“I had my beacon on and waited up all night to see if anyone would make it.”
“Did they?”
Sylvester grunts. “They sure did. Four of ’em. Used some of the wood from the boat to keep afloat and kick their way here. Was on edge, let me tell ya. These was some dangerous men. Convicted of murder and rape. I couldn't just leave them to die, but I wasn't stupid enough to invite them in. As far as they were concerned, it was their lucky day.”
“So, what did you do?”
I continue to cook while Sylvester goes on with his story.
“I gave ’em some tents, a first aid kit, and some food and water. Storm was sticking around for a while yet, which means I was all alone until help arrived. Wasn’t letting ’em in for nothin', and they wasn't too happy about it. Later that night, two of ’em decided to break down my door. Course I saw it coming and was forced to shoot ’em dead. They died with those chains around their ankles.”
Sawyer gasps, her blue eyes rounding in shock.
“The other two learned their lesson and stayed outside.”
“Then what?” she asks, riveted by the story. I'm still waiting to hear how this has anything to do with what I heard last night.
“Only one of them survived. The other came down with a fever and eventually kicked the bucket. I did let him in when it got bad enough, and tried my best to nurse him back to good health, but he didn't pull through. Eventually, help arrived, and they took the remaining prisoner. Out of eighty men, he was the only survivor.”
“Wow,” Sawyer breathes.
“Those two I shot decided to stick around. Been creepin' in these halls ever since. Those damn chains dragging across the floor. Used to it by now, but I'll admit it took a few years to stop sleepin' with my shotgun in hand.”
I sigh, place a cast-iron skillet on his stove, and drop a fish into it, glowering at the pan while the oil crackles.
“So, you're telling me this place is haunted,” I deadpan.
“Sure is.”
Bullshit.
“Interesting,” is my only response.
I’ve always been a skeptic of ghosts, though I wouldn’t consider myself a disbeliever, despite being raised Catholic. But I am a disbeliever in Sylvester and everything that comes out of his mouth.
The old caretaker chuckles. “I know what yer thinking. Truth be told, I'd think the same thing if I wasn't living with these sons of bitches the last thirty years or so. That's ah’ight. I respect a skeptic. 'Fraid that's the only explanation I got fer the weird noises at night, though.”
Sawyer's still wide eyes turn to me. Clearly, she believes him.
And I'm not sure if that’s a good thing or not yet. Either she's going to sleep better at night, or worse.
“Do they, like, touch you and shit?” she asks, turning her alarmed stare back to him.
“Nah, they just get a little restless at night, that's all. No reason to worry. They’re harmless.”
I spare her a glance before concentrating on the sizzling fish.
They may be harmless, but I'm not.
And something tells me Sylvester isn't, either.
Chapter 11
Sawyer
“I don't fucking trust him,” Enzo grunts, storming down the hallway to our room.
I roll my eyes. “You realize that's the equivalent of saying that you have a stick up your ass. Or that in another life, you were a fire-breathing dragon and destroyed an entire village in a single breath?”
He stops walking and turns to look at me, an incredulous look on his face and his hazel eyes alight with distaste.
I hate how fascinating he looks, even when he’s staring at me like I’ve snorted marijuana. He’s far from pretty, yet his face is constructed of fine brush strokes, heavy shading, and sharp lines that create an exceptional masterpiece.
Too bad the inside of him is crusted with off-brand paint, frayed brushes, and muddy colors.
“What the actual fuck are you even saying?”
I sigh. “My point is—that’s not surprising. You don’t look like you’d trust a nun.”
The crease between his brows deepens.
“Nuns are, like, super trustworthy. Not priests, though. Stay away from them.”
He shakes his head and stalks into our room, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and putting his chin in his hand as he contemplates the meaning of life and why the sky is blue.
It’s only just after one in the afternoon, and there's not shit to do around here. We had the fish I caught for lunch—which was admittedly really good for someone who doesn't eat fish—and Sylvester promised us steaks tonight. With nothing else to do but force a conversation while Enzo glares at him with suspicion, we decided to retire to our room for a little while.