Tidepool

By Nicole Willson

“Wilson’s plot hits all the right beats…Devotees of cosmic horror will enjoy this woman-centered take on familiar tropes.” -Publisher's Weekly
If ye give not willingly, the Lords will rise…
In 1913, Henry Hamilton disappears while on a business trip, and his sister, Sorrow, won’t rest until she finds him. Defying her father’s orders to remain at home, she travels to Tidepool, the last place Henry visited.
Residents of the small, shabby oceanside town can’t quite meet Sorrow’s eyes when she questions them about Henry. When corpses wash up on shore looking as if they’ve been torn apart by something not quite human, Sorrow is ready to return to Baltimore and let her father send in the professional detectives.
Then, she meets Mrs. Ada Oliver, a widow whose black silk dresses and elegant manners set her apart from other Tidepool residents. After a terrifying encounter involving Mrs. Oliver, Sorrow discovers Tidepool’s dark, deadly secret, and the town’s denizens—human and otherwise—are hell bent on making sure she never leaves.
Atmospheric, riveting, and frightening, Tidepool is a must read Lovecraftian dark fantasy for those who pursue the truth no matter the personal cost. “Richly dark and enthralling!” --Verified Reviewer
“The creeping dread of Lovecraftian horror by way of American Horror Story - Tidepool will ensure you never look at the ocean the same way again!” --Peter McLean, author of War for the Rose Throne Series
“Part Thomas Ligotti, part Penny Dreadful, Tidepool, is a novel about the gravitational forces of fate, pulling characters in against their will, with readers only able to sit and watch the catastrophe unfold. This is the compelling force of all great horror, to hope for rescue even when we know it will not come, to want to escape even as we turn the next page. Willson wields a deft hand of darkness and humanity in this compelling debut.” -- Jaye Viner, author of Jane of Battery Park

• Language: English
• Publisher: Independent Publishers Group
• Release date: Aug 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781953539885

Nicole Willson

Nicole Willson lives outside of Washington, DC with her husband and her cats. She has been a frequent visitor to small coastal towns located along the Eastern seaboard but has yet to see anything truly alarming emerge from those waters, much to her disappointment. She’s hopeful that her lifelong aversion to eating fish or seafood might earn her a little mercy when the hungry ocean gods finally start coming ashore. Her debut horror novel Tidepool will be published by Parliament House Press in August 2021. Her short story "Christmas Every Day" appears in "Halldark Holidays," published by Cemetery Gates Media and edited by Gabino Iglesias. She is a regular contributor to The Weekly Knob, a prompt-based writing challenge on Medium.com. She also writes and runs her own Medium publication "50-Word Horror Stories." Visit http://www.nicolewillson.com to learn more about Nicole's work.

Book preview

Chapter One

THE DAUGHTER IN THE BASEMENT

Henry Hamilton

September 1913

---

Tidepool looked like the kind of place where people went to die, not to live.

After less than a day there, Henry Hamilton had already seen enough. His father had settled on the little oceanside town as a possible location for a beach resort. Henry’s colleague and friend, Charlie Sherman returned from the place completely sold on the idea, but as Henry strolled around Tidepool’s dirt streets he couldn’t understand their enthusiasm.

The town was all wooden buildings that had long since warped in the town’s pervasive dampness, topped by metal signs corroded from exposure to the salty air. Loose shutters banged in the breeze as Henry passed. Even the beach, which Charlie claimed would be Tidepool’s main attraction, was marred by the rotted hulk of a sailboat and bloated seabird corpses washing ashore. The ramshackle stores lining the muddy main street looked like they might collapse into splinters and planks if Henry gave them a good swift kick.

He was starting to want to.

The pervasive odors of salt water and fish wafted off the nearby ocean, but another smell lurked underneath those, something even less pleasant. Henry couldn’t identify it, but it reminded him somewhat of the stench of a dead animal rotting in the woods.

The putrid smell suited Tidepool well. The longer Henry remained here, the more anxious he felt to get home.

But perhaps he was being unfair. Perhaps he was too used to the buildings and bustle of Baltimore, his hometown.

The passing townspeople didn’t bother hiding their stares. Henry stood out in his tailored blue suit, which likely cost more money than most people here ever saw. The clothing sported by the locals might have been colorful once, but had long since faded to the same drab colors as their dilapidated buildings. And while the looks the locals gave him bore no particular malice, Henry certainly wouldn’t call them friendly.

It didn’t help that as Henry walked, he grew increasingly uneasy. He couldn’t have said why. The town was quiet to the point of boredom. Nobody had treated him with anything other than politeness. And yet …

Tidepool feels like a small town holding its breath, waiting for something to happen—and not something good.

That’s what he’d tell Father when he returned to Baltimore. Perhaps they could truly make something of this town, but Henry had his doubts.

The only place in Tidepool still busy at six o’clock at night was Cooper’s Inn and Tavern, where Henry had taken a room. The sound of voices and the clanking of glasses and plates carried out into the street as Henry neared the inn.

He opened the tavern door and was accosted by the smells of cooking fish and a crackling fire. As he approached the bar, Balthazar Cooper, the innkeeper, gave Henry a curt nod from behind the wooden counter.

Evening, Balt. Glass of whiskey, if you please.

Balt’s hair was sandy and thinning, and no matter what time of day Henry encountered him, the older man’s blue eyes looked watery and sleepless. Like everything in Tidepool, the innkeeper seemed shabby and worn down. Indeed, all the townspeople—even the younger ones—looked weathered, blasted with salt, the same pale shade as the sand on the beach outside Cooper’s.

Balt placed a tumbler in front of Henry with no comment. Henry smiled in thanks as he picked up his drink and glanced around the tavern.

Wooden tables filled the room, surrounding a lit fireplace. Several men sat around the tavern in groups, drinking and talking and letting out the occasional raucous laugh. An old map and a rusty anchor were the only decorations on the faded wooden walls.

And then Henry saw the woman.

She sat in a plush red chair close to the fireplace and gazed at the flames, her profile to him. Women drinking alone in taverns were not something Henry saw often, not even back in Baltimore.

Could she be a prostitute? Surely not; even in the flickering firelight, Henry could tell that her black clothes were finer than his, and far more elaborate than anything he had seen on the other women of Tidepool. And certainly no lady of the evening who hoped to earn real money would come to a place like this.

As if she could feel his eyes on her, the woman turned and gave Henry a piercing stare. Her eyes were almost as black as her clothing, and from what he could see under her hat, so was her hair.

And then it hit him: She was Mrs. Ada Oliver. Charlie Sherman had talked about the wealthy widow after his own visit to Tidepool the month before. Why the woman had settled in Tidepool of all places mystified both Charlie and Henry, but Charlie believed that Mrs. Oliver’s presence could be useful. People with money would be more likely to buy vacation cottages and spend their summers here if they knew one of their own was already settled in, he reasoned.

Henry realized he had been staring at her much longer than was strictly polite. Feeling somewhat emboldened by the whiskey, he stood and made his way to her table.

Excuse me, please. Are you Mrs. Oliver?

She looked up at him for a moment before answering.

Yes. Have we met?

Not yet. My name is Henry Hamilton. I believe we have an acquaintance in common. My colleague Charles Sherman was in Tidepool not long ago and mentioned meeting you.

Her dark brows furrowed for a second. Charles Sherman?

Young fellow from Baltimore?

She thought for another moment and nodded, recognition flickering in her eyes.

Yes, I remember. She had a deep, throaty voice, and her dark eyes narrowed as she looked up at him. Do tell me, Mr. Hamilton—what is it about Tidepool that brings so many young people from Baltimore here as of late?

That’s a damn good question, ma’am. Well, we believe Tidepool might hold a good bit of promise.

Promise? She sounded quite skeptical.

We’re interested in buying property here and creating a sort of coastal resort town. Similar to what’s being done with Ocean City, if you’ve been out that way. We believe we could make Tidepool a much busier place. Bring lots of people here, people with money to spend. Did you perhaps speak of this with Mr. Sherman?

Mrs. Oliver frowned. "We spoke of it briefly. And I seem to recall explaining to your Mr. Sherman that the people of Tidepool do not necessarily want to be busier. I thought he understood."

Henry chuckled, although he wasn’t pleased to hear that. Charlie made it sound as though the people he’d spoken with in Tidepool couldn’t wait to start building the place up. Well, that’s Charlie for you. Once he gets an idea in his head, he won’t let it go easily. And he gave me the impression that the people here had showed great interest in the development of their town.

I very much doubt that. I am afraid you and your colleague are looking in the wrong place.

But the money that more visitors would bring could be of great service to Tidepool.

She gave him a sharp glance. Are you here to ask me for money, Mr. Hamilton?

Certainly not. Not yet. Right now, I’m just visiting. Trying to get the lay of the land, so to speak.

As they looked at each other, another idea began to bloom in Henry’s mind. Perhaps it was the whiskey, but as he spoke to Mrs. Oliver, something stirred in him. She was a handsome woman, older than he was but perhaps not by too much. He would put her in her thirties if he had to guess, mid-thirties to his twenty-four. And she had so much money, or so Charlie had claimed.

Henry knew he was attractive; people had been telling him so since he was a teenager, and although he tried not to get a swelled head about it, he could see it himself. He had thick wavy blond hair, large green eyes, and his father’s height and athletic build.

And he had no particular attachments back in Baltimore. The only girl in his life right now was his younger sister, Sorrow. He had broken off an engagement with Miss Grace Moore several months earlier when he learned of Grace’s dalliance with a local stage actor. An actor, of all people. She could have at least had the decency to betray him with someone respectable.

Mrs. Oliver appeared more than respectable. And as far as Henry could tell, she too had no attachments. She wore no ring, and she had no companion other than himself as she sat in the tavern.

How long will you be staying here, Mr. Hamilton? As you may have realized, it will not take you very long to see all of Tidepool.

Indeed not, he said with a friendly laugh. But I’ll be here another day or so. I do love the ocean.

A dark-skinned, heavyset woman pushed past Henry and bustled over to the fireplace. ‘Scuse me, sir, she muttered as she edged by. This was Naomi Cooper, the innkeeper’s wife, looking flushed and damp in the dim light of the tavern. She picked up a poker and stabbed at the logs in the fireplace.

Mrs. Oliver gave Naomi a quick glance before turning back to Henry.

Mr. Hamilton, I will be having dinner at home soon. Would you care to join me?

The fireplace poker clattered to the ground with a metallic bang, turning heads all over the tavern. The older woman picked the poker up and murmured apologies as she placed it against the wall. She avoided Mrs. Oliver’s intent stare as she hustled back to the kitchen.

That gave Henry a few extra seconds to ponder the widow’s offer. Inviting him home when they’d just met? She was apparently nothing if not rather bold.

I’d be delighted. Such a gracious offer. Maybe she was lonely. It didn’t look to him as if there were too many eligible men in Tidepool for her to entertain herself with.

The yokels in the tavern turned to watch them leave, and murmurs sounded around the room. Perhaps they had nothing better to pay attention to than whoever might leave Cooper’s with Mrs. Oliver. Perhaps they all wished they were Henry. Perhaps they thought he was a degenerate.

But who cared what they thought?

Mrs. Oliver walked slightly in front of him as they left the tavern and proceeded up Water Street. He studied the way her black silk dress skimmed over her body, wondering how long it had been since she’d been with anyone.

Is it always this quiet in Tidepool, Mrs. Oliver? He saw almost no other people out on the street.

I suppose so. People tend not to like going out at night.

Oh? Why’s that?

There are mostly silly, superstitious folk around here. They talk of ghosts. And sea monsters, if you can imagine. She let out a chuckle that didn’t sound even the slightest bit amused.

"Sea monsters? That’s a new one." Henry pondered that as they turned right and followed a narrower street. Could a few stories about Tidepool ghosts and monsters be used to pique visitor interest in the place? That sort of thing might attract a certain type of tourist.

Perhaps he could persuade Mrs. Oliver to share a few of those tales. He felt increasingly convinced that a possible path to developing Tidepool was to win the affections of Mrs. Oliver. She might be easier to persuade to invest in their efforts if she had a more…personal stake in the whole thing.

His father was fond of saying that one should never overlook any possible ways to a favorable resolution, and he wanted to bring this one home. Whatever doubts he had about this town, he wanted Father to see that he was just as capable as Charlie Sherman of getting things done.

A particularly large house that Henry had spotted on his way into Tidepool loomed into view as they crested the hill.

Here we are, Mr. Hamilton.

Henry’s breath stopped. For just a minute, all thoughts of the seduction of Mrs. Oliver fled his mind.

Mrs. Oliver’s home looked utterly out of place in Tidepool, as if it had been picked up and dropped into the town from another, far wealthier place.

Four columns flanked the front door and led to a balcony with a wrought-iron railing on the third floor. Two smaller balconies extended from the sides of the second level of the house. Dim light shone from a window on the top floor. The dark shimmer of the Atlantic was visible from where they stood, and the sound of waves breaking on the shore carried up to them. The smell of salt air washed over him as he took in the view.

He could also see some of the headstones of Tidepool’s vast cemetery, looking gray and indistinct in the darkness. Those spoiled the glorious view a bit.

Henry wondered just what it was Mr. Oliver had done in life to leave his widow so well off. He dismissed the brief thought that she couldn’t possibly be living in a place as big as this all by herself.

Inside, the house’s wooden floors looked rather worn. A large staircase wound up one wall towards the upper levels. A portrait of a very stern man dominated the entryway, and Henry wondered to himself if this could be the late Mr. Oliver. But no, certainly not; the fellow’s long hair and his clothing were several decades out of date, making him far too old to have ever been married to Mrs. Oliver. An ancestor, then.

Whoever the fellow was, his dark scowl gave Henry the unpleasant feeling of being judged and found wanting.

The smell of salt water intensified inside the house, and Henry wasn’t sure how that could be. Surely nobody had a window open in here with the chill outside. Perhaps the ocean air permeated everything in Tidepool.

He turned away from the portrait and nodded to Mrs. Oliver as his thoughts returned to the goal he had set as they walked to her house. Perhaps Charlie really did know what he was talking about. If they could spend some money to knock down all the dilapidated shacks and build some bigger houses and attractions, who knew what Tidepool might become?

And then footsteps sounded on the staircase, and Henry’s heart sank. He had made no allowances for anyone else in his plans for the seduction of Mrs. Oliver. Had he been wrong all this time? Did she already have a companion—a lover—after all?

A disheveled young man in a rumpled white shirt and dark pants walked down the steps, his head turned in Henry’s direction. His messy black hair looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and his skin was even whiter than Mrs. Oliver’s. Henry found it impossible to tell what the young man might be thinking, as his eyes were obscured by thick, tinted glasses. Henry wondered how he could even see in the dim foyer.

Surely this bizarre fellow could not be involved with Mrs. Oliver. Henry simply wouldn’t believe it.

The young man reached the foyer and stood with his back pressed against the wall as if he feared Henry. He was quite tall and thin, with a long, narrow face.

Mrs. Oliver turned to him.

Good evening, Quentin. I have brought home a visitor this evening. Mr. Henry Hamilton, I would like to introduce you to my brother, Quentin Ramsay.

Her brother? Henry tried to make himself believe that the odd creature who had just descended the stairs could be in any way related to the elegant, very proper Mrs. Oliver. Not wishing to seem rude, Henry approached the strange man and held out a hand.

Hello, Mr. Ramsay. Pleasure to meet you.

Instead of responding in kind, Quentin looked down at the ground, swallowed hard, and then hurried off without acknowledging Henry at all. Henry stood with his hand hanging in the air, feeling ridiculous.

Please excuse him, Mr. Hamilton. Was that a small smile playing around Mrs. Oliver’s lips? It would be the first one Henry had seen from her. Quentin can be a bit eccentric. He means no discourtesy. It is just the way he is.

I see. Henry lowered his hand, still feeling foolish.

May I offer you a drink? she asked. Red wine, perhaps?

Yes, please.

She turned and disappeared into another room. A bottle opened, followed by the sound of liquid being poured.

As she reappeared with two glasses of wine, his thoughts, scattered by the house and by the unexpected appearance of Quentin Ramsay, finally returned to the seduction of Mrs. Oliver. He accepted a glass and took a sip. Although Henry knew relatively little about wine, this one had a smoky, chocolaty taste that spread warmth through his body.

She led him to another room off the entranceway and lit a lamp. She sat on the red velvet settee, leaving him the wooden armchair. Henry tried to figure out the best way to crack that impassive stare. Sensing that he would have to do most of the talking, he took another sip of wine, hoping it would relax him.

Mrs. Oliver, I very much appreciate your hospitality, he began. You are the most pleasant person I’ve encountered since leaving Baltimore. Traveling can be quite lonely at times.

She looked at him for a rather long moment before nodding. I don’t travel much these days, myself. I prefer to stay by the water.

I see. The wine and the whiskey before it made him feel a little bold. Well, my family’s home is very close to the Patapsco River. If you were ever to find yourself in Baltimore, I would be delighted to host you for a visit.

Would you? she said in a chillier tone. Perhaps he’d pushed too far. They’d scarcely met and he was already hinting that she should travel to his house. Easy, Hal.

And who lives with you in Baltimore? Mrs. Oliver asked at last, rescuing him from the awkward silence.

My father. My sister, Sorrow, lives with us as well, but perhaps not for much longer. She talks of finding her own place in the world. He chuckled, thinking of his headstrong little sister. She had clashed repeatedly with Father since graduating from college; Winslow Hamilton considered it faintly scandalous that his daughter was more interested in a profession than a husband. Indeed, Henry had been slightly nervous at the prospect of leaving the two of them alone together.

But his little sister was feisty and knew her own mind. And if she had to, she could take care of herself. Of that much, Henry was certain.

A small furrow appeared between Mrs. Oliver’s eyebrows. "Did I hear correctly? Your sister is named Sorrow?"

It’s a tad peculiar, I know. Our mother died giving birth to her, and for some reason our father insisted on commemorating that sad event by giving the poor girl that name. Henry hated the name and the reason for it, believing that burdening an innocent child with such an ever-present reminder of tragedy was quite unfair. His sister was strawberry-blonde, pale, and as sweet and sunny as her name was dark. He’d insisted on calling her Sally since they were both children.

I see. It is quite a distinctive name, Mrs. Oliver said. The wine stirred feelings in him as he attempted to keep his eyes on her face and not on the body he envisioned under that black dress. Despite his efforts, he became terribly distracted by a vision of cupping her bare, full breasts as she arched her back in pleasure.

Write down your address for me, Mr. Hamilton. If I do happen to travel to Baltimore, I should like to be able to notify you. Perhaps we could meet again. The abrupt request jarred Henry. Had the woman sensed what he was thinking?

She indicated a desk in the corner, with notepaper and a pen set out. He wrote out his address and then, on an impulse, "Looking forward to hearing from you." He hoped that would help to keep him in her mind after he’d departed for home.

Would you like to meet my daughter? she said.

Her question felt like another bucket of ice water thrown over his imaginings. A daughter? Henry supposed that this only made sense, although he wondered how on earth he would fit Mrs. Oliver’s peculiar brother and a daughter into the plan he’d concocted for gaining her affections. Having to win over three people sounded far more daunting than having to win over only one.

Of course. I’d be delighted. What else could he say? Perhaps her offer to introduce him to her child was a sign that she trusted him.

And perhaps she was on the hunt for a new father figure in her daughter’s life. Maybe he and Mrs. Oliver wanted the same thing for different reasons. As she stood and turned away from him, he smiled.

Mrs. Oliver lifted a lantern from the table and led him out of the sitting room to a door in the hallway. She paused, glancing back at him.

Please be careful on the steps. Lucy prefers the basement, and it’s rather dim down here.

Lucy? What sort of a child—and a girl, at that—liked to linger in dark, dank basements? And why didn’t Mrs. Oliver just call the child upstairs?

He trailed his fingers along the damp wall as they descended, following the beam of Mrs. Oliver’s lantern. The smell of salt water grew heavier, and once again Henry caught that unpleasant odor he’d smelled in the air back by the tavern. It made him think of a tide that washed up dead things to rot in the sun.

Icy fingers played along his spine, and for a fleeting moment he thought about excusing himself. But he needed to make a good impression on Mrs. Oliver. Her money was bound to be useful to him one way or another, whether he persuaded her to invest in the renovation of Tidepool or to marry him.

And he dearly wished to impress his father with his ability to find wealthy associates.

They crossed the basement in the circle of light provided by the lantern, and reached another door that Henry could barely see in the darkness. Mrs. Oliver raised a small white hand and knocked.

Lucy? There’s a gentleman here who’d like to meet you, she called as she opened the door.

Footsteps, quick and sounding oddly moist, approached them. Henry craned his neck to see in the gloom.

Lucy stepped into the light and Henry Hamilton’s stomach turned ice cold.

Dear God, that is no child! What in the Hell—

Chapter Two

SORROW

Sorrow Hamilton

October 1913

---

Winslow Hamilton absolutely forbade his daughter, Sorrow to travel in search of her missing brother. She stood in front of the elaborate oak desk in his study, her hands clasped in front of her, feeling like a naughty student being called on the carpet. The odor of stale pipe smoke—a smell she had grown to detest—hung heavy in the air of the study.

It is unsafe for young ladies to travel alone, Sorrow, he said, frowning and folding his arms over his chest. And unseemly.

I’m 21, for God’s sake, Sorrow thought but did not dare say. He can’t stop me if I want to go.

But that isn’t true. Betsy Mueller travels solo all the time and has come to no trouble. She studied the neat piles of paper arranged on Winslow’s desk, digging her