Out of the Mist Read online

  Then there was nothing but the unbroken ground, and nothing more to see. All was quiet, and still, as if he had never appeared.

  Marjory and Ned waited a while in silence. The town clock bell chimed 12 times. It was midnight. Hallowe’en was over and All Saints’ Day was beginning. Ghosts, goblins and skeletons were now supposed to be at rest.

  “Well!” said Marjory.

  “Well!” responded Ned.

  The whole episode left them speechless for many minutes. “Should we tell?” Marjory finally asked.

  “They wouldn’t believe us,” said Ned.

  Back at their own homes, when their parents asked them if they had a good time, neither said much. Must be tired, the parents thought, and hurried them to bed.

  The next morning, both children woke believing that the previous night’s events couldn’t have happened.

  But the evidence showed otherwise. The skull was gone from the Museum, where the glass case had been broken into. No one ever found out who had “stolen” the skull.

  Except, of course, Marjory and Ned. They knew it hadn’t been stolen at all, just reclaimed by its rightful owner.

  In the cemetery, no one but Marjory and Ned noticed the inscription on Henry Ainsworth’s grave had changed:

  I fought for family and for farm

  Against the French when they did swarm

  For long my bones were not complete

  But now united I can sleep.

  ~~~***~~~

  Fate

  Diane Losier

  “Meep! Meep! Meep! Meep!” The alarm called everyone to attention. “This is not a drill! This is not a drill!”

  The lower deck was rapidly filling with hot acrid smoke. He knew that something was seriously wrong. Within seconds, visibility plummeted to zero. He had to find his way to the face masks and locate one of the fresh-air intakes situated at intervals along the sides of the sub. Only trouble was, even his flashlight couldn't pierce through the thick wall of smoke enveloping him. He was completely disoriented as he felt his way through the thickening darkness. His eyes hurt, his lungs were on fire. On the verge of collapsing he yelled, “I need some air! Some air! Help!”

  Josh sat bolt upright, covered in a cold sweat, his heart beating furiously. It took him a few seconds to realize he was in his bed, not on the Nunavut. He slowly got up and shuffled to the kitchen for a glass of water. No point in going back to bed. He knew he wouldn't sleep, so he sat at the table and lit a cigarette. Although his flashbacks happened less and less, and he had been encouraged not to dwell on them, he couldn't help recalling the events of that terrible accident.

  His posting on the HMCS Nunavut had been part of his second, four-year commission in the Canadian Navy. They had purchased four used subs from the Royal Navy and the Nunavut was on its way to the port of Halifax for refitting when the incident happened.

  No one had noticed the leak in one of the hatches near the conning tower. That day, the sea had been getting steadily worse. The sub was not yet fit to dive and avoid the storm. Over time she had taken on a large volume of sea water. The bigger problem, though was that the insulation around the wires in the main control panel was worn. Water falling on those cables caused a massive electrical short, leading to a fire above deck near the conning tower. There was no flooding below, but the transformer boxes blew up and caused a second fire. The underwater decks plunged into total darkness. Billowing smoke from the fire added to the confusion.

  As soon as the alarm went off, the smoke screens dropped, isolating the fire and preventing it from spreading to the rest of the sub. The crew had been trained for such an emergency. From the area farthest from the fire, a team donned their fire-fighting gear. Within minutes they were poised to douse the hot flames with jets of CO2.

  Josh had passed out before reaching the masks and fresh-air ducts. It was a lucky fluke that his buddy, Dave, having heard his cry for help, stumbled over him in the pitch dark and managed to drag him to the side of the sub. Seconds later, one member of the emergency team arrived and shared his air with Josh before taking him to safety.

  In the days and weeks following the accident, Josh tried in vain not to think of that event, but in fact he had thought about it constantly. He couldn't eat, he couldn't sleep. Upon his return from that ill-fated voyage, as an engineer he was assigned to work on the refitting of the Nunavut. However, just the thought of stepping back on the deck of a sub filled him with nausea and dread.

  The navy gave him a shore posting, with the expectation that this problem would eventually vanish. He continued to have trouble falling asleep at night and when he did, it was never for long. His buddies found him to be increasingly irritable, no longer laughing at their off-duty antics. His superior officer reported that he wasn't even fit for a desk job, as he couldn't concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time. Finally, Josh was ordered to be evaluated by the base psychologist, who diagnosed his condition as PTSD.

  This diagnosis brought relief to Josh's girlfriend who had borne the brunt of those first few months. Kate was sympathetic and supportive at first, but over time his emotional aloofness and his bouts of irrational anger got the better of her. She couldn't understand why he was so angry whenever she tried to get him to talk about his experience. She kept saying he needed to “let it out”. She was hurt that in spite of all her support, he never trusted her enough to share his problems. Josh started drinking more heavily. Night after night he stumbled home and got Kate out of bed when he couldn't fit the key in the lock. He found ways to pick fights with her, complaining about how she had gained weight or was getting boring; anything to relieve the agitation he felt inside. After eight months of almost constant fighting, Kate finally left. In the middle of his anguish Josh realized that he had two choices: stay on this self-destructive path or seek help. He chose the latter.

  After a few months, his cognitive therapy sessions finally showed results. At each session he imagined longer portions of his frightening experience, while at the same time keeping his breathing and heartbeat in check. He joined a support group, started jogging, and quit drinking.

  That was two years ago. Over time Josh's worst symptoms abated. He understood enough about his condition to realize that he had to get away from his daily routine and start afresh elsewhere. When his second commission ran out, he quit the navy. By then Kate had moved on and he was free to go anywhere. He decided to return to Cape Breton, to the town he used to visit every summer when his grandparents were still alive.

  Cheticamp, with its picturesque harbour, is a small, mostly French village, on the western shore of Cape Breton. Josh's mother had been raised there and, after she had passed away, he had inherited his grandparents’ old house at the edge of town. Although he couldn't speak French, it didn't take him long to fit in, as many of the childhood boys he played with were now local fishermen. Working on one of their fishing boats would have been a natural choice for Josh, but it was too soon. He decided to work for his friend, Daniel, who owned a small marina on the northern end of Cheticamp Harbour. His skills as a first-rate marine engineer soon got the attention of the locals. Eventually, Daniel offered him a partnership, to prevent him from leaving and starting a business on his own.

  The life-style suited Josh well. On balmy mornings he walked the two kilometres to work, breathing in the fresh sea air. He found the pace of village life relaxing compared to the demands of military service. He kept his drinking to a couple of beers on Saturday nights, playing pool with the boys at The Doryman. Josh wasn't much of a talker, but he was well liked and increasingly respected in the community.

  One late winter evening he had won another round of pool and was looking for a new challenger. To his surprise a willowy brunette smiled at him as she picked up a cue from the rack on the wall.

  “Melanie Aucoin,” she said, shaking his hand.

  “Josh Beaton,” he replied.

  He was immediately drawn to her warm brown eyes and mischievous smile. The challenge was on!


  It was unusual to see a female pool player. However, it soon became obvious that Melanie knew how to play pool. It didn't take long before there were a few bets going around. Josh was playing well, but he was beginning to sweat. Melanie won the first game, he won the second. The third round was neck-and-neck until his cue slipped and brushed against the 8-ball, which oh so slowly made its way into the right side pocket.

  “Damn!” he said, looking up at Melanie with his lop-sided smile.

  Money exchanged hands amid cheers and laughter. Josh walked up to Melanie and bowed, offering his cue, much as a defeated knight would relinquish his sword.

  Melanie laughed and offered to buy him a beer.

  Josh replied, “Never mind the consolation prize. Let me buy you a victory drink!”

  Josh was surprised when Melanie finished her beer and headed for the stage. A fiddler and bass player were already setting up. He expected her to sit at the piano and was delighted when she opened a black case and pulled out a large accordion. For the next 40 minutes the place was jumping as the trio went from one lively Cajun tune to the other. Melanie kept time with her feet, occasionally flashing her bright smile his way. He was smitten.

  From then on, instead of going home after work, he often ended up at her small apartment over the Acadian Restaurant. She, in turn, spent most of her weekends at his place. They explored the back roads in his Ford pick-up truck and went for long hikes in the Highlands. When summer came, Josh set up a permanent tent on Cheticamp Island, where they spent many evenings swimming in the clear cool waters. He often sat on the rocks at the end of the long sandy beach gazing at the waves glinting in the setting sun. Slowly, over time, he found himself opening up to Melanie, letting her in on his private terrors. She knew better not to push these moments of intimacy, offering an open ear and a kind heart, rather than misplaced advice.

  One of the summer visitors put his Tanzer 25 up for sale and Josh decided to buy it. He had sailed with his grandfather as a boy and in no time he found his sea legs again. This was completely different from being on a submarine. He felt in control and, keeping an eye on the tides and the weather, he was no longer filled with anxiety. Instead, the open sea gave him an exhilarating sense of freedom.

  When she wasn't working at the local hospital, Melanie often accompanied him on these outings. She proudly stepped aboard the Melanie Jane and was learning the ropes. At first she sat back and watched Josh handle the boat on his own. She screamed with equal parts fear and excitement when the boat heeled in high winds. Eventually though, she learned to hold the tiller while Josh brought down the mainsail and to pull in the jib while tacking.

  One Sunday late in June, Josh headed out on his own. Once out of the harbour he headed south. The wind was light and gulls followed him offshore on this bright sunny afternoon. He intended to sail to Inverness if the wind was favourable. He didn't quite make it, although he had a great afternoon's sail. By 4 p.m. he pulled in his jib and tacked on a course heading back to Cheticamp. He noticed a bank of fog coming in from the southwest and hoped to reach port before it overtook him. An hour later the wind died down and he was enveloped in a thick, grey fog. Out of nowhere, a big swell tipped his sailboat off course. By the time she was back upright, he had lost all sense of direction.

  He chose not to turn on his motor, afraid to waste precious fuel going in the wrong direction. There was nothing to do but sit tight and hope for the fog to lift. After a while he tried to get his bearing by listening to the waves crashing on the shore, but the sea was silent. He became more and more alarmed as thick fog swirled around him. He started gasping for air, his heart beat loudly in his chest. He tried to control the mounting anxiety brought on by his feeling of complete disorientation.

  Josh had one hand on the tiller when he thought he saw something coming towards him. He peered into the thick fog and saw what looked like the outline of a large fishing boat. The image sharpened as it approached. Minutes later a 42-foot Cape Islander appeared out of the fog and turned alongside the Melanie Jane. He was surprised to see a woman in her late sixties at the helm. She was dressed in a fisherman's slicker, and her wild grey hair framed a well-worn face. She didn't say a word but beckoned him to follow her. As the boat went on ahead of him, Josh read the neatly painted name, Marion Rose.

  He quickly turned on his engine and followed from about 50 feet astern. The woman never looked back and kept on going at a steady pace. They motored on for about 45 minutes until the Marion Rose slowed down to let Josh approach. The woman then turned to Josh's boat and pointed to starboard. By then the fog had started to dissipate and he recognized the entrance to Cheticamp Harbour. He turned toward shore, expecting the other boat to do the same, but when he looked back the Marion Rose had vanished.

  At the pub later that night, Josh recounted his adventure.

  “Was she wearing a captain's cap?” asked Terry.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact she was.”

  “Well,” replied his friend,” you were rescued by the 'Captain's Widow'. You're some lucky bastard!”

  That evening Josh learned that in the early 60s, Captain John Campbell, a local fisherman, had often gone out to sea with his wife. She was a legend in the area, a strong hardy woman. One day in 1964 she stayed ashore while her husband took the boat out. A severe squall came upon him unexpectedly. They found his boat but his body was never found. The next season the Captain's wife began to take the Marion Rose out on her own. People were concerned but she knew what she was doing. One day in late August, a few people saw her go out to sea, even though they were forecasting the worst storm of the season. They never saw her or the Marion Rose again.

  Once in a while there would be another tale of how some lost tourist was shown the way back home by following her ghostly boat. Over the years her legend grew and she became known as “The Captain's Widow”.

  Josh didn't put much stock in these ghostly stories. He'd heard enough spooky yarns during his late-night shifts on the Nunavut than to take all this seriously. Still, stories his grandfather had told gave him enough respect for the supernatural to keep an open mind.

  Things were working out well for Josh. He owned his own home, he had a great job and he was deeply in love. In the fall, he planned to take a trip to Quebec City with Melanie and ask her to marry him.

  Josh loved those days in late September, when the warm air and the honeyed light made him feel summer would go on forever. Once again he had taken his boat out toward Inverness. It was early evening as he approached the narrow gut at the north end of Cheticamp Harbour. The sea had been getting steadily worse and he was relieved to be so close to home. He didn't see the empty oil drum bobbing up and down in the rising swells. The Melanie Jane hit the oil drum head on. The bow shot up and the boat flipped on its side. The wildly swerving boom hit Josh on the side of the head and he was thrown into the turbulent sea. Dazed and gasping for air, he flailed in the water, trying to get his bearing. He was confused; images of impenetrable smoke flashed in his mind. He experienced the same burning lungs, the same desperate need for air. As his body was violently tossed by the crashing waves, Josh lost consciousness.

  It was dark when he awoke. He was lying face down on a shale beach. It took him a while to remember what had happened. Painfully, he raised himself to a standing position and looked around. It was such a relief when he saw the village lights quite close by. He wrapped his arms around himself to keep from shaking, and he stumbled over rocks and seaweed, finally reaching the edge of the village. He was just below the deck of The Doryman. With a final effort he pulled himself up the steep grassy slope and reached the back entrance.

  It was a fine Saturday night and the place was full. Two of his buddies were playing pool along the left wall. Josh was overjoyed to see Melanie talking to Terry at the bar. They had planned to meet there for supper after her shift. She looked his way briefly. He waved, expecting her to wave in return. He was surprised when she turned her back to him and ordered another bee
r from the bartender. Josh took a few steps forward, more and more puzzled that no one was looking his way, no one was coming to help.

  It was then that he noticed an old man sitting in the corner booth. The old man raised his glass at him and smiled. Josh was taken aback by how much the old fella looked like his grandfather. Then his attention was caught by a woman sitting alone at a side table. He could only see the back of her frizzy grey hair. She was wearing a black slicker, and a captain's hat rested on the table beside her. He slowly walked around and stood in front of her. She looked him straight in the eye and, smiling, beckoned him to sit beside her. At that moment Josh's legs gave way and he slumped to the floor. Before falling into oblivion he had a moment of utter clarity.

  ~~~***~~~

  The Séance

  Russell Barton

  “When I die, you get this, love. Not that you’ll ever use it.” Lilly Coker, who I had known for as long as I could remember, pulled an Ouija board from an old, ornate Captain’s trunk. “Do you remember Mrs. Grimes who held séances during the war at your family’s house? She always used my Ouija board. This one.” Lilly pointed at the board and then set it on the table. I recognised it. “Oh! Lest I forget.” She pulled a crystal glass from the trunk and placed it, bottom up, in the centre of the board. Smiling, she looked at me. “Fancy a whirl?”

  “No, thanks.” I was helping her pack for her move to an old folk’s condo in Blackheath; she waitressed in our café for many years when I was very young. The café was at the front of the kitchen and the family dining room at the rear. This arrangement made it possible for the café’s waitresses to occasionally serve meals to family and guests. I always regarded her as family.