traumatic experience only a few people can identify with. However, I believe if we continue to work together, we will eventually see results, and you’ll begin to feel much better, particularly now that I have this information.”

  Charlie ran a hand through his hair and let out a deep sigh. He wanted to believe the doctor. He’d already made some progress in the few months they had been working together, but he didn’t know for sure if there was any solution. Today had been a bit of a breakthrough in that he was able to tell the doctor precisely what it was that was still troubling him. Choosing to be optimistic, he nodded, and reaching over next to him on the lounger he refused to lie on, he grabbed his hat before standing. Dr. Morgan rose out of his chair and stepped forward, and Charlie had to tip his head and peer down at the much shorter man. “Thank you for your time, doctor.” He extended his hand, and the doctor shook it. “I will see you next week.”

  “Thank you, Charlie,” Dr. Morgan replied. “Yes, next week. I hope to work on finding some answers then.”

  Charlie nodded and forced a smile, thinking that might be all but impossible. He headed for the office door, and waving goodbye, he let himself out. The receptionist, an older woman with graying hair, smiled at him, and Charlie wished her a good day before making his way down and out of the office building into the busy streets of New York where, amidst a crowd of thousands, he felt just as alone as he had when he’d been floating in a sea of faces in the frigid Atlantic.

  Chapter One

  April 18, 1912

  The silence was deafening. There had to be over a thousand people on the deck surrounding Meg as she peered off into the distance at New York City as it grew larger, but no one seemed to be saying a word. Only the gentle pitter patter of raindrops as they hit the metal railings and the sodden wooden planking broke the torturous sound of
nothing ringing in her ears.

  She still wore the same white shirtwaist and plaid skirt the stewardess, the one who had been so helpful when they’d first come aboard three days ago, was able to find for her, but she wasn’t much worried about how she looked. Her hair was pinned up more to keep it out of her way, but she had noticed it was starting to fall out, and she tried not to touch it for fear her hand would pull away a fresh clump.

  For three days, she and Jonathan had taken turns sitting alongside Charlie’s bed. He was lucid at times, very much aware of where he was, of who he was. Other times, he had no idea. He could hardly recognize his own name. The doctors had been giving him something—what it was she couldn’t be certain—but it was supposed to help him stay calm. It worked to a degree, but there were instances when he awoke from a restless sleep screaming, and Meg would do her best to try to calm him, though it was impossible as those were the times when he was least likely to know who she was. The nurses would come and give him another dose of whatever it was, and the cycle would repeat itself. Though Meg was assured this was the case with many of the passengers who’d been plucked from the water, knowing the despair was shared did not make it any easier.

  When he’d first returned from the dead, she thought everything would be fine. The doctor had said he might have some frostbite and could potentially lose a toe or the tip of a finger. She didn’t expect him to be so mentally altered. Jonathan assured her it was due to the trauma of being in the water for so long, and he was quite confident the old Charlie would be back soon. Meg believed that at first, but three days seemed like forever, and now she didn’t know what to think.