2
Salem
Blackridge Island
B y noon the next day, I was seated on a damp wooden bench at the stern of a boat, my bike braced against my knees as we rocked over waves as gray as the sky. Salty ocean air whipped across my face, the windchill cutting mercilessly through my jacket.
The website for Balfour Bed-and-Breakfast hadn’t given any details about the ferry ride required to reach it; now I understood why.
Planes, trains, boats, buses—I preferred my feet on solid ground, thank you very much.
Or on the pedals of my bike. Every rolling wave felt as if it was going to launch my stomach up into my throat.
Besides myself, there was only one other passenger on board.
A young woman, wearing a thin gray raincoat over her long skirt, sat huddled and shivering on the opposite side of the deck.
She wasn’t dressed warmly enough for the weather and looked miserable, so I dug my extra hoodie out of my backpack and approached her.
“Here, take this.” I offered the clothing and she jolted, staring up at me with wide, bloodshot eyes. “It’s okay. I don’t need it.”
She looked at the jacket but didn’t take it. She huddled over again, arms wrapped around herself, ignoring me. She began to murmur, her words quick and frantic, “Our Father... hallowed be thy name... thy will be done... deliver us... deliver us...”
With a pit in my stomach, I returned to my seat. Her voice was drowned out by the waves, but every now and then, the wind would carry her words to me as she continued to pray.
Fortunately, within an hour, Blackridge Island’s craggy black cliffs were visible on the horizon.
I walked to the bow for a clearer look. It was a mountainous place, covered in a thick expanse of dark trees.
The B only her sharp spires could be seen above the swaying pines.
A sudden sense of trepidation settled over me as I entered the gate.
My tires crunched on the gravel path until I stood at the foot of the long narrow stairway leading to the house.
With a sigh, I propped my bike against the wall, collected my bag, and began climbing the hillside like a long-suffering pack mule.
The steps were slippery with moss, a dip worn into their centers from decades of feet traversing them. The terrace gardens overflowed with fragrant flowers and vibrant ferns. Massive old pine trees clung to the hillside, their twisted roots making ripples beneath the soil.
As I crested the hill and emerged on the other side of the trees, the Balfour house revealed itself in all its intimidating glory.
It was tall and dark, with a facade of gray stone cloaked in ivy.
The roof was steeply pitched, crowned with chimneys leaking tendrils of white smoke and spires adorned with birds’ nests.
Cherubs and gargoyles were carved into the stones around the entryway and decorated the fountain in the middle of the courtyard.
Narrow windows lined the exterior, peeking out from the vines.
Those windows were like eyes, watching me as I craned my neck to look up. Making my way slowly across the courtyard, I paused to stare into the fountain’s murky depths. The water wasn’t flowing; plants and algae had overtaken the basin.
Distracted, I almost shrieked when I rounded the fountain and came face-to-face with a wolf, staring me down with pale blue eyes.
“Oh God, um, hello... hi...” I froze as the big black dog snuffled its wet nose against me.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t a wolf. It was a giant, fluffy shepherd of some kind.
He had a thick leather collar on, and after giving him a few moments to figure out if he liked how I smelled, I caught hold of his tag.
“Loki,” I said, reading the name engraved there. “Are you my escort?” He seemed friendly, although not particularly enthused, so I put on my best who’s-a-good-boy? voice and said, “Such a big gorgeous boy, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
That got his tail wagging. He let me ruffle his fluffy shoulders before he trotted away toward the front door, and I followed.
By the entrance, a copper plaque was affixed to the wall, inscribed with the words Balfour Manor began construction in 1919 following Henry M.
Balfour’s return from World War I. Originally intended as the Balfour family’s primary residence, it is now a bed-and-breakfast, welcoming guests from around the world.
The door was massive and made of solid wood; I assumed it had been there since the place was built. It creaked loudly as I pushed it open, and the dog shook himself off before trotting in ahead of me.
I scraped my muddy boots on the doormat before entering.
The foyer was warm, scented lightly with woodsmoke and nutmeg.
The gleaming chandelier reflected off the waxed wood floor, and paintings and old portraits covered the papered walls.
There was a stairway on my right, the wall lined with even more art and photography, and a hallway straight ahead.
Reception was to my left. Behind the large wood desk, a dozen old skeleton keys hung from the wall beneath a series of yellowed photographs. There was machinery too: a radio of some kind with a handheld microphone, and an old computer that looked straight out of the ’90s.
No one was here. At least, until a door behind the counter burst open, thrown back by a teetering tower of cardboard boxes.
I scrambled away as the boxes hurtled toward me, then were loudly set down by the tall, muscular brunette carrying them.
Her hair was bound in a ponytail, and her back was to me as she ripped open one of the boxes and rummaged around, muttering weights and numbers aloud.
Awkwardly, I cleared my throat.
I’d never seen someone turn around so fast. One moment she was burrowing into the box; the next, she whirled around with a string of curses, holding aloft a potato as if to launch it at me.
For a moment, I stared in stunned disbelief. Not because she was holding a potato, but because I knew her.
The stranger from the bar.
The nameless woman who’d drawn out my soul with her tongue and swallowed it whole.