10
Rayne
Marihope’s Missing
M y heart was still pounding, the tinkling of bells ringing in my head, when Andy pulled me aside. He glanced down at little Rachel, who was clinging sleepily to his leg, and covered the little girl’s ears.
“Someone went missing,” he said. “Night before last, a fifteen-year-old named Andrea was walking home from a friend’s house and never made it.”
Instantly, there were chills on my arms. Salem and Rebecca were at the front of the shop, discussing the various flavors of candy sticks available on the counter. Neither of them could hear our conversation as we kept our voices low.
“Did anyone see anything?” I said. “Hear anything?”
Andy shook his head. “Nothing. Sheriff Keatin took out a search party and has been looking for her. But it’s not looking good.”
“It’s too early,” I said desperately. “It’s never shown up before November. Never.”
Andy sighed heavily. Rachel began to whine, grasping her hands at him to be picked up, so he scooped her up again. “I know. Sheriff thinks we should get a lookout up to the tower soon. We need to get the trail cameras turned on.”
“I’ll ask James to do it,” I said, making a mental reminder to stop by my cousin’s house while we were in town. “I’d do it myself if I didn’t still have guests to look after.”
“It could be nothin’,” Andy said, watching as Rebecca tried to sneakily stuff candy sticks into Salem’s pockets. “That girl might’ve just run away. Gotten on a boat and gone.”
“Somehow I doubt a fifteen-year-old is going to pilot a boat off this island alone. Especially this late in the year.”
“Well, we don’t know enough to be scaring ourselves yet,” he said, lowering his voice even further as he held his daughter close.
Many of the island’s younger generation had tried to leave, scrounging together enough money to settle on the mainland or simply leaving with nothing.
But they always came back. None of us could tear the island’s roots from our minds.
Nightmares would exhaust us, disembodied whispers and screams would follow us day and night.
The longer we stayed away, the worse it would become. Even the kids, like Rebecca and little Rachel, weren’t immune.
If you were born here, you had no choice but to die here.
Instead of fairy tales, my childhood was full of frightful stories from my own backyard. Floods and snowstorms, mudslides and summer wildfires. I knew the stories connected to all the old houses, the tavern, the tiny library. Who owned them, who built them, and who had died within them.
I tried to relay all this to Salem without sounding too grim, telling her stories of the places we passed, casually neglecting to mention the worst of the tales. She listened quietly—much more quietly than usual.
It made me suspicious, but so did everything she did. Her presence made me skeptical in a way no one else’s ever had.
I felt like a creep for watching her. For lingering outside her door and listening to the sounds of her moving on the other side. For longing to bring her into my bed and make her admit to me all the filthy things she desired.
I wanted nothing more than to see that stunned, pleasured look on her face again when I took command. She’d given me something precious that evening near the gardens; she’d trusted me.
I wished I could give the same trust to her.
“Rebecca seems to really like you,” Salem said, wrenching me from my thoughts.
Clearing my throat, I said, “I used to babysit for Andy, watch the girls while he worked at the shop. It was really hard for him after his wife passed away. He really needed help.”
We shared a similar loss, the girls and I.
It bonded us, struggling to navigate a world wherein our mothers were gone too soon.
But at least Rebecca and Rachel had a father who would move mountains for them.
He’d done everything in his power to protect them, which was more than I could say for my own father.
“Rebecca said she wants to go to the tower, like you.” She laughed lightly, and put on a mystical tone as she twiddled her fingers. “She said that if you go there in the dark, you can see an angel.”
I nearly tripped over my own feet. Christ, why would she say—she knew not to—it didn’t fucking matter, but—
“She has a big imagination. She means the firewatch tower. When I’m not working at the manor, I take shifts in the tower to keep a lookout for smoke.”
Thankfully we’d reached the ATV, and I occupied myself securing the supplies I’d purchased before taking out our helmets.
“We’re gonna take a drive to the other side of town,” I said, clipping the helmet beneath her chin. “I have to stop by my cousin’s place, but I’ll show you the town square. There’s a couple cafes over there, you can grab lunch if you’d like.”
With her clinging to my waist, we drove to the east side of Marihope.
I was thankful everyone was still in church.
If anyone besides Andy saw me driving around with company, it would be the talk of the whole town by tonight.
That was the problem with small communities: Your business never really stayed your business.
But despite my paranoia, having Salem cling to me was one of the best feelings in the world. Merely the weight of her head against my back gave me such a dopamine rush I felt high.
We parked outside Innsmouth Tavern; the barkeep’s old cats watched us through the cloudy windows, waiting for their master to return from the morning’s sermon. By evening, he’d serve enough liquor to wash away the town’s guilt, then do it all over again next Sunday.
The square wasn’t far. In its center stood an old redwood tree, tall, twisted, and gnarled.
Its branches bent as if in an eternal wind, and wooden benches encircled its massive trunk.
Empty wooden stands, draped with protective tarps, stood waiting for the farmers who would sell their goods here in the spring, summer, and early autumn.
“Is this where the Halloween festival will be?” Salem craned her neck to look up at the massive tree, then spread her arms and did a little spin, her scarf trailing in the breeze. “I’m so excited for it. The photos online looked so cute!”
The Hallow’s Festival was Blackridge’s last hurrah before winter—before sleet, snow, and an early curfew began.
We’d always tried to keep it a strictly local thing.
Given that the last ferry off the island left the following evening, none of us wanted to try to herd a bunch of hungover mainlanders down to the docks after the Halloween festivities.
But I couldn’t tell her no.
“It’ll be here,” I said. “The kids have already started carving jack-o’-lanterns for it, I’ve heard.
It’s the last night before curfew, so the whole town stays up late.
They’ll have some bonfires, teenagers will run around in the graveyard and scare themselves.
And you can’t miss the spiced apple cider. ”
“I’ll buy the first round,” she said, and I suddenly realized she had no intention of going to that festival alone.
Frankly, even if she had, I would have found a way to accompany her.
The church bell chimed the hour, and Salem’s mouth dropped open as her attention was drawn to the cathedral across the square. Although I had plenty of bad memories from that church, I still had to admit it was breathtaking. It was meant to be.
It was built of light gray stone, with a tall, pointy bell tower and elaborately carved arches. It looked too old, too beautiful to be sequestered in the middle of an island forest. Too beautiful for the wickedness within it.
“My grandfather built it when he moved here,” I said. “Just like the manor. He was inspired by the architecture he saw in Europe, and when he came back, he tried to replicate it. The door is always open, if you want to take a look inside.”
Salem looked eager to do exactly that, which was my cue to leave.
“Listen, I’ll meet you back here in about an hour,” I said. “There’s a coffee shop and deli there, near the fountain across the street. Great soup and sandwiches, if you’re hungry.”
“Where are you going?” She sounded disappointed to see me go, and it took physical effort not to immediately offer to bring her along.
“Just need to have a word with my cousin James. He lives up the street. Feel free to explore, but don’t wander too far. It’s a long walk back to the manor.”
“I won’t,” she said. “I’m not trying to become a snack for bears today. Or angels.”
She giggled, but I failed to find the humor.
The house James shared with his parents and brothers had been my second home as a child.
The place was quiet as I walked in, the soft smell of baked bread permeating the air.
After my father died, my Uncle Gerard took over as the preacher in Marihope’s church.
Naturally, the entire family was out attending the sermon—my Aunt Veronica and cousins Mark and Jacob.
Only James remained, the black sheep in an otherwise loyal flock.
I could smell the vanilla-tobacco odor of his pipe as I ascended the ladder to the attic.
James’s room was cluttered floor to ceiling with books, magazines, and specimens—numerous pinned bugs under glass.
But it wasn’t the butterflies and beetles that made my stomach turn. It was the newspapers. The clippings plastered all over the walls, pinned to the bulletin board, and stacked in yellowing heaps.
MISSING. MISSING. MISSING. Reward offered, no questions asked, please bring our baby home.
Dozens of them. Names and faces blurred together in my memory; some of them I’d known, some I’d only heard of. All of them missing from Blackridge.
But they weren’t missing, not really. We all knew they were dead, and James’s gruesome collection was the only memorial they’d have.
“Let me guess,” he said, hunched over his desk with a microscope pressed to his eye. He was examining some kind of insect wing, squashed between two panes of glass. “You’re here because of that girl who went missing... what was her name? Andrea?”
She’d likely be joining his memorial wall soon.
“I’m surprised you heard about that. Andy said Keatin is trying to keep it quiet so people don’t panic.” I folded my arms, looking around the dim room. The rest of the house was plastered with yellow floral wallpaper; the walls up here were barren, dark brown wood.
“Mm, yes, well, I think we both know how fast word spreads around here.” He sighed as he raised his head, staring at me through thick Coke-bottle glasses. “Besides, I may have given up my hopes of getting a badge, but Keatin still talks to me. Especially when he’s worried.”
James’s dream used to be getting his badge and joining the tiny coalition of officers we had on the island—currently at a grand total of three.
But going to the mainland for his academy training proved impossible, so he settled for work as a voluntary forest ranger.
Setting up the trail cams had been his idea, allowing the island’s residents to watch for approaching danger on the roads and forest paths.
“I think we should get the cameras turned on early,” I said, grabbing Loki’s collar before he could dart after a white fluffy cat that ran out from under the bed. “Just as a precaution.”
His mouth tightened, and he tapped his fingers continually on the desk. “It’s never woken up this early before.”
“I’m not saying it’s awake,” I hissed. “It’s just a precaution.”
He stared at me, and I stared back, wordless desperate hope passing between us.
Finally, he nodded. “I can go Wednesday morning. I’ll take a walkie with me.”
“Thank you. Call me when you go out, I’ll verify all the feeds are live. Take someone with you, okay? Don’t be stupid and go alone.”
The church bell was ringing the end of service. Pulling aside the curtain, I gazed down the hill, watching as people swarmed from the chapel. I couldn’t see Salem, and that made me nervous.
Not that she couldn’t take care of herself. She clearly could. But there was plenty about this island she didn’t know, and around here, what you didn’t know could kill you.