A short story by Delaney Gardner.
As the rain poured down on the windshield of Carmen Look’s Volkswagen, she pounded the dusty plastic above her steering wheel. The radio had stopped working after months of the reception going in and out. She was stopped at an Irving in Bangor waiting for the weather to pass before she hit route nine to Eastport, the city she had lived in until she was thirteen, the year her mother was diagnosed with schizophrenia, and they moved to Boston to be closer to her doctors. Her mother never accepted her diagnosis, which made life especially difficult on her father. Since graduating college she found herself without direction, a lack of passion, and broken after too many failed attempts at love. Her father told her she could stay at the old Look House, their family property near the harbor, until she figured out her next move.
The rain passed and she travelled east, the route twisted and rose, turned and dipped just as she remembered. The quiet car allowed her mind to wander. Memories of deep sea fishing with her dad, even though she was terrified of boats, and her mother teaching her how to crochet in the middle of a long winter filled her mind. She remembered how happy she’d been during the summers here, her days spent either on the ocean or the lake. Her family rarely cooked, so fried takeout meals and ice cream made up most of their diet in the summertime. The sun drenched days were never too hot and the rainy days seemed to refresh her and everything else. She hadn’t visited Maine since she’d left nine years prior, but specific memories of the landscape still lingered in her mind.
Carmen passed the Welcome to Eastport sign around seven in the evening. She rolled down her windows, letting the salt air and evening summer breeze fill her car. The clouds were passing and revealed a striking red sunset over the bay. She found the old driveway with ease and drove slowly down the dirt road. The overgrown grass between ruts brushed the bottom of her car. As the big, old house came into view, the same feeling she got as a kid arose from inside her. She felt some sort of wonder, like if magic did exist, this beautiful, quiet place would be where. The magical feeling reminded her of the sweet innocence of childhood. The house was two stories, but seemed taller, with big windows, weathered white painted shingles, and a widow’s walk that faced the ocean. The grass surrounding the house was overgrown yet soft, and the waves hit the beach out front the same way they always had. As much as she had changed, this place had not.
After she’d parked her car in the same place her father’s old jeep used to sit she hunted the house keys out from the lockbox underneath the porch which wrapped around the whole house. She brought her luggage into her old bedroom, leaving the master bedroom door, her parents’ old room, shut. Her favorite photo hung in the living room, a giant old photograph of the house and a little boy in overalls standing on the lawn, with 1911 scratched in the corner. The quilt her grandmother made her still covered her full sized bed, welcoming her home, torn and worn. She felt the same way.
She opened all the windows she could reach and turned on all the lights. The record player still held her father’s favorite Johnny Cash album so she reset the needle and let it play. Carmen found her mother’s photo albums inside the antique chest her parents had bought at the local thrift shop when they first got the house and had used it as a coffee table. She read the captions of the old photos in her mother’s voice, the voice she used for bedtime stories not the voice she used when she would scream uncontrollably. She would wail about some man her and her father couldn’t see. He needs help. He needs me. He’s right there, help him! The memories rose chills up her spine.
The Johnny Cash album ran out of tracks. Carmen freshened up her hair and makeup and headed downtown for a drink. She parked in the lot next to the Art Institute and walked along Water Street to La Sardine Loca, her parents’ old haunt, and the only bar open past nine on weekdays according to Yelp.
“Where you from?” the bartender asked. He wiped the bar clean in front of the stool she hung her coat on.
“Here,” she answered.
“I don’t think so. I’d recognize that face.” He was handsome and familiar, but she couldn’t spot where she had seen him.
“Martini, please. Dirty. Two olives.” The man nodded and made her drink. The bar buzzed with both locals and tourists, and despite the years she’d lived away, she could easily tell the difference between the two. The locals drank beer and wore Shead High School gear of different generations. Some wore sweatshirts and hats with lobster boat names. The women wore nautical jewelry. The easiest cue to spot a local was the lack of ‘r’s at the end of their words. The tourists sat in twos and dressed in brands you wouldn’t shop for in Downeast Maine. They sipped expensive wine from bottles sitting on their tables. The owners had collected items from their travels and suspended them from the ceiling. Authentic sombreros, antique chairs, beautiful paintings and more adorned the high ceiling of the 200 year old building. Items that would seem out of place anywhere else fit in comfortably, a lot like the residents of the old fishing town.
“Here you are, Ms…” the bartender said as he carefully slid her martini across the wooden bar.
“Carmen. Carmen Look,” she answered and smiled.
“I know that last name. You know Julissa Look?”
“She’s my aunt. I haven’t seen her in years.” She remembered her father’s free-willed sister. Julie would come and go as she pleased, each time with a different man from a different place. She traveled often and refused to carry a cell phone. You simply ran into Julissa. You couldn’t find her.
“She’s playing here tomorrow night. Pirate Fest is coming up and she might be our main entertainment for the whole weekend. She and James are really good.” He ran a credit card for a woman wearing heels and a red flannel.
“I’ll have to check them out then,” she said, focusing on her martini and the knots in the wood of the bar.
After finishing her drink, she looked to pay, only to find the bartender had paid for her.
“Welcome home, I suppose,” he said.
The next morning Carmen woke to seagulls barking through the open windows. Particles of dust floated in the beams of morning light above her bed. She watched them swirl with the twists in the ornate details of the ceiling as a small rap at the door startled her. She peeked through a window near the door and saw a little boy, probably eight or nine, in overalls with a dirty white shirt underneath. She threw on a loose sweater and answered the door.
“Hello, there. Are you lost?”
“No. I live here. I’m hungry. Who are you? I’m Henry.” She thought he was messing with her.
“Hold on, Henry. I’m Carmen.” She hunted out a granola bar from her purse brought it back to him. He was sitting on the old, sun bleached picnic table near the path to the beach. The morning sun warmed the skin on her face as she walked outside.
“Hello,” he said, inhaling the granola bar. Pale scars decorated his small pink hands. “See you soon.” He turned to the beach and ran down the worn path out of sight.
“You’re welcome.” She mumbled even though he’d left. She wondered if she should call someone, but he didn’t seem to need any help.
After Henry left, she dressed and walked to the Waco Diner, a two-mile trek along the water. She paused at the big granite rocks by the breakwater, a place where she used to sit and watch fireworks with her friends and family. The morning breeze was cool and hurried her along. Thoughts of motherhood floated through her head, surely set off by her visitor this morning. She’d suffered a miscarriage during her senior year of college and had never felt the same after.
She stepped through the open door of the Waco and took a seat at the bar. Photos and newspaper articles from years passed were all over the walls and under the glass of the bar, some from the 00’s, 80’s, 60’s, even as far back as the 1800’s when the town was founded.
“What can I get for you, honey?” an older woman said. She had a friendly face and a raspy voice.
“Coffee and three eggs scrambled, please. No toast.” The woman turned and poured a cup of coffee from a large silver container. Carmen waited for her meal and watched the old television on the wall showing the local news. She couldn’t stop thinking about little Henry. Somewhere in her memory a similar looking little boy existed, but she couldn’t place where she’d seen him.
After breakfast, she went to the only grocery store in Eastport and stocked up. At home she unpacked and cleaned the dusty house. A draft from somewhere kept opening and closing the old doors in the house. Everything seemed almost the same as she remembered, just emptier. Although she had been living alone for years, something felt sinister about the big empty rooms that were always filled with people of her childhood.
She had intended to use her free time to focus on her writing, but everywhere she set up her laptop she couldn’t focus. There was an uneasy feeling in her shoulders that she couldn’t shake. Everywhere she looked, the memories she thought she’d suppressed rose to the surface. She remembered coming home from school with her father to a television smashed on the floor, her mother cowering in the corner with no explanation of the living room full of glass. She remembered hiding under her bed when her mother would scream and chases invisible demons up and down the stairs.
Unable to remain in the house any longer, she looked up the phone number to La Sardine Loca and asked if they were looking for a bartender. She needed out of the house, and luckily La Sardina Loca was looking for some help. The voice on the phone told her to come in as soon as possible for training, and said tonight was perfect. Carmen walked the beach to pass the time.
Four o’clock came quickly and Carmen found herself rushing back to get ready. Her hair was a greasy from running her fingers through it all day in anxious anticipation. She couldn’t find anything to wear that fit right, and had to redo her eyeliner wing three different times. She finally looked in the mirror and shrugged in defeat, reminding herself that she was on the coast so she didn’t have to sweat the little things.
“Couldn’t stay away, eh?” The bartender from the night before greeted her as she made her way through the kitchen.
“I guess not. Was it you I talked to on the phone?”
“No, probably Rob. He’s out front at the bar,” he nodded toward a pair of double doors. She walked towards them, “I’m Will.”
“Nice to meet you,” She answered and half-smiled, bumping a trash can as turned away from him.
Before she even reached the bar, a man called out her name, “Carmen! The new girl! I’m Rob, welcome aboard. You’re replacing Danika who’s headed back to college next week.” He put his arm around Carmen’s shoulders. “There’s not much going on right now, so you can start by helping the band set up over there. Then just follow Will around tonight. Oh, and if you see this empty, help me out.” He winked and gestured toward his glass.
Carmen spotted her sweet aunt Julissa in a long gown, loosely fitted around her thin body. Her hair was long and naturally curly and beautiful. The man with her was easily ten years younger and wore a tank top to show off carved biceps and veiny forearms. She squinted in Carmen’s direction, trying to figure out who she was.
“Hi, Aunt Julie.” She said, “It’s me, Carmen.”
“Cammy! Of course it is. It’s been too long sweet girl. How’s your mum?”
“She isn’t talking much these days,” Carmen answered, her heart swelled at the mention of her mom.
“I’m sorry baby girl. How about Jackie?”
“Dad has been travelling a lot, meeting with doctors all around. Even when Mom’s medicated she has really bad spells. Nothing seems to help.” She sighed and Julissa noticed her discomfort, changing the subject.
“How did you end up in this ghost town?”
“College left me with nowhere else to go, honestly. And I like the seafood.” She smiled and hugged her aunt, inhaling the faint scent of marijuana and musk.
“I just got a job here. I moved into my parents’ old place.”
“Oh yes the beach house. I’ve never been able to spend more than a day there,” Julissa shook her head. “How are you handling the North Shore?”
“I’ve always loved the house. What even is the ‘North Shore’?” Carmen laughed nervously.
“That’s just where all the old factories are. Sardines, shoes, lumber, all those abandoned buildings. Most of the old shipwrecks are on that side too. It all gives me some dark vibes, girl. Be careful, that’s all I’ll say.”
“I’ll keep my eye out. Can I help you set up?” Carmen laughed off her aunt’s warning and went to work with her and James to get everything ready for their set. Julissa played an old, worn out guitar and James manned a piano that had probably been in the building for the last 100 years. The only real set up was the microphone and sound system.
“So I’m your shadow tonight,” Carmen said to Will as she came up behind him.
“I’m okay with that,” Will smiled. “It’s really pretty easy here. Just make drinks and keep everything clean. Prices are in the book with recipes. Menu is over there. Memorize it the best you can. We do happy hour from 4-6, which is a dollar off mixed drinks and two-dollar draft domestics.”
“I think I can manage,” she replied and felt grateful for the opportunity to focus on something other than herself. Too much alone time is not always a good thing.
The night went smoothly for Carmen. She made drinks while Will took orders and flirted with her and the customers. Julissa and James played beautifully, mixing their own songs with popular ones with their own twists. Patrons local and from away sang along at points.
“That went well,” Will said, sitting next to Carmen at the bar. The last customers had just left and they sat waiting for clean silverware to wrap.
“I think so too. That was fun.”
“So, did you break anything?” The owner, Rob, came out of the kitchen and leaned against the bar. The scent of gin rolled off him, “what would y’all like for your shift drink?”
“I’ll have a draft blueberry,” Will said.
“Oooh, I’d love a martini,” Carmen answered.
“She likes it dirty,” Will chuckled and winked at Rob. Carmen rolled her eyes at them both.
“What do you guys know about the north shore of the island?” Carmen asked, sipping her drink.
“Oh, that’s the side where all those accidents were. There’s a few beautiful houses over there too. Real estate is cheap over there because of all the abandoned canneries uglying up the shore. And the horror stories,” Rob answered.
“There’s a huge cemetery over there too. Some guy wrote a whole collection of ghost stories about Eastport. He claimed they were all nonfiction, but I don’t believe in that crap,” Will said. “Although he’s right about some of the stories. A bunch of women who lived over there went crazy a long time ago. It was in the national newspapers. They figured it was lead poisoning. They really lost their shit.”
“I had no idea. Overheard someone talking about it earlier. Anyway, is the Sox game on?” Carmen’s stomach dropped at the mention of horror stories. She purposely changed the subject and shot the shit with the men until they’d all finished their drinks and the silverware was done. Driving home she paid special attention to the big, dark buildings with orange No Trespassing signs nailed all around them.
The next morning, instead of making breakfast with the food she’d bought, she went back to the Waco. The same woman, named Shelly as she learned, waited on her and remembered her order from the day before. This time Carmen decided to read some of the articles trapped under the glass of the counter. Fires and factory accidents with numerous fatalities seemed to be the theme of the older stories, and mixed in were newer clippings of Navy ships in the harbor on the Fourth of July and high school sports stories.
“What do you know about this?” Carmen asked Shelly, gesturing to an old photo under the glass picturing kids, no older than seven, holding sardine cans and grimacing.
“Those kids are probably cartoners or cutters at one of the sardine canneries. Before child labor laws that’s what kids around here did. They probably made a dollar a day.”
“So sardines were big around here?”
“The entire economy basically. The US relied on our sardines. It’s the reason the city exists. The canneries that haven’t burned down are on the north side of the island,” Shelly said. She leaned against the counter, Carmen was the only patron in the restaurant.
“Maybe I’ll check them out,” Carmen answered, “Interesting. Thanks, Shelly.” Carmen took her receipt and rose from her seat.
“Be careful over there. You’d find more information at the library than the old buildings. That’s just up the street.”
Carmen took Shelly’s advice and walked up to the town library on Water Street. The library was made of stone and was probably built shortly after the city was founded. The librarian was friendly and directed her to some photo albums with more photos like the one she’d seen at the Waco. Each photo had a caption giving names and some information. The knives the children held were over a foot long in some photos, and cuts on their hands were also visible. Stories of deadly accidents were also listed in the captions.
Carmen came across an envelope full of articles about the mentally ill women tucked inside the album. These articles were newer than the other photos, the oldest being from 1961. All of the women were mothers in their twenties. They all occupied the same house, but in different years. There was no photo or address.
The next album she thumbed through was all about the men who ran and owned the canneries. Photos of the men in ovals, some prominent names that kept coming up were Grayson Clark and Wilfred Goodell. She found an article about a manager’s son who was killed by an infection caused by an accident in the cannery. The mother of the boy had apparently burned the owner of the cannery’s home, paralyzing herself in the process and eventually committing suicide in their home. The article included a photo of the home where they lived, and Carmen instantly recognized the building. It was the same photo that hung in her living room. She finally realized why she recognized Henry.
Carmen wasn’t needed at the restaurant that night so she went home after the library. Instead of going right inside she walked down the goat path to the beach. The tide was out and the rocky beach stretched hundreds of yards. Pieces of driftwood, sea glass, and sea trash littered the rocks. The sun beat down but the ocean breeze kept her comfortable. She filled her pockets with blue sea glass, her father’s favorite, and found a large flat rock to lie down on to nap in the sun like she did as a kid.
A couple hours later, Carmen awoke on the beach to the faint sound of someone yelling over music. The type of music was old fashioned and nothing she recognized, she figured it was a couple clammers somewhere talking over a radio on the flats. However, the sounds seemed to be coming from up the path to her house. She walked back up the bank to investigate, and the music grew louder the closer she was to the house.
“Is someone here?” She called out.
The music grew louder.
“This isn’t funny, this is private property!” She raised her voice, growing nervous.
The music grew louder still.
Carmen approached the house cautiously, she had never dealt with an intruder before. She clutched her cellphone, but slowly turned the door handle, instead of just calling 911 like her dad would’ve told her to do.
She found Henry standing in her living room, blood pouring from his left wrist. He screamed as she ran to him, “Help me!”
She reached for his arm but her hand ran through him. He was suddenly behind her. “Help me!” He wailed.
“Henry!” She reached again, and he reappeared across the room. He continued to scream.
The record player continued to play full blast. She chased him, but as soon as she got close he would change location. In her chases across the house, the vase of flowers smashed to the floor. Her laptop was also a casualty. Blood covered the floors, but did not stain her shoes or clothes.
Henry eventually did not reappear, but the screaming continued. Carmen sat on the floor of the living room in a pool of Henry’s blood, weeping and cowering.
After the blood vaporized and the music faded Carmen called her mother. Maybe there was no mental illness, or maybe she was sick as well.
She left her belongings in the house and never returned.