by John Bladek
“Tourist?” he asked, his voice gravelly and harsh.
People here didn’t mince words. “Not exactly,” I said, turning to face him.
His nose was red from the cold, his eyes watery.
“I’m in town to do some work. Name’s Will.”
“Martin,” he said, holding out a hand that swallowed mine. “What kind of work?”
“Architect. Remodeling the old abbey outside of town.”
Martin snorted. “Winterbay Abbey?”
“Yes. Do you know it?”
“The abbey? Sure. Everyone does. Never cared for it. But the bay, now that’s a sight.”
“Really? Nice views?”
He pointed to the painting above the bar. “That’s it, right there. Captured by Arthur Parton in all its glory.”
I focused on the artwork again.
“Beautiful. On the surface,” he said.
I frowned. “On the surface?”
“Wild place,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “That’s why the town was built here. This cove’s better protected. The sudden fogs up there are like nothing you’ve ever seen. One minute you see for a dozen miles, the next you can’t find the end of your nose.”
I sipped my own warming brew. “Sounds interesting,” I said, looking away from the canvas.
He glanced toward the back of the bar, staring at the rows of bottles. Then he sniffed. “The tides can be ferocious. They race out and roar back on the Devil’s timetable. Undertow to beat all hell. Makes manning a lighthouse a bit tricky. But the shipwrecks there, now that’s where the tales are.”
This sounded cool. I loved a good sea tale, especially one that might distract me from my gut-deep loneliness. “So, if the port is here, why are there shipwrecks by the abbey?” I asked.
“Hard to know which cove is which,” Martin said. “Too easy to get lost. Bay of Lost Souls, it should be called. Ships by the dozen—fishing scows, whalers, schooners loaded with timber for the British navy back before the Revolution, even a destroyer during WWI, all of them broke their backs on a spit of submerged rocks at the head of the bay. Men drowned by the score for over three hundred years. Winter storms drove them there, that’s where the name comes from. Winterbay. Cold, desolate place.”
A small hint of a smile crossed his lips as I stared at him. He really was starting to sound like a crusty old pirate.
“That’s why there’s a lighthouse there, although it wasn’t built till a century ago. Men died in droves before then. Cursed, it is.”
“That’s terrible,” I said, although I was still intrigued. “I wonder why I didn’t come across those stories in my research.”
He shrugged and downed the rest of his beer in one long swallow. After a nod the bartender brought another.
“Here, I’ll get that,” I offered, setting my credit card on the bar. Or, really what I should have said was, “work will get that.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Tourist board here likes to keep a happy face, nothing but smiles and ocean views. But shipwrecks still happen to this day, despite the lighthouse and GPS. Some poor drowned soul just recently washed up on shore.”
I swallowed another sip of my drink, while unease crept in around the edges of my mind. Drownings did not attract visitors. “Really? When?” I asked.
“About two months ago. Some pleasure boater from Kennebunkport got lost,” he replied. “Those rocks I mentioned, Satan’s spine, they are. The charts all say Lobster Rocks ’cause they used to get giant lobsters. Been a long time since the bay was played out. Though that’s not what the curse is about.”
The bartender laughed and shook his head. “Martin trap you here for one of his stories? You might not escape.”
I smiled and looked back at Martin. This guy obviously had a reputation of spinning tales. Probably no reason to feel uneasy.
“It started in 1650,” he continued, ignoring the bartender. “English ship, the Damask Rose, was off the coast, loaded with cod. Storm blew in out of nowhere, pushed the ship into Winterbay. The native Penobscot were there to see, told the tales. Waves as high as the spars swept the Rose. The Penobscot were skilled sailors, and they made the coastal fisheries hell for English ships, even capturing some and using them against the English. But the storm was too severe even for them. They watched, waiting for the wind to blow the Rose onto the rocks.
“Then the wind shifted, and the Rose appeared to be saved. But just as it seemed about to escape, a blue glow surrounded her. Terrible cries rose up even in the teeth of the howling wind, of men driven mad. All hands lost but one. Cabin boy. The lad washed ashore, barely alive, and the natives took him in, raised him as their own until an English raiding party captured him back. He spoke of a siren’s song that called the ship to the rocks. Ever since, sailors tell tales of seeing the ghosts of the Rose, beckoning them to their deaths.”
I caught the bartender rolling his eyes.
“Ghosts?” I said to Martin. I heard plenty of ghost stories from Emily, and I had trouble pretending I believed them. I usually gave her the same look I gave Lance when he suggested I listen to ridiculous ideas of clients who wouldn’t know a good design if it landed on their heads.
My burger showed up, and I poured ketchup on the fries. Martin eyed them longingly. He looked away when I caught his eye. “Can I get you something to eat?” I offered. The Graves and Sons’ business expense account could use more charging tonight.
His eyes lit up.
I motioned for the bartender. “Burger?” I asked.
He nodded.
“So tell me more,” I said.
Martin went on. “That was just the first story. More ships were wrecked in the bay. Survivors spoke of great flocks of birds circling overhead, even in the worst of the storms, as though the birds knew the doom to come. The survivors said they saw men on the beach, waving them on to their deaths. Ghosts of the Rose, beckoning the living onto the rocks. The bay’s cursed, no doubt.”
“Are you sure ghosts didn’t tell you that story?” I chuckled, hoping to lighten the mood.
Martin spun away. “Laugh if you must, but that bay is damned.”
I nodded, hoping to placate him. “So what do you know about the abbey?” I asked, changing the subject.
Martin stared at the painting of the sea bluff again. “It’s at Winterbay, ain’t it?”
“What?” I asked, not following him.
“Everything in that bay is cursed,” he said.
I swallowed a bite of my burger. “Is that it? That’s all you know about it?”
The bartender walked in front of Martin and wiped down the bar. He looked hard at the old man. “That’s it,” the bartender said. “The abbey’s just an old building, there’s no curse. I think a hotel is a great idea, perfect for the town.”
“But all those kids—” Martin started, stopping as the bartender took a vicious swipe at a spot directly in front of him.
“Kids?” I asked. “What kids?”
They exchanged another glance. “Nothing,” Martin grumbled as he swallowed his drink. “Just kids, playing games.”
That was all Martin said the rest of the night. After the bartender brought his food, we ate silently, watching a late West Coast college football game on TV and awkwardly avoiding each other’s looks.
I got up to leave. As I paid my tab and slid off my seat, Martin said, “Be careful when you’re working up there. You don’t want to get caught in one of the storms. One’s coming. I can feel it.”
I glanced at the TV. The five-day forecast scrolled along the bottom, a string of bright sunny graphics.
I waved at Martin, wishing him well, and left him to get a rise out of someone else. Martin’s stories were fun, although I was glad I was an architect, not some lost fisherman trying to navigate the waters of Winterbay.
chapter four
At the end of the main thoroughfare, my windshield framed an old three-story Queen Anne sitting amidst a grove of leafless trees. Branches like gnarled
fingers reached toward the upper levels of the inn, grasping it in large skeletal palms.
Charming.
The interior was not nearly as quaint nor historic as the outside. It had the sterile look of a 1980s redo, almost like a hospital, with bright fluorescent lights winking in the halls and thin carpet beneath sickly, beige-colored walls. A Three Stooges episode was running on a boxy TV attached to a side table.
I checked in and went up to my room on the top floor. I was looking forward to taking a hot shower and getting some sleep. I turned on the little gas fireplace and took in the fantastically gaudy furnishings. An ugly floral bedspread, attached wall hair dryer, and one-cup coffee maker gave it the standard look.
In the center of the small desk, a fat white vase trying to be Greek in style, but looking more oriental, held fake branches dotted with pussy willows. The perfect combination of uncombinable things. I chuckled at the large triptych painting of the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria hanging over the desk. After hearing Martin’s stories, all I could see was them smashing on the rocks.
I threw my suitcase on the bed and unzipped it, looking for my pj bottoms and toothbrush. A wrapped gift lay between two pairs of jeans. A sudden sense of guilt overtook me, a sinking in my guts. Emily had been knitting something for a while, or trying to. A project, she said. The one she’d talked about selling online before I left.
A folded note lay atop a thick gray sweater:
Sorry for how things were left. Hope this cheers you up and thought you may need an extra layer to fight off that Maine chill.
Love you so much,
Emily
P.S. Someone to look over you!
She’d sketched a little angel, wings spread in flight.
I held up the sweater. Once upon a time, her creations were things of beauty, perfection. I fought back the temptation to look for mistakes, dropped stitches, hanging loops. She tried so hard. Surprisingly, the workmanship and fitted look reminded me of something you’d buy at an expensive European department store, just like her old ones. Maybe her hand was better than she let on.
Inside the back of the collar was a tiny embroidered heart. Hot pink stitching against the edges of red fiber formed an elegant contrast.
Except there it was, a dropped stitch near the tip of the heart.
My stomach lurched.
Guilt at being too critical and weakness from missing her spread throughout my body in waves. I sat on the bed and clutched the sweater to my chest.
I grabbed my phone and tapped her name.
She picked up.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said.
“Hi. Did you make it to the hotel okay?” Emily asked, her voice edged with anxiety and also a little bit groggy.
“Yeah. Everything’s fine. Did I wake you up?”
“Kinda,” she said.
“Another nightmare?” I could almost see Emily rubbing her hand as she held the phone.
“Yeah. I guess I was taking a late nap. I just keep imagining losing the baby. It terrifies me. What if there is another accident?”
Did she mean what if there was another accident I couldn’t save her from? Gut-punch.
She took a deep breath. “Sorry, everything seems to be getting to me more since…” she said, cutting off there. “Let’s talk about something else. I’m glad you made it. I wish I was there, and I wanted to say sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry I had to leave you so quickly. Speaking of you being here…. I know this seems a little sudden, but would you want to come out here? Say, tomorrow?” The question left my mouth before I really even knew what I was asking.
“What? Are you serious? Wouldn’t the plane ticket be expensive?”
I should have thought more about the cost. Except for some reason, the dread of being separated right now came on like a flood. “Just let me figure that part out.” Maybe I could somehow make this another business expense. “I miss you. And I don’t know why, but one week is just too long to be away right now. Are you fit to fly at four and a half months?”
She was silent for a second, but I could feel her smiling on the other end. She laughed just like she used to when we first met, making me long for old, carefree times.
“Yes, traveling is just fine now. Wow, maybe I should surprise you with a present every time you go away,” she said playfully. “Did you get it?”
I laughed. “Yes, thank you for that! It looks amazing. I like your new embroidered heart. Where’d you find the design?”
“Thanks! That’s the baby’s symbol. I actually made it up myself. I’m going to put it on everything now,” she said. “Important to stamp a piece of your personality onto whatever you’re creating.”
I inwardly groaned, thinking of the Greenwood Community Center.
“That must have taken a huge effort,” I said. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I accidentally skipped a stitch on the tip of the heart.” Her voice dropped the way it did every time she talked about her hand.
“Don’t worry. I’m not taking a microscope to your stitching,” I said, lying and then feeling ashamed. “Hey, I hate to cut short, but I have to get going. Long day ahead, and I’m going to grab your ticket online right now. I’ll email the details.”
“Okay! I’m so happy,” she said.
“Love you, and I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
I put my phone down. Maybe a change of scenery would help both of us. My mind swam with images of Emily smiling and laughing like when we met in college. I wanted her to be happy like that again.
I expected the looming loneliness of missing Emily to go away. Instead, it intensified. Trying to shrug it off, I jumped onto the web to buy the ticket.
After I finished, I got into the shower and then bed. The knot in my stomach morphed into a cold stone. I turned over and hoped that whatever was ailing me would be gone by morning.
I slept restlessly, unable to get comfortable. Someone’s baby cried off and on. What little sleep I got was plagued by strange nightmares. Weird black shapes stalked me and sprung out from dark corners of an endless labyrinth. I never had bad dreams. I must have been tossing and turning because the comforter was on the floor when I woke up.
A faint moonlit glow bathed the room. I glanced over at the clock. 3:07. I still had the knot in my stomach, and my neck ached from a lumpy pillow.
I groggily made my way to the bathroom and drank some water as I stared into the mirror. Blankly, I rubbed my eyes. Dark circles contrasted with my pale skin. I looked like hell.
A reflected flash outside the window caught my eye.
I quickly turned around, and my breath caught in my throat. A distorted face peered through the glass.
I looked closer. It was a woman, her face masked by wild, wind-swept hair. Fearful, I hurried over to the window. The face began to distort. The lines reformed, twisting, intertwining, taking on a geometric shape. When I reached the window, I recognized the Grecian vase reflected in the glass.
I sat down on the side of the bed and held my head.
Okay, I really needed to try to relax.
I glanced over at the window again; it still twisted the vase’s reflection. I got up, closed the curtains, and put the vase under the desk. It was an eyesore anyway.
Back in bed, I closed my eyes and listened to the tick of the clock.
chapter five
Morning came too soon. I zombied my way to the bathroom, noticing my wild hair.
Groggily, I got ready, put on my new sweater, and headed to the car.
The weather was sunny but cold. Really cold. The kind of surprising November chill that makes your fingers turn blue in a matter of minutes. I was glad for the sweater’s extra warmth.
As I closed the car door, I had an overwhelming urge to go back into my room, lock myself in, and sleep the whole day.
I put my palm to my forehead. My skin felt warm, but my fingers were freezing.
I pressed the start button on the car. The female voice sa
id to head three miles past my hotel, then turn right and go four miles on Old Quarry road to the turn off to the abbey.
The main route cut through heavy forest filled with deciduous trees we don’t see much of in Washington. I wished I could have been here a month earlier to see the bright oranges and yellows before the leaves fell. Now the brown, dead remnants of the kaleidoscope of autumn foliage swirled across the road in a breezy parade of lost beauty.
Two miles from the abbey turn off, according to the GPS, I got stuck behind a couple of dump trucks. They turned off onto a side driveway choked with mud from the layer of wet snow. I almost had a heart attack when I swerved to avoid a third that pulled in front of me from the same driveway. That’s all I needed, crushed by a two-ton truck on my first day.
I stuck my hand up to flip off the jerk, then remembered I was from Seattle and we’re too polite to do that. The gravel-filled truck told me the road name was accurate. I hoped for the developers’ sake that the quarry wasn’t blasting. Explosions never make for a good vacation experience.
I continued past the quarry until I reached a barely legible, rotted sign for Winterbay Abbey. I stopped and looked down the side road that headed toward the water. The bright morning sun glinted through the bare trees and illuminated a curving gravel driveway. The snow was mostly melted, leaving only a mushy layer of slush.
This is really out of the way.
Snow sloshed under my tires as I drove the last mile toward the abbey. A mother deer and two fawns pranced across the road. They stopped to stare at the car.
I slowed.
The mother almost seemed to motion me to follow as she hopped into the tree cover. Cute as they were, the animals only increased my sense of isolation. When I’d first examined the plans, the property sounded like the perfect setting, a wild and magnificent location for a five-star hotel. Now that I was here, the idea of being isolated from civilization pressed on me.
The file mentioned Winterbay Abbey had been closed since the late 1960s. The nuns who ran it grew old and no new ones replaced them.