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Chapter 3

Penelope

B y the end of the third day, I can get out of bed. I’ve read all about “the bends,” the sickness caused from rising too quickly to the surface on a dive, but the words didn’t convey how awful it feels. It’s as if my insides are heavy, determined to drag me back toward the depths of the ocean and the promise of weightlessness.

I force myself to get dressed and eat a protein bar that tastes like chalk. I wash it down with the instant coffee provided by the rental host. I’ve been in Claw Bay Harbor for almost a week, but I’ve been busy getting my project off the ground and haven’t bothered with groceries. I’ve been living off gas station rations and the vending machines in my lab at the satellite research station where I’ve been permitted access for my postdoc research grant. After the last few days spent in bed recovering, I’m out of all emergency food stashes.

Daniel is right. I suck at adulting.

Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I try to center myself. I can get it together on my own.

Daniel is wrong . This was a weird freak accident and not a reflection of me. I can adult when I need to. And I don’t need his toxic shit in my head.

I make a mental list, trying to pump myself up. Get on site. See if anything is salvageable. The camera is probably gone, but maybe I can recover the equipment locker. I’ll have to report this to the university and complete the documentation to replace what was lost. Check if there are any clues about what I met in the water. Feed myself something that doesn’t come from a wrapper or can. It’s not hard. Follow the steps.

I step out the front door of the bungalow I’m renting for my sabbatical. It’s early September, but the air is already cold coming off the water and the trees burn in the morning sun, emitting a glow that halos the world in brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows. To my left, the coastal forest and cliffs reach out into a wide wilderness and a harsh, thrashing sea. I turn to the right to take the stone steps toward downtown Claw Bay and notice a pile beside the hanging porch swing.

It’s my missing equipment. My camera, my collection locker, my auger. It’s all here. The lens on my camera is busted and the display panel is cracked. There’s a possibility the pressurized collection locker kept the samples safe, but most likely they’re ruined.

They’re here though, but how?

Odis must have gone back after them. But how did he get them? There’s no way he dived for them. He isn’t certified. No way they floated to the surface either. I try reaching him with my cell, but there is no answer, so I leave a message. Giving up, I haul my gear inside and indulge my curiosity.

When the images transfer to my laptop, I scroll all the way to the bottom. The last pictures are blurry, but I pull up the first one and enlarge it. At the grainy edge of the frame is a golden light amid a dark shadow. On the next image, the golden light returns. In the bottom corner, the glow illuminates what looks like hieroglyphics or a symbol of some kind. I study it, knowing that this was the presence with me in the water.

Something in my chest unfurls. I’m not crazy. I wasn’t alone down there.

But what is it?

I enlarge the corner and turn up the sharpness. It’s definitely a symbol, but on what? Skin? An object? I crop the image and save the file before opening a browser.

What the hell do I search for? Strange encounter with a sea monster? Underwater symbols and hieroglyphs? Am I losing my mind: a symptom checklist?

Three hours later, my stomach grumbles. I flop back on the bed and groan. After exhausting those search terms and heading to the academic journals, I’ve learned that yes, I’m probably imagining things. Or, and of course this is the most likely, I discovered an artifact during my encounter.

Shit. I’m gonna have to contact him. There are very few experts in his field and he’s the only one I know personally.

I brace for the reality and write the email, attaching the cropped image and the original. I read the request twice before hitting Send. No matter how much I couch it in academic jargon, Daniel is going to know what I’m saying. I had an encounter. I believe in monsters. I’m delusional.

Slamming the laptop with an unnecessary but satisfying thud, I grab my bag and head for town with my head held high. No matter what my ex says, I know what I saw. Now, all I have to do is prove it.

“Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like that, but I keep mostly to the docks. Some of the offshore crews could help ya. The lighthouse keeper may know?” The craggy fisherman scratches his head. The cigarette dangling from his mouth sends little flakes of ash into the breeze that cling to my skin, and the stench of gutted fish and salty air turns the chowder in my stomach.

I’ve already questioned the folks at the diner while I scarfed down lunch, confirmed with Odis that he wasn’t the one to return my equipment, and interrogated everyone I can find at the docks. This man is the last out here and they’ve all had the same thing to say. They’ve never heard of anyone talking about bioluminescent animals in their bay or seen anything with symbols. This is the third time someone has mentioned the lighthouse keeper though.

“And where can I find him? Is he a fisherman too?”

“Not a fisherman.” He flicks his cigarette into a bucket and goes back to repairing the trap sitting atop the rough and worn wooden workstation. “Smart fella, people say, but he’s a hermit. One of those lives-off-the-grid kind. He knows everything about the area. Someone from his family’s been caretaker out there since the town was established. But he’s not the kind that’s friendly.”

Friendly or not, it seems that’s where I’m headed. “Is it the lighthouse out on that nature preserve? Down at the point?”

He doesn’t turn his head, completely engaged in his task. “That’s the one. But you couldn’t pay me enough to go out there. He may have the answers you’re looking for, but from what folks say, you’re as likely to be greeted by his shotgun.”

“I’ll take my chances.” I thank him for his help, googling the lighthouse as I make my way back through the marina.

The first article includes pictures of the historic site with its rugged landscape and lonely white tower. There’s nothing about the caretaker, only that the lighthouse was established on the southern end of the island in 1851. I read the next link and the next, but there are no clues about the caretaker or his family.

I hurry away from the marina and head back to my rental to grab my car. Groceries can wait, but my curiosity can’t.

I’m on the long winding drive to the lighthouse through the forest, the windows rolled down and the music up, when my cell rings. A groan escapes when I see my ex’s name on the screen, but I accept the call and turn down the song.

“A sea monster, Penelope? Is that what you think you saw?” The harsh sneer of my ex’s voice strikes my ear and my muscles tense.

I try to blink away the memory of my husband buried to the hilt in his TA. This last time he had the girl bent over his desk, but it wasn’t the first time. How could I have been so stupid? How did I let it go on for so long?

I gather the burning nausea in my gut and turn it into as much fire as I can put into my voice. “Hello, Daniel. I see you’ve read my email.”

“Yes. The one you sent from your institutional work account. The one where you use the word encountered like you’re a writer for a tabloid instead of an academic university. We’re serious researchers and you’re asking about monsters.”

My mouth opens in rebuttal, but his tirade continues.

“I always knew you were odd, but you’ve lost your mind, Pen.” He sounds exasperated, his voice bristling with anger. “Are you trying to ruin yourself and me by association? Is that it? I said I was sorry. I won’t do it again. It was a relapse. I’ve learned my lesson. Quit punishing us and come home to North Carolina where you belong.”

Pulling into a large clearing, I park in front of the historical lighthouse and turn off the engine. I ignore Daniel’s baiting. There is no coming home. There are only the divorce papers—newly signed, but legal all the same.

I may not be going back, but I do need to hang on the line until I have some answers. Unfortunately, he’s the expert in ancient languages, not me. “You saw the image. There’s something down there. You’re the linguistic anthropologist. Tell me what I’m seeing.”

He scoffs. “There is no creature. The symbol is one that dates back to the Elder Futhark. It looks like a combination of symbols used for sea. You saw it at the bottom of the ocean. Use your brain. You discovered a ship or a lost artifact. Exciting, but not monstrous.”

“So you recognize it? It’s definitely Elder Futhark?”

Daniel sighs. “Come home and we can discuss it.”

“No.” I grit the word through my teeth. I’ve had more than enough of his brand of home.

“Then I’ll come to you. Help you sort it out. Make sure you’re eating. You always did need tending.” He says the words as a reprimand, as though I should be ashamed for needing or wanting care from my husband. It makes my chest feel too tight and my eyes burn.

I bite my tongue until I taste blood, using the pain to help shore up my walls and my heart. “I don’t need your help anymore, Daniel. All I needed was a language.”

“This isn’t one of your fairytale books, Penelope. You’re making wild claims and acting like a crazy bitch?—”

The phone is yanked from my ear through the rolled-down window and a low warning rumble emits from beside me.

“Don’t talk to her like that. Have some fucking manners.” The words are low and sharp, full of violence and darkness. But somehow, it sounds sweet to me, like the sound of the ocean’s rumble.

I find myself staring up into the face of the most harsh and beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He’s huge, dressed like a mountain man in flannel and jeans, but he’s got the air of a warrior come to rescue me or ravage me. Maybe both.

My lips part and my nipples pebble as I take him in. He is tall and muscular to the point that he’s severe, with an unruly beard that hides his mouth. His long hair is pulled to his head in a messy bun with the underside shaved. Like his scalp, his face is marked with tiny faint scars, and he’s covered in black tattoos on his hands and throat.

But it’s something else, something about him calls to me deep inside. It’s like the wonder of looking at the ocean for the first time or the comfort of coming home. Yet, his body looks as if it was made for violence and his icy blue eyes send a sliver of fear racing up my spine. They’re haunting in their unending depths, soulless and heartbreakingly wrong.

My ex’s voice crackles from the line, full of outrage. “Who the fuck is that, Pen?

“Pen?

“What the hell?”

The stranger ignores my staring and ends the call before handing me back my phone. His fingers brush mine for a fleeting moment, but it’s as if I’ve been struck by lightning, every cell inside my being illuminating in a burning white blaze. My breathing stutters.

His temple tics and he grinds his jaw. Confusion washes over his face as he looks down at his hand, pulling it away as if he too felt the burn. Or maybe he’s wondering how the fuck he ended up taking a stranger’s phone to yell at her dick of an ex.

He gives the slightest shake of his head.

I’m suspended in time, my shaking breath the only sound between us.

Without another word, he turns and walks away from me. I’m left mouth agape. My entire body feels as if I’ve been stunned, except this live wire of static jolts from my heart and trails behind him. It’s as if he took some part of me with him, this stranger, and until he returns it, I’ll never be whole.

What the hell is in the water of this town? I’m having encounters on land now? Just summoning all my fantasies to life. Maybe I’ve gone nuts. I should get myself laid and forget this whole thing. Go back to cataloging lobster.

But I can’t let it go. My curiosity propels me forward, and I climb out the car to follow the mountain man.