Blackwood

by Gwenda Bond

  The principal always arrived at least a half-hour before any of the faculty, probably so he could write up the ones who were five minutes late. That meant all Phillips had to do was sneak out and be waiting to smooth the sticker onto his sedan's bumper.

  He was pulling his vintage Clash T-shirt over his head so he could change into his uniform when the knock on the door sounded. A man's voice called, "Phillips Rawling?"

  That was not the voice of one of his charming Neanderthal fellow students. Too old, and he had a sinking feeling he recognised it.

  "One sec," he called back. He should already be dressed, so he let the T-shirt fall and raced to get his standard-issue white button-down over it, leaving the shirt unbuttoned and the tie loose around the neck. He yanked on the jacket that went with it, scrubbed a hand through his chin-length black hair and opened the door.

  Yep, it was the fascism-lover. The principal had a halfmoon hairline and a thin mustache. He'd been trying to figure out Phillips' story since the day his parents dropped him off in Kentucky at semi-reform school and headed back home to Roanoke Island. Phillips had never imagined this guy capable of busting him. What if his parents tried to make him come home?

  Phillips raised his eyebrows, not volunteering anything. He needed to see how bad it was.

  The principal gave a disapproving glance at the T-shirt beneath Phillips' uniform but motioned him down the bland beige hall. "Your father's on the phone for you," he said.

  The kids in the hall were openly curious as Phillips shut the door and followed the principal without speaking. Phillips didn't hang out with anyone here and as far as they knew, he was one of the good kids. He wasn't someone the principal gave a personal escort anywhere.

  This couldn't be good. His dad never called him, and he'd just talked to his mom the night before.

  Phillips stayed quiet on the way down the stairs to the first floor. When they reached the bottom, the man said, "Over here." He led the way into the dorm's front office, a part of the building Phillips rarely saw. The big room had a couple of desks and filing cabinets, along with a counter and a short row of chairs in a waiting area.

  The principal pointed him to a small table next to a copier. A light flashed on the phone. "Line two," he said.

  Phillips picked up the receiver, his finger poised over the button. "Can I have some privacy?"

  "Of course." The principal deflated and scuttled across the room.

  Phillips clicked the line, did his best to hide his nerves. "You rang, Father?"

  His dad hated being called Father.

  "Phillips, thank god," his dad said. "It's just… There's something…" He was talking too fast. He sounded out of breath.

  "What's wrong? Is Mom OK?"

  There was a long pause. His dad breathed heavy into the phone, but Phillips felt no urge to make a joke about it. Then his dad said: "Do you know where they are?"

  "Where what are?"

  His dad let out a sigh, maybe of relief. "Listen, son, I think I need you to come home. Something's happened…"

  He could sense his dad searching for the right words.

  "It's not Mom, is it? Tell me it's not Mom," Phillips said.

  "No, no, your mom's fine. But it's bad." The line fuzzed with soft static as his dad paused. "Bad's understating it. Maybe you can help. Maybe I… the island needs you here."

  Phillips longed for his iPod. He wanted to put his earbuds in and crank the volume loud enough to drown out what his father had just said, to drown out the world. Pretend this conversation wasn't happening. It was so quiet here. His sanctuary.

  "I can't go back, Dad. I can't do anything there. Trust me."

  Phillips reached out, pressed down the line to hang up the phone but kept the receiver at his ear while he thought over his next move.

  He'd been thirteen when he first heard the spirits, the day his gram died. Unfamiliar voices chattering in his mind, so many and at such volume he could barely think. Once he decided he wasn't going crazy (yet), it wasn't that hard to figure out who the voices belonged to. The dead went everywhere on Roanoke Island that he did.

  Pressing the voices to the back of his mind had taken constant effort. But they were always there. A hum, a buzz, and, sometimes, a riot. During the worst moments, it was like every person who'd ever lived and died on the island – and it had been occupied for a very long time – shouted to him. Their voices rushed him, a pack of bullies bringing chaos he couldn't begin to control. He'd felt frayed at the edges, like he was unraveling. When he confessed to his mom, she made an appointment with a neurologist in Norfolk. As they drove off the island, the voices faded. Not gone, but lower. A miracle.

  So Phillips had made enough trouble that his parents had no choice but to send him away. His dad was the police chief. His reputation couldn't take the hits. Phillips gave the yearround boarding school pamphlet to his mom, and she agreed to go along. Leaving had been his last hope.

  The further from the island they'd gotten, the more normal he had felt. The voices quieted, and then disappeared.

  He'd been here three and a half years. Staying here was better for them all. He wasn't going back.

  Decision made, he replaced the phone and rose. He ran a hand through his hair, and caught the principal watching him.

  He thinks he's finally getting his chance to figure out my dark and stormy past.

  The principal walked across the room and laid a hand on Phillips' arm. "Your father has asked me to put you on a plane home. I'm to stay with you while you pack and escort you to the airport in Lexington. You are not to leave my sight. Those were his instructions."

  Of course they were. Phillips shrugged, already beginning to work on possible ways out. Maybe he could convince an airline staffer to put him on a flight somewhere else.

  "He told you what's happened, I take it?" the principal asked.

  Phillips shook his head. Curious, even if I didn't involve his mother.

  The principal said, "You should see this."

  His tone made it clear he was playing his trump card. He gripped a remote and pointed it toward the TV mounted in the corner of the office. He unmuted the set and raised the volume.

  Some news network, with the standard Breaking News crawl, blared. Everything seemed to qualify as breaking news these days, but this time it was true:

  Mass Disappearance in Outer Banks: Colonists Lost Again?

  The network was broadcasting the Norfolk affiliate's coverage from Roanoke Island. According to the blonde holding the microphone, they'd just run a spot with his dad. But that wasn't who the face he saw belonged to. That wasn't the owner of the voice he heard. Phillips drifted toward the monitor, every ounce of attention he possessed locked on the screen.

  Miranda Blackwood was being interviewed on national television. And what she said was, "Leave me the frak alone," before striding toward the camera and out of frame, while the reporter babbled something about "this distraught young woman" being an indication of the local mood.

  He felt like someone had thrown cold water in his face. Miranda Blackwood – he hadn't seen her in almost four years, obviously, but she had the same too-serious eyes, long black hair curling around her pale, pretty features.

  "I've seen enough," Phillips said. "Let's go."

  If Miranda was involved in what was happening there, he had no choice. He should've known he couldn't escape dealing. When he shut his eyes, the memory of the voices was as clear as if he was already back there. And his dad wanting him home was a tip-off about just how bad this would be. His dad had never acted like he believed Phillips had any unusual abilities, even though he'd grown up in a family legendary for its gifted members.

  Phillips should have known. The island always won.

  3

  MIA

  Miranda shouldn't have lost it with Blue Doe. But the lens of the camera had stared at her judgmentally, and the reporter had been in her way to find out if her dad was missing. She needed to get inside the station, see if he was
safe in a cell. She'd stalked off, hearing unsurprised murmurs from the crowd.

  Behaving like a Blackwood… like father, like daughter… She didn't need to hear their whole commentary to fill in the details.

  Her dad hadn't been in lock-up. A younger officer she remembered being on the football team a few years before had taken her information, promised to let her know as soon as there were any leads on the disappearances or if her father turned up.

  There was nothing to do but wait and freak out, so she decided to check on the theater crew. She might be forgiven for the night before now, no questions asked thanks to the more important one of where all these people had gone to. Morrison Grove, the tree-hidden village of multiplex apartments that housed the hundred and twenty or so out-of-town cast and crew during the summer, bustled with action every time Miranda had been there. People who were drawn to the theater lived life loudly, and for many players at The Lost Colony this summer of noisy glamour had to make up for an off-season of quieter cast calls and auditions. But the parking lot had only a smattering of cars in it, and as Miranda left the quiet forest path to walk among the Grove's cozy chocolate-brown houses, they appeared as deserted as they would be come winter. The entire place was sunk in the deep silence of abandonment. The gentle roar of the Sound in the background was the only thing close to normal.

  Miranda found Polly's apartment and pulled open the scratchy screen door. It squealed under the pressure of her hand. She rapped on the door, but no one answered.

  The knob turned easily, door releasing with a click. Unlocked.

  Feeling like a silly girl – for going inside and for being nervous about going inside – she stepped into the common room, taking in the kitschy knitting projects and trashy magazines scattered around like normal. A tiny drink umbrella lay discarded on the floor.

  "Polly?" she called. No one answered.

  Miranda walked around the living room and stopped at the dry erase board on the wall where the girls left each other snarky messages or notes about errands. There were no messages to explain the desertion.

  The screen door squealed open behind her, and she whirled. Costumes Leah stood in the door, her face blotchy and eyes shiny. She wasn't one of Polly's roommates, but she hung out with them.

  "Where is everyone?" Miranda asked her. "Where's Polly?"

  Leah walked the rest of the way inside, stopping to pick up the drink umbrella. Her red hair was wet, like she'd just gotten out of a shower. "I… I can't find her. She was here. Last night. We were all here. I slept on the couch. Now they're… They're missing."

  "Polly's missing?" Miranda probed.

  "Not just her – Kirsten and Gretchen too. Jack just took half my housemates to stay with relatives in Shenandoah for a couple of days until this is sorted out. I was going to stay, but… I'm going too. I can't take the quiet."

  Miranda didn't understand. "How will they get back for the show?"

  "The theater CEO's wife is missing. He's canceled the show until further notice," Leah said. "The first time ever Jack said and… even he seemed worried. You sure you're OK? Do you want to leave with me?"

  Miranda could have sworn Leah's teeth were chattering. Of course, the idea of the director being worried about anything besides his precious reputation was almost as disconcerting as the rest of the morning's events.

  "No," Miranda said, "No. I'm going to stay in town. Everyone will be back. It's probably all just some weird coincidence."

  But what if it wasn't?

  Leah started to giggle, though it didn't sound like a laugh. "I hope so," she said. Leah flung her arms around Miranda in a hug before she could dodge, squeezed tight. "Hope you're here when I get back," Leah said, still giggling.

  The older girl left, but Miranda stayed behind in Polly's apartment for a few minutes. She kept hoping to look up and see Polly walk through the door.

  Miranda had watched The Lost Colony be performed hundreds of times. She felt trapped in that final moment where young Virginia Dare tells the audience the settlers were never heard from again. How did more than a hundred people disappear without a trace? For it to happen four hundred years ago was almost unbelievable, but to happen now? And for her dad to be one of them?

  It turned out Miranda couldn't take the quiet either.

  Phillips flipped up the collar of his jacket and lowered his head, the better to fake invisibility. He navigated through the terminal at the Norfolk airport, skimming past people weighed down with carry-ons they were too paranoid to check. He'd expected the voices to start chattering as soon as his feet hit the ground, just from being so much closer to home. On the island, listening to music had been the only thing that helped. When the plane landed his iPod was ready in his pocket, his earbuds dangling around his neck. But so far, there was nothing. Not even the vaguest of whispers tickled the edges of his awareness.

  The TV screens he passed were all Roanoke Island, all the time. Norfolk was close enough to pick up regional news. He didn't stop to watch.

  Guilt did force him to a stop in front of an arrivals board. The situation on the island would mean his dad had extra ammunition for special favors. He'd have done his best to get Phillips' mom clearance to wait at the actual gate, to make sure he didn't pull a runner.

  Phillips found the flight number he was looking for and backtracked. Not far, a couple of gates. He stayed close to the wall.

  There she was. She sat in a chair waiting for him. Her smooth brown hair was cut shorter than the last time he'd seen her, framing her face. She held an e-reader in her lap, but stared ahead at nothing instead of reading. She looked tired.

  He walked to the bank of pay phones and dialed her cell. Remembering that his dad also had access to GPS tracking, he left his own cell off. "Mom?" he said when she answered.

  "Yes, sweetie?"

  She wasn't too happy about him having lied about his flight details. He'd called her from Lexington and told her he was switched to a slightly later flight on a different airline – the one she sat waiting for, not the one he'd actually been on. She was even less happy when he told her he'd see her at home later.

  "Phillips, how will you get there? Do you know what will happen when you're back on the island? It's been almost four years." She always worried about him. He wished she wouldn't worry so much. He'd noticed a few new streaks of gray in her hair.

  "There's something I've got to do. I'm sorry," he said. He didn't tell her about seeing Miranda on the news. He could still hardly believe that. He knew how hard it was to get her to react. He'd done his worst, hadn't he? And she'd just stood there.

  He hadn't been able to forget that, to forget her. He needed to see her, and there wasn't time to make his mother understand why.

  When he hung up the phone, he realised his mom was right. How was he going to get there?

  He did the obvious thing.

  His mom always parked on the third level in the thirteenth row in the parking garage. That way, she never forgot where the car was. He found their faithful maroon sedan and located the spare keys in the little magnetic box behind the rear right wheel. Then he stole the family car.

  Once she made it home, Miranda sank onto the sofa. Her hands formed a tight ball in her lap. Sidekick sat on the floor beside her, big eyes full of worry.

  The family legend ran that the Blackwood name was linked to the fate of the island. None of them had ever lived anywhere else. The knowledge lived deep in her bones: Blackwoods were doomed to Roanoke Island. She wouldn't have believed her dad could leave, let alone disappear.

  But if all those other people had done just that, if her dad had, who was to say she wouldn't be next? Even if her life was going to be spent in a place that didn't want her, that didn't mean she was ready to vanish. And where had the missing people vanished to? She couldn't imagine that it was any place good. When she was young she might have hoped differently, but there were no waiting fantasy lands, no sudden entries to worlds where wizards and unicorns frolicked under glittering waterfa
lls and everything became magically perfect.

  Wherever the people were, she bet they weren't any safer than she was.

  Then she remembered the closet in her dad's room, which he'd stuffed full of boxes the day they moved in. He caught her going through it soon after, and pulled her aside, shaking her twelve year-old shoulders. "Don't ever go in there," he told her. "There's a gun in there." When she got older, she thought about going through the closet when he was out and getting rid of the gun. She worried about it, about her dad and his bad days. She'd never liked the idea of it waiting there, cold metal of some unknown shape and size. But he'd told her not to touch it and she hadn't. The idea of a gun in her hand had made her too uneasy.