Cast No Shadow

Freelance and Fishmaids - Episode Two

Freelance and Fishmaids is a supernatural novella, serialized in twelve episodes. This is Episode Two. Start Here.

Previously, Caroline Phelan—newly fired from her job as a journalist—meets her informant for the first time, the mysterious man known only as the Captain, and he gives her a proposition.

In this episode, Reyville takes Caroline out on his boat to give her an introduction into just how strange this island can get…

For more tales set on Ferris Island, check out the Ferris Island Index.

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Photo by Lukas Robertson on Unsplash

It was after dark, hours later, near midnight, when Caroline returned to the Seavend Marina. 

The General Store was closed, unlit, and locked up, and the marina twinkled with the dim lights in the windows of the live-aboards. The rain had ended, the thin scraps of remaining cloud pushed aside to reveal a bright, waxing moon. There were no other cars in the parking lot.  

Caroline climbed out of her own car, pulled her thick wool coat tighter around her, and draped her bag over her shoulder. Despite the quaintness of the small town during the day it felt practically deserted at night, the wind searching door to door for souls to haunt and finding none. 

Passing the shuttered General Store, Caroline walked down the gravel walkway toward the marina, the high tide whispering against the pebbled beach below her. She turned left to head down the grating to the dock and, ahead of her, she could see Reyville standing there in the middle of the pier, silhouetted against the water, his hands in his pea coat pockets. 

“Right on time,” he said—softly, out of politeness for the live-aboards sleeping in their old yachts—as she drew closer. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she said. “You were a little vague, earlier. What exactly are we doing?”

“We're going for a little cruise. You comfortable on boats?”

“Sure, that's not an issue.” Caroline gazed at him, trying to read his expression. “But…what are we doing out here, Reyville?”

“I told you that there’s plenty more on this island that you haven’t seen,” he said. “Ghosts are just the tip of the iceberg. This is just a primer. An important one.”

He turned to lead her down the dock, but she hesitated. 

“Why didn't you show me this earlier? You know, if it’s so important?”

She could see his eyes soften, even in the dim light.

He said, “You're a capable soul, Caroline Phelan, but I could never in good conscience send you to investigate this kind of thing on your own. Not knowing what you were getting into. It would be unkind, at best. But with me, you’re all right. Did you bring the camera?”

Caroline patted the bag affectionately where her trusty camera, Scully, was safely stowed.

“Lead on, I guess,” she said.  

They walked down the dock until they reached an old wooden boat, an antique trawler, about forty feet long, peeled-painted blue and white above and black below. The cabin was substantial, low portholes along the side lit cozily from within, and the bridge sat up high with a view of the marina. The carefully-stenciled lettering along the side of the hull read Princess of the Weathers. 

Reyville paused here and held out his hand to help Caroline over the low-set gunwale. Once she was safely aboard he untied the lines from the dock cleats, threw them on deck, and stepped on, himself. Then he crossed to the starboard-side door and opened it. 

“You can make yourself comfy in the cabin, if you like,” he said, inviting her inside with a sweep of his arm. “Or join me at the helm. Whatever suits you.”

He did not wait for an answer, but hurried up the short flight of narrow stairs just to the right inside the door, up to the bridge, leaving her to make her decision. Moments later, the boat’s engines rumbled to life.

Caroline looked around the cabin. Ahead of her was a thin pocket door into what she realized—peeking inside—was a tiny bathroom. To the left, a short flight of stairs led down into a long, low-ceilinged, wood-paneled living space. A modest and well-used galley kitchen, bench seats, a small table, lots of cupboards, a little woodstove, and what she assumed was a bed, hidden behind thick plaid curtains at the far end of the cabin. The warm, golden light came from electric lanterns, swinging gently from the ceiling in the movement of the boat, and it was homey in a sparse way, yet practical. Everything had a purpose. Likely more than one.  

Caroline set aside the journalistic urge to snoop, tempting as it was, but certain things were clear at a glance.

One plate beside the tiny sink. One pair of socks drying by the stove. Very little clutter.

Reyville was tidy. And very, very solitary.

What's your deal, I wonder? Caroline thought. But shy of digging through his cupboards, she would learn no more, here. She decided to join the Captain topside, in the pilothouse.

Caroline climbed the stairs to find him in his element, steering the Princess of the Weathers out past the breakwater. The instrument panel in front of him might as well have been the console of a spaceship, for all Caroline understood any of it. She settled into the co-pilot’s seat beside him, careful not to touch any of the various buttons and gauges, and watchful of her feet beside a stack of classic rock CDs sitting in a box on the floor.  

“Welcome aboard the Princess,” Reyville said over his shoulder as she sat. “She’s an old girl, but she’s true as an arrow.”

“It's certainly cozy.” Caroline stared out into the darkness beyond the pilothouse windows. “Isn’t there a rule against night cruising?” she asked.  

He nodded, smiling gently. “Usually, yes. But I tend not to worry too much. I have an…agreement with the Department of Fish and Wildlife.”

It felt like a joke she didn’t get, so she decided to leave it. But he seemed to recognize her silence as confusion, and leaned over to say, “I am the Department of Fish and Wildlife.”

“Oh.” Caroline smiled. “I see.”

“Dan the Harbormaster fields the calls, then she passes all the to-do items on to me. I’m the muscle. So to speak.”

“That’s your job, then?”

“I have a lot of jobs,” he said. “Fish and Wildlife, harbor security, Coast Guard, search and rescue…whatever comes up.” 

“Sounds like a lot for one guy.”

“Keeps me busy.”

Caroline considered this. “What would you do if you weren’t busy?”

“You sound like a journalist,” he said with soft humor, but his eyes never left the dark horizon in front of him. 

“No, a journalist would ask where you’re from.”

She left the implied question there, to sit, while he seemed to weigh out whether he was willing to be questioned, however good-naturedly. 

Eventually, he said, “Lancaster. England.”

Her sense of British geography wasn’t good enough to locate Lancaster on a mental map, so she just nodded. “Do you still have family, there?”

“Nope. Family nowhere.” A quick and well-practiced answer; Caroline made note of that. “What about you?”

“Denver,” she replied. “And yes, my family is still there. For now, anyway.”

“For now?”

“My aunt is the only relative I’m really close to, and she’s…not doing well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I am, too. Caroline swallowed against a wave of sorrow tinged metallic with shame. Aunt Ida’s face was suddenly inescapable, warm and regal and deep brown just like Caroline's mother’s face, tight black curls just like Caroline’s own, yet shimmering with well-earned silver. Her dark eyes were full of quiet pride, and holiness, and answers. No questions, only answers.

Caroline gazed straight ahead out of the pilothouse windows, mouth gone dry, and wondered how she had let the conversation slip away from her so fast.

Careful, Caroline.

“So, are you going to tell me yet, where we’re going?” she asked. 

They had left the Seavend Marina behind and were heading west around the island, passing the acres-long, dark smudge of Mothwood Forest, unbroken by any house lights. No one lived there. No one dared. The only light here was the fully-automated sweeping beam of the long-abandoned lighthouse at the island’s northwest corner. 

“Tell me your thoughts on cryptids,” Reyville said. 

Cryptids? She frowned. “You mean, like, Bigfoot and stuff?”

“Yeah. Bigfoot and stuff. You believe in that kind of thing?”

Caroline was about to scoff, but had to stop herself. The experience with Agnes and Scott Candle—only months before—rose into her mind and stuck there. It was the event that had gotten her fired, the last paranormal investigation she had ever done. In aid of a pastor’s wife whose husband had somehow been transformed into…something. A monster. A creature beyond comprehension. 

The island had turned her husband into a beast.

Agnes had sought out Caroline because of her blog, and Caroline had done her best to help, though she had been completely out of her depth. Ghost hunting was one thing, but this was something else. Chaos. The repair for that situation ended up being otherworldly. She was still reeling from how that particular story had ended, firing or not. 

To the Captain, she simply replied, “I’m not really sure what I believe, right now.”

“That’s fair enough.” He paused. “There are things in the woods and waves around here that would surprise you. I’m going to introduce you to one such surprising thing, because there’s…a good lesson in it. Something we’ll both need to keep in mind, going forward.”

Ominous, but Caroline reminded herself that a bottomless wellspring of curiosity was her greatest asset, as always.

It’s for the book. She took a deep breath, disguised from Reyville’s hearing by the hum of the boat’s engines. 

Up ahead, for the first time since leaving the marina, Caroline saw something in the water. It was a tall steel buoy, a red light flaring at its top, swaying gently in the waves. There was a sign on the buoy, and in the fretful red light Caroline could barely make out what it said:

FISHMAID SANCTUARY AREA - NO TRESPASSING

Fishmaids? Like…mermaids? 

For a moment, and for the first time, Caroline considered that this whole thing could be a prank. This man could be making a fool out of her. After all, if he was essentially the only active maritime authority on this island, how hard would it be for him to plant a sign out here, to make her look stupid?

She turned to look at him, but his face betrayed nothing except concentration on the waves ahead. If he was expecting her to ask, she decided that she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

They carried on past the buoy for a minute or two before—to Caroline’s surprise—Reyville cut the engine, and the newborn silence seeped into the pilothouse, filled only with the static of the waves swirling against the hull of the Princess. 

“Alright,” he said, turning in his seat. “Now, it’s time for a cup of tea.”

Caroline blinked as Reyville stood up and started walking toward the stairway down into the galley. 

“Wait,” she said. “Aren’t you going to…drop the anchor? Or something? We’re…drifting.”

He shook his head, shrugged. “Oh, no. No need for that. It’s just a waiting game, now. Come on, then.”

What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Phelan? she thought, but followed him down into the galley, where he was already settling an old copper kettle onto the stovetop and pulling a pair of mugs out of a latched cupboard. 

“Have a seat anywhere,” he said. “Do you take milk? Sugar?”  

“No, thanks,” she said, finding a spot on one of the bench seats, holding her bag close. She let him fuss silently around the kitchen, putting a teabag into a chipped teapot and taking a small bottle of milk out of the little fridge for his own cup, before she could stand it no longer. 

“Okay,” she said. “Fishmaids? Really?”

He didn’t skip a beat, didn’t even glance up. Unsmiling. “Fishmaids, yeah. The Pacific Fishmaid, to be specific. They have cousins in various places all over the world, but the Pacific types make their home here. Calving season runs from May to September. That's when they're most active around the island. But during the winter time, the females return to underwater tunnel systems and caves all down the islands and coasts to raise their young through winter, while the males hunt to feed them, and they begin mating again in the spring.”

Caroline didn’t speak, at first, trying to read the expression on his face, the tone of his voice. Is this man joking? She couldn’t be sure. And with his dry British sensibilities, would she even be able to tell if he was?

The kettle whistled, and Reyville filled the teapot. 

Caroline cleared her throat. “Are male fishmaids…fishmen?”

Reyville smiled, accommodatingly. “Nah, they’re all fishmaids. It’s a species name. You don’t call male ladybugs ‘gentlemanbugs’, do you?”

“Hadn’t thought about it. Now that you mention it, I probably will.” Caroline was still trying to decide how far to play along with this. She had certainly seen some things since she had started looking into this island’s strangeness, but to accept that an entire unknown species was living, breeding, eating, and dying in the waters nearby…it seemed impossible. More impossible than ghosts, even. 

“These fishmaids,” she continued. “Are they dangerous?”

“They are considered apex marine predators,” he said. “So, yeah. If you don’t know what you’re dealing with, they can be very dangerous. That’s why we’re here, tonight. Your first official lesson of your new paranormal freelancing life: not everything you find on this island will make sense to you, but it does have rules, no matter how twisted they appear. The island is haunted, but it's still, ultimately, a place. A natural place. And there is an order to it, a type of logic. You just need to find it. It’s not as chaotic as it seems.”

There was a wistful sound in his voice, a softness that Caroline had not heard from him before, and that she couldn’t quite account for under the circumstances. 

She waited for him to continue while he lifted the teapot to begin pouring into the two mugs. But before he could do so, something slammed—hard—into the port side of the boat. 

Caroline startled, and reached out to grab the bench she was sitting on, while Reyville set down the teapot with a barked laugh. “And there they are!”

“There what is?” Caroline asked, her voice cracking with surprise. 

“Give it a moment. Let’s see if we can get a few to gather. To make sure you get a good shot.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Reyville?”

Slam! Another weight, this time against the starboard side. The Princess was wide and stable, but the lanterns rocked on the ceiling and the two mugs beside the stove rattled. Caroline could feel her skin prickle with fear, despite the warmth of the woodstove and her thick winter coat. 

“What is that?” she said, breathless. 

A sound of rushing under the boat, a pitter-pattering of…hands? Feet?…along the hull. Splashing and thrashing in the waves outside. 

Another shove, the boat pitched. Caroline groaned. “Reyville…”

Finally, Reyville said, over the sound of thundering in the water, “That's enough, at least half a dozen out there. Grab Scully, make sure the strap is strong around your neck so you don't drop it. And listen, at night it’s safest, but with fishmaids there is only one rule: cast no shadow. They will do what they can to tempt you to lean, to look over the side of the boat to see them. They use our curiosity against us; that’s how they hunt. Don’t do it. Stay upright, keep center to the middle of the boat. Cast no shadow. Come with me.”

With that, he left the teapot and mugs untouched and climbed the stairs to the starboard door, opening it for Caroline, the cold marine air sweeping in and the sound of thrashing in the water growing and growing, building and building. 

Hands trembling, Caroline drew Scully out of her bag and draped the strap over her neck, making sure it was secure. She turned on the digital camera, the cheery chime and the buzzing of the autofocus letting her know that it was ready to use, and she followed Reyville up the stairs and out onto the night-black deck. 

Outside, it was mayhem. White waves churning on either side of the boat, and it was impossible to see what was causing it in all the commotion. Moving darkness. Something bumping into the hull, again and again. A high-pitched sound, like a cackling, a fretful clicking. Things glimmering wetly in the moonlight, slipping out of sight.

Reyville stood with his back against the outer cabin wall and motioned for Caroline to do the same. She stood rigid, terrified, and raised the camera, aiming it out at the water. 

Flash! Dozens of pairs of glowing eyes—animal eyes—flared briefly, caught in the glare. Chittering, chattering.

Caroline gasped, in spite of herself. Kept on. 

Flash! Flash!

Photo after photo. Reminding herself not to lean forward, despite the temptation to get closer, to see clearer. Cast no shadow. 

Flash! Flash! Flash!

And then, slowly and then all at once, the thrashing faded, fluttered, and stopped.

Whatever was causing it had clearly realized that its potential meal was too savvy to look over the side of the boat.

In the stillness that followed, Caroline could only hear her own heartbeat thundering powerfully in her ears, the sound of Reyville chuckling softly beside her.

He motioned her back inside. “That was quite the show. I reckon you got some pretty good shots.”

Caroline’s hands were still trembling, and her legs had gone tingly from trying so hard to remain still against the side of the cabin. To avoid leaning forward.

She followed him back inside and sat heavily down on the bench while he finished making the tea, respectfully quiet, as though he was letting her think it over.

Caroline pressed the button on the camera to look back through the photos. There was something about Scully, something Caroline couldn’t quite explain. The camera managed to capture things, details that Caroline would never be able to see with her naked eye. It was a knack that had come in handy for taking pictures of ghosts and other phenomena. But even knowing what Scully was capable of, Caroline couldn’t believe what she was seeing in these photos, glaring up from the chaos of the waves: wide, round, staring eyes. Gray, mottled faces, bristling with hair. Wide mouths, sharp teeth, and barnacled limbs. Long bodies, whip-tails like an eel might have. 

“Fishmaids?” she said, quietly. 

Reyville nodded, handed her a cup of tea. 

“Fishmaids,” he said. 

*******   

On the way back to the Seavend Marina, Caroline had chosen to remain in the cabin instead of the bridge with Reyville, lost in her thoughts, her tea gone cold. 

This idea, this freelancing plan. Perhaps it was going to be more dangerous than she had thought. Ghosts don’t have sharp teeth and clawed, barnacled hands. Ghosts don’t hunt you by using your curiosity against you. Ghosts don't…eat you. But if this island was home to fishmaids, what else could be hiding in its dark corners? And was it right—or safe—to look for these things? 

She thought about Agnes Candle, the pastor’s wife, and the monster her husband had become. Agnes hadn’t gone looking for that trouble; it had found her, regardless. And she had needed help. 

Caroline thought idly about how Agnes was doing, wondered if she should call her. 

But then, she wondered: what if there were others like Agnes, out there on the island, in need of that kind of help? Could Caroline turn her back on the island’s dark corners, if she knew those corners were full of potential innocent victims, unsure of where to turn? 

Reyville had said that everything on this island had a logic to it. Rules. And Caroline knew from experience that you learn any set of rules by asking the right questions. 

I’m good at questions, she thought. That’s kind of my thing. And what a book that would make…

At the marina, Reyville deftly navigated the Princess into her normal slip and helped Caroline off the boat onto the pier while he tied off the lines. 

“So,” he said. “Did I frighten you off?”

She shook her head, slowly. It was long past midnight, almost two in the morning, and the air had that early morning purity to it, a cleanness. Ready for a new day. Caroline was bone-tired and yet somehow energized, buzzing.

“No,” she said. “I’m with you. Whatever this is that we’re doing…I’m in. One hundred percent.”

He seemed pleasantly surprised. “Glad to hear that. You get some sleep. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then,” she said, shouldering her bag, heavy with the weight of the camera and those remarkable photos. “Goodnight, Reyville.”

She walked back to her car with the breeze murmuring on her shoulders. The tide had turned, heading back down the beach in a slow march. 

As she made her way up the grating to the walkway that would lead to the parking lot, Caroline glanced up at the shuttered General Store, and she froze. 

There, in the upper window of the darkened building, was the silhouette of a figure, watching Caroline as she approached. 

Caroline stared, tried to make sense of what she was looking at.

But then, she blinked.

And the figure disappeared. 

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