Fables & Other Lies
Page 3
“The Devil’s Chair.” Martín’s announcement pulled me out of my thoughts. I looked over at him. “The fog seems to have dissipated from this area. If you want to take a picture, now would be a good time.”
“You know, the elders on this island tried their hardest to take this down and couldn’t,” I said, walking toward it.
“It didn’t always look like this?” He stood, brushing dust off his pressed pants.
“No way. It was a mausoleum for the Caliban family. At least that’s how the story goes,” Dee said. “The workers had enough of the wealthy and decided to riot and take down anything that resembled wealth. Of course, it’s difficult to tear down limestone, so this stayed.”
“Why is it called the Devil’s Chair?”
“It looks like a throne,” I said simply.
What was left of the mausoleum resembled a throne made of limestone. Whether the name came from the fact that people called the Calibans devils because they had so much wealth or something more sinister really was under these streets was just another thing that brought curious tourists here. I took a few pictures before placing the cap back on the lens.
“Okay, I’m done.” I examined the pictures to make sure they were clear, then let the camera drop, the strap tugging as the weight of it hit the back of my neck.
“You’re not going to sit in it?” Martín grinned. “You never post pictures of yourself on the site. I bet it’ll get more views than anything else if you do, and sitting on the Devil’s Chair, to boot.” He signaled for me to hand him the camera. I took the strap off and gave it to him as I walked over to the rocks.
“You don’t have to,” Dee said, in the same voice she’d used that time I was dared to go inside one of our friend’s dark basement.
“It’s just a pile of rocks, Dee. I’ll be fine.” I sat down, Martín snapped some photographs, and I stood up, brushing off my pants. It wasn’t dirt, it was sand, I realized. I turned around and looked at the seat again, and then the rest of the rocks. “The entire thing is covered in sand. Did you notice?”
“That’s what it is?” Martín walked over, handing me back my camera before swiping his fingers over the bench and bringing it up. “Huh. That’s so interesting. I mean, the beach is just steps away, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s not like the water reaches all the way out here,” Dee said.
“How would anyone know?” Martín looked at the two of us. “Everyone I’ve spoken to only tells me to stay far away from this area at night.”
The three of us turned our attention to our left, where the water was supposed to be. Normally, you could hear the waves at a distance, but not tonight. Everything was quiet and none of it was soothing.
“I guess you’ll have to come back tomorrow for the pictures of the house,” Martín said.
“Yep. I can’t see anything.”
“I can see the gates now,” Dee said. I looked closer. I couldn’t see anything.
“The weather report says it will be clear the next two days,” Martín said as we turned and headed in the direction we came from.
We were almost to Dolly’s Bar when everything went dark, all of the street lights going out with a ting at the exact same time. Dee groaned.
“Did the lights just go out on the entire island?” Martín asked.
“Yep. That’s what happens when you’re over capacity with people,” Dee said.
“Are you all right, can you guys see?” he asked.
“No.” I stopped walking completely.
Between the sudden darkness and the heavy fog, I couldn’t see a thing. My skin prickled. I felt as if someone was watching me, lurking in the shadows, underneath the fog. I turned around, but it was too dark to make out anything. Somehow, I just knew someone was there.
“Hello?” I called out. “Guys?”
“Where are you?” Dee asked, but she sounded farther away than she was a second ago.
I walked forward, determined to get to Dolly’s. Everyone would surely be outside huddled together. The wind picked up slightly, making a low howl as it swept my hair around my face. When it stopped, I blinked and realized I was right back where I started. I could see the Devil’s Chair from here, the black iron gates that kept people from going into the water and over to Caliban Manor. I shivered, turning around fully. Again, I felt as if I was being watched.
“Hello?” I called out again. “Who’s there?”
“I’ve been waiting for you.” The male voice was deep and soothing.
“Where are you?” My heart slammed as I blinked, looking around. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re scared.” I could hear the amusement in his voice. It made my heart beat a little quicker.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“I thought good witches didn’t feel fear. I thought good witches walked in the light, where there was nothing to fear.”
“I’m not a witch.”
“Hm. You sure about that, little witch?”
“I am not a witch.” My eyes narrowed slightly. I tried to find him, but couldn’t. I tried to speak again, but found that I couldn’t do that either. When I finally found my voice, I screamed, “Leave me alone.”
As if on my command, the street lights turned on all at once. I looked around rapidly, but there was no one there. No trace of a man, of anyone. Just as fast as he appeared, he was gone, and I was left facing the street that led down to Dolly’s. I started running, heart pounding, hands sweating. When I got there, I spotted Dee and ran right up to her and Martín.
“Where were you?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I need to go.”
“Do you want to get a drink?” Martín asked.
I shook my head again. “I’m tired. I think everything just hit me all at once. I need to get home.”
“Okay.” Dee’s frown deepened. “Text me when you get there.”
“I will.” I gave them each a kiss on the cheek and turned around, but stopped walking as something up the hill caught my eye.
“Huh.” That was Dee, behind me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a light on at the Caliban Manor that clearly from down here.”
“That is odd,” Martín said.
“It is odd,” I said, shivering uncontrollably. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
As I walked away and headed home, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What had happened to me? Who had I seen? I couldn’t be sure, but I had too many things on my plate to worry about right now. Still, I couldn’t deny that something about that light, that hill, that chair, seemed to call me and I needed to find out why.
Chapter Three
Evidence of my father’s chain-smoking lingered throughout the house long after he was gone. I couldn’t take a breath without thinking of him. Smoking was a terrible thing, of course. For the lungs, for others’ lungs, but even though I later developed an allergy to it, I never minded when Papi did it. It was part of him, like I was. As I sat on the couch, it was the scent of the cigarette smoke stuck to the couch that made me break down in tears, because it finally hit me that I’d never see him again. I’d never get a chance to redeem myself in his eyes. That last bit was what hurt the most. I’d worked hard because I needed money to live, but mostly I just wanted to make my father proud, and for what? He’d never called.
I heard voices coming from my mother’s room; the nurse who was watching over her was watching a telenovela. I buried my face in my hands. At least I still had her to make amends with, though I wasn’t sure I would. I knew myself. I knew her. We were both stubborn as goats. My father was like that as well, but my mother was worse about things. Judgmental. One-sided. After sitting there for a little while, looking at the television in front of me but not really paying attention to what was actually playing, I pulled my computer onto my lap and uploaded the pictures of the Devil’s Chair I’d taken. I must have fallen asle
ep at some point, after reading some of the Reddit message boards about it, because when I opened my eyes again it was already morning.
“Don’t put your foot on my couch.” That was Wela. I obeyed, turning off the television and standing up to take my half-eaten bowl of Lucky Charms to the kitchen.
“I don’t understand why you couldn’t wait and have a real breakfast with me today. I was going to make you mangú y queso frito.” She shook her head. “We haven’t had a meal together in ages.” She walked up to me and squeezed me into a hug. “I see that you’re dressed so I assume that means you need to leave.”
“I do, but I’ll be back by dinner and I’ll definitely sit with you for that.” I kissed her tight curls. “I promise.”
“I’m holding you to that.” She pulled away and started getting things out for the breakfast she was going to make. “Carnival kicks off tonight.”
“I know.”
“You’re not partaking in the festivities?”
“Papi is dead and Mami is, well, like that.” I signaled toward her room. “How can I celebrate anything?”
“New life, mi amor. That’s what Carnival is, after all. The fact that your father died the week of this celebration is a good thing. His soul will be welcomed by angels and live in the light.”
“We’ll see.” I bit my lip. I didn’t much believe in angels, but it was just one thing on the long list of things my grandmother and I disagreed on and I didn’t want to bring it up now. I grabbed my camera bag and looped it around my neck, deciding not to. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“I thought you were going to hang out with those scoundrel friends of yours.” She eyed the camera. “You’re going to work?”
“Yep.”
“Someone is selling their house here?”
“Apparently so.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know everyone on the island, Wela.”
“Try me.” She shot me a look. “What’s their last name?”
“I’m not privy to that kind of information.” I smiled wide and walked away quickly. “See you later!”
“Be careful on that Vespa. There have been more accidents these last two years than ever before,” she called out.
“That’s because the tourists don’t know how to drive here.”
“Be careful with those tourists!”
“I will.” I strapped on my helmet and sat on my Vespa, driving it out of the neighborhood and waving at some neighbors as I went.
I thought about my mother, who I should have gone to see this morning. What if she died before I got a chance to say goodbye? The thought made my chest squeeze. That wouldn’t happen. She’d survive. She’d survive and we’d forgive and repair our damaged relationship. That was what would happen. I rode off toward Dolos Island with that thought in mind.
Wela wasn’t kidding about the tourists. There were rented Vespas everywhere and most of the people on them didn’t seem to know how to maneuver them. I held my breath as the light turned green and hoped to God no one crashed into me. The streets were filled with so many people that I was forced to stay at a whopping ten miles per hour out of fear that I might hit someone. The celebrations clearly started early, with people spilling out of bars, laughing, and telling their renditions of all of the horror stories Pan Island had survived. The bits and pieces I’d overheard at stop signs and red lights were enough to convince me not to partake in this “celebration.” Carnival was something I found to be fun when I was a kid, since I got to paint my face and dress up. It was a local celebration. The minute the politicians opened up the ports and allowed for tourism, it became something else. That was also when my parents forbade me from going because they thought it was too dangerous. We didn’t know the outsiders or what their intentions were. I didn’t get to experience it as a teenager or adult, which was the only reason a small part of me was curious about it.
As I neared the iron gates, I slowed even more so. The number of tourists on this side of the island was almost unimaginable. It had always been an attraction, even when I was a child, but back then there were maybe a handful of people with cameras trying to get evidence of the supposed vanishing house. No one could get past the iron gates though, and even if they did, they’d only walk a few steps before they hit water. The house was said to be six miles beyond the gates. One mile was covered in dark sand, the rest was the ocean, and then, finally, the Manor. I’d never seen the water nor taken a boat over. It was strange, really, I had a photograph of the house that I didn’t remember taking, but that day there was no water, there was no fog. It was as if the darkness lifted in the precise moment I snapped the shot and then fell upon me all over again. I parked my Vespa and looked around as I took my helmet off and put it away. Everyone was talking about the Caliban Manor and the water that surrounded it. Some were trying to figure out how they’d make it over there, if they dared. Others were talking about global warming and what that could mean for the house. I almost felt bad for the Calibans for not having privacy.
Almost.
The high tide usually served as a barrier between the Devil’s Chair and the house. Even if someone wanted to walk across it, they couldn’t. They’d have to boat, like some were saying, and those who boated often were never seen again. I thought of Esteban being in that dark water and shivered. A few nights a year, like tonight and tomorrow, the tide would be so low that it was almost nonexistent. On nights like these, you’d never know there was an ocean between us and them at all. The closer I walked to the black iron gates, the clearer it became that today wouldn’t be a good day for photos either. The fog was clear, but still there, and even though I knew that might add to the beauty of the shots, I wasn’t sure how in the world they’d let me in and keep everyone else at bay.
I took some pictures of the gate, of the street view, figuring I’d have to photoshop everyone out of the picture, and then looked to my left and swallowed at the sight of the Devil’s Chair. There was a line of people waiting to be pictured with it. A line of idiots. As I examined the pictures on the small screen of my camera, I heard the unmistakable sound of wet sand being walked on. I turned and saw a man walking over to me. A man dressed in dark pants and a dark lightweight jacket. At first glance, my heart did a little dip. He had a chiseled jaw and a head full of hair parted to the side, like an old Hollywood film star, and then he looked at me, setting the weight of his attention on me, and I thought I might stop breathing altogether. He was beautiful, gorgeous, unreal. He stopped on the other side of the gate and brought a key to undo the lock.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, and his voice, a low, sexy growl, vibrated through me. It took me a second to realize what he’d just said.
“What’d you just say?” I took a step back, stricken.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” He arched a brow. “You are here to take photos of the house, aren’t you? The real estate company sent you?”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Sorry. I’ve been distracted since I got here.” I shot him a shaky smile. “So, are you going to let me in?”
“I’m actually indisposed at the moment.” He opened the gate wide enough to walk out of it and locked it behind him. “I need to meet someone in town.”
“Oh.” I frowned and looked in the direction of the house, or where the house was, miles down. “Can’t someone else show me around?”
“I’m afraid they can’t.”
“So, how exactly am I supposed to do my job?”
“That is a great question.” He pointed at me and turned away, walking toward town. I fumbled with my thoughts for a second before following behind him.
“Um . . . hey.” I rushed over to him and stopped short when he stopped walking. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“River.” He turned to face me. He was so much taller than me, even in my platformed boots, that I needed to tilt my head to look at his face. “River Caliban.”
“Caliban?” I blinked. “You’re a Caliban?”
“In a better mood?” I felt myself frown.
“That is correct, Miss Guzman.”
“You know who I am.”
“Of course, I know who you are. You think I’d just let a stranger waltz into my house and take photographs?” The way his eyes burned into mine, I knew exactly what he was insinuating and because I had no way of defending the fact that I’d taken a picture of his house and published it and profited from it, I stayed quiet and bit my tongue.
“I guess I’ll come back then. The gala is tomorrow night?”
“It’s in two days. Carnival festivities begin tomorrow night.”
“Right. So, you want me to come back in three days?”
“Yes, that should be fine.” He gave a nod. “See you soon.”
“Yeah.” I nodded slowly, watching him go and watching the way every head turned in his direction as he walked. I wondered if they knew who he was or if they were just looking at him because he was impossible not to look at.
Closing my camera lens and putting it away in my bag, I turned around and started walking back to my Vespa. The fog was darker now, heavier. Though I could still hear tourists talking around me, I couldn’t see them. Suddenly, I heard a whisper. My heart slammed against my chest. Not again. Not a repeat of last night. I walked faster.
“Penelope,” the whisper said. “Penelope.”
It was a familiar voice. One I hadn’t heard in years and didn’t want to pause for now. I picked my pace up to a jog, and then a sprint until I reached my Vespa. I didn’t even get my helmet on before I started driving.
“Come back, Penelope.” The whisper was louder now, growled, angry.
I slammed on the brakes. My body shifted forward as the back of the Vespa lifted in the air from the force of it. I looked back. The fog was lowering, snaking onto the street, covering the cobbled street that was just visible to me a few seconds ago. I gripped the handlebars tighter and turned the Vespa around, shining the light in the direction the voice had come from, my heart speeding up as I waited for any sign of Esteban. He was dead. I knew there was no way he’d step out of the fog. There was no way. And yet, I heard his voice as clear as day, calling out my name.