Little Hidden Darknesses
One:

My mum was an old woman when she died. Hair as white as chalk. Skin riddled with blemishes, with blue throbbing veins. She was only thirty-nine. The doctors called it Werner syndrome, an accelerated aging disorder. I tested negative for the gene. Thank you dad, I guess. Whoever you may be.

But my mum wasn’t an old woman when she died. She never got married, never travelled the world, and still worked twelve-hour nightshifts as a receptionist at our local hospital.

She kept a scrapbook at the bottom of her wardrobe. Pictures of everything she always wanted to do, but never got the chance to. I found a letter amongst these pictures, a letter to her family. People I never knew existed, and whom I wished to meet someday.

Today, perhaps.

Hopefully.

The ocean’s salty spray pummelled my face, and the wind threatened to push me over. My hands latched around the boat rail, my stomach still battling the chips I had for lunch. I glanced at old Bill perched behind the wheel, then ahead again as we rammed through waves. A curtain of gold swept across my face, barring my vision of our destination. I clawed it away, finger by finger, and clutched it like a scarf about to come undone.

Up ahead, the shore made itself visible. The tattered remnants of a dock, followed by a rocky beach. A line of birch trees loomed beyond it, swathed in fog. Thick, wispy and stagnant.

So, this was Evermist Island. My mum’s childhood home.

The ache beneath my ribs threatened to explode into panic. In an attempt to dull the sensation, I rifled through my duffle bag for her letter. It lay buried under my trainers, way at the bottom. The envelope crunched in my hand as I yanked it out, exposing it to the sea’s spray.

My mum wanted them to get this. The Vinsants, owners of Vinsant Estate and residents of Evermist Island, a tiny splotch of land just off the coast of Plymouth, England. With but a single hit on google – an article on a shipwreck from several centuries ago – I almost thought it didn’t exist, that my mum had written down the wrong address.

What’s more, eight fishermen and ferry services turned me away before old Bill agreed to take me. For extra, nonetheless. When I had asked, he said something about fog and a curse.

“No one ever makes a return trip, is all I’m saying,” he had whistled through his missing front tooth.

I studied the address on the letter for the thousandth time, the thick, curvy strokes of my mum’s handwriting. And there it was: the panic. My chest squeezed together and I struggled to breathe, to swallow. She was gone. Cremated and stowed in our local church.

The one we hardly ever attended.

I shut my eyes and let a single tear skid across my cheek. The final tear, I promised myself, as people with strength hid their emotions, transformed their sorrow into resilience.

But the panic didn’t fade.

Did I choose right in coming here? Not that I believed in curses, I just didn’t know whether these Vinsants would welcome me. In fact, they likely didn’t even know I existed.

Another wave crashed against the side of the boat, showering me in sticky, salty sea spray. The ink on the envelope smudged under my thumb, so I put it away. I couldn’t let my key piece of evidence deteriorate. Not when the Vinsants proved my last hope at a new life. A better life. One in which I wasn’t a seventeen-year-old dropout with no friends and barely enough experience to obtain a job at a supermarket. In which I wasn’t homeless, evicted from our flat merely a week after my mum had died.

Alas, my dad wasn’t an option either. Unless, you know, a test-tube could take me in until I aged out.

“Grab the line, will you?” shouted old Bill as he eased the boat along the dock.

“The line?” I shouted back, confused.

Old Bill motioned to the frayed pile of rope on the dock next to the boat. I leaned over, duffle bag and all, and grabbed it just in time for him to ram me aside and yank it away. He smelled of cider and fish. Not the greasy kind, but the raw, salty, possibly-still-alive kind.

“Thanks for bringing me, Bill,” I said as I stepped over the boat’s side and onto the dock. The wood creaked under my weight, swaying with the waves. My stomach lurched again.

“Oh, it’s nothing special,” old Bill replied, the rope inch by inch slipping from his grip and the boat floating away. “You be safe now, you hear? Don’t go taking any risks out there.”

I flashed him a salesman’s smile. “Yea, okay. Have a good one.”

“Same to you – uh – Erica, was it?” Eira, actually. But I nodded anyway. Old Bill tipped his cap and moseyed back to the wheel, his overalls chafing together between his short, stubby legs.

My smile fell and I rolled my eyes. Why would he care if I took risks or not? He didn’t even know my name. Heck, he never even asked me why I wanted to come here. All I did was flash a few pounds, and his ears had clamped shut. I was but another passenger.

Another sponsor for his drinking.

Once old Bill and his boat resembled a toy in a tub, I adjusted my duffle bag and padded down the dock. I let the sounds of the beach envelop me: waves plopping against the posts and foam fizzing on the water. A seagull swooped overhead, screeching. I jerked, just in case it planned on grabbing my ponytail, but it vanished on the horizon, there where the sun would soon met the sea. It might’ve made for a serene picture, had the sky been less grey and the ocean less black. Not black, but a deep, menacing blue.

An omen, as old Bill had said. But I doubted mother nature cared as much to warn me of any danger.

I stepped off the dock and tiptoed across the rocks, all the way to the birch trees along the shore. Fog spilled from in between them, swishing and swirling in the sticky ocean breeze.

Something of a walkway trailed into the murk, overgrown and carpeted with weeds. An arrow was nailed to the nearest tree, all mouldy and cracked. It read, “Town centre this way.”

Alright, then. Welcome to Evermist Island.

Except I didn’t feel welcome. There was just something about the walkway’s lack of maintenance that made me doubt its final destination. What if the island’s residents had all moved away, and an abandoned town lay beyond the trees? Would old Bill turn around and fetch me if I called him? Would I be able to track down the Vinsants again?

With my head reeling, I adjusted the strap of my duffle bag and set off through the fog. The walkway vanished, along with any signs or beacons intended to guide me through the thicket. My lungs filled with crisp forest air. It reeked of age, of rotten branches and leaves.

But there was something else, something in the haze. It crept under my skin and tickled my bones, deepening my breath and heightening my senses. I could smell things. Coffee.

Hear things. People.

I knew where to go, even though I had never been here before. The forest became alive, every movement of every living thing. Wherever they lurked, I felt them. Insects. Birds. Deer.

My head spun, spun, spun.

Caw! A crow screeched beyond the treetops, and I snapped awake. My feet set off, almost on their own, and I wove in between the trees toward the faintest sunlight in the distance.

I winced as I cleared the forest, my arm instinctively covering my eyes. It took a moment for them to adjust. For me to adjust. Whatever revitalisation I had felt back there, whatever surge of energy, vanished at once. I could still hear people, though, still smell coffee.

The first thing I saw was a hand-painted sign of a coffee cup, complete with the words Ariel’s Café in the centre. It hung above the entrance of a charming, redbrick building, complete with frills around the windows and roof. An arrangement of empty tables trailed into the street – not a street, really, but a paved square with a fountain in the centre of it.

My boots rang off the concrete as I ventured away from the trees and onto the square. I scanned my surroundings, an array of redbrick buildings, each adorned with its own quaint touch. A flower shop with bouquets out front, and a hairdresser with scissor-themed curtains.

Hhm.

Not at all what I expected to find. Especially not on an allegedly cursed island, known solely for a shipwreck.

A waitress with short, auburn hair emerged from Ariel’s Café with a tray raised to her shoulder. She waltzed down the veranda to the only three occupied tables, then poured some tea and came upright. The moment she saw me, she gasped and dropped the pot.

It crashed to the floor, calling silence to the tables around her.

I froze in place, watching as the diners one by one turned toward me, each of their faces painted with horror. Disbelief. They stared at me as though I was a murderer, a wanted criminal with a weapon in my hand. I didn’t know what to do, so I forced a grin. But this only worsened things.

A lady in a flowery dress and sunglasses reeled her child toward her, almost as if to protect him. I was just about to cross the square and introduce myself, perhaps ask directions, when the door to the shop on my right flew open – a pharmacy by the looks of the bandage painted across the window – and an elderly couple stepped out into the street.

They immediately heeled, the woman clasping her heart. “Good heavens,” I heard her mutter.

“A – A stranger,” added her husband.

Their reactions brought life to the café, as all of a sudden everyone chatted to someone.

Whispering.

Gossiping.

I couldn’t hear their words, exactly, but the whole situation proved enough to set fire to my chest. Warmth travelled to my cheeks, my forehead and the back of my neck. What was happening? Did I do something wrong? Whatever the reason, I didn’t stick around to find out.

I spun on my heels and stormed into the first shop on my left. A bell chimed as I flung open the door, shortly followed by a crashing sound as it slammed shut. The musty scent of books filled my nose, the essence of comfort. I breathed it in, surveying the overflowing shelves.

The shop’s only other customer – a brown-haired, copper-skinned boy – looked up from a display of graphic novels. He tried to hide his face, but I had already seen it: a patch of pale skin around his right eye and brow, and two more around either side of his mouth. He had vitiligo.

A moment passed in which I tried not to stare, alas my eyes demanded a more thorough inspection. I had seen his condition before, of course, but never in person. It fascinated me, the way the patches around his lips formed two cloudy shapes, almost symmetrical.

A perfect imperfection.

The boy caught me eyeing him and I winced, ducking behind the nearest shelf at the front of the shop.

“Careful with the door there, love,” came a woman’s voice from under the front desk. Her body soon followed as she came upright, cradling a pile of books. “What can I help yo –”

The words stilled in her mouth when she saw me.

For a moment I thought the books might slip from her grip, but after a brief scan across my body – from my black, lace-up boots to my ripped jeans and oversized jacket – her lips stretched into a smile and she dropped them on the desk. The wood groaned from the impact.

“ Hello,” she said with plastic eagerness. “Welcome to May’s Book Exchange. Who might you be?”

“Eira,” I replied and approached the desk. For each step I took, May’s smile only widened. It grew to such an extent, her already plump cheeks looked as if they were stuffed with nuts.

She kept her pose, however, unlike the townsfolk outside.

“Eira, eh?” she said. “ Why haven’t I seen you around before?”

“I’m – uh – actually not from here.” Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ Find_Nøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

May chuckled, but I couldn’t tell why. “Not from here? Then how come you look so familiar?”

“Oh, yea. People say I look a lot like my mum.” I rifled through my bag for the letter, then shoved it across the desk at May. “She was born and raised here. Moved away a while ago.”

“Your mother, eh?” May opened a drawer and took out a pair of thick, circular glasses. She put them on and held the letter to the light. “Let’s see, shall we? Piper Vinsant. Mmm … I don’t recall any Pipers.” She returned the letter. “Although I know the Vinsants.”

My face fell.

How could May not remember my mum? By the looks of her, she ought to have been in her early-to-mid fifties. But, of course, a lot of time had passed since my mum left, and I couldn’t expect May to remember everyone. Then again, the island only had so many residents.

“A powerful family, they are. And rich too,” said May as she removed her glasses and replaced them in the drawer. She laid her palms on the pile of books. “Say, if you’re related to the Vinsants, where did you come from? I thought they didn’t have any more family?”

I tucked the letter into my duffle bag. “I just arrived, actually, and was wondering whether –”

“J – Just arrived?” she forestalled me, suddenly nervous.

My eyes wandered to the window beyond May, to Ariel’s Café across the street where the diners still followed my every move. I caught sight of the boy in the window’s reflection. He pretended to browse the fiction section, yet his eyes every now and then flicked toward me.

The nerve of him, thinking I wouldn’t notice. “Yes,” I sort-of-hissed, “less than an hour ago.”

“You mean you came through the” – May swallowed – “fog?”

“Through the fog, through the forest. That walkway’s in a terrible state. I almost got lost in there.”

May’s face drained of all colour. Her cheeks lost their plumpness as she sucked them in, pursing her lips. A moment passed in which she just stared at me. Motionless, emotionless.

“So, do you know where I can find the Vinsants or not?” I asked when my patience reached its limit.

More silence.

The boy dropped a book on the floor, but neither May nor I reacted to it. He scrambled to pick it up, then popped it in a random spot and slinked around the closest shelf.

I latched my hands around the edge of the desk. “Please, I really need to find them, you see –”

But May tossed her hands in the air and said, “Oh, look at the time! I’m afraid I have to close up.”

My brows collapsed into a frown and I parted my lips to contest – to beg one final time – but she rounded the desk, grabbed me by the shoulders and ushered me out the door before I said a word. I stumbled down the concrete steps onto the square, then spun.

“I just need directions,” I managed to plead.

May closed the shop’s door on a screen. “Sorry, dear,” she said through the opening, “I wish I could help.” Then, she slammed it shut, practically in my face, and drew the blinds.

I stood there for a second, my jaw about to drop like my duffle bag from my shoulder.

What. The. Heck.

I thought an isolated place like this would welcome strangers. Especially if I wasn’t even a stranger. Not really. I looked the spitting image of my mum: blonde hair, blue eyes, fair-but-not-too-pale skin. They ought to have recognised me. Yes, maybe that was the problem.

I confused them too much.

Except confusion didn’t explain the way my audience had grown from the patrons of Ariel’s Café, to that of the hairdresser beside it and a group of spandex-wearing, speed-walking housewives. Their pace slowed as they approached me, each dissecting me before crossing the square. They briefly exchanged words with the waitress from before, then clapped their hands to their mouths and stormed off as if I posed a threat.

Because a seventeen-year-old girl scared the shit out of everyone.

Oh, please.

I pulled my duffle bag’s strap over my head in an attempt to relieve the weight in my chest. It didn’t work. But, then again, nothing seemed to have worked since the moment I stepped off old Bill’s boat. Not only did my arrival go awry, but I still didn’t know where to locate the Vinsants. No wonder the fishermen all considered this place cursed. Cursed with a case of bad hospitality.

An involuntary sigh escaped my lips. I turned on my heels and set off down the street, away from Ariel’s Café. While I hadn’t the faintest idea where I was headed, anywhere deemed better than here – the square in which a woman had just tossed me from her shop.

The thought barely crossed my mind when the bell above the bookshop’s door chimed again.

Footsteps shortly followed, the sound of trainers against concrete. My instincts told me to speed up, to avoid more confrontation, but then his Spanish accent reached my ears, “Hey, wait up!”

I didn’t.

“I can help you, you know.”

My hands latched around the strap of my duffle bag as I stopped mid-stride. I waited for the boy to run around me before I asked, “Do you know where everyone lives?”

The boy nodded and his fringe fell across half of his face – the half with the patch across it. He didn’t swipe it away. “Like the back of my hand,” he said. “But first, tell me, did you –”

A pause.

“Really come through the fog?”

I resisted the urge to groan aloud. Not this again. “Yea, yea the fog. Now did you just come to stare or do you want a photo as well? If so, you better get out of the way before I punch you.”

“Woah, hold on a second!” The boy blocked me from walking around him, his hands in the air. Another patch peeked out from under his sleeve. “You’ve got to understand …”

“Understand what?” I snapped at him, perhaps too passionately. But this was all too much now.

The stares.

The gasps.

The whispers.

The boy scratched behind his head, an anxious look about him. His dark eyes darkened even more as he glanced sideways at the forest. “Well, you’re just quite a strange sight.”

“You make it sound like I’m an animal or something.”

The boy shrugged, which prompted me to raise my brows at him. “It’s just,” he started to say, “in my seventeen years of living on this island, no one’s ever gone into the fog ...”

A pause.

“And come back out alive.”

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