“Whales, submarines, boats all make noise that can be identified, but this spectrogram isn’t showing those noise patterns,” said Blake. “These sounds are much more mysterious.”
As they stared intensely at the spectrogram of the strange ocean echo, Blake’s mom brought in a tray of drinks and chocolate chip cookies. After downing a soda, Sam checked his watch. He stood up, mindful not to drop any cookie crumbs on the expensive white rug. “I’ve got to go; my. . . um. . . sis . . . ter, um. . . Dory, is giving me a ride home.”
“That’s the new girl who keeps driving up and down the main street in the cherry red convertible, right?” Khallie rolled her eyes, making Sam smile.
“A 1982 Fiat Spider, to be exact,” Sam added wistfully. He’d always thought he’d be the one who would get to drive their father’s old sports car.
“Sweet,” said Blake.
Sam nodded. “And it torques at 3600 RPM.”
Blake grinned approvingly, and Khallie rolled her eyes again.
“You wouldn’t want to help me figure out this sound wave, would you?” Blake asked Sam. “Do you know anybody in that game club who’s familiar with sound waves and radio bands?”
“That would be Owen Chatterjee,” Khallie cut in before Sam could answer. “He’s been building radio sets since forever. He’s always talking about signals and bands and sound waves and tons of science stuff in class.”
“Chatterjee?” Blake grimaced. “Talk about jumping on the nerd train.”
“Well, if you want a radio expert, suck it up,” Khallie said firmly. “Why don’t we meet back here tomorrow, and I’ll bring Owen?”
Blake let out a reluctant sigh. “I guess.”
Sam kept his mouth shut—he’d met Owen, and while the kid did seem. . . odd, he was a good gamer. But Sam was beginning to get the lay of the land here. It sounded like you could only belong to one team—the cool jocks or the nerdy gamers. You definitely couldn’t be different. He glanced at the wheelchair and thought how Blake kept himself hidden.
Sam looked at his watch again. “Yikes, I’ve really gotta go.” He flew out of the house as Blake and Khallie shouted their goodbyes.
× × ×
SAM BROKE INTO a jog as he hurried to catch up with Dory. He liked running; it cleared his mind. Maybe he’d try out for the track team at school and be accepted into Blake and Khallie’s group. He’d already decided he liked Khallie. He thought he could like Blake; they had some stuff in common.
Only, Sam also liked gaming. Besides, there was his whole problem about how he crumbled under pressure and cost the team. He’d been cut from track at his old school. It was a sore spot between him and his father.
“Get back on the horse,” his father had said after Sam had been cut. Sam would happily get on a horse—he just had no interest in competing again.
Dory’s car had vanished from the school parking lot, and it was a long trek back to the beach house. Sam sighed and headed for the bus stop, noticing yet another poster of a missing cat tacked onto a telephone pole. That was the third one he’d seen this week. He’d better remind his little sister, Molly, to keep a close eye on her cat, Pix.
When Sam crossed onto the main street, he spotted the red Fiat parked in front of a café, and perched on an outdoor patio chair was Dory, slurping frothy drinks with two of her friends. When she spotted Sam, a slight twinge of guilt darted across her face.
She waved him over. “It’s about time you showed up. I’ve been waiting,” she said in a totally unconvincing way. “Let’s go,” she said to the other girls.
Sam climbed into the back of the Fiat Spider. The tiny car only had two tiny fold-down backseats, forcing him to jam himself so close to Dory’s friend Gina that the highway suddenly seemed to stretch out forever. Sam’s face flushed at the older girl’s nearness, and he was sure it made the zit on his chin glow like a searchlight. Her flowery perfume made his eyes water, and he held back a sneeze. Worse, during the drive, Sam had to sit and listen to the girls discuss whether vampires or werewolves would make better boyfriends.
Just when he couldn’t listen one second longer to girl-talk, and he wanted to yell, “There’s no such thing as vampires”—or even more desperately, “Stop the car. Let me out!”—he heard something that made his ears prick up. . .
The subject had switched to where vampires would most likely hang out, and Dory’s friends had agreed it could only be one place—in the haunted old mansion on Croaker’s Island up the coast.
“Totally,” said the girl in the front seat, Angel Chan. “There’ve been reports of mysterious sounds and lights on that island for ages, and no one has ever stayed in the Sinistrus Mansion for more than a week. My aunt works for the real estate office, and they gave up years ago trying to sell the house or even rent it for the summer.”
“Did you say the island has strange sounds?” asked Sam. He wondered if the eerie recordings Blake had picked up on the spectrogram were radio signals bouncing off sunken debris around the island. For some reason, the image of the strange little man with the silver device flashed into Sam’s mind. . .
“So is it Sinistrus Mansion or Croaker’s Island that’s haunted, mates?” Dory turned her car onto the narrower coastal road and passed a rundown trailer park. “How much farther?” she asked.
“We’re almost there,” said Gina. “I don’t know about sounds, but I’ve seen weird stuff there myself. Once when my family was driving back late at night from vacation, we stayed on the coastal road. It was foggy, and then all of a sudden the fog lifted and we saw Halloweenish lights.”
“Halloweenish. How so?” Angel asked in a quiet voice.
“I guess I mean eerie,” Gina said thoughtfully. “My dad tried to say it was northern lights, but how come the lights only flashed around the island?”
“Reflection of light and fog on water can look strange.” Sam shrugged.
Dory shouted, “That’s the island, right?” Then, abruptly losing her Australian accent, she added, “That place is sooo creepy.”
In the autumn twilight, Sam spotted a crumbling stone mansion on the small island. It was mostly hidden by dark skeletal trees. Through the pine branches, he could see that the Sinistrus place had turrets and a wrought-iron widow’s walk. He admitted to himself that the sunlight did give the surrounding water an unearthly glow.
Dory pulled the car over and parked on the soft shoulder of the highway. “Have either of you checked the mansion out?”
“No one I know has,” said Gina. “The currents are treacherous off this part of the coast, and you’re crossing breakwater.”
“I think my aunt said there used to be a suspension bridge,” said Angel. “But there was no point rebuilding it because no one goes there.”
Sam believed her. Shadows on the island crawled in the dusk, snaking into dark tendrils of menace.
“You know, that island is in my nightmares sometimes.” Angel gave a nervous laugh. “I dream I’m going to the island, but even as I’m dreaming I know it can’t be real because I’m walking on top of the water to get there.” She paused in the heavy silence and said in a lower voice, “When I get to shore, ghosts stare down at me from the tree branches.” She rubbed the back of her neck nervously. “I wake up totally freaked out.”
No kidding, thought Sam.
After a minute Dory broke the silence. “Well, thanks, mates, for the local tour.” Then to Sam’s dismay, she made a U-turn and headed back to town. She said to her friends, “I’ll drop you all home.”
“How about me first?” asked Sam. Their home was only half a kilometre farther up the coast.
“No can do, brother,” said Dory. “I don’t like making U-turns.”
Hadn’t she done that a few moments before? “Then let me out here.”
Dory didn’t slow down, saying, “I’m not supposed to stop on the highway.”
“You just did!” Sam shouted in exasperation.
Gina flashed Sam a sympathetic smile.
“Don’t you think you should let me out in case anyone notices you have an N licence on your windshield, and you’re driving around with a car full of people?” asked Sam.
Dory kept driving.
“Technically you’re only allowed one non-family member in the car,” Sam reminded her.
“Oh, so suddenly we’re family? Then why would I let you out?” Dory glared at him in the rear-view mirror.
“I was only thinking of you,” Sam said with exaggerated concern. Angel let out an exasperated sigh, but Sam noticed Gina smirked.
“Remember who is in the driver’s seat.” Dory slowed the car. Then, just in case Sam hadn’t caught her double meaning, she added, “So I call the shots.”
Dory was power-tripping. She had been since she arrived and realized that staying here meant a lot more to Sam than to her. He had to figure out a way to get in the driver’s seat before Dory drove him crazy. Sam thought about his growing lists of impossible tasks:
Make sure he made things easy for his grandmother—so easy she hardly knew she was taking care of three kids.
Work up the nerve to try out for track. That would please his father and help with the next task.
Make friends with Khallie and Blake.
And last but definitely not least—get the upper hand with Dory.
Sam considered those lofty goals as they drove back to town in the convertible—that is, until they turned off the coastal road back onto the highway. That’s when Sam spotted Khallie Saran going in the opposite direction toward the coast.
It was dusk and Khallie was nowhere near her neighbourhood.
What was she doing on that lonely stretch of road?
× 4 ×
UNDER HER THUMB
THE SUN WAS dipping into the red-streaked horizon by the time Sam and Dory approached the grey-shingled sea cottage. Dory drove her car up the winding lane along a wind-blasted bluff. The sharp briny smell of the sea and the slight taste of salt on his lips loosened a knot in Sam’s chest. A knot he didn’t know he had until now.
When they entered the cottage, a small person shot out of the shadows and wrapped her arms tight as a boa constrictor around Sam’s waist. A smaller furry creature began weaving its way around Sam’s legs.
“Hi, Sammy Sam-Sam,” Molly said in delight. “I’ve been missing you.”
“A warm hello to you too,” Dory said in a sarcastic voice. She reached over to pet Molly’s cat, Pix, but Pix shot out of her way.
“Hi, Dory. I’m happy to see you too,” Molly said with just a touch less affection.
“Yeah, well, I’d like to say it was mutual.”
Dory’s insults rolled off Molly’s back. Molly even managed to get a smile from Dory. That, thought Sam, was pure talent.
Sam never knew what to do with Molly’s outbursts of affection. No one else loved him so . . . conspicuously. His father reserved his affection based on approval, and while Sam had no doubt his grandmother loved him, she wasn’t the hugging type.
Awkwardly, Sam patted Molly on her shoulder. “I’ve, ah, missed you too.”
“Dinner’s in the oven.” his grandmother said. “I’ve kept it heated so it will be dry as toast, yes? You’re supposed to check in with me if you’re going to be late. Isn’t that the point of your fancy-dancy technology?” Sam’s grandmother pointed to Dory’s expensive cellphone. “You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”
Sam wondered why anyone would want cake if they couldn’t eat it.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Dory said, turning her back to them and jutting her chin over her shoulder in Sam’s direction. “I couldn’t just leave him behind even though he kept me waiting, could I?”
“Sam, you know better,” his grandmother frowned.
That was it. Sam couldn’t take it anymore. Dory was getting away with murder. “Dory was driving around with her. . . ”
“Is our dad checking in this week?” Dory asked sweetly. Babcia nodded. “Yes, he’s calling soon.”
Sam folded his hands into fists and pressed them against his thighs.
His father had set strict rules for this experiment of living with their grandmother.
Rule # 1. Do exactly what Babcia tells you to do. Sam and Molly tried. But Dory was a wild card. Sam knew if he said being this late wasn’t his fault, it would only make things worse by breaking . . .
Rule # 2. Do not force Babcia to become a referee for your arguments.
Was arguing worth being shipped back to boarding school? Was living with an even angrier Dory after she had her licence confiscated a life worth living?
“Sorry about being late,” Sam mumbled.
Dory smirked, and Sam promised himself that he’d find a way to get out from under her thumb.
× × ×
THAT NIGHT AT dinner, Sam broached the subject of sea echoes with his grandmother. She was, after all, Professor Novak of the Ocean Institute.
“Babcia,” Sam slurped down a gulp of milk, “has anyone at the Institute ever reported weird ocean sounds off our coast—like really weird monster echoes?” His grandmother frowned.
“Eew,” Dory said, waltzing into the kitchen. “It’s bad enough that I have to share a bathroom here with everyone, but I absolutely refuse to use a bathroom mirror that Sam squirted with pimple juice.”
Sam’s face flushed a deeper crimson than the squares on the tablecloth. The sore spot on his chin throbbed.
“What’s pimple juice?” asked Molly. She dragged another chair to the table, its legs scraping against the checkered black and white tiles. “Can I have some more chicken?”
“It isn’t dinner conversation,” Babcia said brusquely.
“But this needs to be dealt with,” Dory protested.
“Not at the dinner table,” Babcia said in a forbidding tone that even shut Dory up. Well, almost.
Dory shoved her plate to Molly, saying, “Here, take my chicken. I’m thinking about becoming vegetarian. Could I maybe have an omelet instead, please?”
Sam’s grandmother stood up from the table, went to the old-fashioned blue fridge, and brought out a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. “Help yourself.”
As the room went silent, Sam shoved his potatoes around with a fork, worrying how to keep Dory from ruining everything. Time was running out. Torturing him wasn’t enough to keep her from getting bored.
Then he noticed Molly take a large chunk of chicken from Dory’s plate and feed it to Pix, who was lurking under the table. While that wasn’t specifically against any of their father’s rules, the astonishment on Babcia’s face told Sam they’d be lucky if she put up with them another month. His stomach tightened, leaving little room for the rest of his dinner.
“Maybe the chicken does look tasty after all,” said Dory, taking back her plate and shooting Molly a surprised look at the paltry piece that was left.
With a shake of her head, Babcia turned to Sam, resuming their earlier conversation. “Attributing ocean echoes to any wild theory is nonsense, Sammy. That’s the kind of fuzzy thinking some of my students show that makes me wish I did more research and less teaching.”
His grandmother drummed her fingers on the table. “Stick to the facts. Unusual echoes are likely to be sound waves reflected off sunken objects, or an underwater earthquake.”
His grandmother sounded like his father. Fact: Life isn’t fair—you have to be nice to your half-sister no matter what. Fact: Life is hard—if this doesn’t work out, it’s back to boarding school until I get a permanent post.
For Sam, facts weren’t very satisfying. Besides, even his grandmother, Professor Novak, couldn’t know for sure that fault lines and sunken debris were the only reasons for monster echoes. There might be other explanations.
As soon as Sam had finished eating, he excused himself from the table and went to his room. He planned to read comics, but instead he fell asleep so early that by four in the morning he was wide awake. Restless, he decided to see if he could do some stargazing with his telescope.
When Sam entered the sunroom, he heard heavy padding behind him. Pix accepted a quick pat on the head before leaping onto the window ledge, where he let out a low howl. Sam went to the window and stared into the inky night. He could barely make out the treacherous rocks below, as a fog had rolled in. There’d be no stargazing. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted what was bugging Pix.
For several moments, green lights danced around Croaker’s Island. Then, as if someone had thrown a switch, the witchy lights extinguished into the midnight fog.
Something was out there, lurking. Sam couldn’t explain how he knew that . . . only that he felt the island tugging him—like he was a compass needle being drawn toward the magnetic North Pole.
× 5 ×
LIKE OUT OF A HORROR MOVIE
THE NEXT EVENING at Blake’s, the sky was dark and crystal clear. Mrs. Evans ushered Sam onto the sprawling back deck overlooking the ocean. Blake was sitting in a chair at the table and staring at his laptop screen with Khallie and Owen.
“Come and look at this!” shouted Owen, a bespectacled boy.
Owen was a head shorter than Sam and Khallie. Babcia would describe him as scrawny and in need of fattening up. But his voice sounded confident when he said, “This doesn’t look like a bloop echo.”
“What’s a bloop?” Khallie looked dubious. “Is that even a real word?”
“A bloop echo is a low-frequency but very loud sound wave, like the noise a gigantic animal might make,” said Owen.
“If it’s not a bloop, what is it?” asked Blake. “I picked up another series of sound waves today.”
Khallie pointed to the wiggly lines on the laptop screen. “Yup, those are some gigantic noises,” she commented, as if she’d been studying spectrograms her whole life.
Sam huddled beside Khallie to check out the laptop screen. He noticed how their shoulders brushed and that her hair smelled of strawberries.
Owen traced the spikes on the spectrogram with his finger. “I mean, this spectrograph pattern looks more like slowdown echoes.”
The Mystery of Croaker's Island Page 2