Under The Sea (short Story Collection, Volume One): Summertime Myths And Magic 4o253k

UNDER the SEA Volume One:

Summertime Myths & Magic D. M. Million, R. M. Carpus, and C. C. Givans

Copyright © 2021 Impossible Things Publishing

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents either are products of the author‘s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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TABLE of CONTENTS

D. M. Million Souls Under Black Sails Juniper Camp Shadow Lake

R. M. Carpus They Always Come Back Madame Van Everbourne Gwendolyn of Merry Manor

C. C. Givans The Worst Vacation Ever Like what you’ve read? Please consider leaving an honest rating or review —even one simple word or sentence makes a major difference in the life of an author.

Souls Under Black Sails

D. M. Million

Lars watched as the white albatross floated in the aqua blue water before him. A pool of blood, shades of red and purple, surrounded it like a halo. A nearby shark circled alongside the Bloody Privateer, foraging for its next meal. Lars stared at the shark, wondering if it would snatch the bird before he could. His golden blond hair blew around in a gust of wind as he took his net and scooped its lifeless body out of the water. Blood and saltwater poured from the hole in its chest. Captain Nagel was yelling, but Lars wasn’t listening. He ruminated on the events which were about to unfold. The egregious act would bring about a pirate’s worst nightmare. A sailor, Hendrik, sat on a yard at the amidships as another sailor tied his feet to a long rope strewn over it. Keelhauling is too soft a punishment, Lars thought. Captain should hang the bastard. Lars had seen enough dead albatrosses at sea to know what was brewing. It would only be a matter of time before the sea claimed the lives of the men of the Bloody Privateer. “Why the fuck did you do it, Smit?” Capitan Nagel smacked Hendrik upside his head. “I’m sorry. The damn thing was trying to eat my bread. It kept pecking at me.” Hendrik attempted to shield himself from Captain’s blows. Hendrik Smit was not the smartest pirate, but this was downright idiotic. “This is not your first time at sea, is it? You know what happens next, and you put all of us in danger!” Capitan Nagel spat. The man who tied Hendrik’s feet pushed Hendrik off the yard, and he fell into the ocean with a splash. A group of men pulled on the rope to drag Hendrik across the keel and up onto the opposite side of the boat. If he didn’t drown, it would be a miracle. They weren’t quick about pulling him up. Captain Nagel climbed down the mast and waited for the buccaneer to resurface. He took a swig of rum from a dark glass decanter and flicked his fingers to signal the men to hurry. He didn’t want to kill Hendrik, but he did want him to suffer. There was a thud as Hendrik landed on the deck. His sopping wet hair, long and matted, hid

the cuts on his face, which bled streams of pink down his tunic. He coughed violently, spitting up water he couldn’t avoid sucking in while the keelhaul bashed his body against the ship. “Get that ugly mug caught on some barnacles? Good! Ya fucking kut! Listen up, crew. If anyone even thinks about killing an albatross, he will swing from the yard, ya hear?” Captain’s gait was heavy as he walked over to Hendrik. “Go clean yerself up. And here, yer cross to bear.” He grabbed the lifeless albatross from Lars, tied a rope to its feet, and tossed it around Hendrik’s neck. “Now when the sea comes for us––and she will––she’ll know who done it.” Lars looked into the distance, anticipating the black clouds he knew were on the way. The last time one of the crew killed an albatross, a tempest took them hundreds of miles off course and they lost twenty-three men, including Lars’ best friend, Sven. They had been on the mainmast, waiting for the right time to pull the canvas up. A wave came and knocked Sven clean off. Lars watched his body as the water dragged him into its depths. As he looked out to the horizon, he planned how he would prepare for the storm. “All right, men. Batten down the hatches. We all know what comes next, and we need to be ready for the worst. We don’t want a repeat of last time.” Lars strode to the mainmast to trim the sails. “Visser! What are you doing?” Captain was standing on the bridge drinking as much rum as he could to dull his foul mood. “I’m preparing for the storm, Captain.” Lars looked up and squinted; the shining sun was unbearably bright and hot. “Not yet, Visser. We don’t know which direction it will come. Just wait until we see signs of it.” “Aye, Captain.” Lars begrudgingly stomped to the bridge to await orders. As the Sailing Master, he was in charge of navigation, a job he was eager to give up. After twenty years at sea, he grew tired of Captain Nagel’s constant questioning, the fight to survive, the uncertainty of income––too often their prizes were fruitless or scarce––and then there was the disease that ran rampant. One never knew if he would make it back home, to Port Royal. The waves ebbed against the parked ship, anchored since the gun blast from

Hendrik’s pistol. Lars felt powerless, like a sitting duck, waiting for some beast to grab him by its jaws from below. The best course of action would be to get ahead of whatever came their way. I need to get us to safety, he thought. He pondered the conversation he had with Sven before the last storm hit. They were planning to leave pirating and start a legitimate business. They’d saved enough gold to open a tavern on Sint Maarten in the newly established Dutch city of Phillipsburg. Sadly, half the gold was with Sven when the water swept him away. This was going to be Lars’ last conquest with Captain Nagel to recoup the money lost. On this trip, they were hunting a merchant ship just off the coast of Puerto Rico. The Spanish colony was crawling with merchant ships carrying tobacco, sugar, and coffee. It was already a dangerous voyage, without the added curse. Spanish man-of-war ships would prowl the surrounding area to keep buccaneers at bay. Just as the sun was setting, a figure appeared a few yards away, strolling on the water’s surface. Lars rubbed his eyes, not believing his sight. The figure was tall with broad shoulders, clad in a black tunic and knickers. Long, wavy brown hair hung beneath a low-brimmed hat, covering his eyes. Lars sat frozen; how could a man walk on water? He looked around to see if anyone else was watching, but he was alone. The mysterious man reached the ship and in a single bound, leaped onto the bow, landing on one knee just feet from Lars. Slowly, the man stood, and a chill shot down Lars’ spine. The handsome sorcerer grinned sinisterly. He glided toward Lars, black eyes fixed on Lars’ blue. Again, Lars looked around for a witness to ensure he wasn’t going mad. Just inches from Lars, the man held out his hand. A set of five glittering ruby dice rested in his palm. Lars looked from the dice to the man with curiosity. The smile vanished from the man’s face, and he tilted his head. “I have a wager for you, Mr. Visser,” the mysterious figure said in a low, grumbly voice, dashed with an unfamiliar accent. He lowered his brow and straightened his posture. “Who are you? How do you know my name? How can you walk on water?” Lars took a step back. Everything about this man was unnatural, from the cleanliness of his hands and face, right down to his spotless clothing. Any person out to sea for a fixed amount of time would be mangy at best. “Oh,” the man’s voice rose an octave, “you can call me . . . Grigori.” A snicker, deep from his gut, danced around Lars. “I’ve always known you, Lars. You can

walk on water, too. All you need to do is beat me in a game of dice.” Lars scoffed. “Don’t believe me? You just saw me do it. I can give you the power, too. Unless there is something else you want more . . . like enough gold to open that tavern. Or for the tempest that’s on its way to veer off course.” Grigori looked over Lars’ shoulder. Lars followed his gaze. In the deep blue sky, black clouds spun violently toward the ship. “Maybe you’d like all three.” Grigori lifted his head to meet Lars’ gaze. “Name your , and it will all be yours if you win. But, if I win, you need to give me something in return.” Lars thought hard. The storm was getting close, and no one was around to see it coming. The sun’s position told him it was suppertime. The rest of the crew were elbow deep in pork butt and steamed potatoes. He should run and find the Captain. But, if he played the man’s game, he could win and the man would get them to safety. Grigori had inexplicable power; Lars couldn’t deny that. Even if it sounded crazy in his mind––a man who could walk on water––he saw what he saw. “OK. What do you get if you win?” Lars crossed his arms. “Your soul.” Grigori’s devious grin stretched unnaturally wide across his face. Lars snuffed. “My soul? Who do you think you are? God?” “Don’t insult me.” Grigori rolled his eyes. “If I win, you’ll belong to the sea–– cursed to roam it on a ship that can never dock, with a crew who will always hunger.” He fondled the dice in his hand. The storm was getting closer by the second. There was no time to spare. Lars had to decide. Dice was one game he may have a chance at winning. “OK. But I choose the game and if I win, you get us out of the way of the storm, and give me enough gold to open the tavern. I don’t care about walking on water. I don’t plan on returning to the sea after this journey.” “Deal.” Grigori stuck out his hand. “The game is Liar’s Dice . . . single hand.” Lars took Grigori’s hand. “I’ll go get

my dice.” The game couldn’t be played with just one set of five dice. He needed his own. “No need. I have a set for you right here.” Grigori swished his hand through the air, then held out his palm. A set of five shimmering emerald dice materialized. The pair sat cross-legged on the poop deck. Lars grabbed two cups nearby on the floor. Each man dumped his set of dice into his cup. “On the count of three, we will place our cups face down, and whoever’s dice has the highest sum will go first.” Lars shook his dice around in the cup. “One, two, three.” The men flipped their cups upside down, placed them on the deck, then lifted them to reveal the results. “Ha! What are the chances? Five 6s.” Grigori laughed. “I go first, then.” Lars pouted at his sum of ten. They returned their dice, shook them around, and placed the cups face down. Each man peeped under his cup, careful to conceal his game pieces. “I bid four 2s.” Grigori looked at Lars. “I bid four 3s.” Lars stared back. “I challenge your bid.” Grigori pulled his cup off the deck. “So soon?” Lars did the same. The dice revealed only three threes. “Aw, pity.” Grigori took one of Lars’ emerald die and threw it up in the air; it disappeared. “Damn.” Lars smacked the deck. Once again, they placed their dice in their cups and repeated the process. As the game continued, the wind howled against the boat, sending debris whirling all around them. The ominous sky, now deep sapphire with nightfall, hung with clouds as the storm neared. There was still no sign of the crew. Where the hell is everyone? Lars thought. They should be done with supper by now. Both players

were down to their last die. When they rolled for the last time, Lars’ heart pounded in his chest. Was his soul really at risk, or was the mystery man an actual liar? It came down to a final bid and tiebreaker––the sum of each man’s die. “I bid a sum of eight.” Grigori put his fist to his chin. “I bid a sum of nine.” Lars prayed silently and promised God that if he won, he would devote his life to Him. The players uncovered their dice. Lars’ piece displayed four diamond circles. Grigori’s die teetered on the edge between five and four. Steadily, it balanced, mocking Lars. Grigori smiled. Maggots wiggled between his teeth. He opened his mouth to let out a screeching laugh. Flies bellowed from his throat, swarming Lars’ head before scattering away into the wind. Again, Grigori swished his finger through the air and his die fell to one side, deciding the fate of Lars’ soul. It landed on four, bringing the sum of each to eight. The tiny diamonds twinkled, winking at Lars. Just then, the storm reached the ship, and the crew emerged from the mess deck, still chomping on roasted pig and downing the last of their jenever, juniper-flavored Dutch gin. Lars watched as the men prepared the ship to navigate the waves. He turned back to Grigori, but the mystery man vanished before his eyes. Lars jumped up to help his mates. Rain poured from the sky, drenching the pirates and slicking the deck. The men moved about uneasily, tripping and stumbling into one another. Giant waves formed and crashed violently against the ship. Captain Nagel barked unintelligible orders and obscenities as the crew worked hard to drive the bow through the increasingly choppy water. Lars held onto a rope, and he knew this was the end. Grigori cheated him and was about to collect on his debt. In the distance, another ship was gliding by. It glowed sickly green. Black sails carried it smoothly across the ocean, one adorned with a Jolly Roger, the skull colored the same glowing green. The whipstaff appeared to be unmanned. No crew operated the sails, and yet the vessel moved effortlessly through the storm. The sight made Lars stop and stare; surely this was the ship he lost his soul to. It must be the ship Grigori had waiting for Lars upon his demise. A deep disgust rose in his chest, and he fought harder to keep the Bloody Privateer from

capsizing. He cursed under his breath for betting against a man who could walk on water. He wasn’t a man at all, he thought, as he pulled on his rope. In the past, any time a crew member killed an albatross, a storm gathered in the sky and they had to fight tooth and nail to survive. Lars wondered if Grigori was behind each storm, waiting for some desperate pirate to deceive. Had others fallen for his dirty trick? Were some of the other men Grigori’s victims? Did anyone ever beat him at his game? Lars was so close to retiring from the murderous, thieving trade. Being a pirate was exciting when he was a young man, but at forty-five years old, he wanted nothing more than to settle down. At the left side of the Bloody Privateer, a wave rose and its current pulled the ship closer to its mouth, threatening to swallow it whole. Lars stood on the deck, calculating its projected landing point. If the wave crashed down in the ship's current position, the ship would overturn. But if Lars’ helmsman could turn the bow far enough, he could save the ship. Lars and a few men working next to him, however, would bear the blow. Maybe an act of self-sacrifice would win his soul back. In either scenario, he would likely die. If he had the chance, why not save as many men as possible? Lars made a split-second decision and yelled to the helmsman, “Hard right rudder!” The helmsman furiously pulled the whipstaff and the Bloody Privateer turned ninety degrees, positioning Lars in the wave’s destructive path. It came down with a deafening crash, knocking Lars off his feet. An intense pain engulfed his entire body. Then, the pain ceased and he plunged into darkness–– purgatory, perhaps. For what seemed like an eternity, Lars drifted, rising and falling, like the surface of the ocean, still in a haze of blackness. He surrendered to death and slipped calmly into unconsciousness. When he awoke, he found himself sprawled on the deck of an unfamiliar ship. His eyes fluttered open, and Grigori stood before him. He wanted to stand up and drive his sword through the trickster, but he was too weak. Paralyzed, his arms and legs wouldn’t heed his command to move. “Aye, you made it. That was quicker than I expected. Too bad about that storm. Your friend shouldn’t have killed that albatross.” Grigori let out a demonic howl and picked Lars up off the deck. “Fuck you, bastard.” Lars spat in Grigori’s face.

Grigori wiped his cheek and bared his maggot-ridden smirk. “Why so upset? I won fair and square.” “You cheated. You conjured the storm, witch! Has it been you all these years? Following me every time someone killed an albatross?” Lars felt the paralysis lift as he reached for his sword, but came up short. He looked down to discover he was unarmed. “No, not exactly. I was following the entire crew. You were just the one dumb enough to wager your soul. You’re not special. You’re not the only one from the crew to play me in Liar’s Dice. Poor Sven. He lost, too.” Grigori gestured to his right. Standing just feet from Lars was Sven, emaciated and haggard, with jaundiced, saggy skin, bones that stuck out sharply, and sunken eyes. Lars grabbed his friend’s arms. “Sven, you’re alive!” Sven’s stare was blank. “What did you do to him?” he growled at Grigori. “I didn’t do anything. He lost a bet.” “You mean you tricked him into bargaining his soul for an empty promise!” “How would you know my promise was empty if he lost? Be reasonable. Had he won . . . who knows?” “Reasonable? You walk on water. You make objects materialize out of thin air, and you’ve summoned storms that have killed so many of my brothers. And you want me to be reasonable? You’re a snake. C’mon Sven.” Lars pulled on Sven's arm, but he didn’t budge. “Leaving? Where are you going to go? Look around. You’re in the middle of the ocean. Besides, you 're just a soul now. Your body is somewhere on the seafloor.” Grigori chuckled, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “You belong to the seas now . . . just like you promised. Well, I must be on my way. There’s your new captain.” Grigori pointed to the quarterdeck. “There are others who have hell to pay.” A wisp of black smoke swirled from his feet and he vanished. Lars glanced around. Men similar in appearance to Sven, starved and cadaverous, moved about the ship at a glacial pace. The captain peered down from the deck above. Clothed in old, tattered, oversized garments, he donned a hat with mismatched holes, and his big toe poked out of a battered leather boot.

His eyes, like Sven’s, were sunken and black, and white, greasy hair rested on his narrow shoulders. The captain cleared his throat, and with a raspy voice, said, “I am Captain Vanderdecken. Welcome to the Flying Dutchman.”

Juniper

D.M. Million

In a far-off sea unknown to man, there was a village beneath the azure waves. Coral grew in towering forms, reaching upwards, nearly touching the salty surface. Colorful fish swam in droves, searching for kelp and hiding from bigger, hungrier fish. Mermaids played between the peaks, chasing one another. They were beautiful, colorful creatures with tails as sparkly as the sun's rays, dancing off the plankton. They spent much of their time near the surface, lounging on the sandy beaches, just far enough in the water to be safe from washing ashore. The witches who lived along the coast were neighbors to the Merpeople, and they would often swim together. It was rumored that the Merpeople were created when one witch, Merlena, so loved a dolphin, she attempted to turn herself into one. When the spell was cast, her heart was in limbo. She desperately desired to be with her dolphin lover, but did not want to leave her family behind. Thus, she became half fish, half human. During the day, Merlena spent her time on the beach with her family, and at sunset, swam blissfully with her dolphin. One woeful day, a fisherman caught the dolphin in a distant ocean, leaving the half-witch, half-fish alone both in sea and spirit. After some years, a handsome man strolled along the beach. The man was alone and found the creature basking in the sun. They quickly fell in love and populated the sea with other human-fish hybrids. The newly formed underwater city was named Merlantia, after the witch. They also gave the new class of animal her namesake, Merpeople. The witches who dwelled on the beaches of Merlantia hid their great city with their magic. They had a powerful alliance because of their ancestral ties, and they lived in blissful harmony. Juniper was the daughter of a clothier, Adono, and his wife, Wisteria. Adono made the mermaids the most beautiful, coveted clothing, crafted with the finest shells, seaweed, and precious stones. Juniper looked upon her father in awe as he spun the seaweed into thread and sewed the glistening gems to the material. In her boredom, she took scraps from her father's pile of discarded cloth and weaved them with pieces of coral and shell, creating necklaces. Over time, she became quite good at the craft, and her father took notice. “Juniper, where did you get that fine necklace?” Adono asked. “I don't

buying that for you. Do you have a suitor?" "No, Father. I made this from the scraps you threw away. Do you like it?" she asked meekly. "I love it! You are very good at jewelry making, Daughter. Say, how would you like to make some for me to sell in my shop? It'll give you something to do while you wait for a husband." "Oh, Papa! Do you mean it? You really want me to work for you?" "Work for me." He snuffed. "Well, I suppose it is like working for me. Tell you what: for every piece of jewelry sold, I will give you one new shell or coral." "And maybe a gem or two, Father?" He chuckled. "We'll see, my dear Juniper." Satisfied, Juniper went to her room and began feverishly stringing together colorful shells and weaving intricate patterns from the sea fauna. The next day, she went to her father's shop with her arms full of stunning jewelry. Adono marveled at his daughter’s works. She held up gorgeous dangling earrings, fantastical wrist cuffs, and necklaces fit for a queen. "Wisteria!” he called for his wife. “Come and see what our daughter has made." Wisteria came bouncing in, humming and flittering about. "What is it, Adono? What has our daughter made?" Before he could answer, she gasped as her eyes caught the glistening shells hanging from Juniper's necklaces. "Oh, my. Juni dear, you made these with your own hands?" "Yes, Mama,” Juniper replied with a big smile. “Father said he'll give me more materials each time I sell a piece." "Well, that is wonderful, Juni. But, Juni, you are almost of the age of marriage. Don't let this impede gentlemen callers," Wisteria warned. Juniper nodded in compliance. "It is time to open the shop.” Adono’s enthusiasm filled the air. “Let's see how your designs fare!" He hung a sign at the entrance of the shop's coral cove. A

mosaic Open sign shone from the underside of clam shells. In no time, the shop was flooded with mermaids and mermen, buying beautiful shell tops and sand dollar skirts, strung together with giant kelp. Wide-eyed and adoring mermaids picked up Juniper’s jewelry. The mermen couldn't help but purchase the accessories to make their ladies happy. The day was a success, and not one piece of jewelry was left to behold. "So, Juni." Adono smiled. "I have sold every piece of your work today. Here, take this gold coin and go to the market. Buy every pearl and gem you can." He grinned again at his daughter, proud of her talent. "Thank you, Father." She danced as she took the coin and left in a hurry. Her indigo hair floated behind her as she swam eagerly to the market. There wasn't a lot of time—most shops would close soon. As she rounded the corner of the market, she spotted a merman, putting jewels into a large box made of driftwood. "Sir! Sir! Wait, please!" she yelled after him, hoping he would stop packing up his things. He turned to look at her, but ignored her and continued packing. "Please, I have gold to give you for your beautiful gems." The merman stopped and turned around to face the young, beautiful maiden. "You have gold, you say?" he asked, his voice creaky and disturbing. "Come dear, let me see." Juniper held out the coin, her tired, violet eyes meeting his. She shuddered, for she could practically hear his foul thoughts, could sense what he would like to do with her. He grabbed the coin. Looking at it, he said, "Hmm, this is a valuable coin. You can take any jewel or pearl you like in the quantity of one hundred." Juniper's mouth dropped open. She never paid for anything—only her father paid whenever they needed something. She found it funny that a little golden disc could pay for a hundred gems. The old merman opened the driftwood chest, and Juniper chose the clearest, most dazzling cut rubies, diamonds, amethyst, sapphires, and emeralds. Only the biggest and roundest pearls would do. She filled her sack as she counted one hundred precious stones. "Thank you, sir," she said, as she pulled the strings of the sack closed.

"The pleasure is all mine, deary." Juniper left as fast as she could, not wanting to remain there with the disgusting old man any longer than necessary. When she arrived back home, Adono was waiting for her with excitement on his face. "Juniper,” he said, “I have something for you. Come, follow me." She followed her father up to the top of their dwelling, to a space they never used. The space now had a bench made of rock, where she could work on her jewelry designs. The space was equipped with all the sea-thread and needles she could need. "This is for you to work on your jewelry," Adono said happily. "Show me. What did you find at the market?" Juniper dumped the contents of the sack out onto the table. Adono gasped at the number of gems in front of him. "Juniper, did you steal these?" "No, Father. The old merman told me to choose a hundred of any jewel I wanted.” "Daughter, I only gave you enough for about twenty pieces. Who was this man?" "I didn't ask his name, Papa. I was too eager to come home and start working again." Juniper shrugged. "Very well, Daughter. I'll leave you to your work." Adono exited her new workshop. Without a moment's hesitation, Juniper made herself busy. Hours flew by as she toiled away, her fingers nearly bleeding as she labored through the night. When the sun rose, she was finishing fastening a gem into a bracelet adorned with round diamonds and triangle rubies. Adono hovered in the archway. " Daughter, have you any masterpieces for me to sell today?" "Yes, Father. There." She pointed to a wall, where her designs dangled from coral knobs. "Perfect, why don't you take a break? Go to the beach and nap in the sun." Adono smiled. "Great idea, Papa. I will be back before the day's end," she said as she swam past him.

Juniper reached the surface of the water and peeked above. No one was on the beach, so she paddled to the edge, where the sand met the sea, and settled there, making sure her fins were still submerged. The gritty sand, which felt velvety to a fish, caressed her back, and it wasn't long before she drifted to sleep. She dreamt she was at a store . . . not her father's. The name Juniper was written across the wall in pearls. She was at the counter, talking with mermaids about her jewelry. She pulled fabulous designs from the case below, which displayed intricate golden rings with jewels and pearls. She held them out for the customers to fawn over. Fish skeletons with diamond eyes hung from the ears of mermaids, who looked in mirrors to see the beauty of the gems next to their delicate cheeks. Juniper, exhausted from an entire night of hard work, slept the entire day away . . . until she was awakened by a witch pulling on her necklace. Juniper blinked, trying to get her bearings. "Oh, dear. You're alive," said the crone. "My, I thought you had died and washed ashore." "No, ma'am. I am very much alive. I was just napping." Juniper sat up to meet the woman. "Were you trying to take my necklace?" she asked, annoyed she’d been disturbed from her dream. "Forgive me, child. I didn't think you would need it any longer, and it's so beautiful. Where did you get it?" the witch asked sheepishly. "I made it." The witch’s eyes bulged. "You! You made this incredible piece of art?" "I sure did! My father sells my work at his clothing shop." "Tell me, girl, what does he pay you for these?" "Pay me? Oh, he gives me money to purchase material at the market. But I don’t get an actual commission from him." "Hmm." The crone stroked her chin. "What if I could spin you the finest gold? Would you make jewelry for me to sell to the witches of our humble village?"

"Uh, I don't know. I don't think my father would like it if I made jewelry for anyone besides him." "Tell you what, darling, not only will I spin you gold, but I will also pay you a percentage of the profit from my sales." The offer aroused Juniper. The thought of being paid to do what she loved made her heart sing. Maybe she could save enough money to open the jewelry shop from her dreams. It was too good of an opportunity to up. "OK, but, this is our secret. My father cannot find out!" "Don't worry, my dear. I promise, I will not reveal who makes your stunning jewelry." The witch smiled crookedly. Juniper was exhilarated and scared at the same time. What would Adono do to her if he found out? She shuddered to think. He was a good enough father, but old-fashioned in his ways. "I'm Juniper," she said to the woman. "Pleasure to meet you, Juniper. I am Olandra." Her voice cracked as she began to hobble away. "Wait here and I will fetch you some gold." Maybe my dreams are coming true, Juniper thought. She observed her body while she waited for the old witch to return. Her hips were round, tapering off to meet her fins. Her scales matched her indigo hair, glowing iridescent in the sunlight, changing from violet to green to blue. Her breasts swelled, and she realized she was becoming a merwoman. Soon she would have to take a husband. The thought brought on a profound sadness. Maybe he wouldn't approve of her newfound profession and would force her to stay home, as her father had done to her mother. She pushed the fear down, denying the possibility of such a fate. Just as the sun met the horizon, Olandra appeared in the trees a few meters away, with a sack slung on her back. "Here, deary. I have brought you ten spools of gold wire. Make me the most beautiful jewelry you can dream up." Olandra's yellow teeth mirrored the golden glow of the setting sun. "I will return tomorrow with some pieces. I can only work by night for my father, and for you by day, on this beach. I will come here with these spools of gold and create works of art your customers will adore."

When Juniper returned home, her father was throwing gold coins high into the air, laughing and dancing with Wisteria. "Juniper, my girl, do you see how much money you have made me? Here, take two coins and go to the market. Find the merchant and buy as many gems as you can. Hurry, you have little time before they close as well." She took the coins and did as her father instructed. The same merman from the night before was all too eager to see Juniper. "Hello, pretty girl." His slimy voice made her scales crawl. "Hello, sir. My . . . have I told you how like my father you look?" she asked, hoping the greeting would squash his hopes. His leering made her extremely uncomfortable, and she wanted to clarify that their difference in age was far too great for any chance of romance. A frown ripped across the man's face. "What can I do for you?" "I have two gold coins for you today, sir. What can I purchase?" She held up the coins to show him her offer. "For this amount, you can have two hundred of my finest jewels. Double the coin, double merchandise," he said smugly. She rolled her eyes, well aware he was trying hard to impress her. She counted two hundred of the most stunning ornaments, stuffed them in her sack as quickly as she could, then swam off. Once again, she tinkered with the materials for hours. Each piece turned out better than the one before. After she finished making jewelry for her father, she took the pieces down to the shop and hung them on the displays. The entire store seemed to shine now. It was the talk of the town, even more than before. She held her head high, proud to be a part of her father's store. Maybe one day, he would change his mind and pay her, too, like Olandra. Beaming, she hurried to her room so she could get a little sleep. In the morning, she would go to the beach to make jewelry for Olandra. As the sun gleamed through the window, Juniper placed her materials into her sack and snuck out of the abode, careful not to wake her parents. When she made it to the beach, Olandra was already waiting. "Good morn, Juniper,” Olandra greeted her. “Do you have the items you need?" She craned her neck to see what Juniper was holding.

"Yes. I will work on the beach. I don't want to get caught by my father. He would not be happy." "Fine, fine. I’d like to stay awhile, if you don’t mind." Olandra sat on the sand to watch the little mermaid work. And after the first few pieces were finished, she splayed them on a burlap sack. "Wonderful!" The witch clasped her hands. "These are the most beautiful golden trinkets I have ever seen. I will leave you to work, and return in a few hours to collect." In a flash, Olandra was gone. Juniper was tired and needed rest. But she couldn't risk someone stealing the gold while she slept. Hours drifted by, and her fingers grew sore. But Olandra returned with heaps of silver and gold to pay for her work. "Here you go, deary." Olandra placed a pouch of the precious metal beside her. "And I also brought you some gems and pearls to add to your designs. Keep this up, and we will have more money than we know what to do with." "Thank you, Olandra. Your generosity leaves me speechless. I am grateful you offered me this commission. I will bring you more products tomorrow." Again, when Juniper arrived home, she found her parents celebrating their good fortune. "Keep it coming, Juni. We sold out again!" Adono said, twirling about with his wife. "Papa. Do . . . do you think I could have some earnings from the jewelry I have made?" Juniper asked, her head down and cheeks red. "What? Pay you, you mean? What would a girl do with money? There is no need for you to behold such wealth. You will marry someone rich, and he will pay for your every desire. Foolish girl. Take this, Daughter, and fetch more gems.” Adono continued to spin Wisteria, who pretended as if she didn’t hear the conversation. He tossed a fistful of gold coins at Juniper. Sulking, she picked them up and left. "Why so glum, girl?" the merchant asked as she approached him. "I fear I am being taken advantage of by my own father," she replied before she could stop herself. "Sorry, I didn't mean . . ."

"Nonsense. Tell me your troubles, and I will offer you some counsel." His gaze was softer than usual, weakening Juniper’s guard. She revealed to the man how she’d been spending night after night making jewelry for Adono's store, and how he hadn’t been paying for any of her work, only paying for her to buy more material. The merchant listened diligently until she finished her story. "I think I know how to solve your problem, dear girl. A rich man like your father must have a healthy dowry to give the man who wishes to marry you." Juniper scrunched her face at the thought of marrying the decrepit man. Observing her disgust, he rolled his eyes at her. "Not me, girl. I have a son who has been searching for a wife for some time. He is just a few years older than you, handsome, and well off. If you marry my son, I promise you will never have to work for free for your father again." Juniper’s face softened and her cheeks flushed. "I . . . I don't know. I don't want to anger my father by refusing to work for him anymore. I have made him a lot of money." "Like your father said, a woman does not have to work when she is married. He will have to accept that you don't belong to him anymore. Therefore, you are not obligated to make him jewelry. My son is of a more progressive generation and would be happy to see you doing what makes you happy. You wouldn’t have to give up making jewelry." The merchant's words made sense. If she married his son, she could continue to make jewelry for Olandra, and maybe one day, she could open her own store. If he was telling the truth, she wouldn’t have to work for her tyrannical father. "OK, I will marry your son," Juniper agreed. "Splendid. I will tell him you have agreed to a courtship right away. Now, pick the jewels you desire and go home. Wait for my son; he will come tonight." Juniper bowed her head and left the merchant. Her mind raced as her tail propelled her through the ocean. What if Papa finds out the real reason I am marrying the merchant's son? she thought. What if the merchant was lying, and his son is repulsive? No, everything is going to be fine. He'll be handsome, and father will give us his blessing . . . I hope.

She reached the doorway, took a deep gulp of water, and opened the door. Her father sat at the dinner table, waiting for Wisteria to place the freshly caught meal on the plate. "Ah! Juniper, come, eat with us," he said enthusiastically, gesturing to the other chair. Nervously, Juniper ed him. Wisteria placed a shell full of tiny squid and fish in the center of the table. The sight made her stomach turn; she didn't have much of an appetite. "Well, dig in," Wisteria said cheerily. Adono quickly filled his plate with food before gorging himself. What a glutton, Juniper thought, regretting it right away. This was her father, the merman who made her, loved her, and cared for her. Why was her attitude so disdainful? Juniper played with the food more than she ate it. Before long, there was a knock at the door. "Hmm.” Adono sprang to his fin and glided towards the door. “Who on Poseidon's blue earth could that be, right in the middle of dinner?" There, waiting at the door, was the merchant's son. He was tall, with broad shoulders and pale blue hair that floated around him, like wisps of glinting ice. His gills were strong and rigid along the sides of his body, and his voice was as smooth and sturdy as the current. "Hello, sir. I am here to see Juniper, if I may." Adono looked the merboy up and down, sizing him up. "And you are?" he asked, his tone low and harsh. "Forgive me, my name is Broc,” he announced. “I wish to court your daughter, sir. I hear she is the most beautiful mermaid in all of Merlantia." "Yes, well, with a good-looking father, who has ed down the very best traits. Of course, she is beautiful. What makes you think you are worthy of her heart?" "I can give her a comfortable, happy life. I am a successful entrepreneur, I am strong, and I can protect her from the worst of sea monsters." Juniper listened from the other room, swooning at the sound of Broc's voice. Wisteria looked thrilled as she huddled up beside her, as if she knew this man was going to be Juniper’s husband. "He sounds handsome!" Wisteria squealed.

"Well, come in and meet her, then.” Adono motioned to the dining room. “We were just finishing dinner." Broc followed him, and as he rounded the corner and stood in front of Juniper, words failed him. His heart leaped and his breath quickened. Juniper floated before him, her long indigo hair weightless around her back. Her golden, jewelencrusted bikini top gave her a royal quality. Her eyes bore deep into his soul, and instantly, he knew he loved her. Everyone stared at Broc, waiting for him to speak. "Juniper," he cleared his throat, "I am Broc. My father has told me of your beauty, but his description did not do you justice. I would like to take you for a swim, if that's OK?" he asked gently. Juniper looked around at her father, who was already softening up to this dashing young merman. He nodded his head in approval, and off they went. Broc told Juniper stories of how he fought sharks and rode dolphins. He described his business, and how he traded with the witches of the land. Juniper confided in him, too, sharing her dreams of owning her own jewelry shop, and how her father wasn’t paying her for her work, but Olandra, the witch, had been. "If you marry me,” Broc said, “I will help you establish your jewelry shop. I promise I won't take a sand dollar from you. It will be your venture." His white, toothy smile filled Juniper with giddiness. They arrived back at Juniper's home late; her parents were already asleep. "Promise you will return for me again," she said, as Broc took her in his arms. "I will come for you tomorrow night. I promise." He gazed into her eyes, then kissed her deeply. Juniper tingled all over, and her head buzzed. She was in love. The next day, when the sun came up, Juniper dashed to the beach to begin her work for Olandra. After a few hours of tinkering, Olandra showed up to greet her. "Olandra!" Juniper called. "I have amazing news!" Olandra reached the water’s edge and sat on the sand beside the mermaid. "What is it, dear?" She picked up an oyster shell and searched its insides for a pearl.

"I am getting married! I won't have to hide from my father anymore, and I am going to open my own store under the sea." "Well, that is exciting news. You can double production once you aren't spending your nights making pieces for your father's store." Olandra picked up her sack, filled with new, ready-to-sell pieces, and off she went. Juniper sat happily on the beach, bending gold and fastening emeralds. Her designs were even more impressive than they were the day before. The gems embedded within each piece were exquisite, and would surely make them a lot of money. Later in the day, Olandra returned with more pouches of silver and gold. They traded goods and went their separate ways, planning to return the next morning to continue their work. Broc was waiting for Juniper when she arrived home. Her father explained that they had negotiated her dowry , and the pair were to marry in two days. Juniper was beside herself with joy. Soon, she would create jewelry for her very own store! The couple spent the next two days preparing and planning. Adono designed his daughter's wedding dress with silver thread, encrusted with glistening pearls and diamonds. The train attached to the back of the gown was made of parrotfish scales. Juniper’s necklace emulated silver-coral that stretched from one side of her graceful neck to the other, then down along her décolleté. A different colored gem embellished each branch-like stem. Pearl clips held her hair in place, and a crown of oyster shells dressed her head. She was a vision to behold. The wedding was breathtaking, and the family spared no expense. Merpeople from all over Merlantia attended. Witches, including Olandra, charmed themselves with breathing capabilities underwater, so they could bear witness to the union. Everyone appeared to be wearing necklaces or bracelets made by the bride. As Broc and Juniper looked into each other's eyes and said "I do," their hearts felt as though they were emitting rays of light toward one another, and they knew they would love each other until the end of time. Not long after the nuptials, Juniper opened her store in the very same bazaar where she first met her now father-in-law. She spent day after day crafting, selling, and trading her work. Olandra had grown quite wealthy in the village on the beach. Juniper became so busy, she even hired a sales mermaid to work in the shop, while she worked on the jewelry. Years ed, and she rose to

incredible fame, as her designs became the most coveted in Merlantia. Adono tossed and turned in his bed, ruing the day he gave Juniper to Broc. His clothing designs were still very popular in Merlantia, but when he married Juniper off, he lost a large part of his business. Jealousy crept into his heart; year after year it grew until the darkness he held there completely blackened it. When Juniper and Broc came to visit, he scowled at Broc, claiming Juniper’s ambition made her an unfit wife. He criticized them for not having children of their own yet. "I am not ready to give up my jewelry making, Father,” Juniper said, every time he gave her a harsh talking to. “It brings me so much happiness, and I love seeing mermaids wearing the things I have made with my own two hands. Please, Father, do not spoil this joy for me." Adono's white hair turned red with anger, and bubbles billowed from his ears. Wisteria sat by quietly, too nervous to oppose her husband's words. Many nights, Broc defended his love, nose to nose in heated arguments with Adono, while Juniper sobbed, beside herself in tears. Broc threw his arms around her. "Now, now, darling, he is a bitter and jealous old man. He envies your success, as you have taken money from his purse. Cry not, my love; you have done nothing wrong." His words were not as comforting to Juniper as he had hoped. The disappointment she brought her father swallowed her up in despair. One day, Adono was in his shop spinning thread when a mermaid wandered into the store, wearing the most beautiful earrings he had ever seen. "Miss, where did you get those earrings? They are impeccable," Adono asked, thinking perhaps he could find another jewelry maker in place of his daughter. "Why, they are a Juniper design, of course," the mermaid answered matter-offactly. Adono’s eyes turned black as squid ink, and his teeth gnashed in rage. The mermaid, frightened, swam as fast as she could away from the store. That is the last straw, Adono thought. He closed the store early and went to the back of his shop, where he kept his sharpest shears for cutting fabric. Then he went down to the market near Juniper’s store. Through the window, he watched her help a

couple choose their wedding rings. He slipped around the back of the store, to the back door. It was unlocked! She is going to pay, he thought, as he hid away in a dark corner, waiting for her to close for the day. In his fury, he thought of everything that made her deserving of what he was about to do. An hour dragged by, giving Adono time to think about the business Juniper had taken from him, and the disgraceful wife she’d become, maddening him even further. When friends and customers would ask if he was a grandfather yet, he was embarrassed to hang his head and say, "No, Juniper is a businesswoman. She is apparently too busy for merchildren." His cheeks flushed, seeing the men’s astonished expressions when they heard a mermaid would rather work than become a mother. Now, he would do something so vile, she would never be able to craft another piece of jewelry again. Juniper came through the doorway to the backroom, singing and zipping around, when Adono grabbed her by her wrists. "Father, what are you doing here?" she cried. "Let me go!" Adono didn't hear a word she said. The sight of her happiness threw him into an even deeper fit of rage. All was silent, and he could only see, in his mind’s eye, the blood he was ready to spill. Before she could protest again, he forced her arm down onto the stone table in front of them. Her fingers flexed in an effort to keep her body upright, but Adono moved quickly. In one fluid movement, he cut off her fingers. Juniper wailed as Adono took the other arm and forced it down, slicing off the others. The ocean went black and silent; Juniper lost consciousness. She awoke the next morning, and Broc was by her side. "Juni, who did this to you?" he asked desperately. Sobbing, she tried to get her bearings. It wasn't a dream, she thought. "My . . . my father. He must have snuck into the shop. When I was getting ready to leave, he grabbed me and cut me, and I ed out from the pain. Why? Why would he do this to me?" "He is an evil merman and has been overtaken with envy and greed. We shall seek justice. He cannot get away with this!" Broc went to the beach to find Olandra, who was waiting for Juniper with a delivery. "Broc, where is Juniper?" she asked.

"Olandra, we need your help. Last night, Juniper's father, Adono, took her fingers with his fabric shears. She deserves justice! Adono cannot get away with his crime." Olandra scratched her chin. "Well, this will directly affect my business if she cannot produce any more jewelry, and I have grown fond of the mermaid." She cocked her head, thinking of a solution. "Here, take this." She made a glass bottle appear, and a thick, swirling green liquid materialized inside. "Have Juniper drink this, and it will restore her fingers. As far as avenging your beloved, I think you need no help from an old witch." Broc understood, took the bottle, and went back into the sea. He went straight to his father's shop. "Father, I need your help. Adono hurt Juniper. He cut off her fingers in a jealous rage. The old witch, Olandra, gave me a potion to restore her fingers. I cannot let Adono get away with this. He needs to pay." The old merchant nodded his head and went to his driftwood box. He took out a single oyster and opened it. Inside was no oyster, but a tiny violet sea urchin. "The sting of this sea urchin will put a merperson into a deep coma, never to awaken again. I will take this to Adono and tell him this oyster holds the most valuable pearl, and that it will make him a wealthy man, beyond his wildest dreams. When he touches the urchin, it will render him unconscious for the rest of his days." Broc smiled darkly and said to his father, "I will look after the shop. Go, let it be done, so we may avenge my dear Juniper." When the merchant arrived at Adono's shop, Adono was alone, counting his profits from the day. "Hello, Adono!" he said in a friendly voice. "Gradar, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked nervously. “Tell me, how are my daughter and son-in-law?" "Oh, well, I haven't seen either of them in a few days. I actually came to see if you would be interested in a rather valuable pearl I have recently come to possess. I thought you'd like to add it to a mermaid's top, or perhaps to a merman's cape. It will make you a very rich man," he said assuringly. "Hmm, that does interest me, but why not offer it to Juniper, as she is the jewelry maker?" Adono’s tone was laced with an air of suspicion.

"Well, she is already so wealthy, I thought maybe she doesn't need it as much as you do." Gradar smirked. Adono’s face twisted in offense, but his greed momentarily overpowered his ego. "Yes, my daughter has done very well for herself with the dowry I paid your son to marry her. Give that oyster to me; I want to appraise it myself." He snatched the bait from Gradar's hand and opened it, picking up the urchin before realizing it wasn't an oyster at all. Adono's body grew stiff and rigid, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he sank to the ocean floor. Gradar quickly left, before anyone could see what he had done. When Gradar arrived back at his market stand, Broc was there waiting, pacing back and forth. “The plan worked,” he assured his son. “Adono has fallen into a slumber, and he will never awaken.” "Thank you, Father. I never asked, though . . . where did you find such dark magic?" "I meet many strange characters in my business dealings," he answered with a wink. Pleased that the plan worked, Broc went back home, where Juniper awaited his return. "Here, Juniper darling. Drink this. Olandra said it will make your fingers grow back." She did as he told her, and in mere moments, bones grew from the bloody nubs left behind by the grotesque ordeal. Flesh formed, and within minutes, she was whole again. "Thank you, my loving husband," she said, giving him a kiss. Just then, there was a knock on the door. Wisteria was there in the doorway, crying uncontrollably. "Mother, what is it?" Juniper asked, taking her into her arms. "Y—your father," she said, between sobs. "He has fallen into a deep sleep and I cannot wake him. I don't know what to do. What illness has befallen him?" "Mama," Juniper began slowly. "Maybe . . . maybe this is a good thing. Father has grown rather cruel over the years. This could be your chance to finally be free, to do as you please."

"What do you mean?” she cried. “I was doing exactly what I was meant to do. I was being a good wife and mother." "Wisteria, Juniper meant no offense. How can we help?" Broc asked. "Help me wake him up. I cannot take care of myself without him. How will I afford food, or the house?" Wisteria’s voice grew frantic. "You can work for me in my shop, Mama," Juniper offered. "Work? For you? How ridiculous! A mother cannot work for her merchild. It is not natural!" "Times are changing, Mother. It's not the way it used to be, when you and father were first married." "Your father was right. You are a fickle merwoman. You should make merbabies, not jewelry." "Why? So I can rely on a merman to me, and then when something like this happens, I can't take care of myself? No thank you, Mother. Either take my offer, or leave." Juniper threw her hands in the air. Wisteria left in a huff, still sobbing as she stormed away. "Are you OK, my love?" Broc asked gently. "I know this can't be easy." "I—I'm fine. Relieved, actually. I’m glad he can’t hurt me anymore, though I’m a little worried for my mom." "I am happy you feel safe again. Your mother will come around when she realizes you're all she has left," he reassured her. In her husband’s store, Wisteria regarded Adono's sleeping body. She wondered where his mind might be; was he still in there? She sat by his side for hours before the tears stopped flowing. Was she too harsh on Juniper? After all, it seemed as if her husband would never wake up. How would she take care of herself? She had no skill, no craft, and nothing to offer the world. The money Adono made would only last so long. At that moment, Wisteria felt a bittersweetness, thinking about Juniper. In a way, she was proud that her

daughter could take care of herself, if anything ever happened to Broc, though she was ashamed she might have to rely on her for the rest of her life. Adono always made her feel safe, and she never wanted for anything. He told her that as long as she took care of the home, he would take care of the rest. What was she to do? Weeks dragged by and Wisteria gradually became more and more . . . bored. There was nothing left to do around the house; she was only one person and made no mess by herself. She kept the store open to sell the last of the clothes, and now she was nearly out of stock. One day, as she swept the floor in front of the store window, a mermaid came to shop. "Oh, are you going out of business?" asked the mergirl, looking around at the bare walls. "Uh, yes, you can say that," Wisteria replied. "Well, I would love to purchase the rest of your inventory. Adono's clothes were my favorite. He inspired me to become a mer-fashion designer. Say, you wouldn't happen to be selling the store as well?" Wisteria paused for a moment, imagining what selling the store, the house above it, and the remaining merchandise would mean. She would have money for a little while, and she could move in with Juniper and Broc. What would Adono care? He wouldn't know the difference. Quickly, she came to a decision and replied, "I will sell you the store, the house, and everything in it, with the caveat that you carry my daughter's jewelry line." Wisteria hoped the offer might help Juniper forgive her for the way she’d acted. "Who is your daughter?" "Her name is Juniper. She has a famous jewelry business." "Oh, I know Juniper's work well. It would thrill me to sell her line in my store." "We have a deal, then?" "Yes, we do." The mermaid shook Wisteria's hand.

When the girl left, Wisteria closed the shop and went upstairs to the house. She sat on the bed next to Adono and stroked his white hair. "Darling, I do not know what is causing this deep sleep, but I have to move on. I know you would be angry with me for selling the store and moving in with Juniper, but what other choice do I have? I will be taken care of, and so will you. Forgive me, my love." With Adono’s body resting on a slab of coral, pulled with rope by hundreds of seahorses, Wisteria went to Juniper and Broc's home. Her image was reflected in the large silver door . She looked worn; her skin was grey, and her scales were dull. She sighed in defeat and lifted the door knocker. Tink, tink, tink. The door swung open and Broc appeared. "Wisteria. How are you? Is everything all right?" "Everything is fine. Can I come in?" Her voice was shaky. "Of course, come on in." Broc opened the door farther to let Wisteria and Adono's escorted body inside. Juniper was at the kitchen table, tinkering with a piece of silver, when she looked up and saw her mother enter the room with her father’s body. "Mother! Is everything OK?" "Yes, dear. I have come to make amends and see if your offer still stands. I have sold the house and the shop along with it to a young, ambitious mermaid, like yourself. She is going to open her own clothing shop and sell your jewelry there.” A hint of desperation flared in Wistera’s voice. She prayed it wasn't too late, and that their relationship was salvageable. "That's splendid news, Mama. Of course, my offer still stands. I will show you how to run the store. It's easy, fulfilling work. I know Father would want you to be happy again, and you love to clean and tend to the needs of others. I promise, if you don't enjoy the work, then you can stay home and take care of the house, and help take care of your mer-grandchildren." Juniper smiled. "Mer-grandchildren? You mean . . .” She glanced down at Juniper's barely swollen belly. "Yes." Juniper hugged her mom, who returned the gesture, squeezing just a little

harder. Tears fell from Wisteria's eyes, and Juniper kissed the top of her forehead. "Don't cry, Mother. You're here now, and I couldn't be happier to have my mom back." Adono remained in his bed, year after year, never seeing the love and happiness that filled his new home. He never had the opportunity to play with his mergrandchildren, and never got to see his wife thrive in her new environment— Wisteria found a new ion for retail and quickly became Juniper's store manager. Adono’s condition continued to worsen as the years went by, and he eventually ed on, not long after Juniper and Broc had their third merchild. Misogyny and envy were his ultimate downfall, but Juniper went on to prosper, despite her father’s sins. Her family grew, thrived, and was full of unconditional love. She, Broc, their merchildren, and her mother all lived the rest of their lives happily ever after.

The End.

Camp Shadow Lake

D. M. Million

The tale you are about to read is based on a legend from the aboriginal Lenape. You can find out more about their culture, history, and folklore by tapping here. Please the Lenape and other Indigenous American tribes by donating to various reputable organizations. Here are a few to consider: Native Languages, Lenape Nation, Native American Rights Fund, Native Wellness, Warrior Women Project, Stand with Standing Rock, Friends of Pine Ridge Reservation. There are so many more organizations that need your . Keep yourself informed and up-to-date on what is happening in Indigenous communities. We owe it to the aboriginal people to help them keep their cultures alive.

The tall pines stretched toward the darkening sky as the multi-colored, geometric-patterned school bus drove up the mile-long driveway. Tires crunched the unpaved road, kicking dust up in their wake. Children sang the camp anthem, “The Kids of Camp Shadow Lake are the bravest, strongest, and most courageous,” excited to begin another summer of fun. Twelve-year-old Robby sat alone, smiling at his peers. He was new to Camp Shadow Lake, but eager to make friends. His new neon-orange camp t-shirt glowed brightly on his milky skin; he’d soon have the tone of a boiled lobster. His mother, Donna, was sure to pack the highest SPF she could find. The family of red-heads knew better than to leave their delicate skin exposed. Robby’s chestnut eyes sparkled in anticipation as the bus came to a halt. A sprawling log cabin greeted the children as each of them stepped off the bus and crowded around a camp counselor who had a body as fit as a fiddle. “Hè, hè, Camp Shadow Lake, kids!” The enthusiastic man in his forties raised his arms and wiggled his hands. “Hè, hè, Camp Counselor, Jack!” The veteran campers responded with the same jazz hand motion. Robby looked around at the sea of waving arms. “I see so many familiar faces out there.” Jack surveyed the crowd with his hand to his brow. “But I see some fresh faces, too! Raise your hand if you’re new to

Camp Shadow Lake!” Robby, embarrassed about being new, half-raised his hand. He scanned his peers and saw a few other kids doing the same. “Don’t be shy. Raise your hands to the sky!” Each newbie stretched their arm a little higher. “Good! Welcome, friends. Can we all give our newest campers a nice, warm, Camp Shadow Lake welcome?” In unison, the seasoned campers yelled, “Hè, winkalit!” Robby didn’t know what that meant, but was sure he’d find out soon. “Fantastic! Wanìshi! Let’s find our assigned camp counselors, so we can get ourselves settled in. Boys ages seven to eight, you’ll be with Michael. Girls ages seven to eight, you’ll be with Megan.” Jack pointed to the pair of highschoolaged counselors, and the herd of seven- and eight-year-olds moved to their designated spots. “Boys, ages nine to eleven, you will be with Jamal, and girls, with Amber. Boys twelve and thirteen, you have camp counselor Jimmy, and girls . . . Reneé.” Robby trailed behind the other boys his age to stand by Jimmy. The pack of twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys followed their new camp counselor, Jimmy, down a dirt footpath to the left of the log cabin. As they walked along, Jimmy led them in a camp song unfamiliar to Robby, who listened and mouthed the words, trying his best to memorize every line. The trail wound beneath canopies of towering pine trees. Darkness thickened as the group went deeper into the woods, on the heel of twilight. A small cabin marked the end of the trail and Jimmy opened a creaky storm door. The boys shuffled in and immediately claimed their beds, shouting, “This one is mine,” and “I call the top bunk.” The small room had an old, rickety wooden floor and two windows draped with mold-stained, brown-plaid curtains. Three bunk beds lined the walls, framing the oblong braided rug in the center of the room. Two plain desks sat side-by-side under the window, complete with notepads and pencils for the campers to write home. Robby took the last bed, the bottom bunk under a rather large thirteen-year-old. “OK, guys.” Jimmy looked around at them. “Your bags are on their way––” a knock at the door interrupted him. Jimmy opened the door. There stood an old man with long, sparse strands of hair, a hooked nose, and yellow teeth, with a slew of duffle bags hanging from his arms. “Here,” the man creaked. Chills shot up Robby’s back at the almost unnatural

sound. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter,” Jimmy replied, taking the bags from the bodach. “There’s more,” Mr. Baxter harrumphed. “What a bunch-a kids need with all that crap is beyond me.” He ushered Jimmy to the back of a golf cart, where suitcases filled the back seat. “When I was a boy, they sent us to camp with the clothes on our backs and a change of underwear.” “I know, Mr. Baxter. But it’s the nineties, us kids are spoiled.” Jimmy grabbed a suitcase in each hand. “Boys! Come and get your suitcases; I’m not your mother.” The thud and pitter-patter sound of the youngsters' feet as they hurried to find their belongings prompted Mr. Baxter to hobble back to the driver’s seat. When he drove away, a boy asked, “What’s wrong with Mr. Baxter’s leg? He was limping.” “No one knows, Anthony. He won’t tell anyone. You know how private he is.” Jimmy nodded his head toward the cabin, signaling for the boys to get back inside. “All right, you have ten minutes to unpack, then we are meeting Jack at the campfire. Hurry now.” Inside the cabin, Robby glanced back when he felt a tap tap on his shoulder. “Hi, I’m Billy. You’re new, right?” Billy stuck his hand out. “How did you know?” Robby asked as he shook Billy’s hand. “Well, you didn’t know the songs. I saw you trying to learn them. Plus, you raised your hand when Jack asked who was new.” “Oh. Nice to meet you.” “We can be pals.” Billy smiled and pulled a pillow from his suitcase. “You brought your own pillow? Should I have brought my own pillow?” Robby held up the stinky piece of cardboard the camp dared to call a pillow. “My mom packed my whole bed . . . sheets and all. She didn’t want me to feel uncomfortable.” Billy shrugged. The next thing out of his luggage was an

inhaler. He shook it. Something had rattled inside. Then he took a big gulp as he sprayed the contents into his mouth. “The dust in here is bad for my asthma.” “I don’t have asthma. But I do have my lucky Luke Skywalker figurine!” Robby pulled out a miniature figurine of the Jedi knight. “Here, you can hold him, so your asthma doesn’t hurt you. Luke will Jedi mind-trick it away!” “Whoa! Thanks, dude!” “All right, fellas.” Jimmy pulled the cabin door open. “Are we ready to roast some s’mores?” “Yeah!” they celebrated in unison. Along the way back down the path, Robby and Billy talked about their hometowns, their friends, and school. “You go to Hamilton? I go to Bedford! We’re practically neighbors.” Robby was too excited at the possibility of having a friend when he returned home. Billy pretended to fly Luke Skywalker. “Say, when camp is over and we have to go home, can we stay friends? I can give you my phone number. Maybe our moms will take us to the park.” “That would be da bomb!” Robby kicked a fallen branch out of his way. Jack stood at the front door of the main cabin, waiting for the groups to arrive. His left eye twitched as they slowly appeared from their designated pathways. A woman in high-waisted, beige cargo pants with a baby blue polo tucked in, opened the door and stood next to Jack. Her coiffed blonde hair was cropped to her chin. Hot-pink lipstick dressed her thin lips, transferring to her teeth when she smiled. She tapped him on the stomach with the back of her hand. “Ready for this?” He looked at her sideways and grinned. “Yeah.” The last group filed in and Jack reached his arms out wide, as if to hug the entire crowd. “Welcome back, everybody! Now, I want to introduce you all to my new friend, Camp Director Jane Campbell.” He pointed to the woman standing next to him. “Let’s give Jane a Camp Shadow Lake welcome.”

Together, he and the camp said, “Hè, winkalit.” Jane clasped her hands together. “Hey, kids! I am so excited to learn all of your names and get to know each and every one of you better. Counselor Jack told me we’re going to have a bonfire. Who’s ready for some weenie roasting?” Cheering ensued, and Jane smiled. “Well then, follow us!” The two camp directors led the army to the other side of the building, down a quick path that opened up to a clearing on a beach, where a dock extended into the lake. A blazing fire crackled in a stone pit on the beach. Each screaming camper took a seat in the variety of timeworn, mismatched, ratchety chairs surrounding the fire. Jack and Jane took their seats in the two largest chairs in the circle, while the junior camp counselors ed out long sticks and hotdogs. Robby and Billy sat next to each other, laughing and high-fiving. Three giggling eleven-year-old girls sitting beside them sang “Tonight” by New Kids on the Block. Robby couldn’t believe he got to come to this totally rad camp. He mentally hugged his parents. The excitement left a hole in his chest; this would only last eight weeks and he would have to go back home. Home, to the town where he had no friends, no songs to sing, and no fire pit to roast hot dogs around. When everyone’s bellies were full, Jack stood and gestured with his hands for the kids to quiet down. “Why don’t we end the night with a couple of . . . ghost stories?” Jack made ghost noises, and the girls squeaked and giggled. “Jimmy, why don’t you start us off?” Jimmy stood from his stone bench and circled the fire. “The Lenape Indian tribe named Camp Shadow Lake like . . . hundreds of years ago. They roamed these very woods and swam and bathed in the lake.” He deepened the tone of his voice. “And they told stories. Stories of . . . Maxa'xâk . . . the Great Serpent.” Jane shot Jack a worried look. Maybe this story was too frightening for the children. Jimmy continued, “They believed Maxa’xâk lurked in Shadow Lake. The terrifying serpent would wrap its body around an unsuspecting Indian and drag them down to its watery lair, where it would feast on them. When the Maxa’xâk finished eating the human, it would lay the bones of their victim on the beach.

After many years, the tribe left; their numbers had dwindled so badly from the Maxa’xâk, they had to flee. Just last year, the bones of a missing kid from the next town over were found just a few yards away.” The campers gasped and yelped. Jack popped up to his feet. “OK. Thank you, Jimmy, for that thrilling tale. How about a camp song?” Later, on the way back to their cabins, the boys joked and laughed. “Hey, Jimmy,” Billy called out, “was that a true story?” Jimmy looked back at the red-cheeked boy and smirked. “I guess you will never know.” When the boys entered their cabin, the room immediately started buzzing. Everyone wanted to know if the Lenape legend was true. “Maybe that’s what happened to Mr. Baxter’s leg!” one kid suggested. “No way! If Mr. Baxter fought off the Maxa'xâk, he’d be dead. He’s too old!” another kid replied. “Yeah!” they all yelled. “What do you think, Robby?” Billy patted him on the back. “Me? Uh, I think Jimmy was trying to scare us. I don’t think it’s real at all.” “Boooooo!” the boys yelled and threw candy wrappers and crumpled paper at him. “Why would they set up a camp here if it was true?” Robby retorted. “All right, men. Time for bed. Lights out in five.” Jimmy poked his head out from the bathroom. Apparently, he couldn’t wait until he went back to his own cabin to take a whiz. As Robby slept that night, he dreamt he was swimming in the lake, being chased by a giant snake. He woke up in the morning dripping with sweat. A bugle to the

tune of “Reveille” sounded to wake the sleeping campers. Robby sat up straight, yawned, and blinked, clearing his eyes. Jimmy suddenly burst through the door. “All right, all right. Good morning, boys. You have ten minutes to get yourselves dressed and outside.” “Psst. Billy.” Robby shook the lump on Billy’s bed. “Billy, wake up. It’s time for breakfast.” He shoved a little harder, and Billy jumped. “No! Leave me alone.” Billy’s arms and legs flailed. Robby jumped back as Billy bolted upright. “Sorry, Billy,” Robby’s voice squeaked. “It’s just time to go to breakfast.” “What? What’s going on?” He grabbed his glasses from the windowsill next to his bed and put them on haphazardly. “Sorry, Robby. I was having a nightmare.” He looked at Robby with sleep still in his eyes. “It’s OK. I had one last night, too. Come on, I’m starving.” Robby quickly changed his clothes and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. “Let’s go, boys.” Jimmy popped his head inside the room. “Breakfast is blueberry pancakes, with bacon and cinnamon-raisin oatmeal.” He made a slurping sound and patted his stomach. “I think they’re trying to fatten you all up for the Great Serpent.” He chuckled and shut the door. Robby and Billy laughed nervously, grabbed their neon-colored backpacks, and met their leader outside. The mess hall was abuzz with kids whispering and glancing around the room. The camp counselors huddled together. Their worried expressions made the skin on Robby’s arms prickle. It was the same feeling he had when he watched The Exorcist with his dad. He wasn’t supposed to watch it, and his mom would have been furious if she knew. Robby shivered. There was something not quite right. “What is everyone whispering about? And why are the counselors acting weird?” Robby nudged Billy. “I don’t know, but it is giving me the creeps.” Billy forked a stack of pancakes and dunked them in a puddle of syrup. Robby shrugged his shoulders and silently ate his breakfast. He thought about

the nightmare he had last night. He was swimming in Shadow lake. It was dark outside, and he was alone. The water was inky. There was a slithering sound coming from the trees that lined the edge of the lake. Rustle, rustle, rustle. It got closer and closer, shaking the leaves of the flora as it approached. It stopped, and Robby’s insides turned icy. A pit formed deep in his stomach. He couldn’t catch his breath. His head was above the water, but he was still gasping for air. Robby shook his head, bringing himself back to reality. He looked around the mess hall for any inkling of what was happening. Across the table, he heard a girl, Brenda, say, “He’s old and creepy, anyway. He probably hobbled back to the dumpster he crawled out of.” Brenda’s friends laughed at her joke. Mr. Baxter, Robby thought. I wonder what they’re talking about. Jimmy and another counselor were walking past when he heard Jimmy say, “I bet he just ed out in the woods somewhere. Jack will find him.” Robby shot Billy a look. “What?” Billy’s mouth was full of oatmeal. “I think Mr. Baxter is missing.” Robby’s eyes widened. “No way.” “I just heard Jimmy say Jack is looking for him.” “I hope he’s all right.” Billy shoveled another spoonful of oatmeal. After breakfast, all the campers gathered outside. The coolness of the morning faded and sweat formed on their heads as the sun beat down on them mercilessly. The camp counselors informed the group of children they would spend the first half of the day playing volleyball on the sand. Robby pulled out the camp schedule that was mailed out the week before they arrived, his brow furrowing in confusion. Day two of the schedule mentioned nothing about volleyball for their age group; they were scheduled to have relay races in the lake instead. Oh, well. I’m not much of a swimmer anyway, Robby thought. Jimmy split the campers into two teams, boys versus girls. Lacking shade from the surrounding woods, the sandy volleyball court was exposed to the sun’s relentless heat. Robby felt his skin burning and could practically hear his

mother’s voice yelling at him to put sunscreen on. The boys were being creamed by the girls as Robby stepped up to serve the volley. He wiped sweat from his brow and looked out at the lake. He took a deep breath, and just as he was about to punch the ball, something disturbed the water’s surface. The players shouted at Robby to serve, but the disruption entranced him. He dropped the ball and stared at the undulating blue water . . . waiting to spot the creature he could have sworn he just saw. Once again, ripples disrupted the lake’s tranquility, and this time, something appeared above the waves. Robby shook his head. But the image didn’t go away. Could it be some sort of mirage, or an optical illusion? The shouting grew louder, and Jimmy tapped Robby on the shoulder, curious and a bit concerned for his camper. He followed Robby’s gaze, but found nothing but a stray log, bobbing up and down in the water. Robby didn’t budge. His eyes squinted against the glare of the sun. But there was . . . something. A creature? The object popped in and out of the lake. A cylindrical shape, rough-textured and brownish, disappeared, then reappeared again. Robby began to sway. Maybe he was dehydrated. Maybe it was the heat, causing hallucinations. Thoughts of his nightmare crept into his consciousness. He thought he might faint. His breath quickened with every ing second. Jimmy stepped in front of Robby and braced his shoulders. He gave him a shake. “Robby! What’s the matter? Are you OK?” “Huh? I—I’m fine. I’m just, um, hot. I think I need some water.” He was still in a daze when he felt Billy maneuver his arm. Billy dipped his head beneath his armpit and positioned himself at his side, then walked him to the mess hall. His shirt was more than a little damp and provided Robby with much needed coolness. “Are you OK, Robby?” Billy handed him a bottle of Evian once inside. “Y—yeah. I think so. You’ll never believe what I saw in the water! I saw the Great Serpent! You know, from Jimmy’s story about the Lenape legend.” “No way, dude. You’re pullin’ my leg!” “I’m serious. You gotta believe me! It was swimming away from us and I saw its body pop out of the water.”

“It was probably a fish.” “Dude, it was enormous!” “OK, OK, you saw the Great Serpent.” Billy rolled his eyes. “C’mon. Let’s go back before they think Mr. Baxter kidnapped us.” For the rest of the day, Robby couldn’t stop thinking about that morning. What if Mr. Baxter is the Great Serpent? What if the Great Serpent ate Mr. Baxter? What if they make us go into the lake? These thoughts raced through his mind day and night, and he found it difficult to sleep. The next few days were the same; the campers were told to avoid the lake. Mr. Baxter was still missing, and divers came to the camp to search the area. There was no sign of Mr. Baxter in the lake or otherwise. Jack and Jane resumed the camp’s normal schedule, and a week later, it was time for the campers to have their lake relay race. Robby was reluctant as he stood at the edge of the sandy shoreline. The water gently lapped against his toes. Leaves, sticks, and other debris washed up nearby. Robby picked up a stick and tossed it out over the surface, creating a ripple effect. “Well, are you gonna go in?” Billy stood next to Robby and bumped his arm. Billy wore swimming goggles, which Robby thought made him look like a famous swimmer. Like Matt Biondi from the American Olympic Team. He ed watching him compete in the olympics the previous summer with his parents, at his dad’s favorite sports bar. He imagined the olympian swimming with a giant snake, when Billy nudged him again. “Robby,” Billy started, “you’re not still scared of that lake monster, are you?” He took a few steps into the water. “What? No way. Like you said, it was probably just a fish.” Robby took a deep breath and walked into the lake behind his friend. The boys swam to the floating dock to the rest of their peers. Robby treaded the water for a few moments, looking around in every direction. No sign of any monsters. When he was satisfied, he climbed up the ladder and took his place at the back of the relay line. Counselor Jimmy stood at the front, between the two rows of swimmers. He held

up a toy cap gun above his head. “OK. On your marks, get set . . .” He pulled the trigger and the first two racers were off. When it was Robby’s turn to race, Robby jumped off the dock and swam his hardest. When he reached the beach, he ran to grab his flag off the pole. As he turned to head back into the lake, he realized everything was silent. The shouting from his team had ceased. The water was calm, and everyone on the dock was staring in his direction. Oh no, Robby thought, I did something wrong. Maybe I lost my trunks. He looked down. His bathing suit was still securely tied around his waist. Whirling around, he came face-to-face with Mr. Baxter’s sunken-in face, his skin different shades of blue and purple. Deep cuts and scratches covered his body, and blood ran down his cheeks and chin. Suddenly, a splash sounded from the dock’s direction. Jimmy swam quickly toward them to help. Mr. Baxter grabbed ahold of the flagpole and mouthed, “Help,” but Robby’s body went numb, and all he could do was blink. Jimmy shoved Robby out of the way, looped his arm under Mr. Baxter’s, and carefully walked him to the clubhouse. Reneé rounded up the campers, and they sat on the sand until Jack showed up to give them directions. Robby stood still, staring at the spot Mr. Baxter was just a moment ago. His heart continued to pound in his chest as the image of Mr. Baxter, bloody and near death, seared itself into his mind—the sunken cheeks and hollowed eye sockets, exaggerated by the shiny red liquid that poured from the old man’s head. His slack jaw, letting out a barely audible groan that made Robby’s stomach ache. Billy pulled Robby from his dazed state, shaking him back into reality. “Dude, are you OK?” Billy's goggles left pink marks around his eyes and were now dangling from his neck. “H—huh? Y—yeah, I’m OK. I just need to sit down.” Robby plopped to the ground. Billy sat next to him, looking blankly at the lake. Robby tried making sense of what may have happened to Mr. Baxter. Each different scenario played in his head like a movie as he watched the poor, crippled man get mauled by a bear, attacked by a murder of crows, and chased through the woods by none other than Jason Voorhees. He shook the images away when Jimmy appeared in front of him. “Hey, little man. Jack and Jane want to see you.” Jimmy helped Robby to his

feet and escorted him down the earthen path to the clubhouse. What could they want with me? Robby wondered. Everyone was there. They knew I didn’t do it. I hope I am not in trouble. My parents will be so mad if I am sent home early. As Jimmy and Robby rounded the corner to Jack’s office, Jimmy said, “You’re fine, they just want to go over what you saw.” This did little to relieve Robby of his worry. He didn’t want to think about bloody Mr. Baxter. Jimmy knocked on a white oak door with its blinds drawn. The dusty door window said Head Camp Counselor Jack McGinnis in gold lettering. The sound of shoes scuffling came from beyond the threshold. There was a muffled “Come in”, and then Jimmy pushed the door wide open to reveal Jack, sitting at his desk, and Jane, facing away, gazing out a window that overlooked the lake. “Robby, come on in, sonny boy. Have a seat.” Jack motioned to a chair opposite him. “Thanks, Jimmy. I’ll take it from here.” He gave Jimmy a wink and a nod, and Jimmy turned to exit, closing the door behind him. “Now, young man. Do you know what you saw?” “Uh––um, not really, sir. I just saw Mr. Baxter with a large gash in the head and lots of blood. I—is he OK?” Robby squirmed in his chair. “Oh, yes! Mr. Baxter is A-O-K. He just fell off his golf cart on his way back to camp. You see, Mr. Baxter is old and feeble. He forgets things often and sometimes he even makes up stories.” Jack opened his arms and continued, “Half the time, I don’t know whether he is telling the truth or a fib. Do you know what a fib is, Robby?” Jane cleared her throat, drawing attention to her presence for the first time since Robby entered the office. Jack and Robby both glanced in her direction as she slowly turned around to face them. “Yeah, a fib is a little white lie.” Robby stared at Jane, waiting for her to say something; she stared blankly back at him. “That’s right, Robby!” Jack’s exuberant enthusiasm made Robby’s intuition prickle. A pit formed in the bottom of his gut, and he wanted to bolt out of there as quickly as humanly possible. “OK, can I go now?” he pleaded, his eyes still glued to Jane.

“Sure, sure.” Jack waved his hand nonchalantly. “Your group should be in the mess hall for lunch. I’ll walk you down.” “No!” The force of his own voice startled Robby. “N––no, thank you, Sir. I know where it is. I can walk by myself.” Jack looked at Jane, who narrowed her eyes at her counterpart. He returned his gaze to Robby. “OK, sport. Uh, just try to put that little fiasco out of your head . . . all right?” Robby nodded and sprung to his feet. He ran so quickly from the two shady camp directors, he left a plume of dust in his wake. When he reached the mess hall, Billy had saved him a seat at their group’s white formica cafeteria table. “Hey!” Billy grinned at his friend from ear to ear. “What happened? What did Jack want?” “I don’t know. I have gotta bad feeling about Jack and Jane. It seemed like they were hiding something.” Robby spooned a healthy-sized dollop of macaroni and cheese onto his plate. “What do you mean?” Billy’s eyes expanded to the size of dinner plates. “Well, they told me Mr. Baxter is old and might lie about what happened to him. They asked me if I knew what a fib was and . . . I dunno . . . it felt weird, like when I broke the VCR and blamed the dog.” Robby shoveled the cheesy noodles into his mouth. “Well, maybe it’s not the first time Mr. Baxter has gone missing before. I mean, he is old and crippled, and he was MIA for a few days. He probably forgot to take his medicine. My grandma takes medicine and sometimes she wanders from her house and the neighbors bring her back.” “I don’t know. If he’s that bad, why would they let him work here? It just doesn’t add up.” “I wouldn’t worry about it. Hey! I think we are doing the zipline after lunch.”

Robby wasn't listening. He was busy thinking of Jack and how he asked about fibs, his over enthusiastic voice, and the strange explanation for Mr. Baxter’s disappearance and reemergence. Why didn’t Jane say a word, but look at Robby with that blank expression? What was the gnawing in his gut that told him something was off? Robby wasn’t so sure he wanted to know the answers to the questions tumbling around in his brain.

***

A few weeks later, Billy started to withdraw after a sleepwalking episode. Robby also started having trouble sleeping, frequently waking up from nightmares of Mr. Baxter’s bloody face. One night, he woke from another bad dream and went to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. On his way back to bed, he wanted to check on Billy . . . but Billy wasn’t there. Robby thought maybe he stepped outside for some air, but he wasn’t there, either. Panicked, he blew his emergency whistle. Within seconds, Jimmy and the other male camp counselors unlocked the door and bounded into the boys’ cabin. “What’s wrong?” Jimmy asked, winded, as he rushed inside. “Billy isn’t here,” Robby answered, on the brink of hysteria. “I looked all around the cabin and searched outside. He’s gone. Mr. Baxter got him!” Jimmy chuckled. “Mr. Baxter is harmless, though he does look a bit frightening. We’ll search for him. You all stay here. We’ll be back soon. Don’t move!” The counselors dashed out of the cabin and into the night. The boys sat on their beds, nervously awaiting Billy’s return. Robby prayed for his friend to be OK. “Do you really think it was Mr. Baxter who took Billy?” Mikey, a blond boy who barely said two words to Robby all summer, asked. Robby shrugged and looked at his feet, dangling from his bunk. It felt like hours had gone by when the leaders came back. Billy wasn’t with

them. “Where’s Billy?” Robby jumped off his bed as Jimmy reentered. “Calm down, calm down.” Jimmy’s hands motioned downward. “The other counselors are handling it. He is talking to his mom. He’ll be back soon. She wanted to give him something to help him sleep. He was sleepwalking.” “He hasn’t sleepwalked all summer. Why now?” Robby pressed Jimmy. “I don’t know.” Subtle annoyance colored Jimmy’s tone. “It happens. I’m sure Billy will be more than willing to answer your questions. I’m not privy to his medical history. Go back to bed and try to get some sleep. Goodnight.” Jimmy moved for the door and turned the lights off. “Wait!” Robby called out after him in the dark. “What do you mean his mom wanted to give him something to sleep? Did she drive all the way here?” But Jimmy closed the door behind him, and then he was gone. Robby reluctantly climbed back into bed. He tossed and turned, thinking about Billy sleepwalking and running into a crimson-faced Mr. Baxter. Robby was nearly asleep when the cabin door cracked open and Billy’s voice drifted into the room. There in the doorway, Billy spoke to a tall, slender figure. “Mom, I’ll be fine. It's just a scratch. I’m fiiine.” “Billy,” the feminine voice whispered, “you can’t do this here.” Robby’s eyes popped wide when he recognized Jane’s voice. How come Billy didn’t tell him Jane was his mother? Maybe he was embarrassed to be the son of one of the directors. “OK, OK,” Jane shushed her son. “Goodnight, love.” She kissed Billy’s head, and the next thing Robby heard was the click of the closing door. Robby sat up to look at Billy. “Hey! Are you OK? I was really worried.” “Yeah, thanks. I’m fine. Sometimes I sleepwalk. It’s usually not a big deal, but it’s dangerous in the woods.” Billy’s silhouette climbed into the bed next to Robby’s.

“Why didn’t you tell me Jane is your mom?” “Would you want everyone to know the new director is your mom? I didn’t want anyone to think I get special treatment.” Billy rolled onto his side to face the wall. “Oh, yeah. That makes sense. OK, well, I’m really glad you’re OK. Goodnight.” “Night.” The next day, during breakfast at the mess hall, there was commotion surrounding the clubhouse. A dozen police cars were stationed out front, and a large white van was parked with its doors open, its rear facing the woods. “C’mon’ guys. Nothing to see here. Go on inside.” Jimmy shepherded his group into the mess hall. Just as Robby ed through the doors, a gurney emerged from the van. What was going on? Why was everything a big secret? He sat down, and Mikey sat next to him. “Weird, huh?” Mikey ed a basket of muffins to Robby. “Yeah. Do you think something bad happened?” Robby picked a blueberry muffin from the basket, then handed it to Billy, who sat on the opposite side of the table alone. Something about Billy’s distant behavior following the sleepwalking episode made Robby uneasy. He wanted to ask his friend if he was all right. This was uncharted territory for Robby. He’d never really had a friend to worry about. What could he say to Billy? How could he help? “Maybe Jack keeled over from doing too many jazz hands.” The pair chuckled. Jack walked into the mess hall and stood next to Jimmy, whispering into his ear. Jimmy shot a look at their table. The boys watched as Jimmy slowly approached, his face somber. Jimmy stood in front of Billy. “Billy, you need to come with me. Grab your tray.” Billy looked down, sadness in his eyes.

Robby watched intently, feeling helpless. As Billy and Jimmy walked away, Jack moved onto the stage, clicked on the sound system, and took the microphone in his hand. He cleared his throat. “H––hello, boys and girls. Can I have your attention?” His usual eccentricity vanished. “I have some sad, sad news. Last night, Ms. Jane ed away. There was an accident, and unfortunately, we will be cutting camp short. You will all need to pack your things. Your parents will pick you up tomorrow.” Whispers rose and filled the hall. Jack shushed them, but the sound only grew louder. “Boys and girls!” The noise ceased. “Please, I know you’re disappointed, probably scared, and have some questions. After breakfast, you will go back to your cabins and your counselors will be there for guidance. There will be a grief counselor arriving shortly to help anyone who needs to talk. Thank you.” Jack stepped off the stage and walked out the main doors. “Oh my God.” Mikey put his hand over his mouth to stop the muffin crumbs from shooting out. “What happened to her?” “I don’t know. Poor Billy! He must be so sad.” Robby lost his appetite and pushed his plate away. He regretted being so ive when Billy began to withdraw. Maybe he should’ve gotten more involved, shown more interest in his friend’s problems. All he wished for was to comfort his friend, to give him his Luke Skywalker figurine, and tell him it would be all right. When they got to the cabin, Billy’s things were already gone. Jimmy instructed them to pack everything but a pair of clean clothes for the next day. Chatter and speculation as to what may have happened to Jane spread through the camp. Some said she probably had a heart attack, some thought she may have slipped and hit her head really hard, but Robby had another theory. Though he didn’t mention it to anyone for fear of being judged, he suspected Mr. Baxter was to blame. “What do you think, Robby?” Mikey asked. “Billy is your best friend. Did he mention if she was sick?” “No. I didn’t know Jane was his mom until last night. I don’t know what happened. Billy hasn’t been himself lately and we haven't talked much.” Robby shrugged. For the rest of the day, the entire camp watched movies in the mess hall. The

atmosphere was melancholy, even though the movie Beethoven played on the projector screen. The campers didn’t want to leave yet, and the unsettling news about Jane was distressing. The grief counselor held therapy sessions in Jack’s office. When Jack brought one kid back to the mess hall, he escorted another to his office. Maybe I can find out what happened to Jane if I go to the clubhouse, Robby thought. Robby stood and announced to Jimmy that he was going to use the restroom. Jimmy nodded and Robby dashed toward the boys’ bathroom. When he rounded the corner, he ran for the backdoor. Its window revealed a clear path to the clubhouse. Robby reached for the handle and looked from left to right, scanning for any sign of adults. When the coast was clear, he gently opened the door, stepped out, and closed it behind him. He stuck close to the side of the mess hall while he crept his way toward the clubhouse. Except for the sound of a crying camper coming from Jack’s office, it was quiet. Robby continued along the dirt path, crouching low as he ed Jack’s office door. When he veered around another corner, he came across an additional window. Robby listened through the window. An older camper was talking to the therapist about Jane. He tried to pick up any details that might give him some answers, but couldn’t hear much through the girl’s sobs. Suddenly, the office opened, and the girl stepped out. Robby watched her walk back to the mess hall. Finally, he could finally hear Jack’s voice clearly. “Thank you, Sandra. You have been a big help.” “No problem at all, Jack. Say, if you don’t mind me asking . . . What happened to Jane?” “Uh . . . well, she uh . . . she was mauled by an animal.” “Oh, dear!” “Y––yeah. Last night it attacked her when walking back from her son’s cabin.” “What kind of animal was it?” “Um, we’re not totally sure. Uh—” Just then, the sound of a knock on the door interrupted their conversation. It was Jimmy.

“Hey, Jack,” Jimmy said. “Billy went missing . . . again.” “Shit. Call Baxter. Find out where that old son of a bitch is. Tell him I said if he lays one finger on Billy, he’s gone.” “You got it, boss.” The door slammed and Jimmy ran past Robby without noticing him. I knew it, Robby thought. Mr. Baxter is behind this somehow. I bet Jane wasn’t attacked by an animal at all. I’d bet my allowance he killed her. And now he is after Billy. I gotta warn him. Robby ran into the woods toward Shadow lake. He knew it was Billy’s favorite spot in the whole camp. As he reached the sandy beach, he spotted Billy’s neon backpack, sitting at the edge of the water. Robby scanned the shore, but there were no other signs of his friend. Robby’s heart raced and sweat dripped from his brow down into his eyes. Maybe Billy drowned, or maybe he was already taken by Mr. Baxter. Robby didn’t know which would be the worst way to go, or what kind of plans Mr. Baxter had in store for his friend. Suddenly, the water undulated. Robby’s gaze locked on the choppy surface. He ed the first day on the lake, when he thought he saw a creature slithering through the water. Billy told him he was imagining things, and until now, he thought Billy was right. The water settled for just a moment. Then, a scaly, triangular head poked up, just yards from where Robby was standing. The snake-like form revealed its greenish-brown scales and red, glowing eyes. Its head lifted above the surface and its body uncoiled, as thick and tall as a tree trunk, stretching up to the sky. A scream trapped itself in Robby’s belly. He couldn’t move. His feet planted firmly in the sand. Before Robby could make sense of what was happening, a loud bang, bang, bang, rang out, and the snake smacked the water, then descended back into the lake. He suddenly realized someone’s presence beside him, holding a shotgun. There stood Mr. Baxter, lowering the rifle. He threw it in the sand and grabbed Robby by his shoulders. “Son, are you all right?” he yelled in Robby’s face, but Robby heard nothing but silence, mouth agape. Mr. Baxter shook the incapacitated boy to no avail. Robby’s bottom hit the ground and he looked around. Jack, Sandra, and the camp counselors were all running toward them. As

soon as Jack approached, he shouted at Mr. Baxter, while Sanrda pulled Robby up from the ground and walked him to the clubhouse. Away from the commotion, Robby was able to gather his thoughts. He just saw the Great Serpent, and Mr. Baxter killed it. He felt terrible for blaming Jane’s death on the heroic old man and made a mental note to thank him for saving his life. That must have been the animal that attacked Jane, Robby thought. “Shoot!” Robby turned to Sandra when they made it back to the clubhouse. “Billy! Where’s Billy?” “Sweetheart, what’s your name?” Sandra handed him a bottle of water. “Where is Billy? Did that thing get him?” “Honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What thing?” “The Great Serpent. Didn’t you see it? Mr. Baxter shot it before it could eat me.” “Oh, honey. I think you may have imagined that. You’ve been through a lot. Grief can manifest in many ways.” Before she could continue with whatever condescending speech she was about to give, the door sprang open and Jack stormed in. He nodded sternly at Sandra. “Robby, son, I need you to tell me what you saw.” His face was the same shade of red that showed up on Robby’s dad’s face, whenever Robby disobeyed him. “I saw the Great Serpent come out of the water. It almost got me, but Mr. Baxter shot it before it could. Where is Billy?” “Son, I am going to need you to listen very closely to what I am about to say, and you are not to repeat a word of it to anyone, you hear?” The look in Jack’s eyes told Robby he meant business. “Yes, Sir.” Robby nodded. “Billy and the creature Mr. Baxter shot . . . are one in the same. Do you understand?” It was as if the floor was pulled out from beneath Robby’s feet. Spinning out of

control, he stared back at Jack.“What do you mean? Billy is the Great Serpent?” “Yes, Robby. Jane came here as co-director to make sure Billy didn’t hurt anyone while he was here. She thought she could help him control his hunger. She paid the owners a lot of money to let him come this year. He hasn’t been a threat until he came of age on his birthday. Jane did a lot of persuading, but ultimately it was the money.” “I don’t understand. What is—was he? How can he be part boy, part giant snake?” “You the story Jimmy told at the bonfire the first night?” Robby nodded and Jack continued, taking a seat in the chair across from him. “Well, there is truth in that legend.” “So, Billy is . . . dead?” Robby’s head dropped. “Yes, son. I am so sorry. I should have never let Billy come back to camp once he reached the age of transition. But he was my nephew, what was I to do? Deny him his freedom to be a kid?” Jack shook his head as tears began to fall onto his lap. Sandra’s hand appeared on his shoulder, and she looked at Robby. “Robby, is it?” she asked. “Can you give me a moment alone with Mr. Jack?” She motioned to the door that led to the clubhouse hallway. “Sure.” Robby stepped out into the hall. Mr. Baxter walked through the main doors with Jimmy at his heels. “Mr. Baxter!” Robby called after him. He stopped in front of Robby. “Yes, young man?” “Thank you,” he choked on the words. “For saving my life.” “Don’t mention it,” Mr. Baxter grumbled before yanking Jack’s door open. “Wait, Mr. Baxter! What was that? Mr. Baxter!” Jimmy tried to get the old man’s attention, but it was too late. Mr. Baxter disappeared into Jack’s office and closed the door in his face.

What now? Was Robby just going to go home and forget everything that happened that summer? Forget how his friend Billy turned into an enormous snake and tried to eat him alive? No one would ever believe him. Not that he had anyone to tell. He stared at his sneakers, tan from the camp’s dirt pathways. Once again, Robby was alone.

THEY ALWAYS COME BACK

R. M. Carpus

“There ya go, honey! Your favorite.” Lydia’s mother plopped another seashellshaped pancake onto her daughter’s plate, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Wow, Mom.” Lydia poked at the fluffy cakes with her fork. “You shouldn’t have.” Her long, poker-straight raven hair tickled her bare elbows as she sat at the same old oak kitchen table she’d sat at since she was a baby. The summer weather had moved in quicker than normal this year, forcing Lydia out of her usual favorites. Like her lumpy, oversized sweaters, comfy jeans, and combat boots—typical fall wardrobe essentials in her tiny, coastal New England hometown. She tried her hardest to make those essentials last most of the winter and spring, too, but by the time the heat hit, the summer gods forced her to surrender. Each year posed the same dilemma; she dreaded trading in her faves for spaghetti straps and shorts. Lydia was a creature of habit. Apparently, so was her mother. She stared down at her breakfast, amazed that to this day, her mom still used the same exact shell-shaped cookie cutters for Saturday morning pancakes. She’d made them since Lydia was in preschool, and somewhere along the way, she’d branded them Lydia’s favorite. Where or how her mom came up with this idea, she hadn’t the faintest clue. She always went along with the act, though, keeping up with the charade year after year just to see her mom smile. “Look, Wednesday Addams.” Her mother swished the spatula in the air as she spoke. “I know summertime makes you grumpy. I know it’s your least favorite time of year. But I happen to love the sunshine and warmth, so please humor your ‘ol ma and head down to the beach with her today. We need girl time. And a tan.” She poked Lydia’s pale arm with the spatula, then slid into the other kitchen chair and dropped a napkin on her lap. Lydia fought the urge to cringe, but failed miserably. She’d only been home from college two whole days, and already, she was being sentenced to a beach day. “I’m sorry, Mom, but you know how badly I burn . . . and Sam is coming by today to talk about the playwright program and . . . ”

“You don’t burn.” Her bottom lip plumped in disappointment. Lydia sighed. Her mother was already resorting to pouting—that was fast. “You know I love the beach, but I don’t have your skin tone. When you sit out in the sun, you get all pretty and golden. When I sit out, I turn into a lobster.” “Fine. Where a hat and some sunscreen. I’ll bring the big umbrella. We’ll head down after you meet with Sam.” “I don’t know, I think the thing with Sam is gonna take up most of the afternoon, and then we planned to head to Marina’s to grab dinner.” Smothering her pancakes in syrup, Lydia avoided eye with her mom. Avoiding the sad puppy eyes was always key. Lydia might have been as prickly as a porcupine, but on the inside, she was all gooey. If she made eye longer than two seconds, she would cave. “Maybe we can go next weekend?’ “Yeah, OK. Sure.” Her mom’s shoulders fell. She melted some butter over her pancakes, then set her fork down. “Come on, Mom.” Lydia kept her gaze on her plate. “Aren’t you gonna eat your seashell cakes? They’re your favorite.” “That’s my line.” “Well, I’m gonna eat mine, ‘cause they smell delicious.” Lydia sliced her breakfast into shreds, then stuffed a fork full into her mouth. Her mom’s silence twisted her squishy heart. She chewed fast, then shoveled in another pile of mutilated shell cakes. Only two things made her this ravenous: letting her mom down, and the week of final exams. “Mmmm,” she mumbled through stuffed cheeks, “so good. They’re the best batch yet, Mom.” Still nothing. Not even a sad sigh. An inward groan attacked Lydia’s chest, rising and bubbling up to her throat. She forced down the mouth full and stabbed more pieces of fluff onto her fork. She chanced a nonchalant peek in her mother’s direction, instantly regretting the decision. The poor, listless puppy eyes she knew so well gazed down at the plate, haunted and hollow. Lydia wiped a napkin over her lips and exhaled. She waited.

“I don’t think he’s coming back this time,” her mom said quietly. She inhaled deeply, and the sound calmed Lydia’s nerves. “I think it’s really over, kid.” “Well, if he walked away for good this time, then screw him.” “Hey. Watch your mouth. This is your father we’re talking about here.” Lydia dropped her fork onto the plate. Her mom winced. “Exactly. He’s my father. And he’s your husband. And if he really did walk away and shut you out, if he didn’t even bother to leave the door open for any possibility of working things out, then maybe it’s time for you to let that door stay shut.” “It’s not that easy, Lydia. Someday you’ll understand.” “I never said it was easy, Mom. But you don’t ever really leave the ones you love—not for good. You take a break.You do the work. You fight. You always come back. If he doesn’t want to fight for it, if he wants to give up, then maybe you need to accept his choice.” Her mom leaned forward and extended a hand, softly cupping it over Lydia’s. “I’m sorry, honey. I have my therapist to talk about this stuff with. I shouldn’t be dumping this on you.” Subtle moisture flickered in her eyes, leveling Lydia’s gooey insides. “I’m so happy you’re home. I’ve missed you so much.” “I’ve missed you too. You can always talk to me, ya know. I can’t promise I won’t key his car or hire Uncle Vinny to take him out, but I can listen when you need to talk about him.” “No.” Her mom shook her head and slowly pushed her chair back. “It’s better if I leave you out of it. Thank you, though. For being my grumpy, sweet daughter.” Rising to her feet, she leaned over, smacked a kiss on Lydia’s forehead, then moved to the sink. “What about your breakfast?” “Lost my appetite.” “Mom, I know this is a really tired, cliche thing no one likes to hear, but . . . you really do deserve more than he’s willing to give. Give yourself permission to be happy. You don’t have to walk through life like this, perpetually heartbroken

over Dad. There will be someone else out there who won’t give up, who will do the work and fight for his family.” Standing to her mother, Lydia carried the plates over and helped her wash and dry, listening as she hummed quietly. After a while, they both lapsed into a comfortable silence. “I’m gonna go get ready for the beach,” Lydia finally said, heading toward the stairwell. “We’ll go next weekend, honey. You’re home for the whole summer. There will be plenty more beach days.” “And there will be plenty more Sam days.” Lydia smiled wryly in her mom’s direction, then disappeared upstairs. If there were two things she could always count on in this tiny harbor town, it was seashell pancakes and her best friend, bossy Samantha Turner, pounding on her door every day, wanting to hang out. Anytime Lydia ever asked for a raincheck, Sam didn’t just agree to one—she demanded one. If only Lydia’s dad could have learned a thing or two from Sam’s determination.

***

The familiar saltwater breeze floated through Lydia’s bedroom window. The ivory lace curtains stirred against the sill, coaxing her from morning drowsiness. She yawned contently, stretching out beneath the covers. The comforting sense of home wrapped her in a blissful cocoon, filling her with relief that she decided to spend the whole summer in her hometown. She’d considered staying on campus and taking a summer class or two, but the cozy sea breeze drifting into her old room filled her with absolute certainty that she made the right decision to skip the summer semester. She needed a break, and she needed downtime with her best friend. Seeing the state her mom was in only further cemented that certainty. Both of these women needed her right now, just as much as she needed them. She flung the covers off and lazily pulled herself up, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from her eyes. An intense thirst drove her to reach for the glass of water on

the nightstand. She gulped it down, wishing she’d had another glass full. Lips chapped and mouth still dry, she grimaced as she set the glass back down. Pushing the thirst aside, she rose to her feet and shuffled over to the window. The same warm, fuzzy feeling that greeted her when she first opened her eyes rushed in again with the wind. Most college students her age hated to leave campus, but Lydia wasn’t too proud to it that she was a total mama’s girl. She loved being home. She even loved the yellow, peeling antique wallpaper, old-timey front porch, and the burgundy fainting sofa in the parlor. This house was her grandmother’s house, and her grandmother’s grandmother’s house before that, and on and on it went. The Hadley family had lived in Hawthorne Harbor for ages. Parting the ivory curtains, Lydia squinted as the sunlight poured in. She leaned her hip against the sill and drew in a deep breath, eyes scanning the horizon for the lighthouse. For as long as she could , it always served as her com—a strong, sturdy, dependable structure that reminded her she could withstand any storm that tried to knock her down. She laughed, recalling the many days she’d stood in that very same spot, imagining herself living inside the lighthouse, with only her favorite stuffed sea turtle, Herman. She’d threatened her parents time and time again to run away and live there, even though everyone knew she was bluffing. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee slowly wafted its way up to her room, calling attention to her need for caffeine. Breaking away from her nostalgic haze, she went still at the sight of a sharp, emerald green flash, bouncing off the rocks at the base of the lighthouse. It disappeared, then ricocheted in her direction again. She squeezed her eyes shut and re-opened them, dropping her focus back on the rocks. A wave of heat raked her forehead and travelled down to her toes, shifting her thirst into overdrive, overpowering the need for coffee. She turned from the window and started for the bedroom door, disoriented by the movement. A sudden dizziness seeped into her skin, seizing control of her arms and legs. She veered to the right, then to the left, tripping on the corner of the throw rug near the desk. Before she knew what hit her, her body thumped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. She was a messy, tangled heap of bones, sprawled out on one side, reaching upward for something, anything, to grab onto. The room spun wildly, tossing her around like a dinghy in a tempest, her parched mouth desperate for hydration. “Mom?” she whispered, the disorientation deepening by the second. “Can you

hear me? Mom!” The sound of her own voice pierced her temples, splintering as it penetrated her forehead. The room tilted sideways, aligning itself with her position on the floor. Was she standing upright now? Was her equilibrium playing some kind of sick joke on her? Maybe this was heatstroke. A thousand theories rattled around, tangoing with the echoed cries for help. The noise began to fade, lulling Lydia into a distant, quiet trance. She slipped off to a dreamy state, somewhere near the lighthouse rocks, where a fierce, captivating green hue summoned her closer and closer to the lightly crashing waves.

***

A well-worn copy of Shakespeare’s Pericles dangled from Lydia’s fingertips as she stood at the bedroom window, spacing out, unable to pry her eyes from the lighthouse. A measured, melodramatic knock on the door broke through the hazy daydream—one of at least a dozen she’d had all week—as she slowly closed her book. “Help,” Sam’s monotone voice carried through the door. “Your mom’s downstairs listening to Rosemary Clooney and talking about trying eyelash extensions.” Lydia snorted, wandering over to the door. She leaned against it, tightening her fist on the knob. “What’s the ?” “Come on, Lyd,” Sam groaned, “don’t make me go back down there. It’s scary.” “You know the rules.” Sam stomped her foot. “It changes every year. How am I supposed to know this summer’s if you haven’t given it to me yet?” “On Wednesdays we wear pink.” “You can’t sit with us!” Lydia swung the door open with a big, cheesy grin. “See? Was that so hard?”

Sam breezed into the room and walked straight for the bed, flinging herself across it in typical, theatrical Samantha fashion. “Mean Girls was so eight summers ago.” “Meh.” Lydia rolled a shoulder. “I’m feeling nostalgic.” “So . . . about your mom.” Lydia moseyed over to the edge of the bed and plopped down. “Yeah. I know.” “I don’t think your dad is coming back this time.” “Don’t get me started.” Lydia fell back and stared up at the ceiling fan, wishing she was out there in the harbor, huddled up in the lighthouse with Herman, tucked away from the reality of her parents’ crumbling marriage. “Today it’s eyelash extensions, yesterday it was yoga, and the day before that it was buying an alpaca farm somewhere in Canada. It’s gonna be a loooooong summer.” Sam shifted and sat up, bringing a pile of pillows onto her lap. She glanced over at the bedside table and snatched up Herman, cradling the stuffed sea turtle against her chest. “She’s struggling. I feel so bad, Lyd. She smiles, but her eyes . . . man, those eyes say it all.” “Mmhhmm.” “Sorry. You probably wanna talk about something else.” “Yup.” “Well, how was your first week home? You ready for Monday? I heard Alicia Lansbury enrolled, too. She’s gonna want one of the lead roles, obviously. And then she’s gonna try to order us all around, like the little dictator she is. She can’t function without minions, bowing to her every command.” Lydia couldn’t believe it was almost time to start the summer program she’d signed up for at the Hawthorne Harbor community theater. She and Sam had agreed to enroll together months ago, but over the past week, Lydia’s enthusiasm had waned. It took her hours to make it through three pages of the play. She’d read it countless times before, but she was rusty; a reread was essential. No matter how hard she tried to concentrate, she couldn’t seem to focus. Visions of

a mystifying, dark green glow roaming over the rocky harbor shore continued to creep into her consciousness, knocking her train of thought right off the tracks. Sam’s voice grew muffled as she recalled the past week’s daydreams. A few seconds ed, and she began to lose herself in the robotic hum of the spinning fan blades above her. “Hello?” Sam’s voice orbited the room, still somewhere far, far away. “Earth to Lydia. Are you listening to me?” “Huh? What did you say?” “I’ve been rambling on for ten minutes. What’s going on with you today? Are you feeling OK?” Sam scooted closer and felt Lydia’s forehead. “You look pale.” Lydia rolled her eyes in Sam’s direction. “Paler than normal, I mean.” Lydia propped herself up on shaky elbows. “I don’t know. I’ve been out of it all week. I can’t focus, I’m dizzy, and I’m thirsty all the time, like I can’t get enough water, no matter how much I drink. Maybe I’m catching whatever my mom came down with. Maybe the Hadley women are officially losing their marbles.” Sam snickered in amusement, wiggling Herman into the crook of Lydia’s neck. “Losing their marbles? Hey, Lyd. Miss Daisy called and wants her Bygone Era Dictionary back.” Lydia stole Herman, snuggling him beneath her chin. “See? I belong down there with my mom, listening to Rosemary Clooney records.” “Hey, I wasn’t dissing Rosemary Clooney. She’s classic. Your mom listening to her music—that’s scary.” “I don’t get it.” “I dunno.” Sam’s lips swished to one side. “It’s so out of character. She’s more of a Doris Day kinda woman, ya know? Less sassy.”

“I think I just need to get out of this house.” Lydia perked up, shimmied off the bed, and returned Herman to his perch on the bedside table. “Wanna go for a walk? Let’s go down to the lighthouse.” “As you wish, Miss Daisy. As long as we can stop at Marina’s for a burger. I’m starving.” “Deal.” Lydia led the way downstairs, swiping another bottle of water from the kitchen before leaving the house.

***

Fried flounder and coconut shrimp turned Lydia’s stomach as she sat on the deck, watching Sam devour her burger. Marina’s Grill was undeniably the best local spot in town for fresh catch-of-the-day specials, and no one could top their wrap-around deck, which offered beautiful panoramic views of the harbor and beyond. Today, however, the aromas wiped out Lydia’s appetite, and the scenery only fueled her desire to be in the water, not observing it from afar. Forget lounging on the beach, forget the pretty views from the deck. Today, an innate need propelled her toward the ocean—she needed to feel the cold saltwater on her skin, needed it to seep through her pores, to connect with the invigorating rush of the waves. “So,” Sam mumbled through another bite of her burger, “I told the guy, ‘Forget it.’ It was over from that moment on. No way can I date someone who doesn’t like Eddie Vedder. Just not possible. It would never work out.” Lydia aimlessly pushed french fries around her plate, unable to peel her eyes from the harbor view over Sam’s shoulder. Sam slowly glided into her line of sight, snapping her fingers as she blocked the view of the lighthouse. “OK, Lyd. You’re starting to freak me out.” “I’m just thinking . . . go ahead, what were you saying?” “Just thinking what?” Sam’s eyes popped wide. “Please, I’d love to know what

you’re thinking. At least give me a clue to whatever is going on in that brain of yours! Something buggin’ you? Something you’re not telling me?” “You already know everything there is to know.” Lydia shrugged, pushing her plate farther away, toward the center of the table. The cry of seagulls in the distance toyed with her focus, luring her back to the water, but she quickly took hold of the reins and forced herself to stare straight ahead, right at Sam. “I told you, I’m just feeling distracted lately.” “Distracted is an understatement. Maybe you should go to the doctor Monday morning, before the workshop starts. You look . . . different. And you’re not eating, which is beyond bizarre.” “OK, Mom.” Lydia slipped back into the present, flipping Sam a saucy smile. She sipped at the remainder of her water, instantly lifted by the hydration. “If I still feel weird tomorrow, then I’ll definitely go to the walk-in clinic. I probably feel like crap because I haven’t been sleeping well. Who knows?” She flagged down the waitress to request a refill. “Could be stress, could be a million different things.” Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Stop worrying.” “You sure you don’t wanna talk about the stuff with your dad? Might make you feel better.” The waitress appeared with a water refill, and Lydia thanked her, asking for the check. “How about we run home and change, so we can go for a swim?” Sam’s brows lifted. “You? Swim at the beach?” “Sure. Why not?” “Uh . . . ‘cause you have a major aversion to the sun? You hate it, and it hates you; you have a perfectly toxic relationship. I’m shocked you wanted to go for a walk this time of day, and doubly shocked that you agreed to sit out on the deck with me. Swimming equals basking beneath that great fireball in the sky, so . . . ” “Why is this so shocking? We always went swimming when we were kids. We

loved going out on your Uncle Pete’s boat, ?” “Yeah . . . I guess. You always bundled yourself up, though. And usually off on your own, reading a Nancy Drew book, while I was the one splashing around, looking for sunken shipwrecks. I always had to convince you to jump in and me.” “Well, maybe that’s true, but today I’m in the mood for a swim.” Lydia swiped a french fry and gave it a hearty chomp. “Look, I’m already feeling better. See?” Sam leaned forward, studying her friend closely. Lydia wiggled uncomfortably. “Sorry.” Sam shook her head after a beat. “I’m just waiting for some little chestbursting alien to make an appearance. You haven’t had a recent encounter with any kind of face-hugging creature, have you?” “Oh, for crying out loud!” Lydia scooped up another french fry and swallowed it down, ignoring its sour taste. Her taste buds couldn’t be satisfied by anything served at this restaurant, and her thirst couldn’t be quenched until she was completely submerged in the ocean’s cool caress. A beguiling twinkle of rich, green light reassured her yearning, flashing beyond Sam’s shoulder, near the lighthouse landing. It immediately ensnared her, reeling her back in. “Come on, are you ready?” Lydia’s eyes lit up like they did when she was a kid, the morning she found Herman sitting beneath the Christmas tree. She slipped some cash from her wallet, dropped it on the table, then grabbed her purse and shot up from her chair. Bolting from the table, she moved directly for the deck’s exit. “Um, okaaaay . . .” Sam scrambled to jog after her, still baffled by her best friend’s newfound enthusiasm for the beach. “Hey! Wait up, Lyd! Hey, slow your roll, woman!” Leaving Sam in the dust, Lydia beelined for the Hadley house, so she could change and race to the lighthouse. Her pulse quickened at the thought of making with the enchanting green pigment that had been slinking around the rocks.

***

Sam yawned and glanced at her watch, sipping lazily on her lemonade. “Hey, Lyd?” she called out, wondering if Lydia would even hear her this time. She’d been trying to get through to her all afternoon, but wasn’t having much luck. After almost an hour of wandering around the lighthouse, they’d finally settled down on the beach for a swim, but the swim turned out to be an all-afternoon event. Lydia had barely come ashore since they arrived; the moment she waded into the water, Sam was on her own for everything from snacking to suntanning. “Five more minutes,” Lydia replied, voice drifting back like a wistful sailor, lost at sea. Sam sighed and slathered on some more sunscreen, because Lydia’s five more minutes actually meant fifty minutes. Just as her eyes drifted shut, and she began surrendering to another nap, she was showered by a spray of wet sand. “Hey!” Lydia rushed up to her side, digging into her bag for a towel and dry tshirt. “I think I see Esme over by the lighthouse. I want to go see what she’s up to. It looks like she’s building a sandcastle or something over there.” Sam lifted her shades and sat up on her elbows. “Whoa, what? You mean . . . you, talk to Esme?” “Yeah.” Lydia shrugged, looking at Sam for the first time in hours. “I’m curious to see what she’s up to.” Sam peeked in the lighthouse’s direction, catching a glimpse of Esme’s colorful silhouette, huddled down near the cove. Her long tie-dyed skirt, bronzeembellished belt, and wild, thick mass of auburn hair, piled high on her head, were easy to spot. Hawthorne Harbor’s infamous vagabond woman was clumsily digging a hole in the sand with a bright yellow shovel, like a little kid prodding around for buried treasure. “No one talks to Esme. Ever.” “Haven’t you ever wondered why? It’s sad when you think about it. I mean, why are people so afraid of her? Just look at her—she’s perfectly harmless. Looks like she’s having fun, doesn’t it?”

Sam studied Lydia’s face as she spoke, transfixed by an abrupt glimmer of emerald-toned specks, surfing over her pupils. They sparkled like miniature gems in the sunlight, eclipsing her irises, then disappeared just as quickly, leaving a faint trace of luminescence in their wake. Sitting up fully, she craned her neck forward to take a closer look at her friend’s eyes. “Hey, Lyd?” “Huh?” “Never mind.” Sam laughed off the illusion, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I think I’ve been sitting out in the sun for too long. I think I’m gonna head home. Do you mind if I take off?” “Of course not. I’m gonna go see Esme and then head home myself. I need a shower. I’ll see you Monday at the theater?” “Yup, it’s a date.” Sam moved to pack up, taking in Lydia’s insatiable thirst. She watched as she gulped down more water, then stowed away the remainder into the cooler. “Want me to leave the cooler here for you?” “Nah, that’s okay. You can take it with you. Thanks, though.” Sam considered sparring with her, insisting she hang onto the water and remaining snacks, just in case, but decided against it. Her energy reserve for their usual banter was running low. Her head was starting to ache, and an inkling intuition told her it was time to get home and out of the sun, before any other mirages could sneak up and mess with her head. “Okay, if you say so. Be careful chasing Esme down the rabbit hole. Off I go! See you Monday, then.” Standing to dust the sand off, she slipped her sundress over her head. Lydia ed her, sliding into her t-shirt. “Yup. Bye, girl.” Gathering up the cooler and tote bags, Sam began to shuffle away, pausing mid stride. “Hey, Lyd,” she added over her shoulder. “Yeah?” “Don’t forget the doctor Monday morning. Ya know, if you still don’t feel right.” For a split second, a glimpse of the familiar, authentic Lydia appeared—the playful, responsive Lydia that Sam had known her whole life. “Hey, Sam.” Lydia

delivered her best poker face, shooing Sam away from the beach blanket so she could bend down and snatch it up. “My mom called and said she wants her job back. Go home!” She winked and flashed her a cheeky grin, watching patiently as Sam trudged through the sand and disappeared. The minute Sam was out of sight, Lydia hurried over to Esme. Invigorated and spurred on by the afternoon swim, she tossed the blanket over her shoulder and trekked over to the other side of the lighthouse. Sam was right—no one ever talked to Esme. The town downright avoided her whenever and however possible. Until today, even Lydia had been guilty of dodging any and all interactions with the woman. Not until she was out there, bobbing around in the saltwater, allowing the waves to direct and toss her around like a rag doll, did it occur to her she’d never really paid much attention to Esme whatsoever. She approached Hawthorne Harbor’s notorious outcast head on. “Hey, Esme.” She extended a hand. “I’ve never introduced myself. My name’s Lydia. Lydia Simpson-Hadley. Well, just Hadley, now. My dad’s out of the picture, so if you ask me, his name doesn’t count anymore. He can keep it.” Esme paid her no mind, shoveling away in silence. Lydia cleared her throat. “I was just wondering what you were working on over here. Are you getting ready to build a castle?” Waves broke and mingled with the echoes of seagulls in the distance. “Ya know, the beach isn’t usually my scene, but the weather was so nice today, I couldn’t resist a swim. I’ve been swimming all afternoon.” A nervous laugh fluttered from her lips. She’d never been good at this small-talk stuff, but insistent curiosity compelled her to pry further. “Do you like to swim? Did you grow up in a beach town, like this one? I mean, before you moved. Well, you must move around a lot, right?” She winced, fighting the urge to smack herself in the forehead. How would she know if Esme moved around a lot? How did anyone in this town really know anything about her, anyway? How could they, if they never gave her the time of day? How did she get stuck with the nomad label in the first place? She’d been in Hawthorne Harbor for some time; maybe she wasn’t a drifter at all. She inhaled sharply and tried again. “I’ve seen you around a lot, so I know you’ve lived here for quite a while. Do you have family here in Hawthorne

Harbor?” Esme remained hunched over, her gaze trained steadily on her busy work. She began to hum quietly to herself, and that was Lydia’s cue. “Well, it was nice meeting you. Good luck with . . . your project, there.” She motioned to the hole in the sand, then turned on her heel. “They say it stirs beneath the surface.” Esme’s voice, gravelly and commanding, stunned Lydia still. “It’s why you swim now.” “I’m sorry. . . . I don’t think I heard you right. What did you say?” “You heard me just fine.” Esme’s intent stare moved in unison with the shovel. Deeper and deeper she dug, forming one pile of sand beside her, then two. “Just like you hear the sea kelp’s whispers. She’s trying to reach you. You’re finally starting to listen.” Lydia gulped. The throw blanket slipped off her shoulder, flapping in the wind as it tumbled to the ground. “I don’t understand. . . . Who is trying to reach me?” A panic-stricken laugh bubbled up, mixing with a sudden ball of unease that formed in the pit of her stomach. Esme’s words were a foreign language to Lydia, yet they were filled with something simple and undiluted. Either Esme really was as strange and nonsensical as the town’s gossip claimed, or there was something Lydia was missing, some truth buried in her message. “You knew her when you were very young. She came to you in the lighthouse, and it was there you learned of your fate. You drifted away after that, busy with your books.” Esme chucked the shovel into the hole, then slowly rose, straightening her posture. “Busy, busy, busy. Swim, swim, swimming. Swimming here on dry land, where you know you don’t belong.” The rational part of Lydia’s brain implored her to retreat, to remove herself from Esme’s sphere of lunacy, but the salt water still buzzed through her, emboldening her desire to crack the woman’s cryptic code. “But I do belong here. Who is she? The one who came to visit me?” Esme inched closer. Her hand suddenly snaked out, latching onto Lydia’s wrist. Lydia flinched.

“You feel it, don’t you? The same pulse in the waves, the pulse of her voice—it sings in your blood. You can’t hide from it anymore.” Esme’s firm grip pressed deeply into Lydia’s wrist. Her fingertips, rough as sandpaper, roamed over her veins. She studied the faint blue lines as if they were insightful, wise little maps that knew the way to some secret, long-forgotten magical land. “OK.” Lydia shivered, recoiling and stumbling backward. “Whatever you’re talking about . . . I think it’s meant for someone else. Excuse me, I have to get going.” “Busy, busy, busy. Swim, swim, swim.” Esme’s gaze drilled into Lydia, searching for something, as if sifting around the ocean floor for a missing piece of priceless gold. “The more you fight it, the more the madness creeps in.” Lydia reached for the throw blanket and took off, moving as quickly as her feet would carry her over the scorching hot, soft sand. Her speed-walk morphed into a full-on sprint until she safely reached the Hadley house. No matter how much distance she put between them, Lydia couldn’t shake Esme’s raw, invasive voice. It followed her all the way home. Not once did she look back.

***

Lydia’s relentless thirst coerced her from sleep. She opened her eyes and attempted to adjust to the bedroom’s darkness. Except for the warm moonlight cascading through the open window, the room was a stark, black void. She recalled falling asleep the moment her head hit the pillow that night, but everything else was a blur. Alarm took root as Esme’s words surfaced again, their obscurity returning to haunt her in the middle of the night. The sea breeze prompted the lace curtains to dance against the sill, and the familiar scene helped calm her racing heart. Straining to focus, she scanned the bedside table to check the time. The bright red digits on the alarm clock told her it was 2:30 a.m. Casting out thoughts of the bizarre encounter at the beach the day before, Lydia pulled in a quiet breath, tuning into the distant, soothing sounds of the harbor. The cathartic lull of the waves and clinking echoes of ships, bobbing around in

the port, ushered the incident farther and farther away, carrying it out to sea. The reprieve from the panic didn’t last long. Her parched mouth yanked her from serenity and forced her into motion. She shifted beneath the covers, reaching for the lamp switch, but her arms and shoulders were lead weights, stubborn and immobile. A slick, slimy coolness crawled over her bare forearms, slithering up and over her collarbone. The cold, wet sensation wrapped around her shoulders, pinning her tightly against the mattress. A film of greasy sludge trickled across her neck, spreading its way up to her ears, and an aroma of musty seaweed filled her nostrils. The air caught in her throat and her heart pummeled a tattoo into her chest as she ed more dampness at the foot of the bed. She wriggled her toes against the sheets, willing her legs to move. Like her arms, they wouldn’t budge. “Mom,” she choked on a raspy whisper, “please! Help me!” Over and over again, she fought to push out more syllables, more breath from her lips, to no avail. The paralyzing force rendered her lifeless, weighing her to the bed like a heavy boulder. A soft green glow slowly illuminated the room, its light brighter and more pronounced in the far left corner, near the window. It crackled and popped like a flare gun, exploding, then fizzling out in the open sky. The figure of a woman materialized, svelte and formidable, her dark emerald eyes as sharp and striking as finely cut diamonds. A visceral scream emerged, erupting from Lydia’s ribcage, but no sound escaped her lips. “Ssshhhh,” the woman soothed Lydia like a baby. Her three-dimensional voice bounced around the room, its echoes reaching through multiple worlds of time and space. “You mustn't be afraid, my child. Right now, you fear. Soon, you will rest in sublime peace.” Her lean silhouette shimmered, her skin a pattern of smooth, golden scales that sparkled like rhinestones and stretched tautly over her face. A form-fitting white gown concealed the rest of her body from the neck down. Long, flowing dark tendrils floated around her shoulders, framing her face, the texture of her hair as peculiar as her skin, and as mesmerizing as the color of her eyes. She drifted closer to the edge of the bed, levitating at Lydia’s feet. Lydia’s eyes bulged as she drew near. The woman’s kinetic, buoyant hair was not hair at all, but dozens of dark green eels, swaying in unison with their mistress. Their mouths gaped and closed as they yielded to her direction. Desperation scrambled to elicit another scream from her lips, but the force filling

the room wouldn’t allow it. “It is time for you to return home, my child. Among the kelp beds, three hundred meters down, in the harbor’s deepest ravine. There, you shall rule with Oceana, your Queen and Mother. Who am I?” The woman smiled knowingly. It was a warm, maternal smile that should have comforted Lydia, but instead inspired sheer terror. “I am a mere mediator, our Queen Mother’s appointed intercessor. You’ve been summoned. When you awaken from slumber, do make haste.” She glided closer, bringing her eel-ridden headdress before Lydia’s face. The creatures spasmed and lurched forward, triggering an internal convulsion that made her bones quake. “Oceana waits for no one.” The woman retreated back into the corner, into the green orb of light, leaving Lydia one last piece of instruction. “Go to the rocks, at the base of the lighthouse —you know the entrance well. Swim out until the first wave breaks, and I will lead you home.” Her voice reverberated into the night, then vanished out the window, drifting back to its underwater dominion.

***

A cigarette burned, resting against Lydia’s mother’s fingertips, a new habit which sprung up determinedly like a noxious weed in a decimated desert. The television lit up the neglected living room, its light exposing the ash trays, food wrappers, and random heaps of shoes and clothing, strewn about the space. The news report scrolled across the screen, the anchor’s voice as monotonous and uninspired as Lydia’s mother’s mind. Sam sauntered in to her with a freshly-filled coffee mug, her feet featherlight on the wooden floor. She caught a reflection of the circles beneath her eyes in the parlor mirror—darker today, darker each day for the last three months. She dropped limply into the wing-back chair, falling into the communal numbness. The news headline was always the same at this hour: Hawthorne Harbor college student, beloved daughter, and burgeoning, future playwright still missing. Last seen three months ago, believed to be battling undiagnosed mental illness before mysteriously vanishing in the middle of the

night. s from town residents reveal the student had been experiencing hallucinations before her disappearance, and had been spotted associating with notorious town drifters—one of which authorities still suspect may have been involved in the incident. The suspect was summoned not long after the student disappeared for further questioning, but sadly, no new developments or leads have offered any resolution in this truly tragic case. Sam’s bloodshot eyes roamed to the coffee table, landing on Herman the stuffed sea turtle, now a talisman that bridged Lydia’s two worlds. He had a ringside seat to the spectacle. “She’ll come home.” Lydia’s mother’s words fell flat at Sam’s feet. Her empty stare drilled into the TV screen. “When they love you, they always come back.”

MADAME VAN EVERBOURNE

R. M. Carpus

“Have y'all ever heard such a name? Ain’t nobody down here in this part of the great state of Alabama called Madame nothin’!” Louise’s hearty cackle broke through the hushed whispers of the Dixie Mill corner store on old US Route 37, the sound as vibrant as her fire-engine red hair. She and the town’s gossip wagon congregated by the side of the check-out counter to weigh in on Whistle Forge’s newest resident, Mrs. Vivienne van Everbourne, or as her ninth-grade students referred to her, simply Madame Everbourne. The newest highschool teacher hailed all the way from some hoity-toity town up in Massachusetts and insisted on being called Madame, though the Mrs. applied to her name was a mystery. There was no ring on her finger, and no sign of a Mr. Van Everbourne living at 34 Abbott Drive, as the Dixie Mill ladies and Whistle Forge Baptist’s Bible study group could attest. Heaps of theories rolled through town, one right after the other, from the moment Vivienne arrived, but it was Clara Abernathy who had convinced everyone that the sophisticated new resident was a widow on the run. “Just think about it.” Clara lowered her voice, pinning Louise—the only skeptic she’d yet to convert—with a grave stare. “Why else would a posh, la-di-da woman such as herself move out here to this godforsaken snot-hole of a town on the Alabama coastline? I’m tellin’ ya, she did away with Mr. Van Everbourne and came on down here to escape! We’ve seen it on those investigative crime shows. Why wouldn’t it happen right here in Whistle Forge?” Louise snorted, sipping on her third glass of sweet tea. She leaned against the counter, shaking her head. “Clara, not a darn word comin’ outta your mouth makes any sense, darlin’. If the woman hacked up her husband and left his body somewhere up there in the woods, why on God’s green Earth would she parade herself around here as a Mrs. anyway, hhhmmm? She’d just be asking to get caught, then. Mark my words, she’s just a cocky intellectual type, strollin’ around here, showin’ off her smarts. Husband’s probably some travelling businessman––never home. I bet you the last piece of my granmama's fried catfish that’s why she likes the attention. Bored and lonely women get on up’ta all kinds of trouble in the South.”

Clara’s lips pursed. “I’m just sayin’, is all.” “Ain’t nothin’ tackier than a prim and proper educated woman flauntin’ her fancy degree around the likes of us.” Louise huffed. “Oh, it sure gets my goat! I have a right mind to tell her to turn right back around and go on up’ta that uppity university of hers, where she belongs.” “Amen!” Betty Barker raised her hands in emphatic agreement. Her short, mousy brown curls bounced as she spoke. “You know what Pastor Anthony says about the haughty: ‘the good Lord gives, and the good Lord takes away.’ Too big for her britches, that one! If she don’t get down from that high horse, I reckon the good Lord’ll knock her down soon enough!” “Oh, heaven have mercy, here we go again.” Barney McGuire shuffled into the shop through the back stockroom door, carrying a box of cornstarch and oil. “Go on, now, you ol’ hens, move along, will ya? Don’t y'all have nothin’ better to do than sit around flappin’ your lips about our new neighbor? Miss what’s-her-name isn’t half bad, I reckon. Seems a fine, dandy woman to me.” Louise took a swig of tea and rolled her eyes. “Barney, you best mind your own business. Shouldn’t you be fryin’ some chicken for the lunch rush?” Barney’s eyes bulged behind his glasses. Three strands of barely there hair stood up on his balding head. “Me? Mind my own business? Sure is rich, comin’ from you, woman! Rush? Shoot, what rush? The only rush ‘round here is the customers, rushin’ away from you and your flappy-gummed hens, soon as they see ya comin’ their direction! All you hens do is spread poison ‘round this good town, and ain’t nobody gonna defend ya on the good Lord’s judgement day, when he’s sure to set you right. No, ma’am, I’ll tell the Big Man myself: ‘Yessum, Heavenly Father, that there woman been doin’ nothin’ as long as I know her but talkin’ dirt ‘bout our neighbors.’” He chucked the box of supplies on the ground, pulling out his hanky to wipe his forehead. “All them hours you clock in our Sund’y mornin’ services and you still ain’t learned that spreading scandal is a sin. Mercy, mercy. Heaven have mercy!” “Oh, mercy yourself, ol’ man,” Louise fired back, moving to pop a stick of gum in her mouth. “You go on, now, talkin’ ‘bout judgement this, judgement that, but you’re too high and mighty to it you’re the one doin’ all the judgin’ in this here town.”

“Amen!” Betty broke out her folding church fan and whipped herself up a breeze. Barney gave Louise a dismissive wave and went about his business stocking the shelves. “You bet yer bottom dollar, I’ma judgin’, woman. I’m callin’ you out on this here gossip and tellin’ ya ta put a stop to it, ya hear? One of these days it’s gonna backfire and bite ya right in the doggone butt, and ya won’t have one drop of sympathy from me. And Betty, quit fannin’ yourself like you’re in some kinda fit, about ta speak in tongues, woman. You ain’t no Pentecostal!” Clara’s timid voice peppered the air. “Baptists need fannin’ too, now, Barney. Why, when the Holy Spirit moves and the July heat hits, it’s all we can do to keep from in’ out.” Louise shifted, ready to toss another zinger in Barney’s direction and defend the ladies, but the bells on the door jingled, stopping her short. “Well, good morning, everyone.” Madame Everbourne’s formal yet friendly greeting cast a net of sudden silence over the shop. Louise didn’t quite know what to do with the woman’s chipper greeting. Respond with a strong dose of snarkiness? Smile sweetly and greet her back, just as politely? She settled for popping her gum. “Mr. McGuire.” Vivienne strode confidently forward, bringing herself flush with the Dixie Mill’s number one stock clerk. “Please be a dear and tell me you’ve received more poultry since my last visit. I have guests coming this weekend and would love nothing more than to treat them to my signature lemon rosemary chicken dish.” The glossy sheen of her mahogany hair, pulled tidily into a French twist, shined as brightly in the summer sunlight as her finely manicured fingernails. Donned in a vintage, powder blue pencil skirt and matching blazer, she delivered a curt smile to the ladies at the counter. Her mystifying sea green irises briefly surveyed their little flock before restoring full attention to Barney and his all-too-willing assistance. “Why, of course, Madame. I’m happy to report I stocked it fresh just this mornin’, in fact.” Barney proudly adjusted his suspenders. “I’m about ta fry some chicken for the lunch rush, too, if yer interested. Ain’t nothin’ like

scorchin’ hot fried chicken, right out the pan. You haven’t tried ours yet, I reckon. Or our famous fried green tomaytas, for that matter.” “Lunch rush,” Betty mumbled, shooting Louise an amused glare. “Please, Mr. McGuire, call me Vivienne. No fried chicken today, thank you very much. Perhaps next time, though. You are correct; I’ve yet to try your specialties.” Barney waved her on over to the meat and poultry cooler. “All right, Vivienne. In that case, you best call me Barney. By now, we all on a first-name basis ‘round these parts. And that’s a darn-tootin’ shame. Next time you come in, I’ma box you up the best fried green tomaytas you’ve ever tasted, and some fried drumsticks that’ll knock your socks off!” Madame Everbourne’s index finger ticked in the air. “No, no. I insist you call me Vivienne, but I mustn't ever call my neighbors by their first names, I’m afraid.” “Why not?” Louise blurted out from behind the counter. Vivienne glanced at Louise and did a double-take. “It is simply how I was raised. I do appreciate the gesture, however.” She gave the ladies another tight smile. Betty leaned into Clara and Louise, gently fanning them all. “Sure looks like grinnin’ hurts her face, don’t it?” she whispered. Clara’s elbow bumped Betty’s ribcage, and Louise’s posture straightened. The Dixie Mill ladies watched as Madame Everbourne rummaged daintily through the poultry selection, keeping her white leather handbag tucked carefully against her hip. Barney peered at them onishingly. “This will do nicely, thank you,” Vivienne said, carrying her selection over to the cash . Betty and Clara parted from Louise, clearing the way for Madame Everbourne. Louise’s eyes widened as Vivienne deposited not one, not two, not three packs of raw chicken, but a stack of eight packs onto the counter. “Goodness gracious, you’ve gone and cleaned us clear out again, Vivienne. You sure do like your chicken, don’t ya?” She chuckled and tapped some keys on the rusty ,

amazed at how much such a lanky, thin lady could consume on a weekly basis. Why, since she’d moved to town, she’d been their hottest customer, stocking up on all sorts of groceries. “As I said, I’m expecting guests.” “You expectin’ the whole highschool football team?” Louise slammed a fist against the till drawer until it popped open. She extended an open palm. “That’ll be forty-five fifty.” Madame Everbourne craned her neck over the , scanning the receipt digits. “Well, that is certainly some expensive poultry. I don’t recall it costing me quite that much last week. Would you mind tallying the total again for me, please? Perhaps you’ve miscalculated.” “Perhaps.” Louise tilted her chin up in defiance. “Or perhaps the price of chicken has gone up since last week.” Betty’s fan rose up over her face, concealing everything but her prying eyes. Clara busied herself with the chocolate bar display. “We carry only free-range poultry products now,” Louise chided, bagging up the chicken. “Without all the chemicals and such. Costs our supplier a pretty penny to haul them all the way out here, to us simple folk in Whistle Forge. ‘Round here, most of us kill and fry our own chicken, ya see. So this high-quality, prepackaged, non-GMO stuff don’t come cheap.” “I must say,” Vivienne countered, “that is indeed a significant hike in price.” “Indeed.” Louise wiggled her fingers, lifting her open palm higher. Barney cleared his throat, pitching daggers at her from behind the shelves. “Give Vivienne the Dixie Mill special, now, Louise.” “Special? What special?” Her brows lifted. His eyes narrowed. “The only cotton-pickin’ one we got.” Louise jammed a pudgy finger on the . “Twenty-eight fifty.”

“Ah, yes.” Vivienne nodded approvingly, fishing out some bills from her wallet. “That sounds more like it, thank you.” Louise pouted and accepted the cash, then petulantly handed over the bag of raw chicken. Madame Everbourne turned on her heel and thanked Barney cordially. “I look forward to those famous fried green tomatoes and homemade drumsticks, Mr. McGuire.” “You best come ‘round noon on a Wednesd’y if you want my best batch, Vivienne. No, ma’am, I reckon you won’t be disappointed, not one bit!” Madame Everbourne tapped her left temple. “Noted on my calendar. Ta-ta for now.” She exited the store, and Louise, Betty, and Clara immediately reconvened by the cash . “Ta-ta for now,” they all sang in unison, erupting into a fit of laughter. “Trouble-makin’ hens,” Barney grumbled, disappearing behind the shelves to resume his work. “You know what I think, ladies?” Louise spat her gum into a napkin, watching Vivienne’s silhouette disappear across the street through the window. Her eyes were trained on the sight like missiles in target practice. “Do tell, Louise.” Betty scooched closer to her side. “Why, I do declare, it’s high time to activate the town phone tree.” “Louise.” Clara stepped toward them both warily. “The moment you do, you know what that means, don’t ya?” “You better believe she does,” Betty whispered, glancing over her shoulder for any signs of Barney. Oh, how that man loved to eavesdrop as much as they did. “It means war,” Louise stated matter-of-factly. “The good people of Whistle Forge deserve to know what kinda person they’re dealing with, and ain’t no doubt about it, they ain’t gonna like it when they hear how Madame Uppity took advantage of Barney’s generous heart and practically stole his shop’s chicken

stock. That price he gave her was criminal!” “Oh, come on now, Louise. You know that’s not what happened.” Clara hurried over to intercept Louise’s reach to the telephone. “What’d that woman ever really do to you, ‘cept buy up the store’s chicken? You oughta be happy about the sale, after all. You know I’m right as rain when I say business has been slow since Easter. Why, what would the Dixie Mill do if it weren’t for Madame Everboune, cleanin’ us out each week?” Louise bumped Clara’s hip, veered around her, and snatched up the telephone. “Nice try, Clara, but Miss Fancy Pants needs to learn her lesson. Don’t go crossin’ us and takin’ our fine Southern hospitality for granted.” “You call this hospitable?” Clara hissed beneath her breath, nostrils flaring. “Louise, why must you be so darn set on stirrin’ the pot?” “Oh, give it up, Clara.” Betty rolled her eyes. “Honey, you’re just wastin’ your breath. When Louise is on a mission, ain’t no one gonna stop her, not even Moses himself. Hell hath no fury like Louise with an agenda.” Clara opened her mouth once more to object, but Betty was right—she was fighting a losing battle. Louise had already begun dialing away, spreading rumors to anyone in town who would listen.

***

“Well?” Betty probed Clara over the receiver, sipping on her mid-afternoon mint julep. You could take the girl out of Kentucky and transplant her in Alabama, but you couldn’t take the Kentucky Derby out of the girl. “Come on, I’m dyin’ over here! What’s goin’ on?” “Oh, bless her heart.” Clara nibbled on a tea cake, straining to get a better glimpse of Vivienne through the binoculars. Living across the street and only one house down from their strange new neighbor had its benefits, especially when it came to spyin’ for Betty and Louise.

“Bless her heart, what? Clara!” “She’s still cookin’ up a storm over there; she’s been at it all mornin’. Maybe today’s the day her company’s arrivin’. Such a dedicated hostess!” “Mmmhmm.” “Honestly, Betty, I don’t know what you and Louise want me glued to this window for. Ain’t nothin’ special goin’ on over there.” “Have any of these so-called visitors arrived yet? Clara, Louise is gonna call again on her break any minute, and heaven help me if I don’t give her somethin’ good this time. That woman has officially gone off the deep-end; she’s drivin’ me plum crazy!” Clara sighed, then scanned the driveway once more. “Nope, still no visitors. I haven’t seen a single person show up all week. Tell Louise to give it on up, Betty. I’ve got things to do.” Picking up the tea cake caddy, she carried it with her from the bay window to the sofa, then grabbed the TV remote and scrolled through the channels to locate her favorite soap opera. “Besides, Ed’s gonna be home early today, and I promised him a special dinner. If I don’t start peelin’ potatoes soon, I’m gonna be in real hot water.” “Don’t you bail on me yet, Missy. Give me five more minutes. Does it look like she used all the chicken? What kinda servings are we talkin’ ‘bout here, enough for two people or ten?” “For cryin’ out loud, Betty, I don’t know! What difference does it make?” “Clara Abernathy, put the tea cakes down and march your ever-lovin’ butt back over to that window and give me some more details.” Clara froze mid-bite, glancing left to right. “Don’t make me call up Pastor Anthony and tell him about your lil’ gamblin’ trip to Jackson last month. You know he’d be over there in a jiffy to pray over you.” Clara slammed the tea cake caddy onto the coffee table. “When are you gonna quit holdin’ that one over my head, you lil’ snake? I won all my money back, thank you very much, and didn’t touch but a drop’a liquor. One little dab’a

whiskey, and I went right back to the hotel, where Ed was waitin’ for me. Don’t you dare try and make it sound all scandalous!” “Darlin’, desperate times call for desperate measures.” “Well, I could just as easily spill the beans about you and Louise, spyin’ and gossipin’. Not to mention draggin’ me into this mess. Why, you’re makin’ me an accomplice to your heathen scam and I bet you two’ll need sa’many prayers, the Baptists might even call in the Catholics to get y'all an exorcism!” “Oh, quit wastin’ both of our time and get back over to the window and tell me what you see.” “You’re nothin’ butta big ‘ol bully, Betty Barker.” Clara sulked, moping back over to the bay window. Lifting the binoculars, she resumed her focus on Vivienne’s kitchen. “She still cookin’?” “No.” Clara’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t see her.” “She’s not in the kitchen anymore?” “Oh, wait. There she is . . .” She leaned forward. “She’s carryin’ somethin’. Looks like chicken on a cutting board.” “That woman and her chicken.” “She’s walkin’ over to the living room with it. That’s funny . . . she’s carryin’ it over to this side table.” “What’s sa funny ‘bout that?” “There’s some big decoration on top, maybe a lamp or somethin’? She’s got it covered with a black sheet. Oh!” Clara ducked out of view, sliding closer against the wall. “I think she saw me!” “You’re imaginin’ things.” “No!” She lowered the binoculars and squeezed her eyes shut, whispering, as if

Vivienne could hear her, too. “I’m serious, Betty! She paused and glanced in my direction.” “I’m tellin’ ya, you’re bein’ paranoid, Clara. Go on, tell me what ya see.” Clara slowly brought the binoculars back to her eyes. “She’s still holdin’ the cutting board. She’s movin’ to the living room window. Oh no.” “Oh no?” “She’s slidin’ the curtains shut.” “Oh no!” “That’s it, Betty.” Clara exhaled. “That’s all for today. Can’t see a darned thing.” “Clara, you gotta get on over there.” “I beg your pardon?” “She shut the curtains, darlin’. That means she’s upta somethin’.” “It means no such thing. The woman is entitled to some privacy, Betty Barker. Now you go on and tell Louise—” “Clara, did you enjoy your date night with Ed in Jackson?” “What—why, of course I did,” she stuttered. “I told you what I did with my husband that weekend was good ol’ fashioned, innocent fun, you crazy bat—” “If you wanna keep on havin’ those fun dates nights in Jackson without the whole town blowin’ things waaaaaay outta proportion, then I suggest you hightail it over to that woman’s house and find out what’s goin’ on behind those curtains.” “Why, Betty Barker, you got demons runnin’ through you today, you—” “Goodness, Clara. Mattera fact, I think I see our good preacher man strollin’ down my street this very minute. Think I’ll go catch up with him. Bye, now . . .” Steam churned from Clara’s ears. “Fine, you ‘ol ninny. I’ll take one more look,

but I ain’t goin’ over to that house, ya hear me?” “How else are you gonna see what’s goin’ on?” “Hold on, now. There’s a sliver of curtain still open. Not much, but if I move to the bedroom on the other side of the house, I might be able to get a closer look.” “Well, what are ya waitin’ for?” “I’m movin’, I’m movin’. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Clara hurried across the house and slipped into the master bedroom, huddling up against the side window, her closest vantage point to scope out Vivienne’s living room. “Can’t see much, doggone it. I see her hands, though . . . and the cutting board. Oh! The black sheet is movin’. Looks like . . . a fish tank, or somethin. Oh, my. What in the world?” “Clara!” “It’s the strangest thing, Betty. She’s dumpin’ the chicken from the cutting board into the fish tank.” Adjusting the focus on the binoculars, she zoomed in as far as the lens would allow. “Betty! Oh, Betty! Fish! A swarm of them! With teeth! Big ‘ol teeth! Betty!” Stumbling back, she hopped around the bedroom, limbs flailing, as if she could fling the sight far from her memory. “What?” Betty screeched through the phone. “Did you say fish? Plural? With teeth? As in piranhas? You’re tellin’ me that woman has piranhas for pets?” “Oh, I don’t know, Betty, but whatever they are, they’re ghastly lookin’ things, and she’s over there feeding them the Dixie Mill’s free-range non-GMO chicken!” “The Dixie Mill don’t sell no free-range non-GMO chicken, darlin’. Oh, Clara! I’m drivin’ over there, you just hold tight, you hear?” “Hey . . . um, Betty?” Clara’s eyes widened as a bright white sedan rolled up to Vivienne’s driveway. “Yeah?” “A car just pulled up.”

“And?” “Oh, my sweet marmalade!” “What? Dang it, Clara, speak!” “There are three . . . no, make that four women gettin’ out the car, and I can’t believe my eyes, Betty, but . . . they look similar . . . I mean, they look like Vivienne.” “How so?” “Almost like twins. Dressed differently, but the same French twist updos, the same height, same skin tone. They’re walkin’ up to the door. Oh! Oh, mercy! Oh, love a duck!” Clara’s free hand rose up to her throat, her fingers closing slowly around her neck, trying to catch her breath. She barely recognized her own voice, thick and raspy. As Vivienne opened the door to greet her doppelgangers, one of them steadily pivoted on a hip, directing a strong, firm gaze over her shoulder. Her sea-green eyes, sharp as laser beams, leveled Clara right there on the spot. The other women followed suit, turning their heads in unison. “They see me, Betty. They’re lookin’ right at me.” Humiliation washed over Clara like hot lava as her heart clobbered her ribcage. She sank to the floor, closing her eyes. “Oh, Clara, I’m so sorry, darlin’. Look, just get away from the window. Forget the whole thing; it’ll blow over. Take a deep breath, honey. Just wait ‘till I tell Louise about her pet piranhas and twin sisters! Oh, Clara, this is just too good.” “I’m glad you find this so amusing, Betty. I really am.” ‘Come on now, darlin’, calm down. No harm done! So, you were caught snoopin’ a little. We’ve all been there, honey.” Clara shuddered, picturing the fish tank. The women’s uncanny, eerie resemblance hovered in her mind’s memory bank, like a ghost haunting its longlost loved one. “But how . . . how did they know I was watchin’? You shoulda seen it, Betty. It was like they saw straight through my bedroom wall. They knew exactly where to look.” A chill ripped down her spine, triggering another tremor. “I’m sure it’s just the adrenaline talkin’, darlin’. Pay it no mind, ya hear? Go on,

now. Get on up outta that bedroom and go peel your potatoes. I have to fill Louise in.” Clara took in a long, even breath. She shook off the frayed nerves and carefully rose to her feet. “You’re right,” she sighed, “I best get to the kitchen and—” Knock, knock, knock. Clara froze. Betty’s muffled voice drifted through the receiver, as if caught in a sandstorm, in some far away land. “Clara, darlin’? Hello?” Another series of knocks, smooth and even, echoed through the house. Next came the doorbell, pristine and musical, its clarity reverberating in Clara's bones. “Oh, Betty,” Clara swallowed, voice hollow, “I think they’re at my door.” “What? How do you know it’s them?” “Because,” Clara choked, peeking up over the edge of the windowsill. “They’re not at Vivienne’s door anymore.” “Well, yes, because she invited them inside, honey. Calm down! You’re completely overreacting. You’re just embarrassed being caught, is all. It’s probably a delivery or a salesman.” “No . . . I can sense it. Somethin’ ain’t right, Betty.” “Clara? Now, darlin’, you’re startin’ to worry me. Look, let me fill Louise in and then I’ll drive right over there.” A wave of goosebumps tickled the back of Clara’s neck, and suddenly her whole body turned frigid, like it’d been infused with ice cubes. Five tall, lean horizontal shadows cascaded across the bedroom wall. “Somethin’s here—somethin’ in my room. Can you hear me? Oh, please, he . . . hel . . . help me.” Betty’s yells fired through the receiver like torpedoes, but Clara couldn’t make

out the words. Just as she opened her mouth to speak once more, the five figures appeared before her in the bedroom doorway, their shadows crawling higher and higher up the bedroom wall—Vivienne and her doppelgangers, each of them deceptively human. Their smooth, creamy skin and poised, upright postures transformed, their spines snapping and curving, heads hunched down. Their flesh shifted into compressed, reptilian-like rubber, as dark gray scales spread like dominos, fanning out over every inch of their bodies. Their facial features morphed, their eyes, noses, and mouths scrambling, then reassembling into mutilated versions of human faces. Clara screamed, but no sound emerged. The five creatures opened their mouths in unison, baring rows of long, jagged teeth. A faint mist emanated from their jaws as they snapped at the air, simultaneously releasing a high-pitched whistle, like a chorus of boiling tea kettles. The sound drilled into Clara’s skull, vibrating from within––an octave only she could hear. Her brain battled fiercely to resist the frequency, to push out the piercing, invasive trill, but the feeble effort failed. Her mind tuned in and latched onto the ringing, inviting it in. The blinds snapped shut, blocking out the afternoon sun. Betty’s voice continued to pummel her eardrums, distant and unintelligible. Visions of endless, white sandy beaches and ferocious waves, toppling ashore, filled her consciousness. The creatures called her to the water’s edge. The waves met her head on, saturating her with salt, sand, and profound dread.

***

Early Monday mornings at The Dixie Mill were the best, according to Louise. Customers would pop in for some coffee, biscuits, and gravy, then clear out in a jiffy. The occasional straggler would wander in for a small grocery order here and there mid morning, but Tuesdays were typically the busiest grocery shopping days. Best of all, Barney didn’t work on Monday mornings, so the Dixie Mill women could huddle up and chew the fat for as long as their hearts desired. This Monday morning gabfest was an especially dire one, since poor Clara

Abernathy’s husband, Ed, had grown seriously ill. Sweet tea in hand, the Dixie Mill ladies gathered to ruminate over the latest developments in their now notso-sleepy little town. Ed’s illness had caused quite the stir, and the phone tree alerts spurred on by Louise the week prior only escalated the already circulating buzz about Madame van Everbourne. The town hadn’t yet linked Ed’s absence from work and the rumors swirling around about Vivienne, but the Dixie Mill squad knew better. It was Clara who was truly sick, and Ed had taken leave to care for his wife. He’d been so worried about her, however, that he ended up developing some kind of illness himself. Both husband and wife had shut themselves up in the house for the past week, and they wouldn’t answer the door for anyone, except Marcus Wheaton, one of Vivienne’s students, who lived next door. His mama had sent him over with soup and tea cakes each day, and Ed would usher him in and out. Louise and Betty would watch the scene from their car down the street. They gave up trying to talk Ed into letting them inside to see Clara. It came as no surprise to the women that he was pretty upset with them for involving Clara in their little espionage mission, but they tried visiting her nonetheless. “Marcus says Clara’s been in a spell ever since,” Betty whispered, gnawing on her third pecan cookie. “A spell?” Louise’s brows drew down in concern. “Yes, you know, one’a them melancholias. First, she was practically catatonic. When she started to come ‘round, she slipped into the blues.” “Can’t Ed get through to her? Has he managed to get her to the doctor? We should try and go over there again in the mornin’.” “I don’t think so. Apparently he’s lethargic now, too. Can’t shake whatever bug he’s got. We’ll know more soon. Marcus should be here any minute.” Louise shivered, takin’ another sip of her sweet tea. “This whole thing is givin’ me the heebie-jeebies, I tell ya. None of it makes any cotton-pickin’ sense.” “We can’t keep Marcus long; he’s got to get to school, ya know.” “You sure his mama don’t know he’s comin’ over here to talk to us?” Louise shot Betty a skeptical glance. “Did ya sweeten the deal?”

“I stocked him up on pistachio ice cream and promised him an annual to the arcade. His mama thinks he’s walkin’ straight to school.” “That’a girl.” Louise bit her lip, thanking the sweet Lord she and Betty were so innovative. As soon as they realized Ed was hell bent on keeping them away from Clara, they went straight to the only source they knew could offer them any answers. The bells jingled above the entry, and Betty and Louise jumped like guilty school children. “Oh, hallelujah.” Louise raced over to Marcus and locked the door behind him, swinging the sign around to Closed. She did a quick survey of the sidewalk and waved Marcus and Betty around the corner, to the very last aisle. “Come on, now, son. Step into our office.” Marcus blinked at them from behind thick brown glasses. He smoothed his neatly combed, sandy blond hair and raised an asthma inhaler to his lips. Louise and Betty stared back at him impatiently. “What’s the word, son?” Louise wasted no time. “What can you tell us? How is she?” “You might want to take a look at this,” he replied, presenting them with a file folder. “I’ve been doin’ some research . . . for a while now, actually. As soon as Madame Everbourne moved to town.” Louise and Betty exchanged glances. “I reckon whatever happened to Mrs. Abernathy has somethin’ to do with Madame Everbourne. She and Mr. Abernathy keep mumblin’ weird things about the day Clara had a fit.” “What kind of things?” Louise took hold of the folder, hesitating to open it, as if it might bite. “Stuff ‘bout her pet fish, some twin sisters, and somethin’ ‘bout Madame Everbourne dragging her into the dark ocean depths.” Betty went pale.

“I’m guessin’ you already know about all that?” Marcus regarded Betty warily. “What’s in the folder?” Betty nodded in Louise’s direction. “You ever heard of somethin’ called a Crevice Dweller? There’s been talk long before my time all around Mobile, throughout Gulf Shores. Legend says creatures from the darkest abyss of the Gulf of Mexico come ashore here in Alabama, and that they surface only once every few hundred years. They take human form and blend into our communities, draining humans for information, energy, anything that will help them learn about our planet’s developments: viable resources, dwindling resources, new viruses, you name it. Folktales claim they the information, like computers—from our brains to theirs—and that some day, they will use it all against us somehow. Maybe take over, maybe steal what we have and bring it with them down to their abyss, who knows!” Louise shoved the folder into Betty’s hands. “Oh, nu-uh. Sounds like a doggone crazy conspiracy theory if I ever heard one, son.” Betty’s voice wobbled. “You said . . . Crevice whatta?” “Crevice Dweller. Another form of life that lives in the sea.” Louise crossed her arms and cocked a hip. “What the boy is tryin’ to say, Betty, is that there are aliens in the ever-lovin’ ocean, Madame van Uppity is one of ‘em, and that’s why Clara went off her rocker. Ain’t that right, Marcus?” The boy gulped. “Yes, ma’am. I reckon that’s about right.” Betty skimmed the folder’s contents. The boy really had done his research; the folder contained newspaper reports, interview clippings, and historical articles from all kinds of geographic journals that studied these sorts of nutty myths. “I agree with Louise,” she said, voice tainted with skepticism, “it does sound like some dippy conspiracy theory. But . . .” “But?” Louise tilted her head. “My daddy always said the truth is usually found somewhere in the middle. Maybe there’s somethin’ to this stuff, Louise.” Louise gasped, snatching Betty’s fan from her friend’s pocketbook. She went

into a tizzy, fanning herself. “Would you listen to yourself?” “You weren’t on the phone with her that day, Louise. I thought she was paranoid; I told her she was overreactin’. But somethin’ happened, somethin’ wasn’t right. She was so scared. When I drove over there, she was on the floor, unresponsive. Wouldn’t blink, wouldn’t move. Kept talkin’ bout the waves.” “Yes, yes. Me and Ed saw her condition. We got there not long after you. Have you stopped to consider maybe Clara really is goin’ through some kinda mental breakdown? Maybe she’s losin’ her mind, maybe she has been for some time now.” Betty’s head shook vigorously. “You know ain’t no such thing is happenin’ to our Clara. Why, she’s been sharp as a tack until this happened.” “Underwater aliens,” Louise huffed. “Marcus, thank you for your time, son. But I think we’ve heard all we need to hear.” “If what’s in that folder don’t convince ya, follow Madame Everbourne down to the harbor tomorrow night at exactly 11:47 p.m.” “Why’s that?” Betty closed the folder and hugged it to her chest. “Every Tuesday night, for as long as I’ve been watchin’ her, she drives down to the harbor at 11:47 p.m. on the nose. She owns a boat. Sometimes the others meet her there.” Louise turned a scathing eye on the boy. “Just what do you think you’re doin’, followin’ that batty woman down to the harbor sa’late at night? You tryin’ to worry your mama to death?” “I don’t follow every week.” Marcus shrugged, gesturing to the folder. “But enough to know there’s some truth in them myths. I thought about going to the cops, but they’d just cart me off to an institution. Probably wouldn’t even take one look at that folder.” “Thank you, Marcus,” Betty sighed, dismissing him with a gentle wave. “You’ve been very helpful, but you go on and get to school, now. Be careful.” “Yes, ma’am.” He moved for the exit.

“Hey, Marcus?” Louise called after him. “Yes, ma’am?” “Quit going down to the harbor on Tuesday nights. Your mama and daddy need you home safe. We’ll take it from here.” “Yes, ma’am.” Marcus unlocked the store door and exited. The bells jingled in his wake. “Well, Betty.” Louise lowered the fan, “I guess we’re goin’ on a lil’ mission of our own tomorrow night, ain’t we?” “God willin’ and the creek don’t rise,” Betty replied, reaching for the bag of pecan cookies in her pocket.

***

Sure enough, Vivienne’s navy blue sedan departed from her garage at exactly 11:47 p.m. the next evening. Louise and Betty fell back as they drove on after her, leaving as much distance between their vehicles as possible. “This is plum crazy,” Louise mumbled as she turned the steering wheel. Betty fanned herself nervously as she sat in the enger seat, wondering if they should've told anyone else about their destination, just in case. Louise was too stubborn to marry any man, and Betty was a widow. They both lived alone, and only Marcus knew of their plan to follow Vivienne to the harbor. “Louise, you have your gun with you?” “What in the world makes you think I own a gun?” Betty slid her a side glance. “It’s in the glove compartment.”

“Of course, it is.” “Every respectable Southern woman owns a gun.” She rolled her shoulders nonchalantly. “I never said you weren’t respectable.” “Then what exactly are you implyin’, darlin’?” “Just that you’re off your rocker, is all.” “Well, it ain’t like the whole town didn’t know that already.” Betty popped open the glove compartment and fished around for the gun. “Do you know how to use it? Is it loaded?” “Take my word for it: yes.” “Yes, you know how to use it? Or yes, it’s loaded?” Louise tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “What do ya think, honey?” Betty closed the compartment. Louise crawled to a stop as they approached the far end of the dock, then parked the vehicle next to a dumpster along the edge of the parking area. “Looks like this is our stop. You have the cell phone?” “Check,” Betty whispered. “Flashlight?” “Check.” “Snacks?” “What in the world makes you think I have snacks?” Louise’s blank stare ruffled Betty’s feathers. Betty humphed. “Well, every stakeout requires snacks.”

“Share the wealth, then.” Louise wiggled her fingers. “This might be awhile.” Betty moved for the ziplock bag in her pocketbook. “Louise! She’s on the move!” The ladies instinctively slouched down in their seats as they watched Vivienne exit her car. The highschool teacher strolled evenly to her trunk, blending into the darkness in a jet-black pantsuit. Her hair was in its usual immaculate twist updo, and her high-heeled, black-leather pumps accented her chic attire. Retrieving a silver briefcase from the trunk, she confidently strode toward the pier. Betty stuffed some chocolate into her mouth. “Maybe she’s a mafia wife and not an alien.” “I’m just gonna pretend those words didn’t come outta your mouth.” “Oh, come on now, Louise! It’s not that far-fetched. Would you look at that outfit? And that briefcase?” “I can’t believe we’re even havin’ this conversation.” “Well, you better start believing it, because I think Marcus is onto somethin’. That woman—or creature—is shady with a capital S.” “Where’d she go?” “Over that way.” Betty pointed to a shiny white sailboat. “Third one down on the right.” “Where? I don’t see her.” “She was there a second ago. Hold on, I packed some binoculars.” Shimmying around, Betty reached down into the backseat for the tote bag. She rummaged through the bag, pausing when something brushed her elbow. She lifted her head, and her gaze cruised slowly upward, landing on a set of woman’s black tro-clad knees in the backseat. Betty jolted back into her seat, smacking her frantic limbs into the window and the side of the door. “OH MERCY! Sweet marmalade!” she shrieked, piercing the car’s still, silent bubble. “Good evening, ladies,” Vivienne crooned smoothly, her entrancing irises nailing them in the rearview mirror.

“OH! OH! Heavens ta betsy!” Louise spasmed and thrashed about, clawing for the door handle. “Lemme out! Let us out!” Betty scrambled for the other handle, the color draining from her face when a sharp click filled the car, bouncing off each of the door’s locks. The blocked exits sucked the air from the vehicle like a vacuum, instantly seizing Louise and Betty with an overwhelming sensation of suffocation. They began to hyperventilate, their words suddenly disted and incoherent. Three uniformed figures, identical to Madame Everbourne, appeared around the car—one hovered before the front windshield, the other two stationed beside the driver and enger door windows. Their forms shifted into shadowy silhouettes, leaning against the glass. Vivienne’s penetrating stare held Louise’s eyes prisoner in the rearview mirror. They bulged from their sockets, launching her into paralyzing fear as Vivienne’s head and face transformed into something half-monster, half-human. The figures outside the car contorted in unison, their gaping mouths stretching and cracking to reveal crooked, blade-like teeth. A shrill, bitter ringing sounded from the backseat, expanding inside the car like thunderous gusts of hot wind. The car rumbled beneath Louise and Betty’s feet as their bodies fell flush with the seats, embedding into the fabric as if they’d been sewn into them. Unable to speak, rendered vegetative lumps, they pooled together the remainder of their faculties and fought to make eye with one another. Their irises burned as the acidic ring intensified, rattling their spines against the seats. “Do ya see ‘em?” Betty slobbered, pushing the words out. “The waves.” “Don’t.” Louise’s garbled speech crossed the space between them. “Stay away from ‘em. Look away.” The vehicle began to sway, rocking from within, a helpless rowboat banished to a roaring ocean without its oars. Waves pelted the car windows like hurricaneforce rains, immersing Betty and Louise in thick, hazy disorientation. Try as she might, Betty couldn’t say no to the saltwater. Louise’s wailing ruptured somewhere inside of Betty’s brain as Madame van Everbourne smiled from the backseat, rolling open the windows to let the waves rush in. They sank heavily into the abyss, leaving the little town of Whistle Forge with one last gift: more juicy gossip to around for years to come.

GWENDOLYN OF MERRY MANOR

R. M. Carpus

The author would like to acknowledge and thank her writing partner in crime, author D. M. Million, for suggesting the monster’s mythological name in this story.

“Are you sure that’s him?” Aaliyah slid her gold-framed glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “Positive,” Oliver whispered back, peeking at the sweaty, robust Ferris wheel operator from behind a giant mass of cotton candy. Blue, fluffy stickiness smeared his pale, baby-faced cheeks and chin, while the ocean breeze stirred his dirty blond hair from its neat comb-over style. “Olly, why are you whispering? He’s way over there, and we’re way over here.” “Carnival folk can hear you from a mile away.” Oliver nibbled another chunk of cotton candy, his eyes wide as he regarded Mr. Saladino from the Gravitron line. “Especially here.” Aaliyah smoothed her long, sleek, onyx locks behind her ears, adjusting her headband. She resisted the urge to bite her nails. Her mom had just painted them a shade of bright, apple red, and the thought of chipping their shiny hue solidified her will power. “Will you go easy on the cotton candy? You’re gonna throw up as soon as we get inside this thing.” “Will not.” Oliver pouted, wiping his lips against his shirtsleeve. “Well, you’re making me nervous.” Aaliyah reached over and cupped her hand over his grip on the turquoise cloud of sugar, slowly guiding his fist to lower it from his mouth. Fu-Gee-La blared from the Gravitron’s speakers, mingling with the disorienting chorus of circus noise that drifted over the vibrant grounds of Merry Manor.

Each year, the sleepy town of Beauford, quietly burrowed along the coast of Maine, celebrated its beloved summer festival on the property of the longabandoned Merry Home for Girls. The tradition delighted the native locals, but gave town newcomers, like Aaliyah, the creeps. Nestled among thickets of lush English gardens atop Beauford’s highest hill, Merry Manor sat at the edge of the town’s most treacherous cliff—something the locals called Rhubarb Pointe—and boasted a stunning, albeit frightful, view of the ocean. Over the decades, the town remained faithful to its decision to hold the festival at night, aware the location was not ideal for those afraid of heights. Out of sight, out of mind . . . or so everyone had hoped. Oliver gobbled down the last of his candy and tossed the garbage into a trash can. The line inched them closer and closer to the ride’s entrance. “You’re nervous? Please. You’ve lived here like, what? Three minutes? I grew up in this town. If you knew half of what I know about this place, you’d be on the first train out of here.” Aaliyah couldn’t help but adjust her headband again as she struggled to maintain composure. Olly was probably right; the stories she’d heard about Beauford’s Merry Manor alone were enough to send her running for the state line. Like her new friend, though, she was a tenth grader at the mercy of her parents’ choice of residence until she graduated high school. For now, she’d just have to settle for living in a town that thought it was cool to host a summer carnival next to a deserted, dilapidated old mansion that once doubled in operation as an orphanage and psychiatric institution for young girls. According to Oliver, one wing served as a hospital for those plagued with troubled minds and spirits, while the other wing provided housing and education for those without family to care for them. Aaliyah feigned nonchalance with a mildly convincing shoulder roll. “What’s the big deal about this Mr. Saladino guy, anyway?” “It’s the Great Saladino, to be exact. He’s a flame-swallowing, tiger-taming, knife-throwing rockstar.” Aaliyah glanced in the Great Saladino’s direction. He ran his fingers through a dollop of greasy gray hair, then scratched his protruding belly. “Well, was . . .” Oliver followed her gaze. “Back in the day, anyway. Nowadays

he’s just your average carnival ride operator; he refuses to retire. But Beauford legends say he was the last one to see Gwendolyn Winthrop alive, which means he saw the Midnight Sea Rovers with his own two eyes.” Images conjured up by Oliver’s s of the orphan who’d disappeared from The Merry Home for Girls slithered into Aaliyah’s brain and made her shudder. She’d heard various versions of the story from kids at school, too. The teenage daughter of a beekeeper who’d gone mad, Gwendolyn Winthrop turned up at Merry Manor, then supposedly fell head-over-heels in love with the townie and resident bad boy, Carter Mason. It wasn’t long before Carter began regularly sneaking onto the mansion’s grounds, escorting Gwendolyn night by night to their favorite spot at the cliff’s edge. There they’d watch the moonlight cast its otherworldly glow over the ocean, and he’d feed her his dad’s famous rhubarb pie. Afterwards, he’d walk her to the English gardens and wait patiently behind the hedges until she returned safely to the east wing. Beauford locals claimed pirate phantoms, the Midnight Sea Rovers, abducted their souls and held them captive on their ship. Compelled by the Akkar, a ruthless kraken sea monster, the phantoms were doomed to an underwater limbo, forced to sail the earth and acquire new souls for the Akkar’s crew. “Just think,” Oliver said with awe, breaking through Aaliyah’s reverie. “Saladino came face-to-face with the phantoms who kidnapped them, and actually lived to tell the tale. He tried to save them both. The Rovers took Gwendolyn first, then came back for Carter. Can you imagine how that must have tormented Carter? Ya know, it really bugs me that he had such a bad reputation around here. I mean, he might have been rough around the edges, but no doubt that guy loved Gwendolyn. I hear he was a mess after she was taken—no rest, no peace. Couldn’t sleep. Started hallucinating. Poor guy probably couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t after that. Everyone just assumed Gwendolyn had lost her mind, took a swan dive off Rhubarb Pointe, and that her body would wash ashore someday. No one believed Carter when he tried to tell them the Rovers took her and were coming back for him. He knew they were coming to take him next, because he’d broken their sacred protocol.” “Sacred protocol?” Oliver nodded gravely, as if swearing a solemn oath. “Never leave witnesses behind.”

Aaliyah crossed her arms, willing her nerves to stop kicking up a ruckus beneath her skin. “My grandfather says the Rovers snatch souls one-by-one, never in pairs, to avoid as many witnesses as possible. They’re bound by the Akkar to claim anyone who witnesses an abduction. He says leaving someone behind who’s been exposed to their evil risks bringing it to light, so they’ll do anything to conceal it. If you’re one of the unlucky chumps to see the Rovers take someone, you can kiss your land-dwelling days goodbye. Just like that.” Oliver snapped his fingers and shook his head. “The sea owns you.” “Whoa,” Aaliyah whispered, another chill snaking over her neck. “Saladino really is a rockstar.” “True that.” “I wonder how Saladino managed to escape and survive, but Carter didn’t.” “There are theories for days on that one, but I think my grandfather is right. The stories as far back as his great grandfather’s day say no human being in history has ever managed to make with the Akkar. My grandfather says Saladino was the first. See, he not only witnessed Gwendolyn’s abduction, he also rescued Carter from the Rovers the night it happened. As the Rovers’ ship came ashore and the phantoms lured Gwendolyn onboard, Carter ran after her and Saladino went after him, to stop him from going down with the ship. Saladino knew Carter would’ve lost his life for nothing—the phantoms already had Gwendolyn in their clutches, and Carter was defenseless against them.” A feverish zeal ignited Oliver’s irises, and his arms swooped upward, slicing through the air as the sea monster’s movements scrolled across his mind’s own personal movie reel. “Just as the Akkar’s tentacles swept up, high above the sides of the deck to pull the ship back out to sea and drag it back down to its hellish depths, Saladino tackled Carter and dragged him offshore, narrowly missing the Akkar’s crushing, deadly grip.” “No way,” Aaliyah snickered, rolling her eyes. “A human being couldn’t possibly escape some powerful, mammoth sea monster.” “It’s true that the average, unsuspecting, unprepared human being couldn’t, you’re right.” Oliver smirked and raised his finger in protest. “But Saladino had an advantage, and he wasn’t just your average mortal.”

Aaliyah’s skeptical glance remained trained on Olly, but curiosity enticed her forward, prompting her to lean in closer to him. “He was armed! Skilled with knives and fire, and quick on his feet to boot! When the Akkar’s tentacles counterattacked, nearly latching onto him as he escaped, he drew the knives from his belt and lanced off a piece of its flesh, giving him just enough time to regain his balance and run! Some say the Akkar’s shrieking cries woke up the whole town that night, as it recoiled and retreated back into the ocean from the shoreline. Cutting the monster wasn’t what led Saladino to victory, though. Before he bolted from the beach, he plucked up the piece of tentacle flesh he’d lobbed off and put it in his belt pouch. A group of Rover phantoms flew ashore and intercepted his getaway, but he grabbed the flesh and threatened to set it on fire with one of his famous flame-swallowing acts. They instantly withdrew and fled back to the ship, disappearing into the night. Saladino and Carter took off, and a week later, the Rovers came back and took Carter.” The Gravitron’s line moved, finally ushering Aaliyah and Oliver to the front. Any minute now, they would be next. Aaliyah’s sweaty fingertips grazed her headband as time pressed its heavy weight, urging her on. “Well?” she asked. “Why did the pirate phantoms come back for Carter, and not for Saladino?” “They did come back for Saladino. More than once. They gave up, though. See, he rigged this insanely cool glass box next to his bed—Madame Celine once used it to perform her famous vanishing act—and locked the Akkar’s severed tentacle in a clear jar inside. When the phantoms came for him, flames ignited inside the box around the jar, just enough to give them a good scare; it never really caught fire. It worked; the sight warded off the phantoms, and eventually, they stopped coming after him. He found out what they were afraid of and invented a way to use it against them. Probably could’ve saved Carter, too, if Carter would’ve stayed close to Saladino, but Carter’s condition spiraled after Gwendolyn’s abduction. He refused to speak to him, wouldn’t see him—he hated Saladino for rescuing him.” “Wait, what? Why?” “My grandfather thinks Carter wanted to give up his life. To be with Gwendolyn, I mean. Some say that when the Rovers came back for him, he actually surrendered willingly. My grandfather swears he heard all this years ago, from

Saladino himself, while they were swapping stories, smoking cigars outside Charlie’s General Store.” Aaliyah jumped as the Gravitron’s doors opened, releasing a swarm of riders. “I wonder how Saladino knew to use the fire as a weapon.” “Some say it was sheer luck, others say it was intuition.” “What does your grandpa think?” “Intuition, for sure. After talking with Saladino that day, he thinks he’s a real magician—not one of those hokey, abracadabra stage performers. As the legend goes, the Midnight Sea Rovers believed Saladino was some kind of spiritual warrior, sent by God to banish evil spirits from the earth. Who knows?” Oliver shrugged, casting a furtive glance in Saladino’s direction. “Maybe he’s been saving people from the Akkar for centuries. Maybe he reincarnates, finding new ways to ward off the phantoms each time he’s reborn. No one really knows. One thing’s for sure, though.” Olly tipped his chin toward the Gravitron’s entrance. The ride operators pulled the rope back and gave them the green light to board. “There’s a whole lot more to Mr. Saladino than meets the eye.” As they stepped inside the Gravitron, Aaliyah envisioned the Akkar’s beak, opening wide like the ride’s doors, swallowing them up in its pulverizing, menacing trap.

***

No matter how many times she turned a corner, Aaliyah wound up in the very same spot. Dreary, muted gray light poured into the endless, barren corridor through the mansion’s grandiose windows. The hollow echo of her feet shifted from a determined stride to a slow, defeated shuffle, time and time again. How much longer could she keep walking in this straight line, only to end up making a left turn, which brought her right back to the end of the very same corridor? Brassy, cobweb-ridden candelabras, stationed on the walls between each window, flickered against the space’s ashen hue, filling Aaliyah with the sense of an unseen presence. Her eyelids grew heavy as drowsiness sunk its teeth into

her, lulling her to sleep. She stumbled to the right, bumping into the wall, then slumped to the ground and leaned against the peeling, burgundy damask wallpaper. She couldn’t let herself fall asleep. Not now, while a presence hovered like a lingering scent, suspended all around her. Besides, she was pretty sure she was already asleep. The candlelight flickered again, brighter this time. She hugged the wall, feeling her breath grow shallow, moving in and out of her lungs in a series of steady, push-and-pull motions. Wherever she was, she imagined this must be the equivalent of being trapped thousands of feet below the ocean’s surface, stuck in a ceaseless, dismal succession of days on the Midnight Sea Rovers’ ship. Waiting for time to , waiting for direction, waiting for something, anything, to break the exhausting spell. Wandering alone for hours—or was it days?—around Merry Manor gave her a taste of her very own phantom pirate limbo. “No,” a dainty, yet firm voice said, somewhere over her shoulder. “This place is hardly comparable to the Rovers’ ship. I’d take being trapped here over being trapped on the ship any day.” Aaliyah stirred to life, scurrying away from the voice. “Who’s there?” Her back splayed against the wall as she straightened up, pulling her knees against her chest. “Who do you think?” the voice crawled over her neck, tingling her skin like the timid bite of a flourishing wind. “I . . . I don’t know. Please, tell me where I am. What’s happening?” “You know where you are.” “I guess this is Merry Manor, but . . . who are you? And why am I here? Why can’t I find my way out?” Aaliyah’s fuzzy mind rode the waves of disorientation. Was this truly the inside of the mansion, or a mere hallucination, fabricated somewhere in the trenches of her psyche? “Well, this used to be my home. My happy place, believe it or not. Word on the ship is you’re new to Beauford, which means you have little attachment to the place, its people, and limited knowledge of its history, which is why I’ve been

sent to deliver you a message.” Aaliyah’s fear repelled the drowsiness, launching her senses into high gear. The candlelight pulsed in the shadows, and the fragrant aroma of iris filled her nostrils. The voice, this invisible presence, not only read her mind and invaded her thoughts a moment ago, it also apparently summoned her here, too. “What kind of message?” As quickly as Aaliyah’s words came out, a waif-like apparition appeared before her, levitating gracefully across the hall. The candlelight’s glow synced with the wraith’s movements, emboldening and brightening when the silhouette swung her long, honey-brown braid behind her shoulder, then fizzing out the moment she went still. “I suppose you could call it more of an assignment than a message.” Intuition rose up, swirling hotly in Aaliyah’s chest. “You’re Gwendolyn Winthrop, aren’t you?” The apparition kept its distance, staring silently. “You are,” Aaliyah gasped. “Let’s skip the getting acquainted bit. We don’t have much time.” “What—what do you want me to do?” Aaliyah watched as Gwendolyn came into focus, clearer and clearer each time she blinked. The ghost’s intense brown irises peered back at her, burrowing into her consciousness, accented by strong, pronounced cheekbones and flawless skin. Emptiness tainted the burn of her eyes. Hollow and lackluster, the chocolate pools rested in sockets like bottomless voids, as infinite as the place Gwendolyn hailed from. Aaliyah had never seen something so beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Gwendolyn floated closer. “Finally, after serving countless, tormenting hours on the Akkar’s ship, Carter and I have managed to strike a deal with the captain. He’s agreed to release our souls under one nonnegotiable condition. He will set us free in exchange for capturing a certain town resident. I’ve informed the crew that you are the ideal candidate for the job. This person has caused great unrest in the Akkar’s realm, and the Rovers have been ordered to claim him and put an end to his meddling for good.”

“Me?” Aaliyah blanched. “Ideal candidate?” “Yes. We need someone new to town. Someone innocent. Able to convince the Great Saladino, able to weaken his defenses. I’ve received word from your world that you are the one for the job.” “Whoa, whoa. Wait a minute. The Great Saladino’s the target? Me, convince him? Convince him to what? I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but you’ve been seriously misinformed.” She raised her trembling hands and started to ramble. “Nuh-uh, you’ve got the wrong girl. I might be new to town, but I’m not innocent! Someone dared me to smoke a cigarette in the girl’s bathroom yesterday, and . . . I listen to rock music! Like, the really angry kind! Oh! And I took two cupcakes from the cafeteria the other day, when we’re only allowed to take one! I’m a bad, bad, rotten teenager!” “You’ve just proved my point.” A faint smirk crept over Gwendolyn’s lips. “You’re honest, and best of all, you’re afraid. Fear and honesty combined— that’s what makes you perfect for the mission.” Aaliyah’s head shook adamantly. “No, no, no. No way. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I don’t get it; there are hundreds of people in this town who’d be afraid if they were in the very same situation. Pick one of them!” A flash of light suddenly carried Gwendolyn’s body toward Aaliyah, her presence rushing in like a tidal wave. Gwendolyn’s hand shot forward, and her fierce, bony fingers clamped tightly around Aaliyah’s throat. Her deep, mocha doe eyes pinned her with a hard, warning glare. “It seems we need to get something straight here. Listen well, and listen closely. This assignment is not optional, do you understand?” “But . . . Saladino tried to save Carter,” Aaliyah sputtered, straining against the ghost’s grasp. “How can you just throw him under the bus like that?” Gwendolyn’s fingernails pressed deeper into her flesh. “Please! Choose someone else.” “It’s too late. You’ve already been marked. Saladino will listen to you. You’re afraid, but you’re also braver than many people in this town.”

“Nope! Not me,” Aaliyah croaked. “Not brave. Not brave at all. Think I might pee my pants right now, actually—” “You wouldn’t have been marked if you weren’t.” “What if the captain doesn't keep his part of the bargain?” Aaliyah squirmed, changing tactics. “What if you’re doing all this for nothing?” Gwendolyn’s defined cheekbones drifted closer, her braided hair bristling against her shoulder. The sensation ignited a torrent of chills along her collarbone, like a sharply stricken matchstick. “When you’re older and you know what it means to love someone, you will understand.” “Understand what? I don’t understand any of this! You’re telling me to put my life in danger, and you’re willing to doom someone who tried to save your boyfriend.” “Understand that love is a beautiful monster. It brings you joy, elation, fulfillment, peace—but the minute it’s threatened, it unleashes another side of you. A part of yourself you can’t even recognize. You discover very quickly how far you will go in order to protect that love.” For a fraction of a second, Gwendolyn faltered. The pressure of her fingertips loosened on Aaliyah’s neck, and her gaze dropped to the ground. She drew in a sharp breath. A silent beat ticked by, and when she spoke again, her tone was solemn. “We want to cross over together. It’s all any of the Rover phantoms want. The only way we have any hope of being released someday is to placate the Akkar. We must subdue its anger, obey its commands, and eventually—no guarantees—it will release us. The Akkar purges the ship’s crew every few decades, choosing which souls to release or keep captive, then goes on to usher in new souls.” “So, phantoms don’t even know if they’ll ever be released?” “Well, we all have hope. We have to at least try and appease the monster. If we don’t, we’ll never know. We’ll always wonder what might have been. Saladino is what the Akkar wants right now. If I can deliver Saladino, I think the captain will keep his word. This might be my only opportunity for a certain release. For Carter’s, too.” Aaliyah swallowed, and her shoulders relaxed a little. “Why do they want

Saladino so badly, anyway? Are the stories true? He has power over the Akkar? Why are the Rovers so threatened by the fire?” “Saladino is shrouded in myths. There’s a lot the Rovers don’t know, but there must be a shred of truth buried in the stories about his power, or the Akkar wouldn’t be so determined to destroy him. Its powers are fueled by the sea and hindered by flames. What we do know is whatever is dangerous for the Akkar is also dangerous for us. If the Akkar dies, we die with it. Our chances for moving on to the next world would be ruined; we’d cease to exist.” Aaliyah’s eyes softened. “Sounds like a lose-lose situation, if you ask me.” Gwendolyn lifted her head. “You know, I used to think it’s better to play it safe than sorry. Thought it was foolish to gamble with something as precious as my fate. The second the Rovers claimed Carter and brought him aboard, though, everything changed. I realized I can’t save every phantom on that ship. I might not even be able to save Carter or myself, but over time, I knew I couldn’t live in fear anymore. If you help me get Saladino, if this works, Carter and I might go free. If it backfires, all the phantoms will pay the price. But at least I’ll know I tried.” “Well, crap. If Saladino is so powerful, though, wouldn’t he have come after the Akkar by now?” Leaning in and bringing them nearly nose-to-nose, Gwendolyn studied the inquisitive human before her. She brought her bony finger to Aaliyah’s left temple, grazing the skin near her eyebrow. Aaliyah froze, eyes popping wide. Gwendolyn’s voice dipped an octave. “Make sure what’s up here catches up with your heart. Monsters come in all shapes and sizes, and there are humans in your world who prefer they exist. Saladino’s attempt to save Carter years ago might not have been as noble as you believe it to be. Myths not only reveal truths, they often reveal the ones we’d rather not believe. this as you carry out your mission.” The blood drained from Aaliyah’s face. Coldness seized her forehead, cheeks, and chin, spreading like chipped ice through her veins. “Maybe Saladino knows what you do about the Rovers’ souls. Maybe he doesn’t want to endanger all of you.” “Maybe. He also hasn’t done much to help us, either.”

“He probably doesn’t know how. Or he’s waiting for something. Waiting for the right time.” “Or just doesn’t want to.” Aaliyah sighed. “Saladino has power. What kind, and to what degree, we don’t yet know. But he’s been sitting on that power, whatever it is, while we rot down there at the bottom of the ocean, at the mercy of a monster. I can’t sit around and play guessing games about my fate, Aaliyah. I have to act, based on what I do know, right now. The Akkar has ordered the capture of Saladino, and has given the ship’s captain permission to release me and Carter if we turn him over.” “Tell me what I need to do.” Gwendolyn’s finger flitted away from Aaliyah’s temple. A pleased smile graced her lips. “You must break Saladino’s glass case, retrieve the jar inside, and bring it to Rhubarb Pointe. Watch the ocean’s surface carefully. Wait for the sharks to appear. When they circle three times, it means the ship is near. I will meet you there, and you will surrender the jar.” “Then what?” “Saladino will be vulnerable. The Rovers will come for him and take him.” “Break in. OK. . . . What do I need to convince him of?” “If he finds you before you make it to Rhubarb Pointe—and chances are he will —you tell him the truth.” “The truth?” “The Rovers forced your hand and threatened your life.” “So . . . you’re just using me as a pawn. I’m doomed, either way.” “Not necessarily. He might let you go.” “Why would he do that, when he’s gone through so much trouble to protect his

precious jar?” A cunning smirk teased Gwendolyn’s lips. “As I’ve said, you’ve been marked.” Aaliyah’s hands flailed in exasperation. “OK, you keep saying that, but what the heck does that even mean?” “It means you have something he might deem valuable.” “This whole mission of yours is full of nothing but mights.” Aaliyah rolled her eyes. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” “It’s true. You are a pawn. You will provide the Rovers with some very important information, though. That’s all I can tell you right now. In the meantime, you simply have to take a leap of faith.” Aaliyah’s nostrils flared. “Easy for you to say.” “Easy? If the Rovers can have hope, damned at the bottom of the sea for eternity, I’m sure you can manage to muster up some hope for twenty-four hours of your life here on Earth. Besides, you don’t have much of a choice in the matter, now, do you?” A heavy breath leaked from Aaliyah’s chest. She knew when she was beat. “I don’t even know where he lives . . . and what makes you think I’ll be able to break the case and steal the jar? If your phantom people can’t steal it, what makes you think I can?” “Twenty-four Wilcox Lane. Not far from Merry Manor. Go at night, while he’s working the carnival. The festival runs all summer, Fridays through Sundays. Go this weekend, as soon as you can. You’ll know what to do when you get there. The case’s tamper-proof fire mechanism is triggered by a phantom’s presence— it’s untouchable by our realm. You should be able to access it without triggering its defense.” “And if it still triggers the fire? You’re sure you’re willing to take that chance?” “My mind’s made up.” “The captain of your ship knows you’re putting all the phantoms in danger by

doing this?” “All the captain knows is I promised him Saladino. How I go about it is my business.” “So . . . that’s it? How will I know if you and Carter are released?” “You’ll know.” Just like that, Gwendolyn’s presence withdrew, coasting up toward the ceiling, leaving Aaliyah bereft of any real certainty. Drowsiness enveloped her in its womb, and again she began to doze off, back to the Land of the Living.

***

Springing upright in bed, Aaliyah worked to calm her labored breathing. Sweat soaked her chest. She flung the covers off and hopped to her feet, racing over to the dresser mirror. Her dark complexion shined back at her, damp with perspiration. She winced as she turned her neck and brushed her hair back, at war with a deadly concoction of grogginess and panic. A row of black-and-blue marks caught her eye, sprawled across her throat as if they’d been permanently branded there. “No, no, no. Please no,” she whispered, leaning forward to get a closer look. She shut her eyes, dreading the reality she’d have to face the moment she reopened them. The dream was real. The mission was real. The clock was running. She quickly pushed herself away from the dresser and zipped around the room like lightning, grabbing a set of fresh clothes and flying downstairs to call Olly. She had to tell someone what was going on, and Oliver would understand. Not only was he her only friend in town so far, he was the only one who might be able to help her get out of this mess. With some luck, she might even convince him to go with her to Saladino’s place for back-up. Gwendolyn said nothing about not being able to bring along some help.

The line rang, and rang some more. No answer. She slammed down the phone and dashed to the bathroom to shower and change, thankful her parents already left for work. She’d have to come up with a reasonable explanation later for the marks on her neck. Make-up concealer would only cover so much. The school day dragged on, and the anxious lump in her stomach festered when she discovered Oliver was nowhere to be found. He didn’t show up in history or geometry class, and by lunchtime, she gave up hope that she’d see him before the school day was up. The turtleneck sweater she’d worn on such a hot summer day had earned her some strange looks from classmates and a few teachers, but by the time the bell rang and she had to head home, she couldn’t care less. There were bigger problems to worry about. Like appeasing a pirate ship full of ghosts and dodging death by a mythical sea monster. Aaliyah groaned when she entered her bedroom, astonished by her bad luck. Filling her backpack with emergency supplies, like flashlights, water, and a pocket knife—all laughably useless in the face of supernatural danger—she replayed the strategy she’d carefully planned in her notebook at school that day, over and over in her head. No matter how many times she went over the plan, though, she didn’t feel any closer to being prepared. She’d sneak out before dinnertime to avoid questioning from her parents, scope out Saladino’s place to nail down logistics, watch him leave for the carnival, then wait until the sun went down to break in. Breaking in at dark would hopefully decrease her chances of being caught. At least it was Friday, and she could get on with things. The sooner she could put an end to this nightmare, the better. After rehearsing the game plan a hundred times over and attempting a few more unsuccessful calls to Olly, the time had come for Aaliyah to leave for Saladino’s place. She jumped on her bike and slipped out of the garage to ride toward twenty-four Wilcox Lane, nearly cracking the handlebars with the pressure of her sweaty, bare-knuckled grip. Huddling up along the edge of a cluster of rosebushes at the end of the drive, she watched patiently for Saladino’s appearance, sizing up the house to determine the best entry point while she waited. The minutes ed, but still no sign of the Great Saladino. Aaliyah glanced down at her wristwatch. Shouldn’t he have left for work by now? Chewing her lip, Aaliyah debated whether or not she should stick with her original plan to wait until the sun began to set. Leaves rustled somewhere over

her shoulder. She flinched, scrambling to her feet. “Boo,” a playful voice said, sneaking up over her shoulder. She spun around, ready to knock the intruder out. “Olly!” “Wow, easy there, tiger,” Oliver laughed, shielding himself from her balled-up fists. “What are you doing here?” Aaliyah grabbed his shoulders and pulled him with her to the ground. They landed in the grass with a thud. “I’ve been calling and calling you! Why weren’t you in school?” “I had stuff to take care of. Chill out, will ya? I’m here now. You can go inside, by the way.” Aaliyah’s brows knit together. “Go in? You mean break in. And . . . I can’t. Not yet. I haven’t seen him leave for the carnival yet.” “Don’t worry. I’ll go with you. Come with me.” Oliver rose and dusted the grass from his knees, then offered a hand to Aaliyah. She stood warily, accepting his invitation. “How did you know I was here?” “Just trust me. Hurry up, let’s go.” Oliver led Aaliyah up the driveway and to the front door. He didn’t even knock, just turned the knob and strolled right on in. “Olly! Stop!” Aaliyah pulled back, jumping out of view and away from the doorway. “Are you insane? What if Saladino—” “Relax. Look.” Oliver released Aaliyah’s hand and gestured to the end of the main hall. The Great Saladino, as slick, greasy, and plump as she ed, leaned leisurely against the edge of a kitchen counter, arms crossed expectantly. “Well, it’s about damn time.” Saladino’s voice echoed down the hall, meeting them at the door. “So this is the puny squirt sent to make things happen, huh?” “Told ya she was the one,” Olly replied, grinning coolly in Aaliyah’s direction. “Come on in.” He stepped around her, encouraged her inside, then closed the door behind them. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I beg to differ.” Aaliyah glanced between them, inching backward, her mind scrambling to assemble an escape plan. “Excuse me? The one?” “I had a feeling, when I met you on your first day of school,” Oliver said, leading her to the kitchen to Saladino. “But I didn’t want to say anything to Gwendolyn until I was sure. She’s skeptical, but I told her we’d know for sure, soon enough.” Aaliyah hesitated another moment before taking a cautious step forward, venturing into Oliver’s wake. “What . . . wait, what are you talking about?” “For crying out loud, Olly.” Saladino released a hearty laugh, shaking his head. “Clue the girl in, will you? She looks as if she’s seen a ghost.” “You’re what we call the Sea Siphon.” Oliver pivoted around to face her, crossing his arms with a proud smile. “The key the Rover phantoms have been waiting for.” “The Sea what?” “You better sit down, squirt.” Saladino sauntered around the counter to the sink to pour her a glass of water. “You need to breathe into a paper bag or something? If you’re gonna throw up, the bathroom's that-a-way.” He pointed to the left hallway. “Whatever you do, please just keep it off my new throw rug.” Aaliyah’s eyes dropped to the hideous, shaggy yellow rug beneath her feet. “Siphon,” Saladino repeated, handing her the glass of water. “The one appointed by God to draw the sea away from the Akkar, to drain the monster of the very thing that gives it power. Without the sea, without its power source, the Akkar cannot control the phantoms’ souls any longer. And I am the Firestarter. Together, we’re destined to strip the Akkar of its hold over the phantoms, so they can cross over and be set free. Once the monster is weak, it will be vulnerable. That’s our cue to strike—we set the beast to flames and have a big ‘ol Akkar BBQ.” Another hearty chuckle filled the room, but Saladino was the only one laughing. Oliver’s smile fell at the sight of Aaliyah’s stunned face. He cleared his throat and took her gently by the elbow, leading her to the sofa. “As for me,” he added playfully, “I’m nothing special. Just your average Beauford townie and history

buff, helping save the underwater world and whatnot.” The water glass remained motionless in Aaliyah’s lifeless hand. Oliver slowly sat down beside her. “I, uh . . . I didn’t lie to ya about my grandfather. I didn’t lie about any of it. Though, I do know Saladino. I know this is a lot to process, Aaliyah, but . . . it’s all true. You have the power to help save the sea phantoms.” Silence skated around them. Saladino and Oliver exchanged glances. “And Gwendolyn?” Aaliyah finally asked. “What about her?” Olly shifted to face her fully. “Everything she said . . . was it all a lie? All the stuff about tricking Saladino and turning him over to Rovers . . .” “No. You can trust her. You can trust all of us. She just wanted to test you, wanted to meet you for herself first. See, I went to her as soon as I thought you might be the Sea Siphon, and she didn’t seem to buy it, but I convinced her to help get you here, to meet with us. She still had her reservations, but I assured her you would show up and follow through with the mission. You going through with what she told you to do confirms everything we needed to know.” “And that is . . . I’m a . . . Sea Siphon.” Aaliyah’s head bobbed in the air, her gaze distant as she swallowed down a sip of water. “Right. OK. So . . . this is weird.” “Yup.” “More than weird.” “Get used to weird, squirt. Things are about to get a whole lot weirder.” Saladino shuffled past them, disappearing into the next room. A latch clicked, followed by the echo of a turning key, and he immediately reemerged with a large glass jar. A blob of slimy, gross tentacle flesh jiggled around inside. “Here. Give me your hand.” Aaliyah gagged at the sight, setting the water glass down on the coffee table.

“Excuse me?” She shot up off the sofa and backed away with a repulsive scowl. “Absolutely not! Keep that thing away from me!” Oliver slowly rose from the couch, keeping Aaliyah and Saladino at a safe distance from one another. “This is a lot for her to process, Saladino. Maybe it’s too soon for the jar, bro.” Saladino exhaled noisily. “First off, little man—not your bro. Second, she’s the one and only sacred Sea Siphon, for crying out loud. She’s marked by God, bro. She’s tough enough to handle what’s coming at her, believe me.” Aaliyah circled the coffee table, veering farther away from the creepy jar. “Hey, you don’t know me. How do you know what I can and can’t handle? I’ll tell you what I told Gwendolyn: you’ve got the wrong girl. Whatever this is,” she laughed, swishing her hands in the air, “you can forget about it. No, thank you! You’ve got the wrong information. I’m not tough, I’m not brave, and I’m definitely not gonna be your sea-siphony-woman-person!” Saladino stayed put, but raised and extended the jar toward her despite her protest. His calm, even tone slowly coaxed her down from the ledge. “Look, you don’t have to touch the thing. Just stand still, will ya? Stand still, right there, right where you are. All you have to do is put your hand near the jar, understand?” A quiet crackle pierced the air, and the jar slowly drifted from Saladino’s hand toward Aaliyah, stopping and hovering inches from her chest. Oliver’s wide eyes bounced between the three of them. “No.” Aaliyah followed the jar carefully. “There’s nothing to fear,” Oliver said cautiously, tipping his chin toward the floating piece of glass. “This will prove to you that what we’re saying is true. If you want to know that you can trust us, listen to Saladino.” The seconds crawled between them, poking at Aaliyah, gnawing at her instincts. The entire scene that surrounded her in that moment set her reluctant mind on red alert, but her feelings, her raw instincts, reached up from some deep, dark pit in the base of her gut, insisting she take a risk. Her right elbow suddenly lifted, extending her arm forward, reaching toward the jar. She stretched out her hand, fingers splayed wide, positioning them just above the jar lid. An overwhelming, refreshing coolness raked over her body, washing over her skin from head to toe.

Her lips parted and eyes flared as water began to drip from her fingertips, then increase in intensity, until it flowed steadily like a leaky faucet. Awe and wonder struck her from every angle, an uncontrollable smile springing across her gaping lips. “Do you see this?” she laughed excitedly, her hand shaking as water pooled at her feet. “What’s happening? I feel like . . . I’m swimming, or something. Like I can breathe underwater. It’s incredible!” Saladino and Olly’s laughter boomeranged around the room as they high-fived one another and lapsed into happy dances around the coffee table. “You guys!” Aaliyah shifted in the puddle at her feet, too stunned to move her arm. “This is crazy!” Another soft fizzle popped in the air, and the jar glided back toward Saladino, landing gently in his grasp. The coolness seeped from Aaliyah’s bones, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. She frantically wiped her hands on her jeans, still laughing in shock as Oliver tossed her a dish towel from the kitchen. “Told ya!” he said, rushing back over to the coffee table. “You know what this means?” “It’s showtime, my friends.” Saladino wrapped the jar in velvet cloth and reached over to the side table for his belt pouch, packing it neatly, then fastening it around his big belly. He moved to the bookshelf along the far wall, gathering up more gear. “We better get going. We have just enough time to grab some grub before sundown. I’m too hungry to wait for that Akkar barbeque!” “Where are we going?” Aaliyah asked. He loaded two more knives into his holster, slung a satin blue cape that boasted the words The Great Saladino over his shoulder, and strode toward the main hallway for the front door. “To Rhubarb Pointe. That’s where you were headed, wasn’t it?” “Um . . . yes?” “Well, then? Chop, chop, kids. We’re about to make the Midnight Sea Rovers’ dreams come true.”

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The Worst Vacation Ever

C.C. Givans

A loud pop pierces the cool, night air. Tiny embers float around my head and swirl into the sky. I’m watching them float toward the moon when a frigid hand clamps down on my bicep. I yank at the appendage and fight to free it from my younger sister’s death grip. “Calm down,” I say, using my other arm to push her away. I finally regain access to the limb and then shake my hand to restore the blood flow. “It’s just a story, you know?” “Shhh! I wanna hear how it ends.” The obnoxious twerp scolds me and delivers a sharp elbow jab to my ribs. I respond by kicking the side of her foot––a nonverbal cease and desist. She delivers a heel smash to my toes. That’s it! She wants a war? She’s got it. “Oh yeah? Why? So you can wet the bed again? Keep me up all night? Is this ‘cause I wouldn’t let you borrow my headphones?” I spit the words under my breath, almost certain the crackling campfire will distort them enough to keep mom from hearing them. I know I shouldn’t, but I swear I can’t help it. The words fall from my mouth like hot stones. I instantly regret it. “Mom!” “Austin, please.” “What?” I shout. Mom crosses her arms, pins me with a DEFCON 1 glare. “Don’t ‘what’ me.” I grit my teeth. Hold my breath. Try like hell to keep the words from spilling out . . . but they burn the back of my throat and I lose the battle. “It’s true! She’ll be too scared to sleep, keep me up all night with her whining, then wet the bed ‘cause she stayed up too late.” By the time I’m done yelling, my throat is raw and hoarse. I stand there, chest heaving, out of breath. Mazie whimpers. Sniffles. Her baby blues well with tears.

Mom shoots dad a scowl, as if to say, “Deal with him.” Like I’m soooo much work, and Mazie’s an angel sent from heaven. Ha! More like a demon child! Dad opens his mouth, probably to reprimand me, but I cut him off, shouting, “Whatever! It’s not like I’m having fun, anyway. This is our dumbest vacation yet!” I storm off, cheeks flaming from anger and the heat of the campfire. On my way to the tent, I spot a rock. I kick it––hard––and it lands in the brush. The rustling branches pull a squeal from Mazie. I chuckle with satisfaction and climb into our tent. Legit, this truly is our worst vacation ever, worse than the Florida fiasco. Sure, we’d dealt with alligators and monster-sized mosquitoes while helping dad scour the swamps for a red-eyed lizard man . . . but at least we’d had cell phone service back at the hotel. A television. Beds. Food that didn’t taste like charcoal. But this year, dad didn’t want to waste “prime hunting time.” Because this time, he needed to search at night . . . for a Bigfoot. That’s my dad, the cryptozoologist. Always on the hunt for another monster, obsessed with fictional things, just like the ghosts in his stupid stories. In my sleeping bag, I toss and turn in annoyance, considering my odds of being adopted, but eventually, I fall asleep to the very real sound of the crackling fire and the nearby ocean.

***

I wake up to an onslaught of punches to my shoulders and arms. “Ow, Mazie! Quit it!” I shout, flailing one hand behind me, trying to push hers back. Kid packs a serious punch for an eight-year-old. She shushes me, then tugs at my sleeping bag. “Listen.” I turn my head toward her, humoring her more than anything, but sleep and the lulling sound of the coastal waves quickly pull me back into my warm cocoon. Mazie smacks me again, then yanks the blanket off my face. “Austin!” Her highpitched whisper grates on my frayed, overtired nerves. My eyes fly open.

I grab my sleeping bag and give it a fierce yank. “Stop it, Mazie!” It doesn’t take much effort to pull the slick fabric from her grip. I wriggle deeper into the covers, a turtle retreating into its shell. ‘Course, hiding in plain sight isn’t going to help my situation. I’m pretty sure I could fly to Italy and, still, my sister would find a way to terrorize me. As if to prove my point, she gives my blanket another tug. My blood warms. Clearly, I’m not sleeping until I resolve the issue. “What is it?” I demand from inside. “I think I heard a noise outside the tent.” And so my nightmare begins. I sigh. “Whatever, Mazie. It’s probably just the wind or something. An animal. Just . . . close your eyes and go to sleep.” “But . . . Austin.” She shoves me with her feet, pushes me with her hands. “Uuugh,” I groan, throw the covers off my head, and flop over to face my insufferable little sister. “What is it, Mazie?” “What if it’s the Weeping Woman, coming to snatch us? Or the chattery teeth?” I roll my eyes, shake my head, then prop myself to sit up on one elbow. I knew those stupid campfire stories would keep her awake. They scared me as a kid. Mazie’s afraid of her own shadow . . . in the daytime. “It’s just a story,” I say, trying to assure her. “One that moms and dads made up to keep their kids from wandering off and getting lost in the woods.” Mazie scrunches her face into a tight scowl. It’s like looking at an eight-year-old version of our mother. “Mom and Dad don’t lie.” She narrows her eyes, crosses her arms over her chest. “Uh, hello? Santa Claus. The Easter Bunny. Ring any bells?” “That’s different.” Her bottom lip quivers, and her bright blue eyes well up with tears. Great. She’s about to go nuclear. “Fine. Whatever,” I say, hoping to defuse the mini ticking time bomb. “But I promise you, there’s no ghost or chatter teeth out there. Those things aren’t real.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Look, I’ll let you sleep with my flashlight. Just . . . try to go to sleep, OK?”

She looks up, contemplating. “And your headphones?” I shrug. “Sure. Whatever.” Mazie climbs into her sleeping bag with our dog, Peaches, but remains sitting up. I turn, find the agreed-upon items, and deposit them into her waiting hands. She grins, flicks my Maglite on and off a few times, then sets it on the tent floor, a few inches from her head. I sigh, turn over, and pull the covers back over my head. If I believed in a heavenly being, I’d pray for the silence to last. And, for a long while, it does. Then, a howl unlike anything I’ve ever heard––gruff, wild, and territorial––knocks me from near sleep. A twig snaps––close enough that Mazie squeaks, and I spring up. Mazie’s staring at me, arms crossed, chin out, nose in the air. “Whatever. Probably an animal,” I say. “Riiiight.” I press my lips together, take a breath through my nose, and push it slowly from my mouth. I can’t let the brat get under my skin. “Look, I’ll prove it,” I say, climbing to my knees, crawling toward the opening of the tent. Mazie snags my arm as I . “Austin.” I look back at her. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she looks concerned. It actually kinda . . . scares me. “Yeah?” I ask, voice wavering a bit. “Be careful, ‘K?” Peaches whines at her feet, which only adds to the nervous energy inside our tent. We’ve suddenly gone from picking on one another to realizing there are some very real, dangerous animals outside. Bears. Wolves. Cougars. Mountain Lions. They’re all native to the Pacific Northwest, and any one of them might be roaming outside our camp, looking for a food source. Although I can’t say I’d be tasty––I’m rather lean and bony––I’ve never heard of cougar cooking classes. These are wild animals, not foodies. There’s also the potential Bigfoot. Sure, I make fun of my dad, and goof on his stories . . . but the truth is, I get this niggling of doubt every now and again. This pit-in-my-stomach kind of feeling that says, “It could be real. You can’t prove it isn’t.” My father is extremely intelligent. He chases these monsters all over the world and writes about them in science magazines. To him, they’re as real as the

moon and stars. He collects and studies the “evidence” of their existence. And since I look up to him, there’s this little part of me that wants to believe he’s right––just not in this exact moment. With shaky, sweaty hands, I reach for the zipper on the flap of our tent door. I only hope Mazie doesn’t notice how freaked out I am. She’ll never let me live it down. Everyone at my graduation will hear this story. I’ll have to put a ban on all speeches––weddings, family reunions, funerals . . . Nope. I’m not letting her get the best of me. I inhale sharply, clamp my jaw, and pull up on the contraption. I cringe as the metal teeth grind and separate to create a small opening. I peel it back, slowly, hoping it’ll reduce the noise level. I close my eyes, count to three, and quickly pull until my arm reaches waist height. I reopen my eyes to find Mazie flying for the exit. I don’t have time to think; I grab her ankle and yank. “Peaches! Peaches, Peaches, Peaches, Peaches!!!” “Mazie, cut it out!” I shout over her shrieking, and the intense ringing in my ears. She responds by kicking at me, then crawling and clambering for the partially open flap. I keep a hold of her legs, but just barely. My hands are damp from panic. As if she can sense this, she writhes around on the tent floor, kicking screaming, and clawing at me. This is where Mom and Dad typically cave. Not me. Little monster is going down. I flip her onto her back and give her legs one last hard pull. Using my knees, I press on her shins and pin her legs to the ground. With her strongest weapons disabled, it takes almost no effort for me to secure her arms above her head. She can’t hurt me, or herself, now, but her shrieking is going to wake the dead–– meaning mom and dad. Mom may wear earplugs to drown out Dad’s snoring, and his snoring may be the symptom of a super deep sleep, but they wouldn’t sleep through her tantrum forever. Eventually, the little tornado siren is going to rouse them. “Hey! I’ll go find Peaches. Just stop!” Her banshee screams cease as suddenly as they started, and just like that, she’s my baby sister again. She looks up at me through a mess of blonde hair, sniffles, and says, “Promise?” in the teeniest, faintest of voices. That ounce of vulnerability is all it takes to remind me she’s scared, and she’s

only a kid. I nod, smile, and say, “I promise.” Still, I’m cautious as I release her hands and remove the pressure from her legs. I’ve witnessed the classic Mazie fake-out on more than one occasion. One second, you think she’s good, and the next, she’s bolting for the exit, trying to jump out of the car, or throwing things across the room. Thankfully, she just sits up, brushes the matted locks from her tear-soaked face, and rubs her pajama sleeve under her nose. It isn’t until her expression grows serious that I realize she thinks she’s going with me. “OK,” she says, standing and puffing up her chest. “Mazie . . . I—” I notice her bottom lip quivering and close my mouth midsentence. Her face, already blotchy from crying earlier, starts turning red again. “You promised, Austin.” I hold my hands up, wave them in the air. “Oh, no. I promised to look––not to take you with me.” “But she’s my dog.” “That might be true, but Mom and Dad will kill me if I let you go out into the forest at night. Besides, you don’t want that crazy Weeping Woman to come find you, do ya?” It might be a cheap shot, using Dad’s scary story against her, but I’m willing to do anything to save myself the hassle of dragging Mazie along. Never mind that a predator might be roaming outside. It’s cold. It’s wet. The terrain is rocky and uneven, with several steep inclines and drop-offs, especially as you get closer to the shoreline. I just want to hurry and find our dog, climb back in my sleeping bag, go to sleep, and forget this night ever even happened. But life couldn't possibly be that simple––not with Mazie involved. “Not real. You said so.” Now she listens to reason. I press my lips together. Arguing won’t help. I have to play at her level. “You’re right,” I finally say. “But there are snakes and spiders out there. It’s dark. Cold. Wet. Why not stay here, in the warm, dry tent, and watch me get smacked in the face by branches and stuff? Look, I’ll even let you use my flashlight.” She narrows her eyes, like she’s trying to look through me, then rests a

contemplative finger on her chin. “Hmmm . . . I dunno . . . ” My blood starts to boil. I swear, if she starts the banshee cries again, I’m carrying her over to Mom and Dad’s tent, depositing her inside, and walking away. Let them deal with the little brat while I go and find our dog. “Mazie. Seriously. The longer we argue, the longer she’s out there. Alone.” “OK, fine.” She snatches up my massive flashlight, blinds me with it, then hands over her miniature pink one, as if we’re making an even trade. My stomach knots as I slip on my sneakers, tie the laces, then grab my jacket. I contort my limbs and clumsily climb from the tent. The moment I’m standing fully upright, I regret my bargain with the devil. Already, I feel the weight of the forest on my shoulders. Dozens of cold, spindly fingers run up and down my spine, causing a shiver. I slip into my coat. I feel eyes all around me, watching, waiting, seeing what my next move will be. It could be a possum. Maybe a deer. But it doesn’t make the sensation any less creepy. I flip the plastic button on Mazie’s light. The beam flickers on, off, then on again. I can’t even see past the tree line. I’m, for sure, a midnight snack. I know it’s a long shot, but I take a look back at Mazie, hoping she’ll be willing to barter. It only takes one glance to realize she’s not in the mood to haggle. Sitting cross-legged at the opening of the tent, she has a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She’s gripping my flashlight like it’s the holy grail or something. I sigh, it defeat, and step forward . . . to my doom. I shake my head, tossing the ridiculous thought in my mental trash can. I’m fine. I haven’t even made it a hundred feet yet. But the feeling of being watched only worsens with each step, until my stomach’s twisted in knots. My feet crunch too loudly in the forest’s dense canopy. Twigs break beneath my feet like firecrackers. It’s all too clear that I do not belong. Mazie’s useless toy goes dark. I shake it, only this time, nothing. The batteries are probably just dead; the thing hardly worked anyway. I shove it into the pocket of my pajama pants. The trees rustle. A deep, groaning yawn breaks out above my head. I look up to the swaying, bending branches. One cracks, falls, and lands on the ground behind me. My heart hammers against my rib cage. My feet move faster. I trip over a rock, nearly bite the dust, but catch a tree limb and regain my balance. I’m still holding the branch when something whooshes by my head. A large rock

thumps on the ground, just a few feet behind me, and then rolls along the path, into the brush. That’s when I’m hit with the most awful smell, like decomposing crabs and seaweed, mixed with . . . a wild, foul body odor. It grows more pungent with each step. “Peaches,” I call out in a strained whisper. Then gag. Whatever’s out here can’t be good. I’m not interested in staying to find out what it might be, so I frantically start searching through nearby bushes and behind large rocks. Another large boulder sails past me. What the hell is going on? I look over my shoulder, back the way I’d come, and realize I no longer see the glow of my Maglite. If I can’t see Mazie, she can’t see me. A heavy ball of dread forms in the pit of my stomach. What if she comes looking for me? Then we’ll both be wandering around in the dark forest. At least she has a good flashlight, but that won’t help her much if she runs into a mountain lion or a cougar. My search suddenly becomes urgent and scattered. “Peaches.” A howl bounces off the trees and erupts all around me. I turn a full circle, trying to determine its source and direction, but all I see are trees. That’s it. I’m done. Dumb dog can find her own way back. I don’t care if Mazie screams until dawn. I’m not getting killed in these creepy ass woods. I turn toward camp––I think–– and start to head back. I only make it a few steps before I spot something moving behind a large evergreen trunk. It’s definitely not our dog––not unless she’s grown six feet in the past twenty minutes. “Hello?” My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. “Who’s there?” The shadowy form peeks out. My heart stops, stutters, then starts again when the glowing red eyes meet mine. It can’t be. He takes one cautious step to the side, revealing his massive, hairy frame. In his arms is a distressed beagle. I don’t know what his intention is, what he’s trying to do, but he moves toward me, head lowered, shoulders hunched, like he wants to appear less intimidating. His towering frame stops just mere feet away. “Can I?” I hold my arms out, nod, and reach for my shaking pooch. The large beast croons and pulls Peaches closer to his chest. “Please. She’s . . . my dog.” His gaze shifts from me to Peaches. “Look.” I point to my pup. “She’s shaking, crying. I think she’s scared. Let me make it better?” As soon as the beast cradles her in my arms, I see the reason for his concern. The poor pooch’s back leg is hanging at an awkward angle. I touch it. She yelps in

response. The beast growls at me and bares his teeth. I shake my head and wave my free hand. “No. No. I’m not going to hurt her . . . I think it’s broken,” I say, hovering my hand above the injury. The beast wrinkles his nose and his furry brow creases. “I need to get her back to camp. To my dad.” Without warning, the concerned and somewhat gentle beast morphs into a raging monster. Dirt and debris fly as he uproots a tree. I barely hear it crash over his deafening roar. Massive fists pound his hairy chest. His bared teeth drip with foamy saliva. Don’t run. Just back away. I hear my dad’s voice in my head and take slow, tiny steps. My jello legs falter, and I trip over my own shoe. Suddenly, I’m on the ground, with a wounded beagle in my lap and a Bigfoot looming over me. What a crazy way to die. “No!” I hear a shout from behind me. The beast stops, mid-throw of another large boulder. It falls at his feet with a loud thud. I gasp for air, sucking it down like I just ed how to breathe. Peaches limps off my lap and hobbles away . . . to my little sister’s waiting arms. She still has the blanket over her shoulders. My flashlight is on the ground, still on, next to her knees. I have no idea how she found me. The previously gentle swoosh of the ocean had become an almost deafening roar, meaning I’d wandered quite a ways from the tent, but I’m suddenly grateful to have an obnoxious little sister. When I turn back around, Bigfoot is gone. It’s just me, my dog, and Mazie in the forest. I take in the bare roots of the tree, reaching toward the dark sky, the boulder that’s almost twice my size, and look at my sister. “C’mon. We better get back to camp before the Weeping Woman finds us.”

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