Winterbay Abbey

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Winterbay Abbey Page 4

by John Bladek


  The closer I got to the water, the less snow there was until it disappeared altogether. Rounding a particularly sharp curve, I crossed a small wooden bridge and finally reached the abbey’s grounds. The plans I’d read said there were twenty acres of open parkland around the main building, which itself sat on a rocky bluff overlooking the shore.

  The grounds were as large as advertised, but having been abandoned for nearly forty years, the property had taken on much the same densely wooded look as the surrounding forest.

  I drove through an overarching rusted iron gate toward the main entry.

  The abbey loomed in front of me on a low rocky outcrop with its back braced against the sea. Three stories of faded, weather-worn red brick, aged and decrepit but still noble, stood above a broad stairway leading to the front entrance and large archway that bisected the building. Moss and the emaciated remains of ivy covered much of the brickwork.

  Gray slate tiles, some having slid away and broken on the cracked sidewalk beneath, topped the gabled roof. The transom windows had spidered and broken. The paint had long ago peeled away from the frames and sashes.

  One wing on the south connected to the main building, forming an L facing the sea. A large bell tower, looking even more worn than the photos Lance had given me, stood above the wing on its far end, closest to and overlooking the water. I stopped when I saw the tower, half-expecting that mesmerizing feeling from the photo to return. But now it was just an architectural element.

  I always looked for the best in any project, and what others thought of as “brooding,” I liked to call “charm.” The abbey’s bones reminded me of Emily’s old dorm from our alma mater, the University of Washington. At least that’s how I wanted to see it. I spent a lot of time in that dorm, once in a while noticing its architectural features when Emily wasn’t capturing all my attention.

  I walked up the steps, several split and crumbling, to the main archway. It led back to an open courtyard. I imagined this space inside the L as outdoor seating for a fine restaurant with a spectacular view, although in its current state it more closely resembled a graveyard of broken stones. I could see the waves crashing below on the rocky beach at the bottom of the short cliff not more than thirty yards from the building. Beyond that loomed the cold bay—the cursed bay of “lost souls” as Martin had called it—and then the might of the North Atlantic.

  This area truly had the most beautiful and rugged scenery I’d ever seen, in many ways similar to—but even more striking than—the Pacific Northwest coast. As I scanned the horizon, a spike of red caught my eye. The tall lighthouse Martin spoke of stood about a quarter mile offshore on its own rock. It reminded me of an abandoned lighthouse off Cannon Beach in Oregon, now home to seabirds. It was a tall, tapering spire with a glass lantern room at the top covered by a fading red roof. A thick, navy-blue swirl cascaded down its thin white body. Waves broke over its rocky base and splashed up the sides.

  Another sight caught my eye, this one more dismal. Set back about fifty yards from the shore, just inside the tree line, was a tangle of gray headstones. I shivered. I hadn’t expected a cemetery. This was more than likely the abbey’s graveyard, and its Gothic style further enhanced the property’s old-world look. Still, for a hotel…I tried not to think about what might be necessary to do with what guests would see as a chilling eyesore.

  Apart from the graveyard, it was easy to see why the developers had snatched this property. The only wonder was why it had sat empty for so long. After some serious renovation, it would scream money.

  I glanced toward the abbey’s main doors. I had to get to work. I’d need to do a thorough inspection of the building’s general condition. Mechanical and structural engineers generally did more careful poking around. But I liked to get my hands dirty and not leave them with the task of fitting everything into fairy-tale drawings, which I knew they hated.

  A cold blast of wind almost froze me to the ground as I hunched my shoulders and headed inside.

  A grand staircase with stone steps stood just inside the main entry. It made for a magnificent first impression upon entering. The front door hung ajar, held in place by a single hinge. I shook my head. The longer the building had been open to the elements, the more it would cost to refurbish—if it could be done at all. I feared what I might find further inside. Many old, abandoned institutional buildings became frightening haunts of decay and rot.

  I peeked past the door. Sunlight streamed in, enough to illuminate piles of rubbish littering the front hall. Despite being out in the woods miles from town, people clearly had been here. I hoped they weren’t still here. One pile had been used for a fire, and recently.

  On one wall was scrawled, P, I love you; forgive me, in barely faded bright red paint. A red heart encased the P.

  Some homeless guy had no doubt left his plea. “Hello!” I called. “Is anyone there?”

  Dealing with squatters was part of the job, but not a part I’d ever enjoyed. Back in Seattle, I’d been threatened with a knife just walking around Belltown. I didn’t want any repeats.

  A faraway crack split the air, echoing through the woods and off the building.

  Blasting at the quarry. Wonderful.

  I called out again. “Hello?”

  No answer. First squatters and now explosions. I swallowed and stepped inside, wishing I was alone. Something skittered down the dark hall.

  “Hello!”

  I grabbed a flashlight from my pocket and shined the beam down the corridor. Dust like a million stars danced in the light. Something creaked above my head. I jerked the light to the ceiling, but there was nothing except more dust and a forest of spider webs. I thought of Martin’s stories of Winterbay and its ghosts. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. Get a grip.

  Whoever had been here was gone, I told myself. A rat was probably scurrying around.

  That wasn’t much better. I was sure the place was filled with pests. Driving out rats was one of the most difficult things about a complete renovation of a long-empty site. The vermin don’t like to leave, and they’re harder to eradicate than a whiny love song stuck in your head. Luckily, I just drew the plans. Someone else cleaned out the rats.

  “I’m coming in!” I called, hoping if a homeless guy did still live here he’d avoid me. I wandered through the main floor and then went upstairs, weaving my way past curtains of cobwebs hung over doorways. The smell was pungent, almost suffocating. The dust had a sour odor that went beyond the normal aroma of neglected buildings.

  For the most part, the squatters seemed to have stuck to the ground floor. The second floor was filled with dorm rooms, or cells as they called them in abbeys or monasteries, by and large empty except for old iron beds with thin mattresses, stiff wooden chairs, and tiny desks. All in all, there was less degradation than I’d feared. The elements had largely been kept out.

  I went up to the third floor.

  A lump of black bunched up against the wall made me do a double take. It lay outside the door of a room where the hall turned at the L toward the bell tower. I shined my flashlight on it. It looked like a pile of clothes.

  I picked up the bundle and dust cascaded off the folds. The material reminded me of cloth used for drapes, stiff and heavy. I sneezed and held it in front of me, revealing what looked like a black skirt and square-cut top—something like a nun’s outfit, a habit. I turned my light back down the hall. No footprints other than mine in the thick dust. It must have been a long time since anyone had been up here. Had a nun really left this here years ago? It seemed strange that it would have been discarded like this. Despite the covering of dust, the material was in pretty good shape for something decades old.

  As I turned down the south wing, the sunlight dimmed, and a dampness in the air made the space noticeably cooler. Just as on the second floor, all the doors here were closed, shutting out the natural light. I tried the doorknob on the room at the end of the hall. From the position of the door, the room appeared to be larger than the others.
It was locked.

  I tested the key Lance had left in the file. The knob wiggled but wouldn’t open. I shook it harder. It remained firmly shut.

  The room next door was unlocked, so I opened it to let in some light to inspect the knob on the locked door. I tried it again. This time the knob turned easily. Weird. Maybe it had been stuck before, and my wiggling had loosened it. I pushed it open with a slow creak.

  I’d been right. This room was larger than the others and seemed more communal. The furniture inside was the same iron-framed beds with mattresses, lined up in rows of six, with rickety chairs stacked on top of desks shoved into the far corner. Perhaps the novitiates had slept here, keeping them together.

  I used my laser tape to gather the dimensions, thinking about where to put a bathroom and hot tub for a suite. Backing away from one wall to get a better look, I banged into one of the beds, stumbled and cracked my shin on another bed frame.

  “Sonofabitch!” I cried out and leaned over to rub my leg. I shook my head, cursing the pain away as I balanced against a frame. As I held my shin, I noticed a small knitted blanket on the bed. It was sky blue and looked handmade. Something about it looked familiar. I leaned closer, and my eyes locked on the top right corner. Close to the edge, an embroidered red heart was sewn in with pink stitching.

  I picked it up and shook off the dust. It was tiny, something knit for an infant. The look was almost identical to what Emily had sewn into my sweater. Hadn’t she said she made up this design herself? And recently? Yet its discoloration was identical to the mattress. It had been here for decades.

  I pulled off my jacket and sweater. Cold weather or not, I needed to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind. I shivered as I held up my embroidered heart next to the one on the blanket. They were identical, same shape and color, and the blankets had even been stitched in the same proportions. I looked closer, and my mouth dropped. A missed stitch at the tip of the heart.

  I swallowed. My heart pounded in my ears.

  Maybe Emily had copied a pattern, perhaps a style popular years ago. But her hand…she said she’d made a mistake with the stitching.

  How could the same error be on this blanket, in the same spot?

  After putting my sweater and jacket back on, I rolled up the blanket and tucked it under my arm.

  It could be just a weird coincidence, but I needed to show this to Emily.

  chapter six

  I put the blanket in the car for safekeeping, glad to be rid of it, but the whole embroidered heart stitching was too bizarre to ignore. While I tried to stay focused on my work the rest of the morning, the image of that heart clung to my thoughts. I hesitated at every door, wondering what new strangeness I might find.

  I resisted the temptation to leave early and split my pre-design work into two days. I needed to get the entire lay of the land for my meeting with the developers the next day.

  I headed to the courtyard after grabbing my pad and Lamy pen to get some sketches of the outside of the building with the shoreline in both the fore- and background. For the most part, I drew up my plans on the computer, but I always did hand sketches to brainstorm ideas for remodels. Thoughts on paper were also convenient to run by Emily, who had an artist’s eye and more taste than I’d ever developed.

  My breath made white puffs as I walked through the archway into the courtyard. Flying low overhead, a flock of birds squawked. The wind had died down, and I could make out the sound of their wings beating in unison. I rubbed my arms for warmth as a wider angle of the lighthouse and beach came into view. From the hotel to the beach—which was mostly rough, broken rock and tide pools—was a tall grassy area populated with a few wind-blown, scrawny pines. The beach itself was fine for viewing, but little else. A chill mist sat out on the bay, and waves crashed onto the rocks, spraying a large sign:

  DANGEROUS CURRENTS

  NO SWIMMING

  It seemed odd that anyone would even think of going into those cold, violent waters for a swim. Then again everything today seemed to have some sort of warning to keep lawyers at bay.

  I flipped open my notepad and began sketching the old building as a summer wonderland, a hotel that would have been at home in Newport, Rhode Island or the Jersey shore of 1890, complete with women in bustles holding parasols and men with straw hats and striped jackets.

  Off to my left, a movement on the beach caught my eye. A thin figure stood on the grass, close to where the turf transitioned into rock, 150 yards or so distant. I waited for it to move. It stood still. I added a few lines. I flipped the page, wondering who else could be out here. Was my squatter out enjoying the view, or perhaps waiting for me to leave so he could reoccupy his dilapidated home?

  I squinted into the sun and wandered down toward the beach to have a better look.

  The figure remained, unmoving. I walked closer. It turned. I saw a face, a skirt blowing in the wind. My companion was a girl in her early twenties, if that. A black skirt hung below her knees, and a white-fringed headpiece caught the wind. A nun’s habit. Was she visiting the abbey? There was no car in the lot except mine.

  I waved and made my way toward her, glad of some small company in this lonely place. My worry about confronting a knife-wielding vagrant vanished. It would also be interesting to see if she had any information regarding the abbey’s history. She remained still, unmoving. I guess she hadn’t seen me. Maybe her eyes were closed in prayer. I stopped and waited, maybe seventy yards away, not wanting to interrupt. It was freezing out here, though. The girl stood stone-stiff in the breeze. I shivered from the cold and then realized she didn’t have a jacket. She had to be frozen.

  Her head tipped back. She smiled at me, but in a vacant way, as if she’d looked through me to something beyond.

  Then her look changed. My heart pounded suddenly, dread winding through my chest. Something about the nun’s face set off alarm bells. Her smile. Cold, angry, frightened, hateful—a prism of emotions spewed out from her grin and assaulted me from that one look. I stumbled and fell into the tall grass as though physically struck, the force of her eyes so powerful.

  The crashing of the waves rang in my ears. I heard the sound of a motor coming from offshore, then a ruffling, like the beat of wings. I glanced toward the sea. There was no sign of any boat, and the earlier flock of birds had gone. I closed my eyes and willed my heart to slow its racing. What was wrong with me? Get a hold of yourself.

  I took a deep breath and wobbled to my feet. The hum of the motorboat sounded closer. I scanned the water. Nothing except whitecaps.

  My head felt fuzzy, and I nearly fell again. When I looked down the beach, I spotted the girl walking slowly over the wave-splashed rocks toward the water, her arms outstretched above her, head tilted back.

  I glanced upward, following her gaze. A large flock of seagulls soared by. She stared at them. A moment later, the birds vanished behind a forested hillside. Then she stepped into the surf.

  What the hell was she doing? The water was ice-cold. She walked steadily forward without lifting her feet, sure-footed in the surf and slippery rocks. I watched as the water came up over her hips.

  “Hey!” I cried, waving.

  She did not look back at me. I was oddly grateful, yet ashamed, for not wanting to see that face again. The water rose to her shoulders.

  “Hey!” I repeated, racing toward her. She neither flinched nor turned away from the pounding waves.

  I sprinted down the beach, calling all the way. “Come back! It’s not safe!” She didn’t respond. Without thinking, I raced into the surf, slipping on one of the rocks and tumbling headfirst into the waves. The intense cold took my breath away. The waves forced me under. A sharp pain gouged my forehead as my head hit a jagged rock.

  My head aching and spinning, I pushed myself above the cresting water. Gasping for breath, I looked for the girl. A wave rolled in and pushed me onto my back. I coughed and choked, spitting out salt water. The nun was nowhere in sight.

  I scrambled back ashore to get
a better look, hoping she’d come to her senses and retreated from the waves onto the beach. Still no sign of anyone on land or in the ocean. I glanced around again for a boat. The noise of the motor had stopped.

  Shaking and chilled to my core, I reached into my pocket for my phone. My head pounded from my encounter with the rock, and blood dripped down into my eyes. A concussion? I had to call 911. I’d never felt this cold in my entire life. The girl wouldn’t last long out in the water.

  I looked for my phone.

  All my pockets were empty.

  “Damn it!”

  I scanned the rocky beach. Where was my phone? I searched the large stones, not seeing the stupid thing anywhere.

  There was no point in looking for it any longer. I had to get help. I raced back to my car. Carelessly, I drove back to the main road, speeding down the narrow winding turns.

  chapter seven

  I was still shaking violently when I got back to the hotel. I crashed through the doors to get to the front desk and use the phone. The dispatcher said she would send a rescue squad and inform the Coast Guard. She asked if I was okay. I looked at my hands. My fingertips had a slight bluish tinge. I still had a headache but wasn’t seeing double or anything, and the blood was a dried smear on my face. An emergency room visit was not something I wanted. I was actually thankful Emily wasn’t here. She would have made me go. I’d probably be fine after a hot shower, a warm drink, and some rest.

  “Yes, I’m okay. Thanks,” I said.

  “Okay, the water rescue squad will be there soon,” she said. “Please stay on the phone until the first responders arrive.”

  “I’m not at the scene,” I told her. “I lost my phone and had to find a place to call. I’m at the Blackwoods Hotel.”

  The dispatcher was silent for a moment, then said, “Okay. We’ll send an officer to speak with you.” She hung up.

  The clerk looked me up and down. A weary expression crossed her face.

  “I’ll send the police up to your room when they arrive,” she said, shuffling papers.

 

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