Anywhere Else But Here

By XuanSon Nguyen

Claira Hammond had never understood the reason behind the concealment of her mother’s past, but she grew up begrudgingly accepting it. That is, until Madeline disappeared without a trace. Five years later, a mysterious letter arrives. The contents leads Claira to Morning View Port,Madeline's hometown. As she follows her mother’s clues, she is unexpectedly swept up in the dark and horrific narrative that condemned the town for hundreds of years. After centuries imprisoned on the island, Ephraim Wyatt is determined to find a way to escape his cursed life and nightmares. The moment Claira crosses his path, he knows she would become the key to his success. To gain her trust, he aids in her search for Madeline. Together, they embark on a rescue mission, but who will save them from the monster that lurks within the shadows? Will they escape Morning View Port, or will they forever remain part of its gruesome history?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312480742

Book preview

Anywhere Else But Here

Anywhere Else But Here

First Edition

Copyright © 2014 XuanSon Nguyen

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-1-312-48074-2

This work is licensed under the Standard Copyright License

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

1. The Letter

The unlikely story began three weeks ago with the arrival of the anonymous letter addressed to my mother. That alone should have warned me that its content held nothing but trouble and warranted to be burned immediately. Instead, naïve and curious as I was, I brought it into the house.

The envelope itself was neither special nor hard to procure. The handwriting on the front and inside the letter gave me pause due to its impeccable scripts. Holding the paper close to my nose, I could make out the strokes and dips on the surface, as if it were written by a quill pen. Odd, but certainly not too strange. Some people enjoyed writing with fountain pens. My parents were among those enthusiasts.

Consequently, the peculiar choice of writing tool wasn’t the source of my interest, but rather the fact that the sender addressed it to my mother.

She had disappeared five years ago without a trace. Months of police work and community searches came to naught. She had simply vanished. While I eventually accepted reality, the lack of closure often caused me to wonder if her secretive past had somehow caught up with her.

My parents, although loved me more than anything in this world, seldom discussed their past with me. The furthest they’d recall were their college years, where they met and fell in love. From what I was told, it was the usual story of boy meets girl. After they graduated and became financially stable, I was born. We had quiet lives, with nothing more exciting than the yearly trip to the East Coast to visit my paternal grandparents. The only grandparents I knew about.

Among my parents’ secret past hid my maternal family. I often thought of them as hidden because I’d never even seen their faces. At first, I’d thought maybe Mom had been adopted, but then quickly dashed that idea away. Adoptive parents were still parents. No, it was something else. Then as I got older, I wondered with trepidation if she had run away from home because something terrible happened during her childhood. Once again, though, I realized that she showed none of the signs of past abuse. Maybe her family died in an accident long ago, yet that didn’t explain why she wouldn’t mention anyone or anything.

Moreover, I seemed to be the only one wondering about it. Dad, considering how well he avoided my questions, had to know and purposely kept me in the dark. It was because he knew that when she disappeared, while very concerned and distraught, regained his composure much faster than anyone in his shoes would.

My conclusion: he knew what happened to Mom, or at the very least, had an idea why she left. Whatever he knew, he refused to tell me. Deftly, he dodged all my attempts at the truth over the years. I hated to admit it, but at times it felt like he not only evaded my questions, but my presence itself.

He taught literature at the University in town, which gave him the excuse of staying on campus for most of the day. The time at home, he spent most of it in his office. We probably saw each other for an hour daily at most. I wondered if he worried that one day he might accidentally reveal the secrets he shared with her? The ones I’d never been allowed to be part of?

Now I held the only item linked to her since her disappearance. There was no return address on the envelope. Who could have sent this? All of her friends and acquaintances knew of her absence.

I sat in the love-seat by the fireplace, its warmth radiating out to offer me some comfort in this moment of confusion. I had opened the envelope, hoping to find a familiar name signed at the end of the letter, but I didn’t. The name Mathias told me nothing. This further pushed me to believe that the reason she left had to do with her past.

I set the letter on the coffee table and settled back, staring at it. Should I read the contents? It was addressed to her. Reading it seemed wrong, even if she was no longer here. Because she had always been so private, it felt like such an invasion of privacy. Could those beautiful words tell me more about her, though? Maybe even give me an idea of where she could have gone?

The clock on the wall struck 6:00, and I glanced up. Dad would be home in an hour, as he always did. My eyes shifted to the sliding glass door, seeing the gray and thin branches of the leafless trees sway back and forth in the November wind. Our small backyard had fallen to the wayside since Mom left. Gardening was among her hobbies. Tulips and daisies were her favorite; now there only remained a few wisps of yellow and crusty leaves in the patch of dirt right under the kitchen window. The various shrubs and plane trees still lived, but that was because they didn’t require all that much attention. They just asked for water, sunlight, and soil. Twice a year, Dad would quickly trim them down, and they’d be happy.

By 6:25, I gathered the letter and put it in my room, still having not read what it said. Right as the clock struck seven o’clock, I heard Dad’s keys jingle as he unlocked the front door. I stood in the kitchen, cutting vegetables while I waited for the pasta to cook.

Hi, Dad, I smiled as he walked past the kitchen doorway.

Hi, honey, he replied with a tired smile.

How was your day? I asked. His foot was already on the first step of the stairs, but my question made him back up.

Fine, midterm season. You remember how it goes, right?

I laughed softly. It’s been six months since my last midterm. I think I can still recall the anxiety.

Chuckling, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Your internship is still going well? I heard Norman is handing over those chart reviews for you to do. He said you’ve done a lot of things to help everyone out, not just your supervisor.

That genuinely surprised me. I didn’t know he kept up with what I did seeing as he avoided me like the plague at home. Yeah, I answered, I wish I could get paid, I half-joked.

That made him smile, but the gesture was strained. I could guess his thoughts, since I more than likely shared them. We didn’t usually have conversations. Greetings and courteous exchanges, but hardly any dialogue. Not since Mom left.

As if sensing that I was about to bring her up again, he fled.

Well, I have to start inputting grades and answer student emails, he said, turning toward the stairs again. Don’t wait on me for dinner.

Determined to at least ask him about the letter, I deliberately dragged out cooking dinner. He was only human, he had to eat at some point. Eventually, he came downstairs, but armed with his laptop and folders. He was ready to shut me out with the excuse of answering emails and writing the final exam.

For the next half hour, I let him think he could. We ate in silence just like any other evening.

Toward the end of dinner, I carefully approached the subject.

How come you and Mom never talked about her childhood?

Aside from a slight jerk, he remained very calm as he sipped on his water and continued to type. She preferred it that way. Preferred. Past tense.

But she told you, didn’t she? I persisted.

He nodded, but didn’t elaborate further.

Do you... Do you think she’s coming back?

Folding his hands under his chin, he sighed like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. No, Claira. I don’t think your mother is coming back.

After that, we stayed very quiet, unmoving at our kitchen table. Normally, it wouldn’t be much of a difference compared to other evenings, but this time, the silence was heavy and stuffy, to the point that I could hear the whirring of his laptop. He stared intently at his screen, but I doubted he saw anything. Finally, several minutes later, I broke the silence.

It’s just curious that no one contacted her or asked after her until now.

Until now? he echoed, his face paling under the fluorescent light of the kitchen.

I nodded. A letter came in for her. I didn’t read it, but the sender signed it as Mathias. Do you know him?

Dad, sliding his hands under his glasses, rubbed his eyes in a circular motion with a heavy sigh. No. He—Those people… Forget about the letter. Better yet, throw it in the trash.

Getting up, he gathered his plate with the utensils and dropped them in the sink. He returned to the table to retrieve his computer and headed back to his office. As if reconsidering, he halted at the bottom of the stairs.

There’s a very good reason why your mother never mentioned her past, why she buried it and never wanted you to hear of it. It’s not a happy place.

After he left, I remained seated alone with my thoughts. Mom couldn’t have been part of the Witness Protection Program, could she? The secrets and hidden past could be a result, but somehow, it didn’t fit. It was something else.

I quickly did the dishes then went to my room. My room, before I hit the light switch, seemed to have put the letter under a spotlight. Earlier, I had left it on my desk, and now the light coming in from the street hit that particular corner, where the white paper reflected the yellow glow. I flipped on the switch.

Dad had said that the letter was trash. Or at least, it deserved to be put in the trash. So if I were to read it, it would be okay, right? I wouldn't have technically disobeyed his wishes.

Later on, I would wonder how my life would be different if I had thrown the letter away like he had asked. If I hadn’t picked it up and read it.

My dear child,

I sincerely hope that this letter gets to you. Ensuring that it would not get intercepted proved difficult, and I hope that the endeavor was well worth it.

For being the bearer of bad news, I apologize, but I believe that you have a right to know, and perhaps even help. For 5 years now, your mother had returned and stayed in Morning View Port, a little town off of the Pacific Northwest coast—her childhood home.

Normally, I would have kept her wish and not contacted you; however, she has gone missing. No one has seen her for a few days now, and nobody seems to know her whereabouts. She left her personal belongings behind, which leads me to believe that she did not depart on her own accord. We were able to find a picture of you and your father in her wallet, as well as, your address.

Her journal was also discovered, but the notes are undecipherable. I  fear that something unfortunate has happened to her. Please come to Morning View Port and help us figure out what happened to your mother.

Mathias Lawrence.

2. Choices and Decisions

My stomach turned, and I dropped the letter on my bed. So many questions swirled inside my head, but none seemed to have any answers. The first thing I asked myself though, was whether this letter was legitimate? This could, however unlikely, be a prank. Dad obviously didn’t think highly of it. But what if it were real? In that case, what was Mom doing, disappearing and appearing from and to different places? Why hadn’t she contacted us?

Why did she leave in the first place?

Confused and angry, I turned on my computer and looked up Morning View Port. As the page loaded, I glanced over my shoulder, afraid my dad would walk by my door and see what I was up to. Maybe keeping secrets ran in the family, because I decided not to tell him. At least not yet, not until absolutely necessary.

Morning View Port: a small fishing town on the East coast of Reidy Island, a few miles out of Washington State. It was established in the 1810s and continues to export seafood to the mainland. Its peaceful setting and old-fashioned architecture draw in visitors every year. Population: 3126.

The only available pictures showed the beach and the town hall, which looked like it was taken from the pages of a storybook. Even for a 19th century town, it was odd.

Sighing, I sat back in my chair. Well, Google didn’t help me out much this time. I reached for the letter and read it again, this time wondering why Mathias Lawrence claimed finding my address was difficult if he read it off of my mother’s suitcase. Moreover, why use her name on the envelope? How could he know I’d read it instead of Dad? Why didn’t he include a return address?

Maybe because Mathias Lawrence wasn’t a real person and this was very well some kind of sick joke, a hoax manufactured by some moron who had nothing better to do than sending out cryptic letters to strangers. Mom’s absence under mysterious circumstances was well known around town; anyone could have written the letter and sent it to us. I should’ve listened to Dad and thrown it in the waste basket.

I shoved the letter into its envelope. My hands hovered over the receptacle by my desk, but I couldn’t bring myself to let go. With a sigh, I tucked it among my notebooks, hoping I could forget about it and return to my mundane life.

Late that night, as I lied in bed unable to sleep, I realized why I was so unwilling to believe the letter was genuine. Mom had been gone for so long that, even though I’d held it against Dad, I, too, had buried the hope that she was still alive and would come back one day. I didn’t want to exhume that hope, only to have it dashed away when reality hit again. There was also the fear that I might finally figure out what my parents had hid from me. Was ignorance really bliss? Dad adamantly believed so, if what he said after dinner was any indication.

I couldn’t decide whether discovering the truth outweighed its consequences.

So instead, I let the beautiful words on that letter gnaw at me slowly.

Two weeks later, while my father went to some conference for the weekend, I stormed my parents’ bedroom, hoping to find proof that the letter sender was wrong.

If I could just find evidence that my mother didn’t live in Morning View Port when she was young, then I could finally get some rest. Until my teens, I used to spend quite a lot of time in my parents’ walk-in closet, building my fort and playing house. The experience proved useful now that I needed to turn it upside down and snoop through the boxes. Neither Dad nor I had the courage of putting Mom’s stuff into storage, so everything looked the way it had always been. Her clothes still hung on the hangers next to his, and I pushed them aside.

All I could find were old shoe boxes containing receipts, car and insurance documents from decades ago, and photo albums. The oldest pictures I could put my hands on only went as far as their sophomore year in college. The majority of the photos showed the three of us on vacation with various family members and friends. Seeing her frozen in time made me miss her even more. The feeling quickly turned into anger. I had wanted to put this whole mess behind me, accepting the facts that she was gone, but now all this confusion and frustration at her ambiguous departure resurfaced.

All because of that stupid letter.

Annoyed at myself for letting it get to me, I put everything back in its place with a huff. This was ridiculous. The police couldn’t track her down; we couldn’t find her; no one had heard or seen her in five years, and suddenly this random person claimed she lived in some tiny seaport town and recently had gone missing again? Then he signed off the letter with a request of my presence to investigate. Nothing about the affair sounded sane, yet here I was allowing the content to keep me awake at night, driving me to snoop in my parents’ own personal space.

No.

I wasn’t going to let this supposed acquaintance of my mother control me.

Determined, I rose up to my feet and set the last box on the shelf above my head. The back of the box hit something, and it dropped behind Dad’s suit jackets. I pushed the hangers aside and looked for the object. Sitting against the wall was a silver necklace with a white, round stone pendant. Shifting my weight, I thought back. I remembered seeing my mother wear it in a few pictures, but I had never seen it in person before.

Picking it up by the chain, I studied the stone. It looked like jade, but with silver colored swirls throughout the milky background. I was holding the stone in my palm, rubbing the smooth surface with my thumb, when it progressively got warmer. The heat quickly turned hot, forcing me to drop it to the ground.

What in the world?

Cautiously, I bent down and held it up by the chain. I checked the stone; it was cold as ice now.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. I jumped. The following knocks on the door echoed the beating of my heart against my chest. Still clutching the necklace, I closed the closet and raced down to the front door.

Emilie’s cheerful smile faded slightly when she took in my shortness of breath and flushed cheeks. Her brown eyes widened with worry as she asked, Are you all right? What’s the matter?

Shaking my head, I waved one hand around while I shoved the necklace in my back pocket. Nothing, just, uh—I’m fine. You just kind of startled me.

My friend’s concern morphed into skepticism as she watched me with narrowed eyes. You’ve never been that faint of heart. Were you doing something you’re not supposed to?

Like what? Snort a line of coke? I asked sarcastically. You know I only do that on Friday nights.

She laughed, already forgetting what we were originally talking about. So are you ready?

Yeah, let me just grab my things. I took my bag and followed her lead to the car.

The first time I met Emilie had been during the block party our neighborhood organized annually on the Fourth of July. I was about ten, and she had just moved into the Johnson’s old house up the street. Although she was a few years older than me, we became fast friends. Routinely, we went out for brunch on Sundays, and this weekly outing turned into a much needed distraction.

We took her car to our usual spot and found a table inside by the window. For a November day, the sunshine streaking in felt quite warm. The waiter took our orders, and while we waited Emilie told me all about the kitten she had just adopted.

I drifted in and out of the conversation, trying to retain the info, occasionally replying with a noncommittal sound. The shape of the necklace bit into my upper thigh, which absorbed all of my attention.

Do you have to use the restroom or something? Emilie asked, stopping in the middle of her sentence.

Huh? I froze and blinked, staring at her.

You keep fidgeting, she chuckled.

Shoot. No, sorry, I’m just... Uh...

Thankfully for me, the waiter arrived with our plates, so for a minute, I didn’t have to answer. Once he left though, she resumed her inquiries, much to my apprehension.

Alright, Squirrely, what’s going on? Picking up her fork, she speared a tater tot and popped it in her mouth.

Nothing, I lied with a shrug.

I interrupted something you were doing earlier, didn’t I? she pressed on.

At that point, I realized that the more I squirmed away, the more she’ll want to know. What was the harm in telling her? Maybe she’ll offer some advice on what I should do.

Okay, I relented, lowering my voice, But don’t mention it to my dad. It’s about my mom.

Her expression changed from amusement to concern. What about her?

Taking in a deep breath to steady my thoughts, I told her about the letter, the way my father had dismissed it, and about the secrets purposely hid from me. Emilie listened carefully, never interrupting.

I looked up the town, and it’s real, I said. But I couldn’t find any document that linked her to it. I know I should take the content of that letter with a grain of salt, but at the same time, it could actually answer my questions.

With a thoughtful look, she nodded. You received the letter two weeks ago, though. If you think there’s even a small chance you’ll find her, you need to act now.

I know, I groaned, covering my face with both hands. I just... I’m just scared of making the decision.

Lowering my hands, I leaned back against the chair. Emilie was staring straight into my eyes. When she spoke, her firm voice made me shrink like a scolded child.

Claira, this is important. You can’t be wishy-washy about this as you’ve been all your life. It’s high time for you to make a conscious decision for yourself.

My mouth opened automatically to argue with her, but then my brain kicked in, and I shut it. She continued with a small nod, glad that I acknowledged my indecisive nature for once.

Since I’ve known you, you’ve been practically letting other people make your life choices. In school, you only joined clubs because your friends asked you to come along. You’re wearing clothes other people—that includes me, as well—say look good on you. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you even let your parents influence where you applied to college, and you picked your major based on your high school teachers’ comments. She paused a second. Did you even want to intern for that company?

Unable to meet her gaze, I slid down in the chair and poked my waffle with the fork. Yeah, I guess, shrugging, I continued. I don’t like making decisions because whenever I do, things backfire on me. Besides, what’s so wrong about listening to experienced people? They know what they’re talking about, so I just follow their advice.

She sighed in exasperation. Claira, how old are you?

Twenty-two, I mumbled.

Oh, really? Because you have the attitude of a middle schooler, she snapped, and I flinched. There’s nothing wrong with listening to family and friends, but you have a brain, use it. You can’t go through life waiting for things to happen, waiting for someone to come along and say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ for you.

I had no response.

Probably feeling sorry for me, she softened her voice. Luckily, so far none of those decisions seemed to have caused any adverse effects on your life, which might explain why you’re so willing to wait around. Only nodding, I still focused my eyes on my half-eaten waffle.

Tapping her well-manicured nail on the table to get my attention, she added, It won’t stay that way forever, Claira. Learn to make your own decision before someone else makes all the bad choices.

That afternoon, I stood by the kitchen counter, looking out into the yard and thinking about what Emilie had said. Objectively, it made sense. I couldn’t keep listening to what people told me to do, but realistically, it was so much easier to let time and/or outside forces tip the balance one way or another when it came to difficult commitments.

Rationalizing how I should live my life was all nice and dandy, but right now I still sat on the edge of whether I should go to Morning View Port like the letter asked of me. Aside from my trepidation of going by myself to a foreign location so far from home, the weird necklace I’d found upstairs combined with the family secrets didn’t add up to a happy trip.

Could Emilie really blame me for taking so long to consider it? I inhaled, puffing out my cheeks, then released it with a pop!

Frustrated at myself, I pushed my hands through my hair. Maybe food might help. I was getting a snack out of the fridge when I noticed movement in the yard. Putting down my apple, I walked over to the glass door. Billy Tanner, the ten year-old next door, and his golden labrador both had their noses close to the ground, apparently looking for something around the yellow and dried shrubs that used to be tulips and daisies. I slid the door open, and they jumped.

Claira! Billy exclaimed, his hazel eyes darting from side to side. I didn’t know you were home. I—uh, I mean, we... He swallowed, glancing at the dog. We lost our ball. Afraid of having climbed the wooden fence separating his house from ours, he lowered his eyes.

It’s fine, I said gently, joining them in the yard. Next time, knock on the door first. I smiled, and he nodded, relieved I wasn’t angry. Let’s look over there.

Billy and I walked further to where the hedge bordered the next house, but Gizmo the dog decided he wanted to start digging up the old tulip bulbs. I let him have his fun and helped his owner find the rubber ball.

Got it! I picked up the green toy and wiped the dirt off before handing it off to him.

Awesome! Thanks, Claira! he grinned. Come on, Gizmo!

Barking and waging his tail, Gizmo ran up to Billy. He thanked me again, and I opened the side-gate to let them out.

Afterward, I turned back to the mess his furry friend made. Well, I thought, putting my hands on my hips, since he already loosened up the dirt, I might as well pull up all the dead roots and clean up a little. It had to be done at some point in this lifetime, right?

Grabbing the pair of gloves nearby, I got down on my knees and began to pull up the dried stems. Halfway through the task, as I dug deeper around a particularly thick bush, my fingertips hit something hard. Curious, I used the hand rake to hasten the job. Finally, I pulled up the stems and threw it in the pile. Then I felt in the dirt for the spot, digging faster and faster until I unearthed a rusty blue box.

Who could have buried this here, and since when? Mom, before she left? Or did Dad bury something of hers after she disappeared? I dusted off the box as best as I could before taking off the gardening gloves. With shaky hands, I undid the latch, and the lid popped open to reveal a thin stack of papers. The whole packet was tied together with a purple ribbon, the kind with which Mom used to tie her hair. Placing a finger over the knot to keep it in place, I slid the stack out.

There was an envelope addressed to Mom’s maiden name: Madeline Capucine. I put it on the lid as to not get it dirty, then examined the black and white photos which made up the rest. The fact that they were black and white didn't weird me a out as much as the people's Victorian-like attires. The group photos in color with Mom and co. were more recent, certainly more in style with this century.

They were taken in a small-looking town that appeared to be in constant murky weather. Either that, or the photographer really liked to shoot on cloudy days. Mom looked about seventeen or eighteen, her brown hair straight and longer than I was used to seeing on her. A couple shots were with friends, I assumed, a few with an older woman whom I believed to be her mother.

My grandmother.

She looked beautiful, with kind eyes and a warm smile, always resting a protective hand on Mom’s arm or shoulder. She passed down her dark hair to my mom and me, but not her short stature. The other ladies in the shot must be Mom's sisters, as they all shared similar features. I studied each face very carefully, trying to commit everyone to memory. It was very odd to see them for the first time, yet finding myself in them, making them seem less like strangers. One detail I noticed, though. While everyone smiled, none of them seemed happy.

There’s a very good reason why your mother never mentioned her past, why she buried it and never wanted you to hear of it. It’s not a happy place.

What happened to them all? Could they be the reason why Mom left and never returned? That is, until recently, if the letter was real.

I put down the pictures and traded them for the envelope. The glue that sealed the slip had long dried. Carefully, I pulled out the thin paper and read the hastened words.

Madeline,

Part of me hopes that this letter gets lost on its way to you because of what I am about to entreat. Something’s happened.

You have to come home. Although at this point, I suppose Morning View Port is no longer your home, but was it ever?

Still... I know this is asking a lot from you, but you’re the only one who can help. There’s a way out of the Pact. Mathias and Ephraim are recruiting the troops right now.

Please, hurry!

Rosalie.

What was the meaning of all this?

Mom hadn’t just picked up and gone who-knows-where. In actuality, she received a plea for help, quite similarly to my current situation. She had made her choice, though, and the consequences of her action prompted Mathias Lawrence to send me a letter with the same purpose. Both senders had the same objective: get Mom and me to Morning View Port.

Suspicion kicked in, and I couldn’t push away the thoughts that these people had malicious intent. But what would be their goal if that there the case?

The house phone rang, and I sprung to my feet, clutching the box and photos as I ran inside. The phone stopped mid-ring when I reached the living room. For a second, I stood there dumbfounded, because I hadn't realized Dad had come home from his trip. While he answered the call, I glanced toward the open garage door. I supposed he must have just gotten the car parked, and I had been too distracted in the backyard to hear anything.

Everything okay? I asked once he hung up.

Yes, just an order confirmation, he answered, then turned around to face me. Did you have a good— His eyes shot to the metal box in my hand.

Immediately, his face changed color, phasing from pale mortification and slowly turning pink with outrage. Where did you find that?

My insides trembled, and my hands shook. I hated confrontations, but I pushed on, keeping my gaze leveled with his.

Is this the reason why you never got around to clearing Mom's flower patch?

We did it to protect you, he responded like an automated massage.

Protect me from what? I wanted to know. From the real reason she left? From her sisters? I sighed. Just tell me the truth, please! Whatever it is, I can handle it.

He rubbed his chin and shook his head. I made a promise to your mother, and I intend to keep it. Whatever you read, whatever you think you saw, forget about it.

What? Baffled, I stared after him as he passed me by, putting an end to the conversation. Wait, you can't just—

I ran after him to the stairs, but he spun around, his stare livid.

That's enough, Claira! he bellowed.

Never in my entire life had he ever raised his voice at me. Sure, when I was little he scolded me from time to time, but this was nothing like that. My brain couldn't compute the sudden change. It felt like a whole different person stood in front of me.

We are not talking about this anymore. The tone and finality of his words left no room for argument. I gaped at him. Now please go to your room. I'll order us some dinner in an hour.

Terrified and more confused than ever at his reaction, I kept my mouth shut as I climbed the stairs to my room.

A little less than two hours later, I heard the doorbell, followed by his soft footsteps walking by my room. I didn't come down for dinner. I spent the rest of the evening studying the photos and the note, grateful that in his rage, he didn't confiscate them. Spreading everything out along with the letter and necklace on my desk, I stared at the pile in hopes that they would shed some light on the matter.

Perhaps, had he not made such a big deal out of it, if he had simply told me what was going on, then I wouldn’t have sought for answers somewhere else. One thing he did make certain for me, however. He inadvertently confirmed that the note and letter were credible. Mom, quite possibly, was still somewhere in Morning View Port.

Before sunrise, I made my decision.

3. Little Bedtime Story

The ferryboat neared the shore, and I caught my first glimpses of Morning View Port and its inhabitants.The small harbor was filled with fishing boats of all sizes, most of them moored. Seeing as it was already mid afternoon, understandably, the fish had already been caught, packed, and sold for the day. Seagulls circled the cloudy sky, squawking at each other.

While it wasn’t freezing, it felt very cold and wet. The perpetual overcast weather didn’t allow any sunlight to hit the ground to offer any kind of warmth. At least the rain let up. For now.

As the boat got closer to land, my stomach twisted painfully. Since the discovery of that letter in Mom’s garden, it had taken me a week to sort my affairs and head out for Washington State. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t in vain. The captain rung the bell to signal our arrival. On board, aside from me were only a handful of passengers. There was a family of three, composed of parents and a toddler, and an elderly couple. Both groups appeared to be tourists.

The ferryboat docked, and the crew lowered the plank for us to reach the boardwalk. We stood as a small group before the boat, waiting for our luggage. As they fetched our belongings, I looked around the harbor. The fishermen that remained on their ships now did some housekeeping, untangling nets and ropes, scrubbing the deck, and preparing for the next fishing trip early tomorrow morning. On land, the few locals that I could spot—passerby and merchants—didn’t seem all that interested in us. While I didn’t have personal experience in the matter, it was usually the case that businesses enjoyed visitors. Here, they remained thoroughly impassive to our little group. In fact, they didn’t even seem to be interacting with each other. Odd, I thought, but my thoughts didn’t linger on the matter.

Their apparent indifference to everyone but themselves aside, they each sported rain gear. It ranged from simply carrying an umbrella, or a full rain suit and knee-high galoshes. I glanced at the somber sky, hoping a downpour wasn’t in the forecast just yet. Sweeping the surrounding, I couldn’t help but feel a heavy weight on my chest. The harbor and the air all felt so forlorn and gray, without any real spark of life. The people moved about their daily activities not because they enjoyed what they did, but rather just went through the motions. The rhythmic crashes of the waves on the hulls of the boats and the quiet whispers of the sea accentuated the loneliness and isolation of the island. The longer I stood there taking it all in, the less I could understand how my mother could have grown up here. She was everything this place wasn’t.

A strong and icy gust of wind blew over my head, pulling the hood of my jacket off of my head. I grabbed the hem just before it fell all the way back, brushing out the long strands of brown hair out of my face. As I moved, I noticed a red figure in the corner of my eye. It seemed so out of place among the monotonous grays and blues that I turned toward the streets to take a closer look.

The red color was attributed to a hoodie the figure wore. Because of the distance and parked cars between us, that was basically all I could make out. The person was male, though, that I could determine, with a black beanie pulled low over his forehead. He was talking to someone in the alley; that person was also male, with black hair and a muddy colored coat, turned away from me.

As if sensing that he was being watched, the man in the red hoodie glanced up. Quickly, I looked upward, as if merely admiring the architecture of the old buildings he was standing next to. Inconspicuously as I could manage, I swept my gaze until it hit the dark sky and turned my back on the two men, pretending to be engrossed in the crew as they finally unloaded our suitcases.

I walked up, grabbing my duffle bag and swung it over my shoulder. Then I took my time finding the latch to pull up the handle of