By S.E. Reid
Editor’s Note: Ferris Island is “located right at the elbow where Puget Sound meets the Salish Sea,” with “some strange hidden corners and a very unusual history.” Please enjoy this tale of an island similar in many ways to what we Islanders like to speak of as our own “Old Vashon.” For more Ferris Island tales, visit: http://talebones.substack.com.
The Fishmaid’s Wake squatted on the Port Salish wharf, its neon sign blinking in the darkness, drawing the usual Friday night clientele like moths to a flame.
The dive bar was packed, mostly with the island’s commercial fishermen along with a handful of curious tourists. The smell of cigarettes lingered in the air from people smoking right outside the doors and windows – no one enforced the 20-foot rule here – and the old jukebox choked out “Spirit In The Sky” to an uncaring crowd, spilling out into the night where it echoed over the waves.
In the corner booth, Caroline traced swirls in the condensation on her beer glass, stealing glances at the short, sharp hallway nearby where the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY stood. She had been nursing her drink for almost an hour, keeping an eye on the owner of the tavern, Ezekiel Shy, as he passed to and fro behind the bar, making small talk with the regulars and filling shouted orders.
Zeke – no one called him Ezekiel to his face – was a giant, well over six and a half feet tall, with the tattooed arms of a former sailor and the silvery hair and beard of an aging warrior. In the glow of the beer logos behind him he evoked a sort of alien gravitas.
He may have been getting up there in years, but there was nothing elderly about his eyesight; Caroline knew that if she got caught, he could end her career.
Thankfully, Caroline was blessed with a journalist’s patience and waiting suited her just fine, watching the ebb and flow of drinkers approach and then leave the bar.
But her luck struck swiftly, and her moment arrived when a gaggle of college girls approached the bar in a chattering crowd, lining up to give their orders, the old-timers giving them ornery looks as they shuffled and nudged each other. Zeke would be occupied for a while.
Caroline rose, shouldered her purse, and walked with casual purpose toward the hallway. She pushed open the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, shutting it quickly behind her, then paused for a moment to listen.
There was no rush of pursuing footsteps, no upraised shouts of anger. As far as she could tell, she had made her way in, unseen.
Caroline looked around. She stood on a landing. There was a bare bulb overhead and a flight of stairs leading down into the Wake’s ancient cellar.
Nowhere to go but down.
The stairs creaked under Caroline’s sneakers, and a blast of cold, earthy air rose to meet her as she descended. On the way down, she opened her purse and pulled out Scully, her trusty digital camera, turning it on with a cheerful chime.
At the bottom of the stairs, Caroline paused. Another dim bulb hung from the low ceiling, the glow desperately reaching for the shadowy corners of the cellar and not quite managing to touch them. Whatever renovation work the tavern had undergone over the years did not extend to this original part of the building. The stone floor was littered with kegs and crates and shelves of cleaning supplies, all the ephemera of managing a respectable drinking establishment. The sound of the crowd upstairs was distant, like hearing the sounds of a party through a radio underwater. It was a lonely place, a tomb of stone.
Caroline sat on the bottom step, resting Scully on her lap.
“So,” she said, her voice falling strangely flat in the thick-walled cellar. “Is anyone here? I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to say hello.”
Caroline waited. Her eyes began to adjust to the dim light, and she tried to listen for any sound over the muffled din from upstairs. But all was still, breathless.
Then, a quiet sound, like the slight turn of a bare foot on stone.
Caroline froze, listening.
The sound rose to a slow shuffling in the dark, footsteps moving between the shelves just outside of the circle of light. A wooden thunking, like knuckles passing along the oaken barrels, a rippling sound of fingertips tapping on the steel kegs.
A sighing breath.
The temperature in the already-cool cellar dropped a handful of degrees, and goose-pimples rose on Caroline’s arms.
Her hands trembled, but she waited. Not yet.
Right at the edge of the bulb’s furtive glow, a shape began to materialize, like a mist or a vapor rising from the floor. The air rippled. Caroline blinked to make sure that she wasn’t seeing things.
But she wasn’t.
Slowly, afraid to break the spell, Caroline lifted Scully’s viewfinder to her eye. Trusting the camera to do the work, she tapped the shutter about a dozen times, watching the cloudy shape blur and coalesce into the form of a person, a woman.
For a moment, the shape hung there, suspended beside the kegs and barrels, bare feet inches from the floor. There was no sound except the digital shutter-click of the camera.
And then – as though disappointed by Caroline’s presence – the apparition silently vanished into the dark.
Caroline lowered the camera and stood up. Her heart was racing, but she couldn’t help but bark a shocked laugh.
“Thank you, thank you,” she whispered, exhilarated. “Gorgeous.”
No time to look at the photos; she needed to get out of there before someone found her out. Caroline took the stairs two at a time on her way up, pushing open the door, shoving Scully halfway into her bag.
She stepped straight into the broad chest of Zeke Shy.
To be continued.
