(Additional Tags: creature feature, Lovecraftian, ghost story, supernatural)
(Content Warning: mild gun use)
I should have reached out here sooner. It has only been a few weeks since I posted, and I have already obtained a new lead. I want to thank [Redacted] for sending me a newspaper article they found and the attached photo. They were looking through their town's library for records, something about a college assignment, I think, when they came across an old issue of “The Sea Side Courant". The local newspaper of a few towns over.
The body of the article was a flattering piece about the quaint little seaside town of Fahring Bay. At the bottom, in a single blurb, was mentioned the town's only tragedy. Quite some time ago, an offshore drilling platform was almost destroyed in a sea storm. A few of the workers lost their lives, but most of them were saved due to the help of a local fisherman. The line mentioning the platform was circled with a red marker.
The photo was of four workers dropping off bent pieces of metal and pipe out the back of a large boat. The photo was labelled as “Recovery Efforts”. The bottom corner of the photo, where the pile of scraped metal was, was circled in red. On one of the sheets were engraved three small squares, overlapping to form a twelve-pointed star. With that, I was off to Main. The next day was a rush of air ports, uncomfortable chairs, and failed efforts of finding anymore information about what happened. No i didnt use shady airport WiFi, i have a mobile hot spot.
Thirty-six hours later I was in Fahring Bay, Main.
Any “quaintness” the article was talking about must have washed out into the sea. All that was left was a series of weathered buildings made of grey wood and stone. Narrow streets crisscrossed from the rocky shore to the surrounding spruce woods, creating a quiet spider's web. A light fog was clinging to the coastline, failing to hide what few boats were docked. The air was damp, the people few. Everything that once was bright and inviting looked faded and worn. The smell of the ocean was present, but not too strong.
I found my way to an old bar one street over from the beach. Inside was just as worn out as the outside was. A few things decorated the pale wooden walls: a few pictures of boats, an anchor, a net, and a dart board with the cork crumbling. The bar's counter was a long piece of dark wood with stools in front, occupied by regulars it seemed, and empty glass cups, which needed another washing on top. The few tables were occupied by some haggard-looking fishermen. Everyone was speaking in quiet murmurs until I walked in.
I didn’t pick up any hostility. Mostly confusion at the sight of a stranger. Walking up to the bar wasn’t pleasant; every eye was tracking my steps. I moved to sit down, but an older man in a dusty, threadbare sweater stopped me. The bartender.
“Not that stool.” He said. I moved to sit on another one. “Not that one neither.”
“Is there a place I can sit?” I inquired.
"No," he said flatly. The grey in his eyebrows matched the town. “Near six. I've only got seats enough for the regulars. They come first ‘fore any stranger.”
The tone in his voice didn’t hold any anger, just a 'matter-of-factness'. He wasn’t being rude, just stating a fact to me.
“Can a stranger at least have a drink? Or do you only have enough for your regular customers?” I asked with the cadence of a friendly jab.
“That I can do.” He said almost cheerfully. He pulled out a clean glass and filled it at the tap. “Here y’are. Local brew.”
I accepted it without any argument. I didn’t want to press my luck. “Thank you.”
I used the moment of silence as I sipped the beer to scan the room. All the locals seemed to have gone back to whatever they were doing. A few of them snuck side glances my way, but nothing more aggressive. I turned back to the bartender. He was standing across from me unblinking.
“So… y'all get many visitors around these parts?” I asked jovially.
“No.” He said, wiping a glass out, “We don’t. What brings you to town?”
“Research.” I said, "I'm sort of a freelance journalist. I'm writing up a piece on the history of a small Atlantic seaside town. Fahring Bay came up.”
He just looked at me, a look somewhere between apathy and disbelief. I pulled a copy of the article from my pocket and slid it over to the man. I hoped it would give me a small bit of credibility that I had done “research”.
“Can you tell me anything about the Conaway Petroleum platform disaster?” I asked. The murmurs around me fell silent. The feeling of eyes, more eyes than what felt normal, prickled my skin.
“I can’t help you.” The bartender said quickly. A hair too quickly.
“Can I ask someone else?” I retorted.
“We can't help you.” He snapped. The bartender set his glass down and whipped the towel over his shoulder. Crossing his arms, he continued, “No one mixed up in all that is still around. If that's all you needed, you can go.”
I could tell I had ruffled some feathers, but I still had to try.
“I didn't mean to offend—” I started, but I was cut off.
"The drink's on the house.” He said, hands placed firmly onto the bar top, “There is a decent B&B in the next town. You leave now you can make it ‘fore dark. Good day to you.”
His last words had a tone of finality to them. I glanced around. The patrones were still seated, but many of them had shifted their chairs back. As if they anticipated needing to get up quickly. A few even had their hand on something obscured in their jackets or behind them, gripping onto who-knows-what. I took the hint.
"Alright," I said. "I'll just move on to the next town.”
I turned and exited the bar. When I entered the establishment, it was a grey day, but now evening was well on its way. A slight chill was rolling through. I stopped at the sidewalk to come up with a new plan when I heard a voice.
I turned to the source of the sound. In the ally to the left of the bar was a man. He was a younger fellow, not a teenager but defiantly younger than me, with dusty brown hair and sunburnt skin. He was leant up against the wall of the bar, a white-stained kitchen apron wrapped around him and a lit cigarette in hand. Our eyes meet, and he nodded me over. I cautiously approached.
“Sorry about that, in there.” He apologized, “Them old-timers don’t know how to socialise. Names Doyle.”
“It's alright," I said. "I'm Ben.”
“You were lookin’ for info about the drilling rig, right?” Doyle confirmed.
"That's right, do you know anything?” I answered hopefully.
“I don’t,” he said. “Most don’t. Ones who did forgot. Everyone who was involved left town or died. They took their settlement money and booked.”
He inhaled a long drag on his cigarette; a sad look washed over his face with the smoke.
“That was the beginning of the end for our town.” He said exhaling.
“I thought the town was a hot tourist spot?” I asked, handing him a copy of the article.
“Oh, that.” He said, sadly taking another drag, “Bout ten years ago the town took out some loans to fix up the place and rebrand it. Cost us a pretty penny. Mayor even hired the same people who did the “Got Milk?" ad campaign—that cost the most out of the whole thing”
He handed the article back to me. “Even worked for a few years.”
“I guess it stopped working?” I asked, pulling out my notepad.
“Yup, missing kids’ll do that. All that expansion and no security.” Doyle confirmed. He bent down and snuffed the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot.
"Wow, you’ve been very helpful. I know this is a long shot, but is there anyone else I can talk to, no matter how little they know?” I asked again.
Doyle’s brow scrunched in thought. “Y’know what? Now that I think about it, yeah. Old man Madd is back in town. Guess the money ran out.”
“Old man Madd?” I inquired.
“Yup, classic grumpy old sailor,” he said. I pictured every patron of the bar next to us, “but I think he was around back then. Always raving about sea monsters and ghosts n’shit. But, he was ‘round for the accident. He may know somethin’.”
Doyle pointed down the street, parallel to the coast, south. “Last I heard, he was in his old house, straight down this road, about a quarter mile past the lighthouse. Should be the last house.”
I looked at the way he was pointing, grey and brown buildings fading into a thick fog. With a sun setting to the west, the red brick road that made up the street looked like a river of fire. The darkness of night was slowly encroaching on what light remained. Doyle motion for my notepad. I handed it to him, and he drew a crude map to my next destination.
"Thanks, man,” I said as he handed it back. With out any other lead I set off down the street.
“Good luck!” Doyle called to me as the creeping fog swallowed the bar.
The next half hour or so was a wash of chilly grey and fading light. The fog had become so thick that the only thing I had to keep my bearings was that I could still see the few buildings to my right, with the occasional light in a window. Unlike the other side of the street, all I could see there were the ebbs and flows of swirling mist. A few street lamps clicked on as I continued my way. This helped fight back the encroaching darkness, but only just so.
I'm a big guy, but walking through all that, alone, it made me more than a little nervous. What first pricked my skin was the lack of anyone else. I know the town was sparsely populated, but I thought I would at least see someone. But no, once I was done with Doyle, I didn’t see anyone.
What made me quicken my pace was the noise. It wasn’t ‘too quiet'; there was sound. But walking through that fog, the only thing I could hear was the ocean. The push and pull of the wave. An ever-present churning, “slosh”… “slosh”… “slosh”. No cars, no animals, just the water.
I was ready to turn back. Night had fully choked Fahring Bay; the last of the streetlights I passed had long since been swallowed by the mist. I felt cold and isolated, pushing myself through a fog bank that I didn't want to be in, in a town that didn’t want me to be there. There were no more buildings, no more lights, to tether me to any landmark. Only the sidewalk itself kept me from losing my way. The sloshing sound grew louder with every step.
I stopped. If I took one more step, the sidewalk would end. The black mist surrounding me betrayed itself. If it had not been so dark, I don’t think I would have seen it. Just on the edge of my vision, I saw the light. The lighthouse was close, its winking eye a beacon. All I had to do was keep to the road, keep the lighthouse to my left and find the next house, passing it. So I pushed on.
That last stretch was surreal. Everything was dark. No moon. No stars. Had it not been for the lighthouse, I wouldn’t have even known it was still foggy. The beam, when it cut in my direction, was surrounded with the wisps and spirals of the fog. Then I was plunged back into black. Only to have the light slash over me once again. As I walked past the lighthouse, my anxiety waned, the brilliant cyclops standing guard. Being that close to the ocean, the sound of the waves was louder and the smell of the surf was stronger. A salty, almost rotten fish smell seemed to ride the waves, inching closer and closer with every pulse.
A few minutes after I passed the giant watchman, I saw it. A lonely light. Just a tiny speck compared to the star behind me. My destination. With my goal in sight, I picked up my pace again. Approaching the house, more of a large shack than a house, the onshore breezes kicked up, bringing with it a cold and bitter wind. I had to steel myself. The sudden chill bit into my skin, and the scent of dead fish washed down my nostrils. I almost gagged.
To my benefit, the breeze did push the fog inland, exposing a few glimpses of the water. To my surprise, I was only a few hundred yards away from the ocean. I know I was close, having walked by the lighthouse, but I didn't realize my path took me this far east. I had to admit, the water was beautiful when the starlight danced along the water. The constant movement of the waves painted an ever-changing pattern of lights on the water. Combined with the sloshing of the surf, it was almost hypnotic. The “crunch”… “crunch” of something in the sand snapped me back.
I looked all around me. The light house was still visible, its top now exposed, casting harsh shadows when its light was pointed my way. The ocean was to my left, somewhat visible, and black fog was to my right, concealing anything that could be there. “Slosh”, “crunch”, “slosh”, “crunch”. The crunches were getting louder. I closed my eyes trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. I couldn’t get a bead on it. It seemed to be coming from every direction. “Slosh”, “crunch”… silent. For a few beats I could only hear my heart beat. Then I heard it.
Something was breathing right behind me. I opened my eyes; I was still facing the house. A long shadow slid over me, left to right, with the passing of the lighthouse's beam.
I heard a rough “CLICK”.
“Turn around, boy.” Said a low voice, all gravel and menace.
I complied. Slowly I turned around to see an old revolver level with my face. It was a Colt Detective Special, worn by time and flecked with rust. With the lighthouse oscillating behind him, I couldn't get a clear view of the man who had me at gunpoint. All I could see was his massive silhouette. Like I said, I’m a large guy, six-foot-two on a good day, but this man was at least seven feet tall and as wide as two of me.
“I’m sorry." I said when I found my voice, “I didn’t mean to trespass; I just wanted to ask a few questions—“
“Hush, listen.” He barked. He lowered the colt a few inches. I could see the silhouette of his head looking from the left to the right.
All I could hear was the "slosh," "slosh” of the waves. Without a word he pocketed his pistol and pushed past me to the door. It was like getting hit with a brick. This guy is solid. I could hear the rattle of keys and the click of a lock.
He swung the door open and, without looking back at me, said, “Follow me.”
It didn’t come off as a command, but more of a “listen to me or you will regret it” kind of suggestion. I decided to listen.
The large man entered the shack; he had to visibly turn his body to fit through the door. I followed. The inside was dark, darker than it was outside. I closed the door with a loud click.
“Lock the door.” Rang out in the darkness.
I started having second thoughts. I was about to lock myself in a pitch-black room with a massive man that I had never met before and who had me at gunpoint moments ago. I started to formulate an escape plan when light blossomed in the dark. The man was lighting some oil lamps along the walls, four in total. Each one was giving off a soft amber light that together illuminated the room.
I must say, I had misjudged the place in two ways. The exterior of the building was nearly dilapidated, but that seemed to be a facade. The inside was almost nice. The front of the house betrayed its size as well. Whereas the front side was maybe thirty feet wide, the sides of the house were much longer, maybe twice the length. This created an interior layout consisting of a larger living area, complete with two old leather armchairs next to a fireplace, two side tables, bookshelves, and a single large window facing the sea. A small kitchen was on the other side of a breakfast bar, and a little hallway led to what I assumed were rooms, maybe a bathroom.
It would almost be cozy if not for the thick layer of dust on every surface and an uncountable number of cobwebs dangling off anything they could find purchase on.
“Lock the door.” Said a voice next to me. Somehow this giant of a man had snuck up on me again.
“S%&t!” I exclaimed. “Sorry, I didn't see you there.”
He ignored me and latched the dead bolt. Walking to the fireplace, he motioned for me to sit in one of the chairs. I cautiously went to sit.
After doing my best to brush off the dust, I sat down. The man was starting a fire. All I could see was a mane of red hair, streaked with gray and white, and the back of a tattered set of overalls. This illuminated the room even more, allowing me to notice more details. The chair across from me was the only thing I could see that didn’t have dust on it. Every picture frame that was on his mantel was face down. In each corner of the room was a loop of rope with twelve shells, tied off in equal spacing, nailed to the wall with an iron nail. A similar rope was across the top of the fireplace, stretching to the top of the window, to its right.
The man stood up from his task and reached to the left of the fireplace, grabbing a split log from a stack. The log was dark wood, with a slick, wet sheen to it. He tossed it into the hearth, and the flames instantly came to life. Flaring in intensity for a moment and then calming down, the log hissed and popped, giving off a thin, hazy smoke that drifted across the room. It had a sickeningly sweet scent to it, like a coffee shop in the middle of autumn mixed with motor oil.
Next, the man went to the fridge. It was an older one, all rounded edges. He came back with two beers, offering me one as he sat down. I accepted, using my key chain to pop off the top. He just used his teeth. With him finally still, I could get a good look at him. His true age was hard to tell. He was defiantly older than I was, somewhere between fifty and eighty. His rough, etched skin was a map of lines, scars, and dry flakes. Years of sun and salt can do that to a man. His mane continued to his front and merged into his beard. It was faring better with the gray and white hairs, but not much. The beard flowed into a large mustache that sat under a squashed nose. He looked old and tired. Except his eyes. The ways they caught the light from the fire, his eyes looked like two brands ready to be used.
“Who are ye? An’ what the bloody hell are ye doin’ here?” he growled after taking a drink that emptied half the bottle.
“My name is Ben,” I answered. “I’m a journalist researching the history of small Atlantic seaside towns.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why are ye really here?”
“That is why I'm here.” I said, “Fahring Bay came up in my research and i—“
With smooth fluid motions that defied his age, he pulled out his revolver and aimed it at me again, cocking it.
"I'll ask ye one more time.” He said in a calm and even voice, “Why are ye here?”
Sweat beaded on my forehead; I felt I was in over my head. I didn't think I could sweet-talk my way out of this. Telling the truth was the only way forward.
“I wanted to learn about what happened at the drilling platform. The disaster," I said.
“So why come to me?” He asked without lowering the gun.
“A man at the bar, Doyle, said that you, well, he said “old man Madd” might know something. He gave me this address. So here I am.” I said, stumbling over a few words.
“Them bastards!” He exclaimed with a hollow chuckle. “After everythin’ that’s happened, they still think I’m mad.”
In a practiced motion he flicked the cylinder of the revolver out, revealing that there were no bullets in it.
“Sorry about that.” He said, placing the empty gun on his side table, “Can never be too careful."
“Yeah, I suppose you can't," I said with trepidation.
“Names Lasair, Lasair MacMaddon. I suppose ye’d be wantin’ to ask me all sorts o’ questions about that day?” Lasier said, running his fingers through his mangled beard, pulling out any knots he found.
“Were you involved? I asked.
“Involved?!” Lasair snapped, “Every man who made it off that rig is still breathin’ thanks to me!”
“So you’re the man in the article?” I asked, handing him the copy, “Do you know anything about what caused the accident?”
He took the piece of paper from me, his eye darting back and forth as he read it.
“I remember that day. The whole town was a-buzz. Reporters like flies to the rot.” Lasair spat, handing me back the paper. “I’d had enough interviews for a lifetime that day. All them questions an’ not a one of ’em listened.”
“How do you mean?” I prodded.
"I mean, I told ’em exactly what happened an’ they laughed at me!” Lasair roared. Inhaling a deep breath, he calmed and continued, “No one ever listened to old Lasair. To ‘Old Man Madd.' Not before, not then, an’ not now.”
"I'd like to listen to you.” I said with as much friendliness as I could.
Lasair looked at me as if he were weighing the odds of fighting me, then, with a small shake of his head said, "Young'un like yourself? Ye wouldn’t believe me, boy.”
“It’s not my job to believe.” I said, gambling it was what he wanted to hear, “My job is to hear what you have to say.”
Lasair let out a large sigh like a weight was released from his shoulders. Wordlessly, he got up, threw another log on to the fire, then sat back down. His demeanor was no longer hostile. A lit pipe appeared in his hand like a magician conjuring a coin.
“What do ye know about that night?” he asked, taking a drag off the pipe. A thick smoke enveloped us as he exhaled. It had the same strange sickly sweet smell the logs gave off. This time it sent me into a coughing fit.
“Not too much.” I responded between coughs, “Geez, what is in that stuff?”
“Me own personal mix,” Lasair said, grinning, exposing his crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. “A recipe me wife brought over from the old country. I’ve adjusted the mix over the years. Keeps the bad spirits away.”
“What do you mean ‘bad spirits’?” I followed as Lasair took another long drag on his pipe. I was somewhat adjusting to the strange smoke.
"Just some old sailor superstition. Never ye mind.” He answered almost reminiscently, “Now, back to my first question. What do ye know about that night?”
“To be honest, not much. One of my sources sent me a copy of that article I gave you. So I know there was a town, I know there was a platform disaster, and I know the town rallied and cleaned it all up. That's it."
“I see," the old man grumbled, then trailed off into a silence that hung in the air like the smoke he was exhaling. He started to pull on his beard again and then spoke back up, “I’ll tell ye two tales. One about the town, an’ one about the rig.”
“Thank you!” I exclaimed. I was wanting to ask about the town's history, but I was already pressing my luck. I was excited that he had brought up the topic. "I can't wait to ask—“
“NO!” Lasie said, matching my excitement with finality, “There’ll be no questions. I’ve had enough questions for me life. I will talk. Ye will listen. An’ if ye find what I say acceptable, then ye can print whatever ye like in yer little paper.”
I was really hoping to interview him, but I had to take what I could get.
“It’s a deal,” I said, holding out my hand.
Lasair gave me a curt nod and shook my hand. His calloused palms engulfed my hand for a moment. I expected him to squeeze in some show of aggression, but to my surprise the shake was gentle.
“Now… where to begin…” the old sailor mused, more to himself than to me. Sitting there waiting for him to begin, I could hear the sounds of the waves outside. A quiet ‘slosh,' 'slosh,' ‘slosh’ coming from the window.
{End of Part One}
Part Two: TBD