The Jetty

by Jay Brandon

  Michael felt safe for the first time that day. Water surrounding him let

  him breathe easily.

  They came out of the mouth of the harbor and Holroyd throttled down the engine so they could hear each other. They pointed out the sights to each other – sea gulls conferring on a buoy, a passing tanker, the lighthouse – but there wasn’t much to see. Michael mainly watched Kathy. “You okay?” he asked, and she nodded. She was lost in thought. His

  voice seemed to recall her from a distance.

  “Look, dolphins,” Holroyd shouted. “They’re good luck,” he added. “Where?” Kathy asked, shading her eyes with her hand.

  “They’ll come back in a minute.”

  The Reverend slowed the boat to a crawl, but the dolphins didn’t reappear. “Strange,” the captain muttered. “They always hang around the boat.” When he saw that Michael had heard him he added in a conversational tone, “They’ve been acting funny lately. Maybe a change in the weather coming. Dolphins sense things. They know more than we do.” Michael gave Kathy a significant look; she turned away, turning her attention to Holroyd. “Tell us about the boat, Reverend Holroyd,” she insisted, changing the subject. “Michael said you told him it was in a gun

  battle.”

  “That’s right,” Holroyd replied “It happened in this very channel eighty years ago. There was a young couple from the East Coast, pleasure seekers they called themselves. We don’t know if they were married. They were heading out to buy liquor from one of the boats that lay off shore. There was a twelve-mile limit and the bigger boats, mostly schooners, would set anchor just outside the limit, and speedboats would offload from the schooners then race back to one of the nearby coves, taking care to avoid the Coast Guard cutters and distribute the rum or gin or scotch to their customers. It was very profitable, a quick way to make a lot of money – even if it was dangerous. Well, I’ll be . . . ” Holroyd exclaimed.

  “What?” Michael asked.

  “Look,” Holroyd said. “Out there. The sailing ship. It’s a schooner. You rarely see schooners like that any more, and almost never in Port Aransas. And I think, you know what, it’s in the same place where the rumrunner ship Exchange was anchored.”

  “What happened next?” Kathy urged.

  “Well,” Holroyd said, continuing his story, “it was a smooth sea, much like this evening, and the cases of rum were unloaded from the schooner’s

  hold. The Exchange was a fifty-foot schooner. The crew took less than an hour to fill the Bacchus with thirty cases of rum. The pleasure seekers said their goodbyes, and sped off back to the mainland.

  “The Bacchus proceeded unhindered till they rounded a curve in the channel – that blind spot there – and the Coast Guard cutter Pursuit appeared. The Coast Guard captain used a bull horn and ordered the Bacchus to stand and be boarded. The Bacchus refused and increased speed, heading for one of the inlets near town. The cutter fired across their bow, and again ordered them to stop but the smugglers were determined to make a run for it. The Bacchus raced at full speed. The couple had a dog aboard – a huge dog that some said was part wolf – and at this moment the dog began barking furiously. The cutter fired again; this time the shells fell near the Bacchus and sent spray over her deck. The smuggler captain of the Bacchus fired an 1895 Springfield rifle at the Pursuit. Again the Pursuit fired its Browning machine guns, this time wounding both of the smugglers and crippling the steering gear.”

  Holroyd pointed toward the shore. “The captain managed to beach the boat there,” he said. “He and the woman had both been severely wounded, and the woman was probably dead when they reached the beach. The dog was still barking furiously, and the wounded husband carried the woman, struggling through the dunes toward that house.”

  But Michael didn’t need Holroyd to describe the scene. Transported, he was suddenly there on the deck of the Pursuit.

  Retrocognition! The word thrust itself forward in his thoughts to be recognized. He remembered Reverend Holroyd’s explanation of such experiences. Michael had been flung back into the past to witness scenes in which he could not participate. Was it only illusion?

  Michael stood with the Coast Guard gunners as they took aim at the Bacchus. He saw them open fire as the rum-running couple took evasive action. He smelled the cordite as the guns sprayed the fleeing powerboat.

  He marvelled as the fierce, savage barking of the dog rose above the din. With the Coast Guard sailors, Michael saw the Bacchus disabled, its course swing wildly toward the shore, saw the smuggler leap into the shallows with the woman in his arms, and carry her, staggering up the dunes away from the channel, the dog leaping after them and then turning to face the Coast Guard cutter, ready to defend his master’s retreat. Michael followed the other sailors ashore on the heels of the rumrunners. Ahead, he saw their quarry, face down in the dunes. The dog – the beast – was nowhere to be seen. A Coast Guard lieutenant reached down to turn over the bodies. Michael recognized the faces – Jack and Vivian!

  For a moment he lost his bearings. He was disoriented. He blinked.

  He looked at his hands as if he could see a difference in himself. Then, just as suddenly, he was back in the present. He saw Kathy on the other side of Holroyd’s boat.

  “Look,” Kathy said. “The Lefflers’ house.”

  “You know that house?” Holroyd asked in surprise. “We were just there for dinner.”

  “Not at that house,” Holroyd said. “That house has been empty for years.”

  “Empty? Why it’s full of antiques and art and priceless . . . ” Michael

  stuttered.

  “That house was abandoned and the contents sold years ago,” Holroyd insisted. ”I know it because that’s the place I told you about. It’s the island’s haunted house.”

  Now the boat was coming even with the house. Michael could see only the dark windows, and then his gaze wandered to the widow’s walk, and there, looking out from that high perch, was Jack. Michael turned suddenly toward Kathy. Yes, she had seen the figure on the widow’s walk as well. But Kathy’s face expressed more than mere recognition, it expressed a much deeper emotion, and that realization sent pain through Michael’s very soul.

  “Reverend Holroyd?” Kathy asked. “What happened to the dog?”

  “The dog? Oh yes, the Beast. Why legend has it that its bloodlines

  still exist on the island.”

  They were quiet for the rest of the cruise, not even pointing things out to each other, just letting the water glide past them. Out there, away from shore, the water looked deeper and cleaner, a bright green with no floating debris. Kathy stared into it.

  And Michael knew. He didn’t have to ask. He knew as well as she did. There was no snapping of the spell. What held Kathy on the island was more conventional and stronger than mysticism – more pedestrian than enchantment. She wouldn’t leave the island because Jack was there. Michael felt stabbed. His life was oozing away.

  “The fog’s rolling in,” Michael said. He rose and went to the window. He hoped Kathy would come to the window to verify that she saw the fog too, but she only stayed where she was on the couch. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen fog here before,” he said. And they’d never been on the island under these circumstances, either, Michael thought, circumstances that made him doubt his very senses.

  “Jack walked into the ocean, Michael. He walked in and didn’t come

  up.”

  “Kathy,” he said hoarsely, “let’s leave the island now, while we can.”

  She didn’t reply, and he continued. “I said before that the Lefflers were dangerous, but it’s worse than that. They’re not human.” He expected her to snap out of it, to scoff at him, to suggest that he see a therapist, but she did none of those things. Instead, she looked up at him without lifting her head.

  “I know,” she said. “They’re ghosts, Kathy!”

  This time she raised her head and looked him squarely in the eye.

  “I know,” she said.


  Jack’s ghost was as real to her now as when he had been standing on the beach a few minutes ago. As real as when he’d . . . Jack had filled her like water flowing into porous stone. Everything he had done had reinforced her. He had reassured her. Above all, he had chosen her. Out of everyone, Jack had chosen her.

  Jack had a hold on Kathy. Michael understood that. But for Kathy to risk everything. That Michael couldn’t understand. Perhaps no one else could understand. Perhaps it wasn’t so much about Jack as it was about Kathy. ‘Or maybe it’s about me’, Michael thought.

  It was as if they were living one of those nights years before in Houston, both of them waiting at Kathy’s apartment for one of her suitors to arrive. Suddenly they’d resumed their old roles, Kathy the fairest princess, Michael the faithful servant, the court jester, the fool.

  “Please, Kathy, we have to get off the island.” Michael spoke with the urgency of someone not expecting to be believed, and sure enough Kathy barely seemed to hear what he said. He remembered the wild-haired prophet at the ferry line. Michael should have listened, should have turned around and headed in the opposite direction as fast as he could. But it was too late for that now. Now that Jack was present.

  It was eerie for Michael to talk about Jack in this place. Jack could have been right there, listening. But Michael didn’t care any more.

  He returned to the window. It was fog all right, rising up from the beach, coming toward the house. It had filled in the pockets between the dunes. Everything the fog covered was indistinct, maybe undergoing a terrible metamorphosis. Looking out the window was like trying to picture his future.

  Kathy seemed more precious to him than ever, now that he faced the prospect of losing her to a rival rather than simply to Kathy’s own lingering uncertainty. Looking back, his early infatuation with her seemed

  shallow. That had been a boy’s longing for something unknown. What he felt now was a matter of life or death.

  Michael was still standing at the window. He couldn’t even tell if she was listening, but he spoke to her anyway. “When you’re young,” he began, “you make mistakes. You have something in your grasp and when you start to lose it you just let it go, because you think you’re young and there are other things ahead in life, even better things; but years later the hurt from the loss is still there.” He turned and saw her watching him. “Nothing ever replaces it,” he finished.

  “Michael.” Kathy’s eyes were moist. “When you’re young every experience is so vivid that afterwards everything seems dull by comparison.” Her gaze turned inward for a moment before she returned her attention to Michael. “So naturally you think nothing will – “

  “Who said anything about thinking?” Michael snapped. “Thinking has nothing to do with it. You think I thought myself into loving you? You think I thought it was the smart thing to do?”

  “Michael.” Kathy rose, but as she started toward him she glanced past his shoulder and sucked in her breath. Michael whirled.

  “What was it?” “I don’t know.”

  He stepped quickly back to the wide picture window, trying to stay between it and Kathy, but she came up beside him.

  Fog. That was what was at the window. The fog had reached the cottage, rolling in like waves in a restless sea. It was so thick they couldn’t see beyond the porch railing.

  “It wasn’t just fog you saw, was it?”

  “I don’t know,” Kathy said slowly. She said it uncertainly. They stared out at the fog, still churning. It was cleansing the world, or erasing it. The cottage seemed lost in space and time.

  Then they heard it. A deep growl, then a bark, a bark unlike any dog.

  More like the howl of a wolf – the long lonely desperate howl of a beast.

  “Whump!” something pounded the side of the cottage, making it shake to the foundation. Next they were startled by a furious barking, agitated and hostile. Something scampered up the spiral staircase, scraping the steel along its way. There was a thud against the rear door and they turned to see a giant black creature flash past the door – visible only for a moment in the light from the kitchen and then – nothing.

  Michael went toward the door to make sure it was locked. He picked

  up a kitchen knife. He realized there would be little chance against such a beast. Still, he stood his ground facing the glass door, prepared for an assault, and then –

  “Michael!” Kathy screamed, and Michael turned to see a face at the

  window. A face much like the face he had seen his very first night at the cottage, only this time not unrecognizable not distorted no, it was Jack’s face, and the face wore a glow, the glow of approaching victory.

  Jack’s face disappeared and Michael wondered which was more terrifying – seeing the face or wondering where it might appear next. Jack was a master of terror; he knew it was uncertainty that was the most unnerving.

  Michael grabbed the telephone, his other hand still holding the knife. But there was no dial tone. Michael realized they had not used the phone since the giant had ripped it out of the wall. “It’s not working,” he said in despair. “I’ll have to go to Mrs. Gaford’s place to use the phone.”

  “Michael, don’t.”

  But he had to. Didn’t she see that?

  He heard her locking the door behind him as he ran, flew through the dunes. He didn’t bother with a flashlight. He didn’t want to be that visible. He wanted to blend in to the darkness. Just like Jack did. He had never run so fast, never been so afraid, never been so keen to the slightest sound.

  “Michael!” said Mrs. Gaford.

  “Mrs. Gaford. My phone’s out. Please call the police. There’s a prowler.”

  “I knew it,” she said. “I knew it. I’ll call them. Go back to your wife!” He made no effort to correct the mistake. He was running again, fully expecting it to be his last such run. But he made it back to the cottage.

  What could they do? Only wait. They sat on the couch, waiting. They sat close together so they could talk in low voices that didn’t carry.

  “Jack will hold on to you any way he can,” Michael said.

  She pondered his words, trying to conceal the thrill that went through her when Michael spoke of Jack’s being obsessed with her. Was it so terrible? To want to be admired, pursued – by someone like Jack? It was a relief to know it hadn’t just been her own vanity telling her that. Someone else could see it too.

  Michael looked at her. She sat on the couch inertly, one hand trailing down her leg. He could imagine his hand touching that leg. He could imagine picking her up, not just carrying her but encompassing her, merging into her. Kathy seemed so small to hold so much possibility. She was the holder of their future, the only future he could envision.

  “At least think of yourself,” he said, but then realized that Kathy was thinking of herself. She had been held in chrysalis so long. Now she was opening up and feeling the excitement that came with such a change.

  There was a loud knock on the door. They had not even heard the car. Michael opened it, and the mustached sheriff stepped into the living room. Seeing Kathy, he smiled.

  “Ma’am,” he said.

  “Officer Cates,” Kathy said, standing up. “You reported an intruder?”

  “That’s right, Officer,” Michael said. “His face was pressed to that window.”

  “I’ll take a walk around,” he said.

  Cates went around the side of the house. They heard him go down

  the steps, then nothing. For minutes they waited, minutes that seemed like

  weeks. Finally, Michael couldn’t wait anymore.

  “I’m going out there,” he said. He set down the knife, and picked up the flashlight. She didn’t try to stop him, dissuade him, or discourage him. She simply watched him go.

  The darkness frightened him, but the dark soon grew pale as his eyes grew accustomed to the narrow beam of the flashlight. The fog made it worse. The fog seemed to muffle the world. There was enough light to see only fog.
Fog. Dark. He listened for Cates, expecting to hear his footsteps approaching, but he heard nothing. Even his imagination failed to create a sound. He took a step, and another, step by step, and then he tripped forward over something in his path. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the side of the house for balance. He dropped the light in the process, and fumbled on the ground for it, instead touching something strange and fleshy. It took him a moment to realize it was a hand. Oh. He struggled to find the flashlight. This time found it, and flashing it on the ground saw the officer stretched out on the ground, the side of his face bloody. His chest didn’t rise and fall with breath.

  Michael leapt in terror. He ran, back around the side of the house, breathless, speechless.

  “What?” Kathy said, when he came in and locked the door behind him. He couldn’t speak. Suddenly the world seemed too terrible to consider.

  He couldn’t protect her; he couldn’t protect himself. They couldn’t even make it to the car safely now.

  Finally, he composed himself. “It’s Cates.”

  “Yes, what did he say?”

  “Say? He didn’t say a thing. I think he’s dead!”

  Another long silence followed, then she said, “Show me.” “Kathy we can’t go out . . . ”