Chapter Text
Compared to the crowds and bustle of London, its grey brick and permanent covering of rain-laden clouds, the slower pace amid the sprawling expanse of colorful buildings butting up again the crystal clear blue waters of the Caribbean provided a stark, but not wholly unwelcome, contrast. John Silver stepped off the airplane and took a deep breath of clean, tropical air, almost tasting the salt on it. He pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, still squinting under the radiance of the Caribbean sun, and walked down the stairs exiting the plane.
Life had shit on him one too many times, everything going very, very wrong and quickly. Fleeing to the other side of the world was about the only option left to him. He hated it but he was determined to make the best of a bad situation.
Despite uprooting his life back in England, he only had two bags with him. The rest of his belongings, what few he had – what few he hadn’t lost – he had shipped ahead of him. His careful control over his anger threatened to slip so he brushed the thought aside. He hadn’t yet found a place to live but Max assured him he could crash at her place until he did. Max – who was his best, and currently his only, friend.
As if the mere thought summoned her, he spotted her rickety little car parked at the far end of the tarmac. “And here I’d thought you’d forgotten about me,” he teased when he was close enough for her to hear him.
She punched him lightly on the arm, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. “I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you lost and alone in a strange place,” she teased back in her thick French accent, her face breaking into a radiant smile. “I’m glad you finally saw the light, mon cher.”
“This has nothing to do with all your attempts to get me to move out here,” he pointed out. “I’m just giving it a go. We’ll see how long it lasts.”
She snorted as she slid into the driver’s seat. “That’s what everyone always says. This place – it worms its way into your heart.” She pointed a finger at him. “You’ll stay. Just you wait.”
John hummed noncommittally. He hadn’t yet told Max of his reasons for such a change of pace – wasn’t sure he had the guts to do so.
Max shifted the car into drive, kicking up dirt off the edge of the landing strip. The ride into Nassau was quiet. Max left John to his own thoughts. She was curious, he knew, about his behavior the past week – calling her out of the blue, flying out to the Bahamas when he hated flying, hated water, hated the very sun that beat down on them – but she refused to press. He loved that about her. When he wanted to open up – if he ever did – he would.
“I have you an appointment with the realtor in the morning,” she informed him, cutting into his thoughts. “Hopefully, we’ll find you a place to live within the week.”
John offered her an easy smile and agreed to the meeting just a bit too quickly.
She said nothing of it and kept her eyes glued to the road.
Max’s loft sat nestled above one of the local inns, the one Max worked at, practically running the business as its owner drank himself into the ground. She complained about the hours but the pay was decent.
The wood stairs creaked under John’s weight as he climbed them, trailing behind Max like a lost puppy. She pointed him in the direction of her futon after she shut and locked the door.
He dropped his bags on the floor and collapsed into the cushions. “God, I forgot how much flying sucks.” He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, only stopping when he saw flashes of colors. The exhaustion of the past few days caught up with him in an instant and he struggled to hold back tears. Fuck this.
“You won’t be flying again soon,” Max assured him, handing him a pillow and blanket. “Get some sleep.”
He didn’t need to be told twice, especially when he checked his phone and realized it was after midnight in London.
The meeting with the realtor the next morning went about as well as he expected. With so little money to his name, the odds of him actually finding, let alone being able to afford, somewhere – anywhere – to live were depressingly slim. He turned on the charm to no effect. Max even pulled out her landlady voice, the one she used on her customers, the one that brooked no argument.
He simply did not have enough to purchase any of the properties the realtor had listed.
They left the meeting quietly, both feeling the failure of the moment. Max would let John stay as long as he needed – he trusted her to do that – but he hated to impose any longer than necessary. He’d depended on someone’s charity once before and it ended with him almost crying on Max’s futon. That was not an experience he wanted to repeat. Ever.
Max handed him a mug of tea after they’d returned to her loft. “We’ll make it work,” she assured him, her voice strong with quiet conviction.
John’s cell phone chose that moment to ring, cutting off whatever else she might have said.
John checked the caller ID, his brow furrowing at the name. “It’s the realtor,” he muttered to Max as he answered the call.
“Mr. Silver, would you be willing to come back in this afternoon?” the realtor asked, her voice strangely… hesitant. “We’ve had – uh, a potential property open up that you might be interested in.”
“Just give me a time. I’ll be there.”
Maybe the universe was choosing to smile on him just this once. Maybe.
Or maybe he should just count himself lucky he hasn’t had to kill anyone yet.
The house the realtor was offering wasn’t much to look at. It was located well in the interior of the island, far away from the city, and to call it a fixer-upper was being kind. At one time, though, it must have been gorgeous. “I didn’t think to show it to you,” the realtor explained, “because of how rundown it’s gotten.” Something in her voice hinted that wasn’t quite the reason but John didn’t pursue it. If he needed to know what is was, he would ask.
“It looks old,” Max commented, tracing along one of the photos laid out on the desk in front of her.
The realtor hummed, handing a photo to John. “Dates back to the colonial period.” She shook her head. “That house has a lot of history but we haven’t been able to keep it leased. People just choose not to stay long.”
John bit back the retort playing on his tongue. She made it sound like the place was haunted. John believed in a lot but that strayed to the boundary of delusional.
“I’ll take it.”
Max and the realtor recovered from their shock and spoke over each other in protest. Max argued that he hadn’t even seen the house, the realtor that he should take twenty-four hours to think it over. She said he’d need to have the house inspected and meet with the current owner, who was halfway around the world on a mission trip in the Congo.
Except John was tired of having life make his decisions for him. He could ignore this opportunity and stay with Max until a better one came along or he could jump on this. It wasn’t a contest.
“I’m taking the damn house. Today if at all possible.” When the realtor left to gather up the paperwork, he leaned over to Max. “I know what I’m doing.” He shrugged. “Besides, you know me. I see an opportunity, I have to take it.”
Max’s smiled, though fond, was tinged with worry. “I do know once your mind is set, it’s impossible to change it. It would be foolish to try.”
“Smart girl.”
“Just don’t realize in a week’s time you’ve made a mistake.”
In that moment, it didn’t matter if it was a mistake. He could ride it to wherever it led him.
Three hours later saw John Silver a few thousand dollars poorer and the proud owner of a colonial mansion. As he thumbed over the deed to the house, he thought about Max’s words, how this place wormed its way into you, and he smiled.
***
Max had to work the next day but she let John borrow her car so he could drive out to what would eventually be his new home. After getting lost on unnamed roads, both paved and not, more times than he cared to count or admit to, he finally pulled up to the drive.
Though the pavement weaved around overgrown shrubbery and up a slight incline, he parked the car and walked its length to the front door. The stucco crumbled off the frame in a handful of patches, the wood underneath showing signs of bleaching but not rot. He traced along the jagged edge, his finger coming away white. From his cursory inspection, the roof and ceiling looked to be intact and he found no evidence of leaks or mold.
Just years and years of wear and neglect.
The house was far too much like him in that regard.
Every window was shuttered and as he walked through every room on the first floor of the house, composing a mental list of the supplies he’d need to beg, borrow, or steal to make the house livable again, he opened them all to let light in. One of the shutters fell off its hinges at the lightest touch. He added new hinges to a healthy supply of two by fours, stucco, paint, and whatever the hell people used to repair hardwood. Just to start.
He heaved a sigh of relief that, when he checked, the pipes all seemed to be in working order. Basic home repairs he could do. Plumbing was beyond him. One of the previous owners, in their brief time in the house, had thought to modernize it with light fixtures and power outlets. Another task he wouldn’t have to YouTube how to do.
He climbed the rickety stairs to the second floor, exploring the bedrooms, bathrooms, and spare rooms that could have been storage or studies. Or libraries, he thought wistfully, the image of bookshelves laden with vintage books – some first edition – appearing before him, unbidden and unwanted. That past was gone. Remembering it only made the pain worse. He took a deep, steadying breath and continued his explorations.
One room at the back of the house was different from the rest. Every other room stood bright and airy after his walkthrough despite the decay, their windows open and inviting. This room was sealed off, its windows boarded shut. He would need a hammer to pry the nails out of the walls. Today, he’d have to leave them be.
That alone would have seemed strange but the contents of the room were stranger still. Dusty cobwebs covered the stacks of books and papers, neither of which should have been in a previously owned house. No one would have left that behind.
John kept his hand on the doorknob, some part of his mind screaming at him to run despite not seeing anything in the room worth running from. He spotted an old picture of the house on yellowed paper, easily from the 1700s, on the closest stack and left the safety of the doorway to collect it. Nothing more than a quick sketch, it still showed how beautiful the house could be if treated well. Not wanting to spend a moment longer in that room than necessary, and being unable to sufficiently explain why, he pocketed the paper and pulled the door shut with a quiet click.
He walked back to his car after ensuring the house was locked up. Despite the warmth of the sun, the back of his neck felt cold, the hairs standing on end. He glanced over his shoulder at the house, half expecting someone to be standing in a window watching him leave. He scanned each one - no one was there. Except a lingering darkness in the corner of his eye.
You’re imagining things, Silver, he scolded himself. He had more than enough ghosts leering over his shoulder. One more was not welcome.
Over the next days, he forgot about the picture and about the strange feeling, pouring all of his energy into collecting material and remodeling. He took odd jobs at Max’s inn and other local establishments in exchange for money and supplies. Mostly, he bounced between helping Max balance her books and tending bar across the street at Eleanor Guthrie’s tavern. Guthrie and Max had a history but neither felt the need to share it with him, which suited him fine.
Max joined him at the house on her days off, offering suggestions and helping with the heavier lifting. Sometimes, he convinced her to get her hands dirty as he repaired walls and laid new floor. They rarely spoke while they worked but then, they didn’t need to.
One afternoon when they stopped for lunch, and for the rain shower that appeared out of nowhere, Max looked over at him. “The air must be doing you good, mon cher. You’re looking better.”
John chuckled. “That’s just all the work you’ve made me do.”
“This was your idea,” she retorted. “Protest all you want, the island’s good for you.” She looked around at the kitchen they’d only begun remodeling. “When do you think you’ll move in?”
“Well, I’m convinced the roof won’t collapse on my head so…” He stared out the window at the rain softly pattering against the grass. “Sometime in the next few days.”
Max scoffed. “You don’t even have a bed!”
He shrugged. “I’ve got an air mattress.” He had slept in far worse places. That knowledge hung in the air between them, unspoken.
Max grew pensive. John feared that look. She came up with crazy ideas when it appeared. “You’re going to stay tonight,” she announced. “And then we’ll discuss your harebrained plans to stay here longer.”
There was no arguing with her in when she hit one of her moods. She matched his stubbornness with her own. When he said nothing, her mouth curled in a smile.
He shoved the rest of his sandwich in his mouth. “Come on. We’ve still got plenty of light left.”
She threw her head back and laughed.
They finished repairing the wall between the kitchen and the dining room and putting one coat of paint on it before Max had to leave for work. John had commented once on the hours she kept but the argument that sparked did not need repeating. She took the car, leaving him only with a spare change of clothes, his toiletries, and the air mattress he’d mentioned.
Pumping up the air mattress by hand wore out what few muscles he hadn’t overworked with remodeling. He lowered himself onto the floor with a groan and almost had to laugh at what he spotted on the floor beside him.
Max had left one of his books, which he was delighted to find was his collection of Edgar Allen Poe stories, with the note, “Something to keep you company tonight.” He flipped to “The Fall of the House of Usher” and started reading.
He couldn’t say what woke him some hours later. The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
He rose from the air mattress and walked to the window. No stars shone in the sky. No crickets chirped in the yard. The house itself seemed to hold its breath.
A tendril of cold air brushed the back of his neck.
He spun and saw…well, he wasn’t sure what he saw.
In the doorway, stood something. A figure almost human in shape except it had no substance and sucked in what little light shone in from the window. Every instinct screamed at John to run but his legs wouldn’t move.
Who are you?
John Silver was called many things, not the least common of which was coward. At the moment, he didn’t care. He bolted for the door.
Which stubbornly refused to unlock no matter how he shook it.
The air behind him chilled.
He didn’t have to look behind him to know that entity, or spirit, was there.
Who are you? It didn’t speak or even form words but the air itself seemed to hum with what it wished to say.
He gulped. “My name is John Silver.”
Why are you here? The air crackled with anger. What do you want?
John turned from the door and, never looking away, took a step forward and noted the motion gave the entity pause. There was some satisfaction to be taken if his life were not still in danger. “Well, I would very much like to live here.” The statement could be taken more than one way – either would work. But he added, “If that would be amenable to you.”
A thought struck him. The page he had taken the first day – if somehow this spirit or being was connected to it – its absence might have woken it. In which case, he was incredibly stupid. Or it was late at night and he was slowly losing his mind.
The spirit paced, clearly annoyed. It paused and where its eyes should have been bore into John. You can stay. For now. And it vanished.
John let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding and sank on shaky legs to the floor. His insides slowly untwisted themselves. He leaned back against the door and heard the sound of crickets chirping.
Lightning lit up the house and thunder rumbled in the distance soon after.