Devil Ship: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Devil Ship Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  Devil Ship

  Devil Ship Series Book 1

  Written by David Longhorn

  Edited by Kathryn St. John-Shin and Michelle Reeves

  Copyright © 2020 by ScareStreet.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  See you in the shadows,

  David Longhorn

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Full Moon

  Chapter 1: Welcome to Sainte Isabel

  Chapter 2: Dreams and Disputes

  Chapter 3: Lies and Visions

  Chapter 4: Private Investigations

  Chapter 5: Legends and Lies

  Chapter 6: Gold Fever

  Chapter 7: At the Cove

  Chapter 8: Twisting Slowly in the Wind

  Chapter 9: Aftermath of a Hanging

  Chapter 10: More Questions Than Answers

  Chapter 11: Into the Green World

  Chapter 12: Under the Shadow

  Chapter 13: Prophecy and Profit

  Chapter 14: Devil Ship

  Epilogue: Six Months Later

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  Prologue: Full Moon

  “They hang a monkey?”

  Randy Hobart groaned. If there was one thing guaranteed to get Chelsea going, it was animal cruelty of any kind. She had already complained, long and loud, that their hotel offered no vegan option for breakfast. After breakfast, they had gone for a stroll, and Chelsea had insisted on trying to liberate a miserable-looking donkey that was tethered outside a shanty. The donkey had tried to bite her, and its owner had threatened to call the police. Now, she was making a fuss about some festival.

  “Honey,” Randy said, trying to be diplomatic. “They don’t hang a real monkey. Obviously. It’s a fake monkey, made of cardboard and stuff, and they carry it down to the beach and hang it up like a kind of piñata. You don’t object to bashing a piñata shaped like a—like an animal of some kind. Right? Right?”

  Faced with this logic, Chelsea crossed her arms and looked huffy. Randy sighed and wondered how he could placate her. Looking out at the Caribbean, he saw a huge full moon rising, just clearing the horizon. The view from Port Louis was splendid, and the brightly dressed crowds of locals were cheerful and friendly. Drink was flowing in abundance, hundreds of tourists were filming on their phones, taking selfies. A few were even taking part in the dancing. But it looked very much as if Mrs. Hobart’s little boy was not going to enjoy the festival.

  “That’s still disgusting,” Chelsea said finally. “I’m as sensitive to local folk traditions as anyone, but cruelty to animals is wrong—even if it’s symbolic. Especially monkeys. They’re almost people.”

  “It is not a real monkey, mademoiselle,” said a dignified old lady in a red floral dress, who broke away from a passing group to stand facing the tourists. Randy smiled uncertainly at her, wondering if she had taken offense. “It was un petit diable that they hanged, Captain Lemaitre’s demon. Tonight, we defy him, to keep the Devil Ship away. There is no harm, only happiness!”

  Chelsea looked startled and confused.

  “I’m… I’m sorry,” she said finally. “It’s just not my kind of thing.”

  “Good triumphs over evil, yes?” said the old lady, smiling. “That is everyone’s thing, n’est pas?”

  Without another word, Chelsea grabbed her boyfriend’s arm, and marched Randy away, off the crowded main street. Randy looked back at the elderly woman, tried to signal an apology for his girlfriend’s rudeness. But the lady was already lost in the dancing, singing revelers. The sound of drums beat out a cheerful, insistent rhythm, and behind them, the subtler sound of a steel band could be heard. Above the crowd, Randy could just make out a tiny, child-sized figure, limbs waving crazily. It was some kind of simian marionette.

  He also heard the odd chorus of a song like an old-time sea shanty. It reminded him of pirates. He could just make out the words and knew they were guaranteed to upset Chelsea even more.

  “For the Frenchmen hanged the monkey, oh!

  Because they all got drunk-y oh!”

  “Okay, we won’t take part in the festival, even though it’s the biggest event of the holiday season,” he said, shouting above the chaotic noise of the festival parade. “Right, so what should we do, honey?”

  “I want to bathe naked in the moonlight,” Chelsea replied, suddenly affectionate, taking his arm. “I need to commune with nature.”

  The thought of her feeling smoochy and getting naked threw him for a moment. But then Randy thought about the hazards involved. He pointed out that swimming after dark in unfamiliar waters was always a bad idea. He added that Jaws, while a work of fiction, was a pretty good guide to the danger, in his opinion. Randy knew Chelsea had been terrified when she saw Jaws. It was a much more effective argument than talking about currents, cramps, stinging jellyfish, and coral that might prove razor-sharp.

  “Okay then,” she said, sounding slightly subdued, “what do you want to do? And don’t say go back to the hotel and have sex.”

  His first idea having been dismissed out of hand, Randy paused, frustrated. He had come to Sainte Isabel to combine business with pleasure thinking this would be a good idea, but his working vacation was turning into a nightmare. Neither the working part nor the vacation part was shaping up as expected.

  Firstly, Chelsea complained about everything, as if she wasn’t grateful he had forsaken his wife of thirteen years for her hot, young body. Secondly, the resort he had sunk a vast amount of capital into was way behind schedule and the site manager was being evasive. Thirdly, he had a bad gut thanks to trying a local delicacy that turned out—after he had eaten a couple of mouthfuls—to be goat curry.

  “I want to go fishing,” he blurted out. “Because so far, sugar, I’ve had a goddamn miserable holiday. I’ve spent half my time trying to track down that sonofabitch Laplace, who’s giving me the runaround, and is definitely fired if I can ever find him. And the rest of my time I’ve spent puking up curried goat. So, can we please just do something I want to do, for a change? And yes, before you say it, I know catching fish is not nice for the fish. But I say screw the finny bastards because I enjoy it—man the hunter, the thrill of the chase, all that primal crap.”

  “Okay,” she said, clearly resolving to be supportive, for now, at least. “Just so long as you promise to throw the baby ones back.”

  “Of course I will, sugar!” he replied, kissing her on the forehead and patting her butt. “I’ll just keep the big ones for the hotel chef to fry up for me tomorrow.”

  A few minutes later, they were at the Port Louis marina. Randy had already checked out boats for hire and knew that a guy called Jonas offered moonlight fishing trips. By chance, they encountered a man walking up the jetty to
ward the promenade who seemed a likely candidate. Randy stopped him and found that he was, indeed, Jonas. He asked how much the boatman would charge for a two-hour fishing trip.

  “Tonight?” Jonas said, looking dubiously at the couple, then past them at the town. “My friend, this is not a good night, I am going to the beach to join in the fun. Come with me!”

  Randy sighed and took out a wad of notes. He knew that US currency was preferred to the Eastern Caribbean Dollar. Jonas hesitated, and Randy tucked the cash into the breast pocket of the young man’s shirt.

  “Another two hundred when we get back,” he promised, putting away the rest of his cash. “That cover your overheads, diesel, docking fees, etcetera?”

  Jonas grinned and turned back, leading the Americans down to his boat, the Cormorant. Chelsea started to chatter with the boatman, asking him for his life story as she usually did with strangers. Jonas seemed happy to oblige, and soon they knew all about the pros and cons of island life. The tourist season was good, but every place was crowded. The off-season was bad because everybody ran out of money when there were no tourists around. Randy almost mentioned his reason for being on Sainte Isabel, but then decided against it. Some locals were not keen on the new resort, despite the year-round employment prospects. He hoped Chelsea would not blab about it.

  Randy changed the subject by asking about booze. It turned out that Jonas had a cooler full of beer, and at no extra charge, offered them to his guests as he took the Cormorant out to sea. After they had climbed aboard, Randy had inspected the fishing gear and bait on offer. It seemed rudimentary but good enough. His spirits lifted as he opened his first beer and settled into the fisherman’s chair mounted at the stern of the Cormorant.

  “I’ll take you out to Frenchman’s point, off the old lighthouse, up the coast a few miles,” said Jonas. “Plenty of fish there—the moonlight brings them to the surface. They worship the moon, yeah?”

  Randy raised a can in salute, feeling that, at last, he was in charge of his vacation, doing what he wanted on his terms. Chelsea was persuaded to crack open a beer, and took one up to Jonas. He drank a couple of mouthfuls and then put the can aside.

  “Look, lady and gent,” Jonas said. “They are all down on the beach now. You sure you don’t want to join them? It’s not too late.”

  “No, I still think it’s in poor taste,” Chelsea said, with a touch of haughtiness.

  Randy looked and saw a small sea of lights bobbing on shore behind them at Port Louis. It seemed as if everyone in the tiny capital of Sainte Isabel was taking part in the festival. He felt a pang of regret that he hadn’t seen it, then decided he could just as easily check it out online. It might well be another lame tourist gimmick. But, even if it was, it would feature heavily in the publicity for his fancy-schmancy resort.

  If the damn thing ever gets finished.

  “Hey, what’s that?” asked Chelsea. “Some kind of little doll?”

  Jonas removed a small object that had been dangling from the wheel and handed it to her. Randy moved closer, suddenly aware of his age and paunch, wondering if this handsome guy was trying to move in on his trophy girlfriend. Chelsea held it up, peering closely as it spun on its piece of cord, then made a moue of disgust.

  “Oh God!” she said to Randy. “It’s that poor monkey again!”

  Randy took the trinket, held it up to a small spotlight that illuminated the rear of the boat. Sure enough, it was a grotesque, distorted simian figure, evidently molded in cheap plastic. The monkey was black, a cord fastened around a crooked neck, and the thing had unpleasant, bulging eyes. It wore a little red jacket, making Randy think of the monkeys on old-time barrel organs. He recalled that a childhood friend had had a wind-up monkey that bashed a pair of cymbals together. It, too, had worn a jacket, plus a cute little fez. But there was nothing cute about this particular creature. Those protuberant eyes looked crazy, even wicked. And its little paws were reaching out, as if frantic to grasp and do harm, even as it was strangled.

  “It’s sick,” Chelsea said, snatching it from Randy, staring at it again. “Imagine making fun of something like that.”

  “Miss,” Jonas said, turning to face them, one hand still on the wheel, “please, it is not nice, but it is still mine. Can I have it back?”

  Randy thought he detected a slight edge to the man’s tone, as if he was trying not to make a fuss. Chelsea did not reply, but instead, tossed the plastic monkey at Jonas. She threw clumsily, and Jonas failed to catch the monkey. Instead, his hand struck the charm a glancing blow and deflected it over the side of the boat.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” said Chelsea, sounding genuinely contrite. “I promise I’ll buy you a new one.”

  Jonas stared over the side at the foaming wake of the boat, as if he had not heard her. Then he turned his back on them. Chelsea looked at Randy and shrugged.

  “More beer!” he suggested. “Beer solves everything.”

  By the time they reached the fishing grounds off Frenchman’s point, the Americans were merry and the full moon was high. Jonas still seemed subdued, slightly nervous. He stopped the boat and dropped anchor, then turned on the sonar to give Randy some warning of when—or if—large numbers of fish rose to the surface. Chelsea announced that she was going to drink the last of the beer.

  This is more like it, Randy thought. After all that trouble back home, this is where I want to be, just fishin’.

  He baited a line, cast it out, then sat back to wait, finishing his final beer and pondering his future. Randy Hobart was going to make a new start on Sainte Isabel. Here, there would be no snooping journalists asking him about neglecting safety standards, all but accusing him of killing people. It had been an accident, after all. It was hardly his fault that a bunch of Mexican firefighters hadn’t gotten there in time.

  Those people just aren’t well-organized. Like these islanders. They’ll need licking into shape, too. Bit of good old American know-how will get this sleepy old rock into the 21st century. They can’t help it, just congenitally lazy, I guess…

  A loud pinging jerked him out of his reverie. He heard Chelsea jump up, ask Jonas what was happening. The boatman replied that there was a signal on the sonar.

  “Yeah!” Randy felt exhilarated, his head clearing slightly as adrenaline kicked in. “Come to poppa, little fishes!”

  “Throw the little ones back!” Chelsea shouted, now quite drunk. “It’s wrong to kill the babies!”

  Randy blinked. The moon had risen halfway up the sky but was starting to look a little blurred. He wondered if it was the beer, but then glanced at the shore. The lights on the beach were also blurred, and they vanished as he watched, fading out one by one. Then he grasped that a mist was rising around the boat. Randy wondered if Sainte Isabel might be a volcanic island, with some kind of fumes coming from undersea vents. Then he dismissed the idea as nonsense. It would be in all the tourist leaflets. Tourists liked volcanoes.

  “Wow, I can see a huge shoal of fish on this radar thing,” called Chelsea from the bridge. “It’s right underneath, you gotta catch something... Oh! What’s that?”

  Randy was startled, too. Something had struck the underside of the boat, a sharp blow, followed by a scraping sound along the hull. He thought of Jaws again. But then he dismissed the idea. There were no great white sharks in these waters, and even if there were, they would not attack a boat. Not in real life.

  “Jonas, could that be a small whale, maybe?” he asked, hopefully. “Hey, have you got a harpoon? Jonas?”

  The boatman did not reply. Randy looked around to see him pulling up the anchor, then rushing back up to the bridge. He felt confusion, then annoyance. Was the boatman going to take them back to Port Louis already? They’d only just got here. That wasn’t part of the deal. A little mist shouldn’t end a perfectly nice, drunken evening.

  “Jonas?” Chelsea asked, her words slurred by beer. “What’s going on? Are we going back already?”

  “We must go, now,” Jonas said quic
kly, pushing a button on the dashboard. “It is late, we must go back.”

  Randy heard the engine turn over once, twice, but fail to start. Jonas kept pushing the starter, muttering under his breath. The diesel engine seemed to protest at his goading, failed to roar into life.

  “Why are you praying?” Chelsea asked, backing away from Jonas, then climbing down the ladder back onto the aft deck. “Randy, what’s wrong? Why is he scared?”

  “I think this guy is trying to cheat me out of two hundred bucks,” Randy stormed, getting up from his fisherman’s chair. “Hey, you! Don’t take us back to port! I paid good money for a night’s fishing.”

  Jonas continued to ignore him, jabbing frantically at the starter button. The diesel below deck rumbled into life, and Jonas rammed the throttle down. The boat surged forward, tilting and veering wildly. Halfway up the ladder, Randy nearly fell to the deck. He heard Chelsea cry out in surprise, then moan in pain, and begin to curse fluently. Randy was furious now, and when he got onto the bridge, he lunged at Jonas, shoving the young man aside. He grabbed the throttle in order to slow the boat.

  “You reckless bastard!” Randy shouted, seeing his spittle fly into the islander’s face. “I’ll make sure you lose your goddamn license unless you stop this boat!”

  Jonas said nothing. Instead, he punched Randy in the stomach. The American doubled up, feeling air whoosh out between his lips as he struggled to stay upright. Beery vomit surged up into his gullet, then subsided again, leaving an acid residue. Again, the boatman seized the controls and the boat sped up, its bow turning toward the barely visible lights of Port Louis.

  Gasping for breath, Randy saw red and forgot all about fishing. He grabbed a boathook from a rack and swung it clumsily at Jonas, hoping in his rage to smash bone and gouge flesh. But the younger, sober man ducked, grabbed the wooden shaft, and tried to jerk Randy off of his feet. A clumsy tug-of-war began, with neither man willing to relinquish the boathook.