There are no feet to be seen, but the footprints are there. Still coming, they move in a crowd.
Splish, whish, gurgle, shree—the sounds of many people wading.
Splot, shrok, spatter, crrrunch. Drops of water scatter and fly as the invisible group heads past the tide line.
Some of the feet seem to be wearing flat shoes. Others are bare. Several are unusually wide and long. Parting around Herbie’s tackle box and gear, they plod slowly for the dunes, more and more of them, blurring each other’s progress.
As if they’re tired, Gabe thinks to himself. Tired and cold. Young and old. He feels a tight, tingly excitement. Just as he wonders why on earth he isn’t frightened, his dad staggers sideways, his knees buckling in the icy water.
As Gabe lunges toward his father, a set of adult boot prints onshore pauses abruptly, scattering sand as if a big person had stopped in his tracks to see what was the matter.
The boy is busy and doesn’t notice. He grips his dad’s arm for a moment. Behind them, the water settles back to a mirror-like stillness. The sand stops moving. Whoever—or whatever—was passing has passed.
Father and son wade slowly toward shore. Stepping gingerly over the prints, they cross the road and begin the walk home.
Herbie Pinkham shakes so badly that the lures in his tackle box jingle and clank. Gabe has never ever seen him look frightened. Dad is scared and I’m not, the boy thinks with a quiet rush of delight. He glances up at his father, who looks back at him with stunned eyes. At that moment, Gabe feels at least an inch taller.
“Should never’ve brought you here tonight,” Herbie says. “Somethin’ funny in the air today. Felt it earlier. Somethin’ alive, I dunno …”
Gabe swallows. “Do you believe in ghosts, Dad?”
At first there’s no reply. Herbie is a police officer, and Gabe knows he’s seen a dead body or two. He also knows his dad likes to stick to the facts.
The boy, pleased to have his dad’s attention, plows on. “Really believe? Like drowned ones?”
“I dunno what I believe,” his dad mutters. “A lotta people have gone down offshore here, Lord knows, but … I’ve never heard of a ghost coming out of the water. Could’ve been a trick of the light or a rush of baitfish …”
Gabe reaches for the sandwich bag of homemade cookies that his mother had tucked in his pocket. He offers one to his dad, hoping to stretch the moment.
“No, thanks.” Herbie Pinkham looks away.
Gabe, not hungry either, wonders where all those feet have gone and what the ghosts could see of him and his dad. He hangs the bag neatly from a bayberry bush by the side of the road.
He knows there is something out there.
November 4. Still no wind.
The town pier reaches into the darkening harbor this evening as Ray Ramos and his ten-year-old twins, Maria and Markus, settle down to wait, bucket and long-handled nets ready. It’s low tide and they are there to catch blue crabs. The size of an adult hand, these crabs taste like lobster and are delicious in chowder. When threatened, they put up quite a fight, waving sapphire claws over their shell, pincers wide open.
Woe to the toe that steps near a blue crab in summer waters. I, Mary Chase, can still feel the shock, enough to make a person wade with eyes down from that moment on.
Come October, this species of crab heads for the deep, where they dig in for the winter months. But this week, word is out that they’re close to shore, scuttling in the wrong direction.
Ray is teaching his kids to carry on the family’s Portuguese, Cape Verdean traditions—such as eating all that’s edible from the sea—when he isn’t working in their small restaurant, which advertises home cooking with a Portuguese-plus-Caribbean flair. Maria and Markus’s mom, who is from the Dominican Republic, manages the business but also makes sure the kids read lots, go to the library each Saturday, and take advantage of every offering at school. Despite having to live in one rental after another, the family is growing dreams that matter. And one day, Ray Ramos is determined, he and his wife will own a home of their own.
Like many natives—a proud name for those who are born here—he can’t afford even a smidgen of property on the island of his birth. Maria and Markus don’t think about this, though—they are still young enough to believe that the island belongs to all who appreciate it.
It is Markus who spots the disturbance first.
“Pop?” he asks.
Soon all three of them can see the water surging and breaking in a long line, as if—as if what? What is this?
They jump to their feet, Ray pulling his children close as the churning tide gurgles and swirls beneath the planks of the pier. Small boats nearby bob gently, seemingly bumped from all sides. Seagulls perched on the tops of wooden pilings take to the air, cawing.
“Dang,” Ray whispers. As the three watch, the choppy waves become water pushed by slow, solid shapes, as if people are surfacing after a hard swim, only … there are no people.
His daughter is the first to see the footprints. “On the beach!” she whispers, squeezing her brother’s hand.
Their father’s mouth falls open. First come the indentations of a man’s bare feet, followed by tinier ones, feet that skip on the sand. A child? More and more prints, toes of all sizes and shapes, appear at the edge of the water, moving in an uneven gaggle up the beach and toward the grasses, the overturned rowboats, and the road into town. A few of the figures hobble as if unsure; others seem to plunge ahead with confidence and purpose, arms swinging.
Although, of course, there are no arms. No feet.
Maria’s heart is pounding in her ears. Where are they going?
They don’t act as if they’re lost, she thinks.
“It’s them,” Maria whispers to her brother, not knowing what she means but suddenly filled with a flush of happiness. Easily, she imagines the invisible bodies that must be attached to the feet—but why such heavy clothes, the long skirts, jackets, and all? As soon as the image enters her head—pfft!—it’s gone.
Markus is breathless. He has a Christmas-morning feeling as he watches the footprints move slowly up the beach. They’re here, it’s happening, he thinks with relief, although he has no idea what’s going on or why he’s glad.
Ray Ramos, a man who has heard many stories of ghosts over the years but has never wanted to share them with his kids, plops down on the pier, his eyes huge. “What on earth,” he mutters quietly.
Maria matter-of-factly scoops up a large crab and dumps it in the bucket. “Look down!” she calls out.
Her brother grabs his net and sweeps it across the bottom. “Hey,” he crows. “Easy! The big ones are everywhere!” He pulls in six, scrabbling madly over one another as he tips them into the bucket.
“They’re frightened,” Ray says softly, “as we should be.”
Busy harvesting, his children don’t hear.
Ray watches the crabs rustle over and under one another, looking for a way out. He spreads a piece of seaweed gently across his palm, as if it might speak.
Adults rarely talk about experiences they can’t explain.
True in my day as well. They’re afraid it might make them look weak. Weak, strong, real, unreal: If only people understood how much bigger the story is.
Did I know this while alive? Sometimes I did, but a lot of the time I didn’t. Everyone else was like that, too. I wish we’d kept fewer secrets.
Gabe, Maria, and Markus are all told by their parents not to let anyone hear about the inexplicable sights on the shore.
Gabe’s dad, Herbie, was left speechless by the scene on the beach, although he tried to hide it from his son. On the way home, he murmured, “Well, now,” several times. When Gabe said, “Dad? What was that?” Herbie didn’t answer.
Glancing at his father, the boy rolled his eyes. Right, he mouthed to himself.
When they got home, Gabe babbled to his mom a quick version of what had happened. She took one look at his dad and shushed their son.
&nbs
p; Herbie is weathered and rangy, and now that he’s going silver on top, he looks more like a piece of driftwood than ever. Becky Pinkham is small and tidy, a practical person with blue eyes the color of a mussel shell. Born with a squeaky voice, Gabe is filled with questions that irritate his parents. Herbie treats open curiosity like a nose that needs a wipe, something to fix quickly while turning away. To Becky it feels dangerous, like gossip.
Over the next few days, Gabe brings up the footprints again and again, hoping to nudge his parents into talking about it. His dad, especially, does not want to linger on the subject.
“You listen to us now, Gabriel Pinkham,” he says finally. “This island is deep and all isn’t as it seems, as my grandparents used to say. They knew that and made sure that their kids and grandkids knew it, too. And we’ve never shared this, not wanting to startle you, but my grandma Hepsa Coffin was one who helped people to understand the—oh, the bumps and slams and unwanted visits in their old houses. She had a gift for settling restless spirits in a home, but she never told tales. Best to keep your sights on the straight and narrow. People will bother you about a story like that. Just mind your own business. Nantucket has always loved a mystery that stays that way.”
Gabe’s eyes glitter with hard questions as his father looks away, the topic closed. Why can’t Herbie talk about this interesting stuff? Gabe wishes his dad could admit that moment of being afraid when his son wasn’t! Doesn’t he realize how much that would mean to Gabe? Why couldn’t they share what they’d both seen? And his great-grandma, a ghost whisperer! The boy sighs.
What Gabe doesn’t know is that Officer Pinkham has long felt that the dead should stay that way. He’d been frightened by his grandmother’s old-fashioned work with ghosts, but was brought up not to admit it—and perhaps that is why he became a policeman, chasing facts and avoiding the unknown.
“But, Dad!” Gabe protests now, tired of his father’s this-is-the-way-it-is tone. “The things that are happening—”
Herbie interrupts him. “Are maybe happening. Give it up.”
The boy glances at a photo of his great-grandparents taken by the front door here, when both were old. Worn by sun and water, they stand elbow to elbow, as stiff as toothpicks. Herbie looks like them.
“Got it,” Gabe whispers. He can’t keep the disappointment out of his voice.
The three Pinkhams live not far from the Old Mill, in a modest cottage built by Herbie’s grandfather. It’s only four rooms, but they know how lucky they are to have it.
Gabe’s mom follows her son’s eyes as he looks around their home, restless with the limits that surround them. “Listen to your dad,” she says gently. “I’m sure your great-grandma would agree with what he said.”
Gabe wishes his dad would listen to him.
Down the road, Maria and Markus Ramos share a bedroom in the family’s current rental, which they’ve been able to stay in for an amazing stretch of four years. Since the twins were born, the Ramoses have moved many times, like other working families on the island. This latest home is tiny; the parents sleep in the alcove next to the kitchen.
Lopsided and built all on one level, the cottage isn’t far from one of the oldest graveyards, the Old North Cemetery, and the children play there in all seasons and weathers. Their parents explained that this house used to belong to the gravedigger, and joke about having one of the biggest yards on the island, one that is never empty.
“Enjoy it while you’ve got it!” they say. But they did caution the twins not to share what had happened on the crabbing expedition.
“Better to zip the lip on that one,” Ray had told them.
When their bedroom door is closed one night not long after, Maria sits up and peers out the window.
“That them?” her brother whispers.
The two can understand each other’s thoughts without saying much. Markus doesn’t need to elaborate.
The moon tonight is milky, a melting scoop of vanilla ice cream. Haze puddles around the edges and it feels close, as if a kid could reach out a spoon and tilt the sky for a taste.
Markus slowly raises the storm window in their room and pokes his head outside.
As if in response, both kids see flickers of light between the scattering of stones.
“Come on!” he whispers, pulling clothes over his pajamas. His sister is already stuffing her nightgown into her pants. “We’ll just hop out and take a peek. This isn’t Halloween stuff, we’re past that.”
Maria grabs for her jeans and sweatshirt as her brother hunts under his bed for socks. Their parents, already asleep, don’t hear.
Still as the markers that surround them, Maria and Markus spend the next half hour kneeling at the edge of the burial ground. Here and there in front of first one grave and then another, there’s a quick, strange blink!
“Like a cell phone camera,” Maria says softly to her brother.
“Or a big firefly,” he adds. “Only, it’s November.”
Something is scattering split-second snaps of brightness, but what can it be? The lichen, the lean of the wind-scrubbed stones, a hint of lettering: Each time it happens, the glimpse seems more a flash than a sight. So fast it almost isn’t. Occasionally a curl of moonlit shadow lingers between the stones, as if hunting. But when either twin points a wordless finger, the wisp slips into a greater darkness.
Only children can easily absorb what they don’t understand, which makes them excellent spies. Adults, including this Crier, are always confusing what’s real with what they think should be real.
I do my best, but I’m as guilty as the rest.
Maria knows which markers belong to children. When playing around in the graveyard during the day, she often says hello to them.
The children’s stones are low, and most have a lamb carved on the top. Maria now notices that these little markers are attracting the greatest number of flashes.
Who is out and wandering tonight? Have the footprints they’d seen coming from the water marched inland to the old burial ground to claim their children? Or even other children? Maria now thinks back to what she’d imagined—the long skirts and wet layers of clothing. She shivers, grateful she’d seen no faces.
Don’t think about it, no! she tells herself fiercely. Not about what the face of a person who had died in the water might look like … eyes filled with love for the ones left behind. Seaweed caught in hair. Teeth gleaming like wet pebbles.
Markus glances at his sister. No need to be told what’s in her mind.
The twins watch until the flickering stops. When all is still, Markus and Maria nudge each other and then stand, stamping feeling into numb feet and brushing off knees. Markus coughs.
Instantly, a bright zing from the middle of the burial ground catches them in a fast-as-a-minnow flicker of light.
Poof! It’s gone.
They grab for each other’s hands—an instant lock—and run, silent, practically flying. Behind them, twigs snap as if someone is chasing them.
Another flash.
Markus shoves Maria over the bedroom windowsill and scrambles in after her. They fall to the floor, giggling and shushing.
Neither looks back, not wanting to see.
November 6. Mary W. Chase again.
My feelings of darkness, of fear for our children, are founded. I quake, for I now realize that my house was recently sold by the old woman who kept my teapot. Over the decades, she cooked and gave away untold thousands of after-school wonders, soothing more kids than anyone knew. This kind spirit cared for my home perhaps as much as I did. Her name is Eliza Rebimbas, and she is now ninety-eight years old.
She met recently with a man by the name of Edwin Nold. A contractor, he is known for using the word restore when he means replace. She signed papers, not knowing what that might mean for this building so close to her heart.
Mr. Nold already has buyers waiting for Mrs. Rebimbas’s house, a couple who think they want him to work on it. He speaks with them in the parking lot outside the
supermarket. It’s a good place to talk or eavesdrop without being noticed; people are distracted, what with shopping lists and bags. I listen.
I’d be the greatest fool to ever live or die if I wasn’t terrified.
Because I know one thing for sure: As long as the settled landscape of an old house remains, we spirits, those of us whose lives were anchored in its walls and floors, who were born, gave birth, and died inside them, can stay. As can our dreams.
BUT. Rip out all of the rooms and you rip the beach from beneath the shells. You tear the poetry from the shore. You destroy what should rightfully linger. You butcher what we protect.
Gone. This Crier will vanish when her house is stripped. I, Mary W. Chase, will disappear once and for all, unable to ring my bell or shout through my horn ever again. Unable to look out for our children. Gone needlessly, and all because some who live think everything worn is trash.
Panic drives me. I have to work faster and listen even harder! I am still here, but there’s not a moment to lose!
Eddy Nold is speaking. He has a slippery voice, causing some to call him Eely Eddy.
“Sure, I’ll swing by later and we can talk,” he says. “The price I gave you was a steal, as that west wall is bowed and the foundation looks like, well—like it might not stand through the week. I warned you the place needed work. And your original stairs with their old treads …” He breaks off and shakes his head. “Unwise. Likely to let go at any moment. Those old boards are classic but bad. So sorry. Anything that bounces and creaks won’t support modern living, you know? You could fall through either floor! Renters will sue! And those uneven doorframes—tall adults could knock themselves out. You’ll see, as soon as the old lady is gone …”
Obviously horrified, the couple nod gratefully. Once in their car, the woman buries her face in her hands.
Don’t listen, whoever you are! I want to shout to her. This is my house and it’s a gem! Don’t believe him!
As Eddy climbs into his truck, a skinny man leans on the door, gray hair fluffing over the back of his sweatshirt like a squirrel’s tail. His mouth moves rapidly. Opening the window, the contractor looks straight ahead, his elbow in the older man’s face.
Out of the Wild Night Page 2