Freelance and Fishmaids is a supernatural novella, serialized in twelve episodes. This is Episode Three. Start Here.
Previously, Reyville took Caroline out on his boat to give her an introduction into just how strange this island can get…
In this episode, Caroline embarks on her first paranormal investigation, in an old farmhouse turned into a private medical practice.
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For more tales set on Ferris Island, check out the Ferris Island Index.
Caroline sat at her desk by the window and looked over her resume where it glowed on the laptop screen, cursor blinking where she had been busy editing, but her gaze kept flicking to her phone.
Five days. It had been five days since she had heard from the Captain, since his little fishmaid-related lesson aboard the Princess of the Weathers.
“Let’s talk tomorrow,” he had said. But then he hadn’t called. And when she tried to call him, it went to an automatic voicemail system, a tinny robotic voice commanding her to leave a message. She had left two messages over the last few days, figured any more than that would just be too pushy.
She had thought about wandering down to the harbor to look for him, to ask around, but that felt even pushier still. Too forward, too bizarre. They were relative strangers. Acquaintances at best.
So she worked on her resume, kept an eye on possible part-time jobs. She wrote a post for her blog, couldn’t quite bring herself to publish it. She looked back over her photos of the fishmaids, marveling at the flurry of teeth and fins and eyes and claws that lurked under the surface of the water around this small island.
And she thought about Agnes Candle.
Ever since thinking about Agnes days earlier, Caroline couldn’t shake the feeling that she should call her. Agnes lived nearby, over in Damascus. A quiet life with her husband, Scott, a former celebrity megachurch pastor whose life had been altered by an encounter on this island. Scott had been a hot commodity in Seattle, but the Candles were living in relative obscurity now, as far as Caroline knew.
She glanced past her laptop out at the night, the streetlights of Port Salish winking below the window, the city lights of Port Townsend across the water glowing in the distance. Despite the winter darkness it was still early in the evening, not too late to call.
Before she could think herself out of it, she picked up the phone, flicked through her contacts, and dialed.
As it rang, Caroline nibbled on her thumbnail, anxiously.
“Caroline Phelan?” It was Agnes’s voice, soft and light, the way Caroline remembered.
She smiled. “Hey, Agnes.”
“Wow, it’s been a while! How are you? What are you up to, nowadays?”
“I’m doing okay, keeping busy.” Caroline felt her small-talk threshold already slipping, tried to figure out how to steer this. “Listen, I know this is out of the blue, but you’ve been on my mind a lot, lately, and I just thought I should call.”
“That's so sweet of you. And…huh.” Agnes made a thoughtful noise. Shuffling; maybe she was finding a spot to sit down. “That’s…it’s actually interesting that you of all people would call me, tonight. Kind of…divine timing, really.”
“Oh? How come?”
Agnes seemed to consider for a moment, then said, “Are you still writing the blog? About ghosts and things?”
“Getting back into it, yeah. I’m making it my job, kind of. Going freelance.”
“Huh,” Agnes said, again, a tinge of wonder in her voice mixed with something else. Fear? Worry? Caution?
“Is everything okay?” Caroline asked, a sliver of unease creeping into her mind.
“Oh, yeah, Scott and I are fine, it’s just…do you remember Andy? Andy Yun?”
Caroline thought back. Yes, she remembered Andy. Young guy, early twenties. He had been Pastor Candle’s personal assistant, back when it all happened. Andy had seen what the island was capable of, and was pretty badly shaken up by the experience. He had spent weeks recovering from his shock at the Clinic over in Damascus, and Caroline had interviewed him for the blog back when the whole thing went down, but hadn’t given him another thought since.
“Yeah, I remember Andy,” she said. “Is he doing all right?”
“I’m not sure.” Agnes took a deep breath. “He’s still on the island, at the Clinic. He’s sort of…working there, now, doing custodial stuff. He says it’s because they’re short-handed and he wants to give back, but between you and me…I think he’s a bit scared to face the world, after what happened. Scott and I go and visit him as often as we can, encourage him, but a few days ago he started acting really strange. He says he’s being haunted by something.”
A cold prickle at the base of Caroline’s neck. “Haunted…?”
“Yeah. He thinks…he thinks there’s a ghost in the Clinic. And the other staff don’t seem to get where he’s coming from. Caroline, I don’t know what I believe about that kind of stuff, but…you’re the closest thing to an expert I know of, thanks to your blog. Could you…meet with Andy? See if there’s anything going on? Help him, if you can?”
Caroline didn’t hesitate. Even the potential for a paranormal encounter made her heart thunder in her chest, the blood rush in her ears. This is what I wanted. This is it.
“I would be happy to meet with him,” she said. “How about tomorrow?”
Agnes explained what time the Clinic opened for visitors in the morning, and fell all over herself, thanking Caroline for taking this on. They said their goodbyes—Caroline promising to update Agnes as soon as she could—and they hung up.
Caroline closed her laptop and stood from the desk. She spent the rest of the evening getting ready for the next day, packing up her bag—making sure to put Scully, her camera, safely inside—and laying out her clothes. Professional, yet casual.
An hour or so later, before getting ready for bed, she picked up the phone, dialed the unlabeled local number that belonged to the Captain, and waited for the voicemail prompt to beep.
“I’ll be at the Clinic in Damascus at nine tomorrow morning, looking into something about a haunting,” she said. “Not sure how long I’ll be. Just leave me a message, if…if you need me, I guess.”
She hung up, plugged in her phone, and went to brush her teeth.
*******
Caroline had always liked Damascus. It was a strange hamlet on a hilltop, the second-largest on the island by square miles, much of it sitting up high on a northwestern cliff overlooking the view of the sea, then sprawling down to the west-side shore of the lake it was named for. There, it butted up against the dark old-growth depths of Mothwood Forest, a last vestige of domesticity before the wilderness took over.
It had been a long time since Caroline had been to the Clinic, but she recalled that it was an odd little place. A private practice out of an old farmhouse on the cliffs. When she had last visited, it was simply to interview Andy Yun, and she hadn’t given the place much thought, back then. But now, she regarded the old house in the cold midmorning sunshine as she drove down the long, sweeping driveway and parked in the small front lot among a smattering of other cars.
Caroline closed the car door behind her and looked up. The white-washed three-story farmhouse gazed down at her with shining parlour windows, and the rhododendrons around its skirt sagged in the winter cold. An old, bent-backed man was moving among them with a pair of snips and a bucket, removing dead growth.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
Caroline turned quickly to the familiar voice, only to find Reyville there, behind her, old dark blue pea coat and all, hands in his pockets. He smelled a bit like stale cigarettes and black coffee.
“Morning,” Reyville said, tapping the brim of his felt fisherman’s cap, winking. Caroline found that his usual jaunty air was significantly less charming in the cold light of day, after nearly a week of silence.
She tried to keep her expression impassive, despite her frustration. “How did you get here?”
“I’m a sailor, and this is an island,” he said, waving his arm in the vague direction of the water. “As long as there’s a harbor, I can get practically anywhere.”
“I tried to call you,” she said, “for days. You never said a word back. And now you just…show up? Out of nowhere?”
His smile faded; the penny dropped that she was annoyed. “I was a bit busier than usual. Are you…cross with me, Miss Phelan?”
Caroline turned back to the farmhouse. “I’m here helping out a friend, Reyville. Do you need something?”
Reyville’s usually-frank gaze faltered; he didn’t meet her eyes. “I got your message and I thought…perhaps, we could do this together. As partners.”
Caroline blinked. She didn’t understand this man at all. Who taught him how to behave around people, not returning calls for days on end only to show up unannounced? Did he not have any other friends to learn from? Had all that sailing left him completely without social graces?
And captain of what, exactly?
But pettiness was unbecoming, and lower than she wanted to stoop. She could almost feel Aunt Ida’s chiding glare; always a lady, never petty. So she sighed. “Okay, local guru. Since you’re here, what can you tell me about the Clinic?”
He grinned, hid it imperfectly behind a light cough into his fist. “The Clinic. Yes. Well…it’s old. Older than old. Built back in the early 1900s, so goes the story. The Mulligan family bought it a few decades after that, and it’s been owned by them ever since. It was a boarding house for a while, now it’s a private medical clinic. Run by Paul and Marie Mulligan, elderly brother and sister, both doctors. Locals just call the pair of them ‘Doc Mulligan’ because it’s faster and everyone knows who you're talking about when you say it.”
Caroline considered this. “There’s a hospital in Port Salish, isn’t there? Why don’t people just go there?”
“Ah, well, they do, but…” Reyville paused, considered his words carefully. “The hospital is for surgeries and x-rays and other such business, but the Clinic…the Clinic is for…island-related ailments.”
Caroline waited. Reyville continued, “The Doctors Mulligan are old-fashioned sawbones. They make house calls, they can handle everything from a cough to a kidney stone, they know everything there is to know about herbs and plants on this island, and there’s very little they haven’t seen. And while some old-timers call them for simple stuff like the flu, most of the time they specialize in injuries and illnesses caused by or related to…supernatural happenings, on the island. At the hospital, it’s not always a guarantee that folks there will understand the island’s darker corners. But Doc Mulligan knows it all, they've seen it all, and they don’t bat an eye. It's a shame they're getting older; not sure what we'll do when they pass on.”
Reyville led Caroline through the parking lot to the ramp up to the front door. He waved at the old man snipping rhododendrons, and the old man waved back.
“Vinny Weaver, the groundskeeper,” Reyville whispered, to Caroline. “Takes care of the Clinic’s herb garden. Been here for ages.”
Caroline gave Mr. Weaver a smile—which he returned, shyly—and they entered the old house. The floorboards groaned underneath their feet, but the wide windows let in plenty of light, and the nooks and crannies were alive with potted houseplants. The entryway had been converted into a waiting area, with a desk where a receptionist sat, on the phone. A hallway led beyond, deeper into the house, and Caroline could hear quiet movement, upstairs.
After they signed in and told the receptionist that they were there to meet Andy Yun, she stood and led them back, down the hall through the heart of the old house.
Caroline could believe that this place was haunted. Despite the obvious updates it had been given over the years, new paint and constant cleaning, the creaking floorboards, dark corridors, and mysterious closed doors were perfect fodder for macabre stories.
Eventually, they entered a large room at the back of the farmhouse, bright windows looking over the expansive herb garden and further, from the cliff, over the gray and blue sweep of the sea. It was a sort of communal sitting room, cozy enough, with sofas and chairs and tables. A handful of people—patients, perhaps?—were seated around the room, reading or working on puzzles, or talking quietly among themselves. In the far corner, sitting at a table alone, with his thin fingers wrapped around a mug of tea, was Andy Yun.
The receptionist left them, then, to return to her desk, and Caroline led the way over to the table.
“Hey, Andy,” she said, as they drew nearer, so as not to startle him.
The young man looked up, and Caroline took a faltering, involuntary step. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty-one or twenty-two, and yet he looked truly haggard. Worn down. Bags under his eyes, a slump in his thin shoulders, his dark hair unwashed.
But a soft smile spread across his lips when he saw Caroline, and he reached up to shake her hand, his grip weaker than she expected. Tired.
“Miss Phelan, hi,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” she replied, trying to recover, hoping Andy hadn’t noticed her surprise. “This is Captain Reyville. He…works with me. On my blog.”
Until saying it out loud, Caroline didn’t realize how lame that sounded. If they were going to do this more than once they needed to work on that. Something snappier.
Thankfully, Reyville’s natural charm was not dimmed, and he shook Andy’s hand with warmth. “Pleased to meet you, Andy. May we sit?”
Andy nodded, and they sat.
“I spoke with Agnes Candle last night. She told me that you’re worried about something,” Caroline said, trying to be delicate, ease into the subject. “That there’s…something in the house here that’s frightening you.”
Andy sighed into his cup. “Did Agnes tell you I thought I saw a ghost?”
Caroline nodded, reluctantly. “Yes, she did.”
“Great,” Andy groaned, quietly. “And you're here to see if I'm certifiable?”
“No, we're here to listen.” Reyville’s voice was calm, good-natured. “Try us.”
Andy exhaled, a whistling sound, seeming to ponder this for a moment or two. Then, eventually, he said, “I thought I was just imagining things, but…yeah, I think I’m being haunted. By a real ghost.”
Caroline nodded, encouraging him to go on, while Reyville sat, respectfully quiet. In a small way, she was glad he was here, after all.
“It started a few days ago, when I was doing the laundry,” Andy said. “The Clinic laundry is really important, you know? Doc Mulligan runs a tight ship, that way. I was doing the laundry, and there was this…shirt, in the load, that wouldn’t get clean. Just this pale blue shirt, a woman’s shirt, covered in dirt and stains, and no matter how much I tried to wash it, it wouldn’t get clean.”
He sighed again, running one hand through his hair. “I know how this sounds.”
“We’re listening,” Caroline said. “Nothing is too crazy, believe me. Go on.”
“Okay.” Andy took a deep, quavering breath, continued. “When I tried to tell the nurse on duty about the shirt, asked who it belonged to, she told me that she didn’t recognize it. It didn’t belong to any of the patients at the Clinic. She figured it was probably old. I left it in the laundry room, didn’t think much of it, after that. But…then, stuff started…happening. Things in my room moved around, and I know I didn’t move them. My window would be left open, and I know I didn’t open it. And then…I saw her.”
This was painful to recall, and it was obvious on Andy’s face. “I was carrying some compost bags over to the garden for Mr. Weaver, and…I saw her. A girl, wearing the same shirt, all covered in stains. She was…I could tell she wasn’t…alive, you know? But she was standing on the porch, watching me. Her eyes were so, so empty. I saw her again, down a hallway upstairs. And now, I can’t even go into the laundry room without knowing she’s there. I can feel her in there, watching me with those empty eyes. And sometimes, I can feel things brushing against me, against my hand, against my shoulder…I can't sleep, because I keep thinking about her watching me, waiting for something…”
Andy swallowed hard. His gaze focused on Caroline’s, and there was real pain behind it. “I’m not sure what’s happened to me since coming to this island. I never thought of myself as a coward, before, but I think I am. I know I am.”
“Cowards rarely admit it.” Reyville’s voice was soft with compassion, a tone Caroline hadn’t heard from him, before. “There’s nothing wrong with being afraid of frightening things.”
Andy’s fingers tightened around the mug. “I just want…to be free of the fear,” he said. “I’m so…tired of being afraid.”
“What does Doc Mulligan say about your ghost?” Caroline asked.
Andy shrugged. “They haven’t been here much, lately; it’s a busy season for injuries and illnesses. Winter always is, they say. And the other staff don’t believe me. I’m already pretty jumpy; it’s tough to believe someone who’s this jumpy. I get it.”
Caroline reached out and patted Andy’s hand, hoping it came across as comforting and not condescending. I’m going to have to work on this, too, she thought.
“Listen,” she said, trying to adopt more confidence than she felt, “you’re talking to the right people. Between the two of us, the Captain and I have both seen some pretty wild stuff. Very little surprises us. If you say you saw a ghost, then we believe you.”
Caroline looked to Reyville, and he met her eyes with his own. The frankness was back, a practiced ease. He was ready.
“So,” Caroline said. “Andy, can you show us where the laundry room is?”
*******
Andy wouldn’t go near the laundry room door, which was in the basement, but he led them down through the bowels of the house’s lower level, lined with stone. He flipped on the guttering bare-bulb lights and lingered at the foot of the stairs, pointing.
“It’s that door, there,” he said. But he hardly needed to bother; the smell of industrial detergent and bleach was strong enough to follow like a trail.
Caroline pulled Scully out of her bag, looped the strap over her head, turned the digital camera on with a cheery chime. Down here, the air was close and musty. For the second time in a matter of an hour, she was glad of Reyville’s company at her shoulder as they walked down the hall. He was humming something to himself, softly. It sounded familiar, but she couldn't place the tune.
At the laundry room door they both paused. Then, Caroline reached out and pushed the door open. It creaked loudly on antique hinges, and a breath of deep, deep cold came rushing out to meet them, sharp with the scent of soil.
“Blimey,” Reyville muttered. “It’s cold in there for a laundry room, isn’t it?”
Caroline nodded, reached in to flip on the lights in the room. They guttered on for a second or two, then went out.
Reyville was humming again. Caroline turned to look at him, and he shrugged. “Nervous habit,” he whispered. “Sorry.”
When he stopped humming, the silence fell upon them like a weight. You couldn’t even hear the footsteps of anyone walking around upstairs through the thick walls and floor.
But something was there, with them. Caroline could feel it, like the sound of someone quietly breathing in another part of the room.
At the end of the hall, Andy sat on the stairs like a child, peering at them, waiting.
“Okay, dear ghost,” Caroline said, lifting the camera to point into the dark laundry room. “Let’s see if we can get a shot of you.”
Flash! Flash!
Scully lit up the room: big industrial washing machines and dryers, baskets of patients’ laundry sorted, bags of linens, a big chalkboard with the laundry schedule scrawled on it, lit in a moment as by lightning and then disappearing into the dark.
Flash! Flash!
Nothing amiss to the naked eye, but that’s what Scully’s eye was for.
Caroline pressed the button to look back at the photos she had taken. The first few revealed nothing but machines, baskets, bags. A normal laundry room in shocking flashbulb brightness.
But then…
That final photo…
Reyville bent to look at the tiny digital screen, undisguised wonder on his face. “That’s…”
“Yeah.” Caroline pressed the button to zoom in on the corner, where a young woman stood in blue jeans, old shoes riddled with holes, and a shirt quilted with stains. Her hands were at her sides, her blonde hair was short, and her eyes were empty, yet somehow insistent. Watchful. Sad.
“Do you see anything?” Andy called, from down the hall.
“Come and look,” Caroline replied.
The young man hesitated. But Reyville said, in that soft voice that Caroline was going to have to get used to, “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Andy. Being free of the fear starts right now, if you want.”
A moment, silence. Then Andy stood and came down the hall toward them, quickly, as if afraid he was being followed.
He stood beside Caroline, keeping well away from the laundry room doorway, and she showed him the photo. “Is this your ghost?”
Andy licked his lip, nervously. “Yeah. That’s…that’s her. That’s amazing, that you got such a clear photo.”
“This camera is a wonder that way.”
Caroline thought, for a moment. Revealing ghosts was one thing, but it was something else altogether to figure out what they want. And that was something she hadn’t really done, before. Her blog had mostly been about finding and gathering evidence of ghosts, not doing anything about them.
But the question plagued her: Why was this ghost only revealing herself to Andy?
“You don’t recognize her at all, do you?” Caroline asked, but Andy shook his head.
“No, should I?”
“I don’t know.” Caroline peered at the photo. And then, for a moment—a brief moment—she could see it, as if it was playing out in front of her, like a film: A woman—this girl in the dirty shirt, but a bit older, much weaker—lying in a bed in an unfamiliar place, dying. And one young man, all-too accustomed to fear, reaching out his hand in the dark. The only kind human contact she had likely felt in years, and it was to be her last.
“He held my hand,” Caroline murmured, though she hardly knew why.
Andy, looking over Caroline’s shoulder at the photo, blanched.
“Wait…” he said. “Wait…what did you say?”
“Does that mean something to you?”
Andy ran his trembling fingers through his hair. “That’s…I don’t…know, for sure, but…”
He drew in a breath. “A week ago, there was a woman, brought in. She was found wandering around in the State Park, no one knew who she was. That’s weird, you know, because on such a small island everyone knows everyone, but she was a drifter, probably came over from the mainland. No ID. On drugs, maybe? I don’t know. She had blonde hair, like that. She was older, but…I guess she was wearing clothes kind of like that, too, I just didn’t notice…I wasn’t looking.
“She, I mean, she died. Here. Only a few minutes after someone brought her in. She was in really bad shape. Heart failure. While everyone else was running around trying to get an ambulance to take her to Port Salish, I felt like she shouldn’t be alone, so I…I sat with her. I held her hand. I was with her when she died.”
Scully wasn’t the only thing around with a knack. Caroline felt a chill run through her.
Lifting her eyes from the screen, Caroline looked at Andy. “She’s not haunting you, Andy. She’s thanking you.”
The effect these words had on Andy was both profound and immediate.
“Oh,” he said, gently surprised, as if that's all there was to say. “You mean…she wasn't trying to scare me?”
“Unlikely,” Caroline replied. “Seems to me she was just trying to get your attention, the only way she knew how.”
“Why does she look so much younger?”
Caroline shrugged, could feel Reyville's gaze upon her. “I don't know the rules, Andy. Maybe you get to come back at the age you prefer, sometimes. I don't know.”
Andy nodded, slowly. Cautiously, he peered into the laundry room. Then he stepped into the doorway, pulling his shoulders back, wrapping his arms around himself against the supernatural cold.
“Hey, uh, ma’am. Miss. Friend. I…hope you’re at peace now,” he said, quietly, into the dark room. “I’m…sorry I was afraid of you. I don’t know who you were, but…you don’t have to leave. You can stay, if it makes you feel less alone. I know…how that feels.”
He turned to look at Caroline and Reyville. “I don’t know. Is it weird to, like, invite a ghost to hang around?”
It was Reyville who answered, his tone difficult to read. “We’ve all got ghosts hanging around, mate. The important thing is learning to let them come and go as they please. Much easier to dance with them, that way.”
*******
It was nearing noon when Caroline and Reyville finally emerged from the farmhouse, down the porch ramp, and back to Caroline’s car. Andy had given Caroline a strong hug—tight, despite his thin frame—and told the both of them that he would love to see them again, sometime. His eyes had been bright, his face open. Caroline still couldn’t believe what a change had come over him, simply from understanding what the ghost was trying to say.
Inviting her in, instead of running.
“So,” Reyville said, as they neared the car, back to his jaunty self, “what do you think? To the General Store for some pie? To celebrate a job well done?”
But Caroline was pensive. She stopped and stared at him.
“We did pretty good in there,” she said, unlocking the car. “You and me.”
Reyville smiled. “I agree. Not a bad team.”
“But a good team needs trust. And you left me hanging for five days by the phone.” Caroline looked over her shoulder at the farmhouse. “We could do a lot of good, Reyville. I know we could. I’m more sure of it now than I ever was. But you’re not the mysterious voice on the phone, anymore. You’re working with me, now. We’re partners. We need to trust each other. If we say we’re gonna call, we call. Understand?”
If his pride was stung, he was too gentlemanly to show it. Reyville nodded, his brows knitted together soberly, and when he spoke again his voice was deep, serious. He met her eyes with his signature frankness, practiced earnestness, without shying away.
“I hear you, Miss Phelan, loud and clear,” he said. “And agreed.”
“Good.” She opened the driver’s side door, and he moved away from the car, backing up to let her leave. But she clicked the button to unlock the passenger’s side door and gave him a reluctant grin, over the roof.
“Get in,” she said. “Can’t celebrate a job well done without pie.”
There was something about the way the storms in those eyes cleared when he smiled. She had never seen anything quite like it.
Thank you for reading! 📸
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That's a nifty little camera
Seeing the dead.
But it's up to the user
to figure out what's being said.
Not a haunting, no saying boo!
Just a heartfelt, "Thank you."
I ship, but also, I fear? What if he turns out to be something other than the mostly-perfect-gentleman? This was such a sweet little story, Sally, and I'm so excited to see how Caroline continues to develop as a person and work through her own things through these encounters with others around the island.