Twisted Little Things and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  His voice trails off.

  “Say it,” I tell him.

  “Like a ghost ship,” he admits. “Everyone else just thinks it's a joke, but I tracked down a guy who used to work this coast in the eighties. He'd heard about the damn thing too. Turns out it's a bit of a whispered legend in these parts.”

  “There's no way a rogue ferry of that size could be operating,” I point out. “With modern radar systems, modern shipping technology, it would've been identified and seized by now.” I wait for him to reply. “What port does it sail from? What routes does it take?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “All these things leave traces, so what -”

  “People have died because of this thing,” he continues. “Last year, a fishing boat called the Coretianna sank off the coast of Brittany, after being hit by an unknown vessel when visibility was low. Two years before that, another fishing boat near the Shetlands got into trouble when it was rammed by a boat that the captain claimed had come out of nowhere and struck them. He described an aging ferry that ignored all attempts at communication.”

  “And you think that was the Aspheron?”

  “I know it was the Aspheron.”

  “Then what -”

  “Did you read the report into the Sullivans' deaths?”

  A shiver passes up my spine at the mention of that incident. “Mark -”

  “Did you read it?”

  I shake my head. “I avoided it.”

  “There was evidence on the upturned hull of their cruiser that they'd been hit by a large vessel.” He pauses. “I went through the records and there was no evidence of another vessel in the area but -”

  “Stop,” I reply, fighting the urge to get up and walk away.

  “Now do you understand why I called you last night?” he asks. “If I'm right, this ferry has caused several incidents over the years, including the accident that killed the Sullivan family.”

  “You're putting two and two together and coming up with forty,” I tell him. “You're veering into the realm of...” I pause, searching for the right words. “Explanations that defy logic.”

  “I'm considering the possibilities. When you quit the coastguard five years ago, after the Sullivan family's accident, I damn near followed you out, but I decided to stay and keep investigating this ferry. I swore that if I ever tracked it down properly, that'd be the end for me. I came close several times, but it always slipped away before I could get to it. Given the link to the Sullivan family, I thought you'd want to be involved. We always agreed that you'd come back if we had a real shot at this thing.”

  “There's only so long you can get away with calling me a consultant,” I point out.

  “I don't care. I'm willing to break every rule in the book to get this thing nailed down.” He pauses again. “A friend of mine is Stratton's driver. Let's just say that Stratton's journey here this morning is being deliberately slowed.”

  “Are you serious?”

  He nods. “When he gets here, he'll take control and that ferry will be lost to us again. I need to discover the truth before it's too late.”

  Nodding, I watch as waves continue to crash against the rocks below. I open my mouth to tell him about my visions of the dead Sullivan girl, but at the last moment I hold back. Glancing toward the other end of the bay, I spot the distant house and see that someone's up there, watching us.

  “I see the Sullivan girl sometimes,” I tell him, my voice trembling slightly.

  “Which girl?”

  “The girl from the Sullivans' boat. Mary Sullivan. The one who died.”

  He pauses. “When you say you see her -”

  “Clear as day,” I continue, with tears in my eyes. “Standing right in front of me, staring at me as if she knows I should have done more to save her.” Taking a deep breath, I realize I can feel tears welling in my eyes, but I sniff them back. “I first saw her that night on the rescue boat after I came around. I thought it was an artifact of the concussion, but ever since, every few months... I have nightmares, too. I don't believe in ghosts or any of that rubbish, but I swear to God, I see Mary Sullivan sometimes. When I'm awake, when I'm asleep...” Pausing, I watch the waves for a moment longer, before turning to him. “I'm glad you called.”

  “I almost didn't.”

  “If you really think this ferry caused the accident that killed the Sullivans five years ago,” I add, “then we have to know for sure. Maybe -”

  He waits for me to continue. “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe it'll give her some peace,” I continue, although the idea instantly seems crazy as soon as the words have left my lips. Watching the rough sea for a moment, I try to imagine the ferry resting beneath the waves. Ever since the night I failed to rescue the Sullivans, I've avoided going underwater, and the thought of diving fills me with dread. At the same time, I know that if we want to get answers to this problem, we have to go down there and take a closer look at the wreck of the ferry. At least that way, finally, we might get some answers.

  “Something's wrong,” Mark says suddenly, looking past me.

  Turning, I realize he's right. In the distance, back at the shore, people are shouting.

  ***

  “There was no warning,” Farrah says as he checks Carter's temperature again, holding a hand against the man's forehead for a moment. “He just stepped out to get a coffee and suddenly I heard a bump. He fainted.”

  “I'm fine,” Carter replies, even though he's clearly dazed. He tries to get up from the stool, but Mark and I have to catch him as he stumbles and almost falls down onto the grass. He leans against the side of the medical trailer, squinting as if he can barely see properly.

  “Try not to get too close,” Farrah tells us, gesturing for us to step back.

  “The phones aren't working,” Mark mutters, turning and heading toward one of the trailers. “I'm going to try contacting London with the EVAC system.”

  “Do you think this is contagious?” I ask, watching as Carter is guided back down onto the stool. He looks a little dizzy, and even in just the past few minutes he's begun to sweat more. It's as if he's been gripped by a sudden fever.

  “Carter wasn't the first person who came into contact with the survivor,” Farrah replies, taking a stethoscope and listening to the man's chest, “but he's had closer contact. He took a blood sample from the guy just before he got sick. I'm going to have to call the HPA and the ECDC and let them know we might have a situation here. If there's any chance of a communicable disease, we need the entire site locked down until the problem has been identified.”

  “I just stood up too fast,” Carter insists, trying again to get to his feet. This time, he pushes us away when we try to help him, before dropping to his knees and then rolling onto his side.

  “Whatever it is,” Farrah replies, kneeling to help him, “it's fast-acting and it seems to require persistent close contact in order to be communicated. I'm going to have to insist that no-one from the camp interacts with anyone from outside, at least not for the time being.”

  “There was an old woman here earlier,” one of the other workers points out. “She was shouting about something, but technically she got through the perimeter. She lives in the house on the other side of the bay.”

  “Then the quarantine needs to include her house too,” Farrah continues. “Someone needs to go and tell her.”

  “I can do that,” I tell him quickly.

  “Don't worry, I can send -”

  “No,” I add, interrupting him as I realize that I actually want to talk to that woman and find out why she was so upset earlier. “I'll go and talk to her.”

  ***

  “Hello?” I call out, stepping back from the door now that I've knocked twice without an answer. “Anyone home?”

  I wait, but there's no sign of life. I didn't hear what the old woman was shouting about earlier, but I know she was telling us all to get the hell out of town and to leave the ferry alone, so I figure she might know som
ething. So far, however, she hasn't answered her door, so I make my way around to the side of the house, open the gate, and head into the back garden.

  “Hello?” I call out again. “Is anyone here? Can -”

  Hearing a tapping sound nearby, I turn and see the woman watching me from one of the windows.

  ***

  “Quarantine? What nonsense are you on about, girl?”

  “Just for a few hours, hopefully,” I reply, as she leads me through to her cluttered front room. “Maybe a day at most. It's because you came into contact with some of us at the site, and we have to be extremely cautious with something like this.”

  “Huh.” Clearly not impressed, she glances back at me. “I'm eighty-three years old. I've never been quarantined in my entire life and I don't intend to start now!” She sighs. “Fortunately for you, I don't have anywhere to go or anyone to see, so a quarantine won't affect me one way or the other.”

  “I saw you down at the camp earlier,” I continue. “You seemed upset about something.”

  “There's no need for any of this rubbish,” she replies. “You must all simply pack up at once and get out of here. These matters will take care of themselves if they're left well enough alone. No good will come of meddling in things you don't understand.”

  “What kind of things?” I ask.

  “Things that have gone on for many years just fine,” she continues, shooing a cat from the sofa and gesturing for me to take its place. “Things we don't have any right to interfere with. I always knew a bunch of busy-bodies would show up eventually and try to poke their noses into it all. That's the problem with the modern world, you're all determined to explain every goddamn thing that happens.” Leaning on her stick, she heads to the table and picks up a framed photo for a moment, staring down at the image. “None of you can just leave well alone and let things simply be.”

  “You're talking about the ferry?”

  She turns to me, with a hint of suspicion in her eyes. “What do you know about it?”

  “Almost nothing.”

  “Well, it's been doing its job since before any of us were born,” she replies, leaning on her stick again as she sets the photo down and then heads to the bay window. She pauses for a moment, looking out at the bay. “And it'll still be doing its job long after we're gone. It doesn't need our help, it doesn't need us to understand, it just needs us to stop poking our ignorant noses in its business. No good can come of getting too close.” She turns to me, with tears in her eyes. “We'll all get to take a journey on that thing, some of us sooner than others, but only when our time comes. It's foolish to meddle.”

  “There were people on-board when it sank,” I point out.

  She shakes her head.

  “There were,” I continue. “I saw them.”

  “You saw them?” She pauses again, clearly shocked. “You foolish girl, how close did you get?”

  “I went down on a line from the helicopter and -”

  “Oh, you idiot,” she hisses, before muttering something under her breath.

  “We shouldn't have tried to save them?” I ask, surprised by her attitude. “Is that what you're saying?”

  “Save them?” She smiles, as if she's frustrated by my inability to read her mind. “Do you know how long I've lived in this house?”

  “I don't even know your name.”

  “Eileen Shaw,” she replies, “and I've lived here since I was a girl, and before that my mother lived here, and before that her mother, and so on and so forth. Now, I'm not saying that I know everything that goes on out there at sea, I'm not an arrogant woman, but I've seen and heard enough to realize that we have no right to meddle.”

  “But surely -”

  “Bad things will happen if you keep doing what you're doing,” she continues. “I saw you earlier, down on the beach, pulling someone from the water. Please, tell me you sent him straight back out.”

  “He's sick.”

  “And has it spread yet?”

  I pause for a moment. “Yes, actually. The man who was examining him.”

  She nods. “There'll be more.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because that's what happens when you mix two worlds together,” she replies, clearly losing patience with me. “You have to understand that when the ferry collects those people, it's supposed to take them away from all of this, it's part of the natural order. They're no longer a part of our world. Once they go on-board, they're not fit to walk among us, just as we're not fit to walk among them!” She sighs. “It's really very simple, I don't know why you're making such a meal of it all. Send the poor unfortunate fellow back out there, let things take care of themselves, and forget that any of this ever happened.”

  Staring at her, I realize that regardless of whether or not she's right, she certainly believes every word she's saying.

  “How many times have you seen the ferry before?” I ask.

  She sighs.

  “How man times?” I ask again.

  “A few. Maybe a half dozen in eighty-three years. The first time, I was just five.” Another pause, and there seem to be more tears in her eyes. “My brother was eight. We became fascinated by the damn thing, especially after we realized our parents would brook no discussion of the matter. It was one of those strange things, you know? Everyone seemed to know about it in the house, but no-one would even let it be mentioned. Eventually we found our grandfather's notes, and that just spurred us on until...”

  Her voice trails off.

  “Until what?” I ask.

  “One day, when he was in his teens, my poor dear brother sailed out to get a closer look. He didn't tell anyone, because he knew they'd have stopped him, but he was always rather pig-headed. Maybe even arrogant. He'd studied the notes and he thought he knew when the ferry would comes past again.”

  “And did it?”

  She pauses. “I don't know. He never came back. A few pieces of his boat were found later, smashed to pieces. But poor George was never seen again.”

  “I'm sorry,” I tell her. “That must have been awful, but -”

  “That survivor you pulled from the sea,” she says sharply, interrupting me, “you must send him back at once!”

  “He's sick,” I point out. “He needs help. If we send him back out to sea, he'll die!”

  “Poppycock,” she hisses, clearly frustrated as she looks out the window again. “You're idiots, all of you. You've got no sense at all. You're going to make the same mistake George made.”

  “Maybe you should just tell me what's really happening,” I continue. “You obviously know more about this, or you think you do.”

  “You're too young,” she mutters. “You remind me of poor George, in a way. You're too arrogant. You can't possibly understand.”

  “Try me.”

  She turns to me, and I can see she's trying to decide. “That ferry usually only passes this bay every few decades,” she says after a moment, “although sometimes the stars bring it more often. I've studied it, and I've read about it, just as my mother studied it, just as her mother and father studied it before. I never wanted to go close to it, though. I learned that lesson from my brother's disappearance. It's not something to be trifled with, it should just be left to get on with its work.”

  “And what work is that?” I ask.

  “What work do you think?” she replies, clearly exasperated. “The transportation of the dead, taking them away from the world of the living. It doesn't do to have these things mix. The dead have their land, the living have theirs, and the two should never touch.”

  Staring at her, I can't help but wonder if she's a little crazy. Sure, the ferry is unusual and there are some slightly creepy aspects to everything that has happened so far, but she seems to have taken those elements and turned them into something else entirely. I guess the tragedy of losing her brother might have made her a little over-sensitive to certain aspects of the story.

  “You don't believe me,” she says after
a moment. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I...” Pausing, I realize that I don't want to be rude. “I'm not sure.”

  “Don't test it,” she continues. “Don't make the same mistake my brother made.”

  “I should be getting back,” I tell her, figuring that this was a waste of time. Getting to my feet, I take a couple of steps toward the door. “I'm sorry for intruding, and I promise we'll only do the right thing. The ferry can't be allowed to stay on the seabed, there could be all sorts of toxic materials that could leak and -”

  “Five years ago,” she replies, interrupting me.

  “I'm sorry?”

  “That's when it was last here,” she continues. “The stars define its path, and five years ago when it came past this stretch of land... There was another accident. I saw it from this very window.”

  Pausing, I think back to the stricken pleasure cruiser that was destroyed five years ago, and to the family who lost their lives.

  “You don't need to worry about raising the ferry,” she adds. “It'll be just fine without your interference. The ferry isn't from this world, and no-one here has a right to tamper. You need to send that poor survivor back out there before it's too late, and you need to pray that no harm comes of his having been here already. You don't have much time, but you can fix this, if you just listen to me and act quickly!”

  “We're just going to -”

  “If you meddle much more,” she adds, “you'll go past the point of no return. When the living and the dead meet, a terrible plague will erupt. That is the warning that has been passed down from generation to generation, and you must not be the ones who finally go too far. You must leave the ferry alone, or the whole world will suffer. You've already gone closer than you should, you're lucky you were able to get away.”

  She mutters something else, but it's clear that she's becoming increasingly agitated.