* * * * * * * * * * *
That night, clouds blanketed the skies, hiding the stars. Storms rumbled echoey warnings in the distance, a perfect night to practice the most sacred ritual of camp, the telling of ghost stories. We set about impaling marshmallows on wickedly pointed sticks, girls alternated between burning and extinguishing the sugary confections in a low rock ringed fire, easily contained within a chipped granite ring. Rich smells of decaying leaves and wood mingled with the acrid scent of fire and burning sugar on the moist night air. Lightning flashed on occasion, briefly illuminating the thick copses of trees. Finally, fat globs of rain fell; our fire hissed and spit protesting its demise as we fell over one another seeking shelter in the a-frame. We laid fresh scars in the old wooden planking as we all were dragging our metal-legged cots to the center and tossing our knapsacks haphazardly about to escape the drenching deluge.
We dismissed the idea of cuddling into our sleeping bags, not a single one of us ready for sleep – at least we’d not admit to as much. Shaving cream, toothpaste and the like lay in wait for the ones who drifted off to sleep too soon. Cocooned in warmth of a sleeping bag and listening to the patter of the rain on the steep pitched roof was too tempting, far too easy to slip into the easy sleep of youth and become the easy prey of prepubescent pranksters.
We were bored with tired ghost stories we decided to pull back the veil, to call a ghost of our very own. We kicked it up a notch.
As best we could, we again gouged wood, scooting the cots around forming a ragged ring with one cot in the center. The game was simple enough, one girl was to channel the spirit and one girl was to tell the story of the spirits demise. The others were to circle us and quietly chant the name of our victim. We each took turns either telling stories or playing at being the ‘channeler’ of the spirit worlds.
My turn was near the end, I sat crossed legged in the center of the ring, another girls head lying cradled between my knees, tales of death spewing from my lips. I was a good storyteller so I stayed there.
Eventually, there was little left of my voice, it was low and raspy from self-abuse, but it was Becky’s turn to reach her mind out to the spirit world. Our last try. Some of the girls had curled under sleeping bags and drifted to dreams, I wanted to join them. It was late, close to midnight. Longing for my own dreams I reached deep, far too deeply, I found one more tale to tell. Carole-Ann’s story.
"Carol-Ann, Carol-Anne, Carol-Anne ..." the girls around me chanted softly, a mantra to call the dead and so I began her story.
She was on her honeymoon, sailing in the South Pacific, a grand adventure to inaugurate the grandest of all adventures, marriage. She was a beautiful girl, golden honeyed color hair, eyes blue as the sea itself and blissfully in love with life and her husband. Standing on the deck, they watched the sun descend igniting the ocean with red fire. A light wind gathered her skirts around her ankles and teased her hair from its tight coil. That night, they took dinner at the Captains table. They danced each waltz, tangled in one another’s arms; whispering under the music.
I slow the rhythmic of rocking Becky's head; my arms are tired. My legs are numb. She looks asleep. My voice is leathery soft and worn now, a whisper. I want stop now, yet I continue.
At last, the quartet laid aside their instruments, Carole-Anne and Jim stepped into the cool night air, eager to retire to their cabin. No longer was the breeze a soft caress; it whipped cruelly about her skirts. Taking her into his arms, Jim protected her from the brunt of Neptune’s howls. They made their way down to their quarters; the ship’s normally rhythmic motion was soon replaced with jagged pitches and rolls. Seawater and foam spilled into the companionway staining the hem of her gown. Nick-knacks and baubles were scattered on the cabin floor, the small desk chair slid over the rough planking following the pitch and yaw of the rising storm.
Something, someone has taken over the telling. I hear my own voice, but the words are no longer mine. I’m trapped in the story, I’m not sure I could stop, I don’t want to.
Fearful of being trapped below they ventured back above deck. Only fools stay below, fools that will drown slowly when the ship finally succumbs; pulled down with it below waves. There was a dinghy hanging precariously off the side of the ship, three women and two men climbed aboard Jim and Carole-Anne were among them. Released from its tether, the weathered craft hit the boiling sea with a jarring jolt, it threatened to capsize; yet somehow managing to right itself. With none but inept sailors aboard, it was no match against the powerful waves; one caught the stern portside flipping it. Carole-Anne grabbed at an errant oar as the boat tipped her into the surging sea.
The storms swell allowed Carole-Anne a glimpse of her bridegroom; his visage was quickly lost as she dipped into a trough between the waves. She didn't feel or taste her tears, she didn't fight the ocean, and she allowed it to take her where it willed with just that slim bit of wood keeping her adrift. She was close to the shore of one of those specks of soil that were scattered about the vast waters of the Pacific, a tiny unnamed atoll. The tides drew her in. The waves pulsed and thrust her up upon its crest, then dragged her down again, her little oar useless. The cyclic motion of the water as it rushed back out to the ocean pushed her down and her legs cruelly scratched by the coral reef that lay beneath the turbulent waters. At last, she was ashore gasping for breath. She lay there until sunrise.
My voice has dropped low and has taken on a singsong pattern. The other girls are mesmerized, leaning in closer to hear my words. I still do not know where they are coming from. An odd burgeoning feeling has begun in my breast, fluttering like a bird's wing; building stronger with every word I speak.
She awoke to intense pain; fire shooting up her legs. The scrapes were now long welts oozing puss. Red tendrils fingered away from the damaged flash. Blood poison. The coral that ripped thru her petticoats and tore into her soft skin was a rare variety that when encountered ultimately caused death, she would die in days of septic shock...
How do I know this? How do I know any of it? This entire story is outside anything I have done or read. I still feel no fear, but the soft bird wings are beating a stronger tattoo in my chest, the rhythm has grown stronger. My hands rock Becky's head in rhythm with the rise and fall of the timbre of my voice. I am no longer here; I sit in a corner of my mind and watch without fear, without pain.
The morning sun was relentless in the south Pacific. Her face and arms exposed to its merciless heat quickly turned red. Gathering what strength she had left she drug herself across the beach to the relative coolness of the shade offered by the palms and other native flora. Of in the distance she hears a beautiful sound, water as it falls over a small break. Tearing her petticoats, she bandaged her shredded legs as best she could and forced herself over the remaining bit of sand and into the virgin rainforest.
Dragging herself deeper into the tangle of jungle, she followed the musical tones of the water. She had hope. At last, the vines gave way to a small clearing, a small pool of water shimmered before her. She reached a cupped hand into the pristine waters, and brought it to her parched lips only to thrust it away in disgust. Saltwater. This time she did taste the salty hot tears streaming down her face. Her fate was sealed and she knew it. There was nothing left in her now. It was late afternoon and she had used all her energy to make it to this spot. If she drank the water, she would die, if she didn't she would die. Her thirst was overwhelming. The infection was causing her temperature to rise quickly. The canopy of trees did little to abate the insufferable heat of the late day. She drank the saltwater in greedy gulps, overriding her body's impulse to retch it back up.
The wings beat a furious tempo.
Thru the night and well into the next morning she suffered. Pain took over her existence; hot needles followed the course of the red tendrils marking her legs. Eventually, it consumes fully. In her last moments of life, she cries out...
As does Becky. She shot upright and screamed and screamed. Girls are cry
ing and screaming with her. I sit quietly tucked into a small ball. For moment in time, I touched the other side. She was with me in my mind guiding me along with each word. She had something to tell me, and at the last moment, our bond was broken.
* * * * * * * * * * *
My final breath is released on a sigh. Oddly, I see my breath, and I feel a tugging as my soul joins that small breeze of air. A long remembered lovely face appears, and the apparition reaches out her hand. At last, my answer has come.
"Carole-Anne," My mind whispers.
She hears my thoughts and smiles, "Welcome."
I am ready to leave this shell, to shuck the coils of my mortal existence and relinquish myself to her. I reach for her hand, as our souls' touch I realize the enormity of my mistake, but there is no turning back. I try to draw back, shrinking away but she has slipped her hands down to grasp my wrists and is pulling me against her. My soul is released in full and in that split second, my beautiful Carole-Anne has transformed herself before me, my vision no longer hampered by the bounds of our earthy constraints. Her skin blackened and split, dark fluid leaked from the gashes. The smell of rotting putrid flesh filled the room. The gaping maw that once had been her lovely mouth contorted, finally answering the question that I had unknowingly asked.
"Yes, my little one, there is a Hell" Guttural noises emanated from her foul orifice, a rancid laugh born from the bowels of despair, "and I bid you welcome."
End Notes:
I hope you enjoyed my little tale and that you are willing to “buy into” my little gimmick, I know it’s a bit cheesy – but so long as the bread is toasted and there’s a smattering of butter the meal should be good. So, please leave a bit of a tip for your server... good, bad or indifferent, any sort of review would be most appreciated!
To Contact Me:
Facebook Page: Lively Publishing
Email: Stacy Stutz
Other Works:
Lyrical Musings:
a Little Book of Poetry
Odd Socks:
Neighborhood Gossip
Odd Socks:
Go To Sleepy Little Baby
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