by Maribel Fox
Miles shakes his head, his jaw tight.
“You’re not headed for shore?” I ask, suddenly realizing we’re headed the other direction.
“You want to map these rocks or not?”
I frown out at the horizon, the gray fog that promises a massive storm is on its way.
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Let’s see what we can get before it’s too bad,” he says, more determined than I’ve seen him. This is my hunt; what’s suddenly got him so dedicated?
Using sonar, we locate three big rocks around the bay. They’re all spread out, all in different places and not in any kind of obvious line or shape. It’s strange, and I probably wouldn’t think anything of them if it wasn’t for Nora’s tip.
Am I crazy for thinking something of them now? She’s a ten year-old with an imaginary friend and a fondness for the macabre. Why should I believe she has any useful knowledge?
I probably shouldn’t, but that doesn’t stop me. I don’t know what it is about Nora or her insistence that this is important, but it resonated with me, and I know I’m going to be poring over this map all night long, trying to figure out what these rocks could be.
11
Miles
I close the door behind me on my way below deck, sighing and rubbing the back of my neck.
After a day like today, I need a beer.
What happened out there on the bay was… weird. That’s the only way to explain it. Otherwise, I don’t have an explanation for it.
What the hell has Callie found? I wonder, dipping into the half-sized fridge for a cold beer. That’s pretty much all I keep in my fridge, some butter and eggs, a bottle of hot sauce, and a whole lotta beer.
Well, a six pack. That’s all it can hold.
I drop onto the booth seat and pop the top off the beer with a bottle opener that’s mounted under the table. The glass is frosty in my hand, already sweating out of the fridge, and I can practically taste the refreshment just from cracking it open. As I bring the bottle up to my lips, I pull the blue shard out of my pocket, turning it over in my hand.
It’s not like any rock I’ve ever seen. The way it glitters seems more like it’s emitting its own light instead of reflecting what’s around. It’s shimmery like it’s wet, and bright, but not glowing like neon. It’s just… strange. Unlike anything I’ve ever found, and even a cold beer in hand isn’t easing the knot of worry deep down.
“À votre santé.”
“The fuck?” I sputter and jump, nearly dropping the bottle, only saving it at the last minute. That was a voice in my house. Airborne beer particles settle on my skin, floating back down.
“Who—” I stop mid-sentence, eyes landing on the stranger in my boat.
Quite literally in. His body is sunken through the floor up to his waist, and he looks quite pissed about it.
He also looks semi-transparent, the edges of his outline crackling with blue energy. He’s staring right at me, impatient, in some old-timey clothes that look out of place.
Shit.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’ve got a ghost on my boat.
But ghosts aren’t real, right?
Right?
How can I be so sure, all things considered with my own heritage? I know for a fact that there’s some weird shit out there in the world that everyone’s been told isn’t real. Why would ghosts be exempt?
I take a long drink from my beer, managing to get it down this time, and stare.
“Who are you? What are you?”
“Tsk. No need for such rudeness mon ami,” he says, French accent thick though he’s managing English perfectly. The clothes he’s wearing are loose, rough fabrics from what I can make out of the weird projection-image. A disheveled look about him that I’ve seen on lots of sailors.
Is my boat haunted? Why the hell is he showing up now of all times? Don’t I have enough going on?
I just stare at the guy, still waiting for some answers. If he is a ghost, I don’t want to antagonize him. I don’t need a remake of the Poltergeist happening right now.
“I’m a man, of course. Much like yourself,” he says with a dismissive wave. The gesture makes his waist sink a little lower.
I keep staring. I don’t think I really need to say anything to get my point across. He is not like me.
He tries to pull himself up, but keeps floating back down, growing more and more annoyed, huffing and cursing in what I assume is very colorful French. With his hips nearly at floor level, he seems to concede the fight.
“It is true,” he says with a heavy sigh. “I may be suffering from a certain… maladie?”
Seems like the understatement of the century.
I take another drink, still staring. What am I supposed to say? Or do? Offer him a hand?
Yeah right. I might not know a lot about ghosts, but I’m not about to get cozy with one.
“Mon dieu man, do you speak?” he asks, turning his annoyance toward me.
I make a face, not sure how to handle this. I don’t know anything about dealing with the living impaired. What’s the idea? Unfinished business or something he needs help with? I don’t have the time.
“You don’t look… sick,” I say carefully. Does he not know he’s dead? That would be a bummer. Even more so for the guy who’s got to break the news.
Congrats.
The ghost huffs, rolling his eyes. “Mais oui, and what do I look then?”
He’s backing me into a corner, and I feel like nothing I say is going to do me any favors right now. I don’t know what this guy is capable of, if he’s the Casper kind of ghost or the Shining kind? There’s already enough in my life that could mark me as crazy, I don’t need help here.
“Tch, I should have known this would be a waste of time,” the ghost complains, shaking his head. “Well, I’ll leave you alone, but mon ami, if you could take that shard back with you to the beach, I would be quite grateful.”
I scowl at the rock in my hand, turning my head to the side.
The ghost is already making his way through the houseboat, ‘walking’ through the floor, but now I’m too curious to let him go.
“Why?”
“Eh?”
“Why do you want me to take the shard back? It’s just a rock.”
The ghost rolls his eyes. “To you perhaps. Let’s just say if you don’t this dinghy will be my new home.”
That sounds a lot like a threat to me, and I don’t appreciate him calling Roanish a dinghy. Instantly my hackles are up, I’m gripping the rock tight, and my jaw’s clenched. I don’t appreciate being manipulated or blackmailed or whatever the hell this is.
The ghost sighs, folding his arms over his half-exposed chest. The shirt he’s got on is open and billowy like he’s an extra from Pirates of the Caribbean.
“Mon ami, please trust I am not trying to er… pull the sheep over your eyes? Those little sparkles?” he makes a fluttering hand gesture for emphasis, “they are the anchors tethering me to this world. I cannot go more than a few steps away from one without…” He wiggles his fingers again, making a fizzling sound this time. “You’ve taken so many from the bay that I am stuck now.”
It’s all a lot to take in, but there’s one thing that I home in on right away.
“This world?”
“Oui,” he answers, no further explanation. He returns my unreadable stare, and I don’t know what to think.
I’m not used to being so conflicted and I don’t know how to handle it.
Facts, Miles. What are the facts?
Internally, I scoff at myself.
What even are facts anymore?
There’s a guy here claiming to be from some other world, claiming that these rocks are somehow anchoring him.
It all sounds insane, yet I can see the guy with my own eyes. He’s being swallowed by the boat and mildly transparent. He definitely seems to be some kind of ghost or energy signature or something… I don’t know.
And the rocks… Well, they
’re way stranger than just being sparkly. I didn’t want to tell Callie about it earlier because I didn’t have an explanation for it, and it was so weird, but that was before this guy showed up. Now what happened underwater doesn’t seem quite so insane, but still…
“Mon ami, we have a deal? You will bring it back, oui?”
“I’m thinking,” I growl a response without thinking. I’m not exactly being polite to the ghost, but I need to figure this out. And I’m not sure the ramifications of agreeing to help him, even with something trivial like this. The last thing I need is to be beholden or indebted to a spirit because of some carelessly chosen words.
No thanks.
I look at the rock in my hand again, a tiny shard of the bigger ones I saw underwater. Down there, I found two large boulders that were just within sight of each other in the murky water. Thinking back to our little clue from the beach, I decided to check out the space between them, looking for any smaller rocks, any signs of a connection.
It wasn’t obvious until I swam further back, until I took in the whole picture.
I don’t know what is connecting those rocks, but whatever it is, it’s manipulating the sea floor, making the sand settle into strange swirling flowery shapes like I’ve never seen.
It’s not uncommon for the sand to have mysterious wavy lines, even circles from currents and tides, but this was different. It’s a real pattern, and I could watch it move and change while I was there, the swirls clearly in a defined area between the boulders.
That was all mind-blowing enough, but then I tried to take a picture of the whole thing to show Callie and my damn camera exploded. It was a little explosion, but it wrecked my camera and I don’t have an explanation for it. Or for Callie.
It’s all getting weirder and weirder the more I uncover.
“I do not mean to pester, but—”
“I just… I need a minute, okay?” I grumble, holding my head like that’s going to bond all these useless thoughts into a sparkling diamond.
Why is it so impossible? It would be hypocritical for me to tell this guy I don’t believe he’s a ghost while completely disregarding my own nature.
“What are you?” He still hasn’t told me anything about him. Not that I’m sure I want to know.
Fuck. What am I getting myself into?
“Rien. I am nothing. Nothing special. Henri Duchamp if you wish for a name.”
I fold my arms, lifting a brow. “What about…?” I look him up and down, not wanting to approach the possible touchy subject about how he ended up with this… malady.
“I was un corsaire,” he says, confirming my suspicions that he’s a sailor, but what’s a French sailor doing in an Oregon bay? He’s not telling me something.
My beer’s nearly gone by now, but I drain it the rest of the way anyway, letting the silence hang. It’s amazing what people will reveal just to fill the silence. I’ve learned more by keeping my mouth shut than I ever have with asking questions.
Henri glares back at me, slowly sinking.
I get up and toss my bottle in the recycling, footfalls heavier than necessary, just to rub it in a little.
So much for not antagonizing the ghost, Miles.
“Mon dieu, I was a pirate, satisfied? You got it out of me.”
Great. This calls for another beer.
I don’t say anything while I fish in the half-fridge for another drink. A ghost is bad enough. A pirate, possibly worse. A pirate ghost?
Fuck me.
If I was the kind of person to consider such things when picking out a house, I’d have guessed a houseboat would be safe from hauntings. Then comes Frenchy McPirate-Ghost to laugh that notion off.
“Was?” I ask, cracking the top off the bottle, watching the cold air escape rather than looking up at my uninvited guest. Never known a former pirate. I’ve known a couple on break waiting for something worthwhile to come along, but I don’t think that kind of thing ever goes away. It takes a certain kind of person to be that kind of despicable.
Roanish is my baby. A member of my family as much as any of the niblings. Lynn teases me that it’s the only way I’m ever going to make her an aunt. My stock response is that she’s already got the twins for that, but the point remains: my boat is more than just a house, more than just my prized possession, and anyone who’s lived on the sea understands that bond.
To understand that and still take it away from someone speaks to an untrustworthiness I can’t begin to fathom.
If he was a flesh and bone guy who’d just revealed he was a pirate, he’d be overboard already. But what am I supposed to do? Lay down a salt circle? I have no fucking idea.
Henri grunts, a sound of strangled anguish that makes me almost feel bad for the interloper.
“Regarde moi! Just look at me. I haven’t been anything in… mon dieu, I don’t know how long.”
My brow stays arched, I drink again. He’s vying for sympathy, but he’s come crawling on the wrong deck.
“What happened?”
Henri’s form crackles slightly, static filling up the room before he drifts lower.
“I tried to steal the wrong boat.”
It’s all I need to hear. I want this guy off my boat, and I’m not interested in helping him.
“Wait, don’t—” he says, but it’s too late. I’ve already dropped the shard on the table and he’s gone.
Weird…
Is he gone? Or still here and I can’t see him? I suddenly remember Callie talking about Nora with a strange man on the beach and how he disappeared.
The same Nora who’s always playing with the stones.
Was Callie touching one when she saw him on the beach?
Fuck.
I can’t not know.
Taking a deep breath, I hesitantly reach out one finger to poke the blue stone.
“Putain! Now wait—”
I move my finger again.
Blissful silence.
I finish the beer, staring at the shard, sure I can still hear him cursing in French even though there’s nothing but the lapping of the water against the hull.
Sadly, despite my half-fridge holding a full six-pack, it’s been a couple days since I’ve restocked, and two is all I’ve got.
Probably for the best since I need to get this damn shard off my boat. If he’s attached to it like he says, then all I need to do is get the rock to the beach and he’ll be out of my hair.
Problem is, I’ll have to pick it up again and I don’t want to deal with him right now. This is a lot to handle, a lot to take in, and it’s not something I can do knowing that he’s here staring at me.
I can only imagine the meltdown he’s having watching me walk off Roanish without his shard, but my boat doesn’t blow up. There’s no freaky flickering lights or creepy winds with no explanation. Maybe he’s not the Poltergeist kind of ghost.
He’s still a fucking pirate though.
And a ghost. Or something. Whether he’s the destructive kind or not doesn’t change that this is a very big development. One I don’t think I can keep from Callie.
Not this time.
The last time I got hit with a bombshell like this, I didn’t think telling her was even on the table. It wasn’t. I’m still not sure it is.
Because the fears I had when I was a teenager learning about all this shit are still here. I’m part of all this magical supernatural shit against my will, but that doesn’t mean I have to get all wrapped up in the world. I can still live my normal life.
Or I thought I could. I hoped I could.
I always knew there was a chance something like this would happen, though. One day the magical world would come knocking on my door, and I couldn’t bear the thought of Callie getting roped into it or hurt. It’s dangerous, it’s unknown, and it’s not something I’m willing to mess around with when she’s in the mix.
Cutting her out of my life for her own good worked when we were teenagers, but I’ve got a feeling it won’t go over as well this time.
Besides, is that even what I want to do?
Maybe all my fears were unfounded, at least when it comes to me. When I came of age and learned about my seal skin, about being a selkie, I was terrified. I didn’t know what to expect, but in all honesty, it’s hardly affected my life at all. I don’t get cold in the water, I don’t have to hold my breath when I dive and sea lions aren’t my biggest fans, but it’s hardly worth giving up on something as promising as me and Callie.
Over the years, it’s been easy to tell myself that she’s got that special place in my heart because she was my first love, that puppy love, the kind of head-over-heels infatuation that makes an impression on you just because it’s so new and different.
It was easy to tell myself that it would be different if we were adults.
Ha.
It’s different, but not in the way I thought it would be. Being around Callie as an adult brings all those old feelings rushing up to the surface, crashing in, bubbling over, stronger and more intense than before. The more I’m with her, the more I start to wonder if any obstacle between us is enough to justify keeping the distance.
And now there’s this… This whole ghost thing. I don’t know how I’m going to tell her about that — how I’m going to tell her about any of it — but she’s wrapped up in the middle of it, so I can’t keep her in the dark this time.
The waves lick at my feet and my mind drifts for a moment staring out at the stormy waters, thinking about Callie wrapped up in all manner of things. Cloaked in a see-through dress, sea spray soaking the fabric, making it cling to her every curve. Or maybe caught in a string of pearls, shimmering against her moonlight-pale skin. Swimming ahead of me through kelp forests, making me chase her until she’s tangled in my sheets, flushed and wet.
I growl and yank myself out of the fantasy, shaking my head. It feels like it’s been suddenly inundated with thoughts and images of Callie, but the truth is they’ve been building up for a while and the dam’s just finally broken.
Seeing her again, being reminded that she’s real, not just a long-lost memory, is really screwing with me. I can’t stop thinking about her, and all this extra shit is just the cherry on top.