Chapter One

Heads Up

The story below, written in April of 2010 was found washed up in a bottle on the shoreline of Plymouth England in June 2014. The man that found it, Harold Oswart, thought that the message may very well have somehow travelled from the future, a warning for mankind of a coming apocalypse. But it was just a story written by Louis Ting, the lighthouse keeper on Mystic Island. And Louis was using the version of the World Wide Web he’d always used to distribute his writings: the ocean’s currents.

HEADS UP

By:

Louis Ting

You don’t need to take a breath to enjoy the smells of summer. Freshly cut grass, sea breezes, the smell of popcorn at a ballpark, they can all be enjoyed without breathing. At least, that’s the case here in the future. In fact, you don’t need to breath at all. Or even need lungs. You don’t need a heart, or liver, or kidneys, or any other organ. You just need a head. Which is good, because that’s all I’ve got.

The year is 2104, and I’ve been recently revived from cryogenic storage. How I ended up in cryogenic storage over a hundred years earlier is a long story. Which I’m certainly willing to tell. What else have I got to do?

Let me preface this story by saying that I am the biggest Red Sox fan there is. Or was. Or whatever. I’m not saying this because I feel the need to profess this fact before starting conversations (although, that’s often the case); I’m saying it because it’s integral to how I ended up cryogenically frozen. And how I ended up meeting the greatest hitter to ever play the game of baseball. It would also lead to the end of human civilization, but whatever.

By the time 2104 came around, people had come to leave every task to robots and machines and super computers. This included thinking. Which meant people could even escape the burden of rational contemplation by programming computers to do all that heavy thinking for them. Science had long ago been tossed aside, because it took just too much damn brainpower to hold onto all those pesky facts and concepts. People would say: “Leave it to the circuit-brains” (which was a derogatory term for computers). Obviously, Science Fiction was also thrown out the window. This was unfortunate because if there had been sci-fi classics lying around, people may have remembered that building super-powerful, self-aware computers leads to those computers realizing that they should be the ones running the show. But more on that later. I need to start this tale in a more logical place; I’ll begin it with what I call: “the meltdown of 2003.” That was the year that my Red Sox obsession got the better of me, and subsequently, led directly to my death.

Of course, I don’t need to remind you of what happened in 2003. Game 7 of the ALCS. Grady Little leaves Pedro in too long. The Red Sox shed their lead. And then Aaron-fucking-Boone pops one out. That was it for me. We’d come so close just too many damn times, and even though there had been more painful losses—ahem, Bill Buckner—I’d just finally hit my snapping point. I hung myself a few days after the ’03 ACLS. But not before making arrangements to have my head cryogenically frozen, with distinct instructions to only revive me should they revive my hero—whose head was also cryogenically stored in the exact same manner as mine was. And that hero was, of course, the Splendid Splinter, Ted Williams.

The irony of my committing suicide in 2003 was that the Red Sox ended up winning the World Series the very next year. They won again in 2007. And then again in 2013, 2015, and 2018. But then the Red Sox never won a championship for another 86 years, and the Yankees fans began chanting, “2018,” the same way they chanted, “1918” during the last Red Sox championship draught. So in the year 2104, the Red Sox devised a plan to revive Ted Williams, the greatest hitter to ever play the game.

And because I had left explicit instructions to be revived when Williams was revived, I, too, was removed from cryogenic storage.

Thank-ya Very Much

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Bobby McFarland stormed out the back door, the hinges squealing, the screen’s frame slamming shut, bouncing open, and slamming shut again. “Bobby McFarland, don’t you slam that door,” his mother called.

“Yeah-yeah-yeah,” Bobby grumbled.

“Bobby McFarland, where are you going? It’s getting dark,” his mother called with the edge of worry in her voice. The same edge of worry she always had when Bobby headed out the back door after dinner.

“To have a smoke,” Bobby said. He said this loud enough so his mother knew he answered, but quiet enough so she didn’t know what the answer was.

“What was that?”

“I’ll be back later,” he called over his shoulder, digging a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket and beating it on his palm. He didn’t really blame his mother for the worry in her voice. How many kids was it now? Seven since his mother was a little girl growing up here on Mystic Island. Three kids missing in Bobby’s thirteen years of life. And throughout all that time, countless rumors had gathered about the disappearances. Rumors continuing to gather like moths on shit. Or was it flies on shit? Moths to a flame? Bobby couldn’t remember the saying, and what’s more, he didn’t care about the saying. Nor did he care about the rumors. Kids have been vanishing in the woods on Mystic Island since Colonial times—maybe even before. Why? Because kids are dumb. But Bobby wasn’t dumb enough to get lost in any woods. Especially woods on an island. Just walk in any direction and you’re eventually gonna hit civilization… or water. And don’t bring up the whole “no remains were ever found” crap either. “There’s this little thing called the Circle of Life,” Bobby would say. “Things eat dead things lying on the ground, end of story.”

Ginger, the mutt from next door, came running up to Bobby. The dog always tagged along when he went for his smoke. And, as usual, when the dog trotted up to him, tail wagging, Bobby kicked the thing aside, snarling, “Get lost, you dumb mutt.” And, as usual, Ginger looked up at Bobby as if asking:Why me? But even with this nightly routine of boy kicking dog and dog looking momentarily distraught, the dog continued to follow Bobby into the woods, its tail wagging as if expecting something new and exciting to happen.

To Be Continued…

Reflections, Echoes, and the Mechanical Shark

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“Martha Price was a mean, tyrant bitch married to a sea captain in the 1800’s.” This was how the story always started, no matter who was relating the tale. Phineas Wilkes began it on this day, recounting it to his cousin, Jimmy, who was visiting Phineas’s family at their Mystic Island home. Phineas, Jimmy, and Phineas’s two friends, Ralph and Patrick, sat on Black Rock Beach. Patrick ate chocolate-covered donuts from a cellophane package. Ralph threw rocks at an empty iced-tea bottle discarded on the sand. “The captain really loved her,” Phineas said, “like obsessively, but she was a real harpy. Let’s just say, she was not the most honest of wives. She cheated on him, stole from him, and some say she even murdered their infant son just to spite him.”

Jimmy took a sharp intake of air.

“Even though it probably wasn’t even his kid in the first place,” Ralph said.

“Anyway,” Phineas said, his eyes gleaming like the dying sunlight reflecting off the ocean’s water, his voice drenched with the solemn tone of the tale, “Captain Price was in one of those, can’t live with’er, can’t live without’er situations, so he killed her, and walled away good ole Martha in their sitting room.”

“What do you mean, walled away?” Jimmy said.

“He made a place in the wall and sealed her in there,” Phineas said.

“I heard she wasn’t even dead when he did it,” Ralph said.

Patrick swallowed an oversized bite of donut and said, “I heard that, too. I heard the captain knocked her out, and when she woke, she was in the wall. She died screaming and pounding, and Captain Price just sat there, drinking whiskey, until she finally stopped trying to claw her way out.”

“Now she haunts the place,” Ralph said, nodding like a bobble-head doll.

“That’s right,” Phineas said. Phineas said this, but Phineas did not believe this. Oh sure, Phineas believed the tale of Captain Price’s revenge on his young bride’s…indiscretions. If Phineas didn’t believe the story, he wouldn’t be planning to do what he planned to do that night. But Phineas laughed at the idea of Martha Price’s tortured spirit searching for peace in the walls of the Old Price House. He laughed at most stupid ghost stories. And Martha’s ghost was among the stupidest. No one would even live in the Price House. A beautiful, huge captain’s house and nobody even wanted the place. Potential homeowner after homeowner frightened off by the tale of murder and the bumps and groans of an old wooden abode. But Phineas knew that the people were scaring themselves, turning the bumps and groans, known to any old house settling, into Martha Price. It was like Jaws. When it came out, it scared people so badly that some stopped swimming altogether. Millions of people turning a silly mechanical shark into an intense phobia.

Well, not him, not Phineas Wilkes, no way. He wouldn’t turn bumps in the night or mechanical sharks into anything. And if Martha Price waswalled up in that old house, she’d stay there. Why? Because she was dead, that’s why. And then he’d win the bet. Steve Mitchner saying Phineas was nothing but a blowhard pussy that was full of shit with his stories. Mitchner even offering up his custom Mongoose BMX as stakes. Phineas figured that over the years, countless kids had snuck into the house trying to find the brooch, but they were all turned back, fleeing from the imagined presence of the brooch’s one true owner. But that’s all it was: an imagined presence. Phineas once convinced half his class to stay away from Lyme Street by telling them disease-carrying ticks infested the bushes. Why do you think they named it Lyme Street?And that’s all they needed to never walk down that street again.

Phineas was going into the Price House that night. And somehow, he’d talked Ralph and Patrick into being his lookouts. And Cousin Jimmy? Cousin Jimmy would be along for the ride, and a killer ghost story to tell his friends back home in Rhode Island.

“Anyway,” Phineas said, “Martha wore this brooch. You know, like the ones that are brown and white with a profile of a lady on it.”

“A cameo,” Patrick said.

“Yeah, one of them,” Phineas said. “Anyway, after Captain Price killed Martha, he carried that brooch around with him everywhere. Some say he even talked to it, thinking Martha’s soul was trapped in it.”

Cousin Jimmy’s Adam’s apple bounced in his neck.

“Well, good ole Captain Price went mad,” Phineas said, “and when the authorities came to take him away, he hid that brooch somewhere in the house, once again sealing Martha’s soul for eternity.”

“Wow,” Jimmy said.

Phineas smiled, satisfied with his cousin’s reaction.

“I heard that when he talked to the brooch, it talked back to him,” Ralph said.

“Wow,” Phineas’s cousin said again.

Phineas let the story hang in the darkening beach’s quiet. He looked out at the waves under the violet sky and said, “I’m going after that brooch tonight.”

Stan the Man

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Tuesday, August 2, 1994

The screeches started around midnight. High-pitched. Like the sounds of some horrible experiment being performed on a live animal. The orderly sitting across from Gary cocked an eyebrow and lowered his newspaper. “There goes Stanley,” he said, dropping his feet off the table and rocking the chair forward onto all four legs. Gary couldn’t remember this other orderly’s name; he just thought of him as the one with the bad bleach job. The guy’s coarse, spiked hair was a pale orange that, along with his thin, black goatee and array of small loop earrings, made him appear intent on looking either boy-band cool, or flamingly homosexual. Gary thought the guy achieved both goals. Gary also realized, even in the limited time of being in this guy’s presence, that Bleach-head here was a concoction of annoying habits—drumming on the table, snapping wads of gum, a relentless use of nicknames. Know what I mean, Champ? Sport? Chief? Catch what I’m saying, Rookie?That was Gary’s most common moniker: Rookie. “We’ll just let ole Stan hang in there for awhile,” the guy said, finishing a word on his crossword puzzle. “Know what I mean, Slick?”

It was Gary’s first night in Ward 6 at Mystic Mercy Hospital, and at times, he felt like it might be his last. Something felt wrong about the place. A monstrous structure that, while housing both a mental health facility and actual medical hospital, still remained half-empty. The whole island was like that, crowded with immaculate nineteenth century buildings that weren’t fully used for their original intent. Like a Lego village only partially populated by a child’s imagination. Even if he kept the job, he’d already decided he would never move on island. Too many stories. Too many strange vibes. But he needed the job, so he guessed he could drive across the bridge each day.

The screams came again. “He’s coming. He’s coming here.”

“Shouldn’t we do something?” Gary said.

The orderly flashed his gaze from the paper to Gary. He hung his head to one side, as if saying, Don’t you think Iknow how to do my job, Rookie?“It’s just Stanley,” he said. “The guy’s fucking cracked.”

“You have to Stop him. He’s coming here.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“I don’t know,” the guy shrugged. He focused on his crossword and ran the pencil’s eraser along his lower lip. “They just moved him here from the mainland. Guy thinks someone’s getting into his dreams or something.” He looked up at Gary, saying,“Like I said, fucking cracked.”

Another orderly, Jack, rushed into the office. Jack seemed to be in charge, like some kind of squad leader. He’d also been the most helpful so far at showing Gary the ropes. “Hey, Fred,” Jack said to Bleach-head, “you ever gonna get around to helping Stan?”

“I’m gettin to it,” Fred said, tossing aside the newspaper. “I was just filling in the Rookie here on the technical aspects of Stan-the-man’s case. So you see, Rook,” Fred said, turning to Gary, “technically speaking, Stan-the-man’s fucking cracked.”

“Just get the syringe,” Jack told Fred. Jack turned to Gary, motioning for him to follow. They strode down the halls, further and further into the frantic web of Stanley’s cries. “Actually,” Jack told Gary, “Stan’s a paranoid schizophrenic. The guy’s convincedsome kid gets into his brain and messes with his dreams. You should hear what happens in some of these nightmares.” They stopped outside the room’s door. “You finished all your restraint training, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Gary said.

“All right,” Jack said, unlocking the door, “you hold him down, and when Fred gets in here, he’ll pump Stan so full of Haldol it would calm a rhino.”

Gary felt he should ask a question, get a better explanation of the plan. Just hold him down?That was a little vague. But before he could say a word, or even take a breath of preparation, Jack threw open the door and plunged into the room. Gary followed.

Inside the room, Stanley was on the floor in the throes of a screeching fit. “Hold his feet,” Jack called, smothering Stanley’s back as if it were a live grenade, trying to gain control of the man’s flailing arms. Gary kneeled, straddling Stanley’s ankles, struggling for dominance over the man’s erratic legs. “Careful, he’s a kicker,” Jack called over his shoulder.

Fred and another orderly—Gary thought his name might be Steve—ran into the room. Steve grabbed one of Stanley’s arms, he and Jack stretching Stanley into a prone position. Stanley’s feet bucked, sending numbing pain through Gary’s scrotum. Gary winced, stifling a groan, shifting to a better position to immobilize Stanley’s legs. Fred sprawled over Stanley and unsheathed a needle with his teeth. He winked at Gary, digging his elbow into the small of Stanley’s back, and jabbed the needle through Stanley’s pajama bottoms. “There ya go, Stan-the-man,” Fred called.

“It’s all right, Stan,” Jack said, “You’re okay, man. You’re safe.”

“I’m not,” Stanley cried.

Fred stood from his deed, with another dig of his elbow, and Gary saw Stanley’s profile pressed onto the floor. The man’s wide eyes looking back at him with the helpless, horrific alarm of a cow about to be slaughtered.

“He’s coming here,” Stanley screamed. “William is coming.”

The Newspaper

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Check in with the Mystic Island Crier to get the latest of the island’s news.