Harbinger Island

by Dorian Dawes

  Dayabir heard Leroy pounding on the stall door and groaned. This was even worse.

  "Dayabir, listen. I want you to do something for me."

  "Go away, please!" Dayabir called out, sounding harsher than he intended.

  "You're going to be fine," Leroy continued. "But first I want you to take a slow, deep breath through your nose while counting to five, and then hold it. Can you do that?"

  Dayabir said nothing, but he obeyed. He closed his mouth and slowly inhaled trying to ignore the snot running down his nostrils. Leroy listened for the sound of his breathing and nodded.

  "Excellent, you're doing great," he said. "Now slowly, while still counting to five, I want you to let that breath out. Keep repeating that, over and over."

  Breathing in. One, two, three, four, five. Why is he helping me? Breathing out. One, two, three, four, five. I'm so embarrassed, this is the worst. Breathing in. One, two, three, four, five. But he's helping me, he doesn't hate me. Just breathe.

  This went on for a few more minutes.

  Dayabir opened his eyes. "I'm okay."

  He unlocked the stall door and stepped out. He shuffled his feet along the ground sheepishly. Leroy had a box of tissues tucked underneath one arm and a bottle of water in the other. He smiled at Dayabir.

  "You should drink this and blow your nose," Leroy said. "Or blow your nose and then drink this, whichever you prefer. Just, you want to stay hydrated otherwise your head is gonna feel awful in a few minutes. When you cry, you lose a lot of bodily fluids and it can dehydrate you."

  Dayabir took the tissues first. He needed to regain some semblance of his dignity. He turned his head away while blowing, unable to meet Leroy's eyes. It wasn't until he took the bottle of water and had taken a few sips that he actually sighed and smiled at him.

  "Thank you …" he said, quietly. "That was really helpful. Where'd you learn all that?"

  "I know a little bit about panic attacks," Leroy said. "Personal history, and the internet helps."

  "I'm so embarrassed," Dayabir groaned. "And it's worse 'cause you're really cute and I kind of want you to like me."

  Leroy smiled. "I already like you. I mean, we just met, but I'd like to get to know you better and take you on a date."

  "One that isn't covered in blubbery snot in a library stall?" Dayabir said with a weak chuckle.

  Leroy shook his head. "Blubbery snot stalls aren't so bad, but I had something in mind like going out for shakes and talking."

  "I like shakes. Where's the best place to go?"

  "There's a small place just behind the school, actually." Leroy grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled out an address. "Do you know the Roasted Dog?"

  "Someone told me it was likely run by cultists." Dayabir took the slip of paper anyway.

  Leroy laughed. "Those cultists must make some great milkshakes and hot dogs. So, shakes?"

  "Shakes." Dayabir nodded.

  They left the bathroom together once Dayabir had finished washing the tears from his face. Leroy gave him privacy so he could find his dignity once more. He hurried to grab the book and gave it to Dayabir. It was an old leather-bound manuscript; looked almost as if whoever had penned had but a rudimentary knowledge of how to bind pages together.

  "Agricultural Thaumaturgy," Leroy said. "Did Gloria specify as to why she needed this one?"

  Dayabir stared at the book, his brow furrowing. "Not sure. She just said it was important."

  "Huh, maybe she's cross-referencing some stuff. Author was a weird dude; are you familiar with the story of the Hendraick farm?"

  "Yeah. Harbinger Island's infamous history of unsolved mysteries is kind of what drew me here to begin with," Dayabir said, flipping through the book.

  He raised a brow at the illustrations of arcane symbols and strange scribbles of hands and eyes peering out from the dark. There were other illustrations, things collected in jars and specific plants for use in strange spells. Leroy looked over his shoulder and almost mirrored the same grimace.

  "Well, the author of the book is Gregory Hendraick, the guy who built the farm in the first place." Leroy said. "I've looked through it once. Creepy dude."

  "Seems like it," Dayabir murmured under his breath. He closed the book and smiled once more. "I'll see you tonight, Leroy."

  "See you later, cutie." Leroy kissed Dayabir on the cheek and went back to work.

  Dayabir placed a hand on his cheek, rubbing the spot with a wistful smile. He wasn't accustomed to boys being so forward with him. He could get used to that.

  * * *

  Dayabir still had the book tucked safely in his bright blue dinosaur backpack when he went to meet Leroy. He'd not been able to stop thinking about it since he left the library. Half of the text was gibberish to him, describing esoteric rituals and concepts for which he had no frame of reference.

  What could be discerned fascinated him. Gregory Hendraick had seemingly been obsessed with invisible lines across the island and the potential to open up rifts into other worlds. According to the book, these other planes of existence had been leaking into Harbinger Island for some time, producing unexplained phenomena - lights in the sky; looming, inhuman shadows upon the walls that bore no owners; and, most chilling of all, disembodied whispers in inhuman tongues. For Gregory Hendraick, this was the source of all magic in the universe and it'd become his chief obsession.

  The encounter in the library had left Dayabir feeling anxious throughout the day. He'd been able to put most of the bad feelings aside while he focused on getting ready for his date, but now that he was here and sitting alone in a dirty booth outside the Roasted Dog, he had time to ruminate and shudder. The voice that had been speaking to him was clearly not in English, nor even in his secondary language of Punjabi. It was something else, foul and guttural, a noise no ordinary human could make. He thought to the encounters penned by Gregory Hendraick, of how at one point, the occultist-turned-farmer had woken to hear songs pouring forth from the well and witnessed a hideous color resting at the bottom; a formless, alien thing lurking there, staring at him.

  Dayabir closed his eyes and wondered if coming to this island had been a mistake. How deeply worried his family might be for him if they knew. They were already worried enough, given the history of his anxiety disorder and some of his more recent suicide attempts. They'd never say it, though. They were too kind, far too kind. He hated feeling like a burden.

  He closed the book. An hour had passed. He stared at the woods just a few blocks away. The sun had already set. Leroy wasn't coming.

  That night, the skies were particularly dark, the moon and stars blotted out by thick black clouds. For a brief moment, the world was illuminated by a nearby flash of lightning and the deafening clap of thunder. Dayabir felt the first trickle of rain on his cheeks. It was time to go home. He stood from the table and returned the book to his backpack.

  More frightening than the supernatural was the approach of white men with hate in their eyes. There were three of them; one had a swastika tattoo on the left side of his neck. Dayabir averted his gaze, praying they'd leave him alone.

  "Hey, turban!" the one in the middle shouted. "Why do you hate America?"

  His cronies laughed. They neared closer and Dayabir could smell the alcohol on their breath. He kept his head lowered to the ground and began looking for an escape. Maybe if he had run sooner, he might have been able to make it to his car, but now they were on all sides of him.

  "I'm from New Hampshire, I'm going to school here," Dayabir said quietly. "I'm just as American as you are."

  One of them made a grabbing motion at his turban. Dayabir ducked and turned to face him. The guy was laughing and looking at his friends for support. One pushed Dayabir in the back so he'd have to be closer to him.

  "What's with the headpiece then?" he snickered.

  "Please let me go home. I have to be up early in the morning."

  "Gonna meet with your terrorist cult?"

  "Please, I'm not a terrorist, I just want t
o go back to my dorm." Dayabir clutched both hands around his satchel and made a move to rush past them.

  He barely made it a foot when one of them grabbed his backpack, holding him back. Dayabir's heart raced even faster. It was getting harder to breathe. His eyes watered. He was so fucking scared.

  "Hey, I think he's got a bomb in here," the guy holding the backpack said. "Think he's gonna try and blow up the school?"

  "It's just a computer and some books, leave me alone!" Dayabir turned around, yelling at them. "I-I didn't do anything to you! Why are you bothering me?"

  The man sneered. "Let's show him what we do to terrorists in Wakefield."

  The backpack was pulled from him and its contents dumped all along the ground. One of them stomped against the laptop, smashing it. Dayabir was shoved to the ground next. He shielded his face with his hands and attempted to curl into a ball. He managed to deflect a few of the violent blows with his arms but one or two kicks connected with his ribs, bruising them. This was it. They were going to kill him.

  "Enough of this!" A loud, booming voice shouted over the screams and drunken laughter.

  The violence ceased. An old man stood several feet away, still looking massive and imposing even while leaning against a crooked cane. His eyes shone a lurid gold in the darkness.

  He barked out in a rumbling growl, "Leave!"

  The three drunken men hurried away, intimidated by his presence. Dayabir emerged from his crumpled position, his stomach and arms sore from absorbing most of the blows. He began crawling around attempting to salvage what remained of his laptop and books. The old man stepped forwards and closed his hands around the library tome.

  "Are you all right?" he said.

  Dayabir shrugged. "Not really, but thanks."

  He finally looked at the old man. His eyes rested on the withered fingers clutched tightly around the leathery manuscript, both textures so old and ancient they almost seemed to run together. Long yellowed fingernails almost pierced the book as they brushed along the spine. Dayabir's pulse quickened. The old man stashed it beneath his jacket.

  "That's mine," Dayabir said, pointing.

  The old man shook his head. "Is your last name Hendraick?"

  Dayabir coughed, gradually standing. "N-no. But, I borrowed that from the library. My boss needs it."

  "Mrs. Padilla can wait. I've been meaning to check this book out for a while." The old man flipped through its pages and made an awful clicking noise with his teeth. "I only need it for a few hours. You can have it when I'm done with it."

  "I'd prefer it if you didn't, please." Dayabir clutched his side in pain. He didn't stop to think how the man knew Gloria's name.

  "You're banged up real bad," the old man said. "I've got some bandages and alcohol back home to help take care of those cuts and bruises. Give you a chance to rest while I work."

  "That doesn't necessarily make me comfortable?" Dayabir said, his voice rising as he cringed.

  The old man laughed. "Of course not, 'cause you're not an idiot, but you don't have a choice, young man. I need this book and I need it now, and if you want it back, you're going to have to wait. You can wait at my place and watch what I do with it, which I think you want to do anyhow, or you can come by tomorrow morning and get it then."

  Dayabir grabbed the rest of his books and returned them to his backpack. He looked at the old man, brow furrowed. He was in pain and in no mood to argue. Something else also sparked to life inside him: that insatiable curiosity, the same feeling that drove him to this wretched island in the first place.

  "What are you gonna do?" he whispered, eyes wide.

  "Call me Malcolm," the old man said and grinned, revealing a set of black and yellowed teeth. "I'm going to make some magic."

  "Don't hurt anyone," Dayabir pleaded. "That book is dangerous."

  "You coming or not?"

  Dayabir clutched his backpack close to his chest. He was soaked and bleeding and miserable, and he just wanted to go home and cry into his pillow until he passed out. All the same, he felt a responsibility to the book. He couldn't let it out of his sight.

  "I'll follow you in my car," he said, after a long pause.

  Malcolm grinned. "Smart choice."

  Dayabir turned and hobbled slowly to his car. His books were drenched. His laptop was beyond repair. What an awful night. He climbed into the car and slammed the door behind him, then buried his forehead against the steering wheel as his shoulders shook with heavy sobs.

  * * *

  Malcolm drove a truck that was more rust and scrap than anything else. It appeared almost a relic from another time. It groaned and shook and clanged noisily as it rolled down the dirt road, veering away from Wakefield and heading deeper and deeper into the Black Goat Woods. Dayabir followed. All around him was the blackness of the woods, and all he could see in the downpour was that truck barely illuminated in the headlights.

  Years ago, when his dad had given him this car, he'd installed a tape deck for him. Dayabir was sometimes teased for it, but he found the lo-fidelity sounds and occasional tape hiss warm and comforting. He needed that familiarity.

  Dayabir pressed play. Music filled the speakers and for a moment drowned out the anxious thoughts inside his head. Guitars and synths engaging in a harmonious rhythm while pained androgynous vocals crooned out lyrics of love and despair. There were certain notes that swelled to those parts most pleasurable and perfect, and they were nearly enough to carry him from this horrible night.

  A note sounded off. He was pulled from the revelry by the sudden dissonance. The music warped and melted until it sounded like a host of creatures dying. They were quickly joined by harsh static, crackling and hissing.

  Panicked fingers repeatedly slammed against the eject button as low droning voices slowly emerged beneath the static. They were chanting something in another tongue, almost impossible to hear at first over all the noise.

  Finally, the truck in front of him pulled to a stop in front an old log cabin. The chanting in Dayabir's car ceased, leaving him alone with the blaring static. Dayabir sat numb for a complete minute. He didn't move until he heard Malcolm tapping the side of the door with his cane.

  "Come on, I don't have all night," Malcolm barked.

  Dayabir turned his head slowly in the old man's direction. "I'm very tired."

  Malcolm grinned. "Come on inside, let's get some alcohol and bandages on those cuts of yours. Help yourself to a soda or beer as well."

  Dayabir followed Malcolm up to his house quietly. The cabin loomed ominously over them. Rain-soaked wood warped and appeared black in the night. The poor lighting from the car headlights made it look almost like a monster with blank soulless windows for eyes, and the tattered screen door an ugly mouth to devour him whole.

  Malcolm threw open the noisy creaking door. He made a friendly enough gesture for his frightened guest to step inside. It was cold, and Dayabir couldn't see beyond the darkness of the hallway.

  "Wait a second in the hall," Malcom said, brushing past him. "I'll get you some towels. Don't want you slipping and falling on the hard wood floor now."

  "Thank you," Dayabir murmured. He kept his eyes glued to the book tucked beneath Malcolm's arm.

  Malcolm noticed his gaze. He patted the book. "Don't worry, we'll get to this soon enough. Just, first things first. Gotta be a good host."

  Dayabir watched the man vanish into the dark. He'd not bothered turning on any of the lights, moving through the blackness with ease. Dayabir waited, shivering.

  Finally Malcolm returned. Dayabir at first saw nothing in the dark but those terrible golden eyes slowly approaching, lit like burning beacons in the darkness. Malcolm silently offered him a towel. Dayabir took it, hands shaking. Malcolm laughed at him, a hoarse hissing noise that grated on the ears.

  "I forgot, I'm so used to these walls that I often go without the lights to save on electricity," Malcolm said while Dayabir draped the towel around his shoulders.

  "May I use your bathroom to d
ry my hair and turban please?" Dayabir asked.

  "Of course, you are my guest." Malcolm backed into the darkness once more.

  A light flickered on, revealing a long hallway adjacent to a set of stairs. There were two doors on the right, from one of which spilled the only light source. Malcolm stepped to the door and gestured inside, grinning.

  "A clean set of facilities for you to enjoy. I'll be waiting for you in the kitchen."

  Having the only light coming from the bathroom at least ensured Dayabir could see enough to make his way across the dimly-lit hallway. He gulped as he moved deeper into the house. Every step felt like a mistake.

  The bathroom was a mockery of the entire concept of clean. Everything was covered in a thick layer of grime and filth. The sink and toilet were as rusted and ancient as Malcolm's truck. The mirror had a shard of glass missing towards the bottom-right hand corner and a several cracks along the edges. The tile on the floor was warped and coming undone in several places. The tub, like each corner of the walls, was so covered in mildew he wondered if it was ever used at all.

  Dayabir looked around at the bathroom dubiously and then, giving a sheepish nod to Malcolm, closed the door behind him. He removed his turban once he was certain he had privacy and began wringing it out in the sink. His shoulders shook. Deep breaths, he told himself.

  Dayabir looked at himself in the mirror. He made one single, determined whisper to his reflection. "You're going to be okay."

  He emerged after he tied his top knot and wrapped his turban once more about his head. The routine gave him a sense of normalcy that managed to sooth his anxiety. He stepped into the hall to see a faint light coming from the kitchen. Malcolm was standing over the table holding the book open and flipping through the pages. The burning flickers of an oil lamp cast heavy shadows over his face.