By S.E. Reid
With its own “strange, hidden corners,” Ferris Island, is similar in many ways to what we Islanders speak of as our own “Old Vashon.” For more Ferris Island tales, visit: http://talebones.substack.com.
For more Ferris Island tales, visit: http://talebones.substack.com.
Did you miss Part 1 of this story? Read Part 1 here.
The barman glowered down at her, outranking her by at least a foot and a half, regarding her with sullen irritation.
“You,” he said, clearly trying to keep his voice down. “I know you. You’re that one from the Chronicle. That journalist.”
He spat the word; it was not a compliment.
Caroline tried to force a disarming smile. “I thought the bathrooms were down there. My mistake.”
But Zeke’s eyes flicked down to the camera, which was not fully hidden inside Caroline’s purse.
“Do you regularly bring fancy cameras when you go drinking?”
Caroline shrugged. “I’m doing a story on historic Ferris Island taverns. I could include a photo of you, if you want.”
But Zeke was unmoved. “Did you see her?” he asked.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Of course you do,” he said. “You sharks are always trying to get a glimpse of her. For that matter, how would the Chronicle feel about you ghost-hunting on the side?”
Caroline swallowed, but she kept her poker face. That was all she needed; her editor already had her on notice for indulging in this stuff. He was the humorless type, and the paranormal fell neatly outside his strict boundaries for serious journalism.
If he found out, there was a good chance her time at the Port Salish Chronicle would be well and truly over.
“I’m sorry, truly. It was just a misunderstanding,” she said, trying to push past him. Instead, he rested a giant hand on her arm. She expected a grab, but instead his touch was heavy, yet gentle.
“If you have any decency, you’ll delete those photos,” he said.
“And why’s that?”
“Because she’s been through enough,” Zeke replied, his face unmistakably softening. “Because she ought to be left alone. Because it would be the kind thing to do. Do you need any other reasons?”
Caroline sighed. It was tough to feel any sympathy for a ghost. Besides, those pictures were gold dust.
“What’s it to you, anyway?” she asked. “You’re thinking about this all wrong. When I publish these photos, your bar will be a ghost-hunting destination for people all over the region, maybe even the country. Is The Wake too good for the paranormal business? I’ve heard the money is unreal.”
Zeke let his hand drop from Caroline’s arm. His icy blue eyes were full of pain.
“She deserves peace,” he said. “I … I owe her that much.”
Caroline caught the hint of something in his tone, something unexpected. Her heart squeezed, but she hardly knew why. She had to get out of this place; the crowded heat, the smell of body odor and stale nicotine, the raucous bar-goers singing along to “Once In A Lifetime” were all starting to make her head throb.
“Tell you what,” she said. “You don’t breathe a word of this to anyone at the Chronicle, and I’ll delete the photos. Deal?”
Zeke gazed at her for a moment, as though taking the measure of her. He was old enough and sea-savvy enough not to trust a seemingly smooth tide without question.
But either he realized he didn’t have an option, or he couldn’t think of any other arguments, because he nodded. “It’s a deal.”
He stood aside, and without another word, Caroline shouldered past him, making sure that Scully was tucked safely the rest of the way into her bag. She pushed through the crowd and out into the cold air off the Port Salish harbor, not pausing for breath until she reached her car, slipping into the driver’s seat and locking the door behind her.
Caroline breathed deeply, her hand on her heart, willing herself to relax.
Finally, when her breathing slowed and her heartbeat calmed, Caroline pulled Scully out of her purse and turned the camera on. Then she flipped back through the photos.
The camera had worked its magic again, and the photos were incredible. As clear as they could be in the gloomy cellar, depicting a ghostly woman standing beside the kegs, her long dark hair pooling around her shoulders, her wide eyes staring straight down the lens.
“Hello, beautiful,” Caroline murmured. Scully had caught apparitions before, but these were absolute dynamite. According to her informant, paranormal bloggers and investigation teams would pay top dollar for this kind of thing. It was almost worth pissing off her editor for. In fact, it might even be the making of her.
Caroline flipped through the photos over and over again, amazed at the clarity. But the longer she stared into the ghost’s eyes, a persistent thought nagged at her.
She’s not weeping.
In all the stories she had read online about the Weeper at the Wake, they all repeated the same sad tale: a wailing woman, so bereft that her fisherman lover had shipped out to sea that she died, her soul trapped in the cellar of The Fishmaid’s Wake forever, grieving.
It was typical ghost story stuff, the kind Caroline usually rolled her eyes at: women who are so fragile that they die because they can’t handle being alone for a few months. Immortalized for the rest of local history as an eternal mourner. The clue was in the name.
But this woman, this face was not weeping or wailing. The woman’s wide, dark eyes stared through Caroline into the past, a certainty on her face, a contentment.
She’s happy where she is.
This was not a young woman swept away by fragility and sorrow. This was a woman who had lived a life, loved deeply, and left the world before it was ready to say goodbye to her. Perhaps she got sick. Perhaps it was an accident. But Caroline couldn’t see this face dying of a broken heart.
This woman was holding on to The Wake – to the world – with both hands.
Caroline thought of Zeke’s earnest expression, his serious tone.
“I owe her that much.”
It was love that had lingered in his voice, the unexpected note Caroline had briefly caught. In all the online ghost stories, rumors, and blog posts, the fisherman was never named.
Caroline lifted her head and looked out past the windshield, through the dark to the blackness of the sea, the lights of Port Townsend glittering in the distance. She could publish the photos. Maybe the money would be worth it, even if she did lose her job over it. Maybe it would be enough income for her to find something else, something better.
It might even be the making of her.
But when she looked back down at the camera, the ghostly woman gazed back at her. Through her.
She wasn’t weeping. She was right where she wanted to be, near the man she loved. She was at peace in the dark.
Caroline sighed, balled her hand into a fist, then relaxed.
You’re a soft touch, Caroline Phelan, she thought with a grim smile.
Then she deleted the photos, one by one.
