The Tourist Trap

By C. A. Schulden

Eager to escape their families’ annual blended vacation, lifelong “frenemies” Maura and Liz take a ferry to an island deep in the Chesapeake Bay. While beautiful on the outside, the girls soon discover something sinister haunts the island residents. A centuries-long curse demands a yearly sacrifice to keep a vengeful evil at bay, and the islanders will risk everything to keep their secret.

Kidnapped and trapped underground, Maura tests her mettle as she navigates through tunnels that are a maze of horrors at every turn. Maura knows she may not win the battle, but she won’t be taken out easily. She’s going to make certain that the person who abducted her will remember her as the one he misjudged.

Meanwhile, Liz scours the island looking for her lost friend. With help from Jacy, one of the islanders, Liz soon learns that Maura has been chosen to be this year’s island sacrifice. Both girls must push past their physical and mental limitations and find the strength to escape Caethian Island and the evil that it was built upon.

“…perfectly planned… “The Tourist Trap”…is a crime, mystery, thriller and horror book that will leave you questioning your guesses…an unpredictable web…” Online Book Club Review

“…horrifying, thrilling and heart-stopping… A definite must read for horror lovers.” - Michael Bradley, Award Winning Author of Dead Air

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Mar 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9781665747905

C. A. Schulden

C.A. Schulden drinks way too much coffee, has too many cats, and lives in New Jersey—the perfect brew for mayhem, chaos, and writing horror. The Tourist Trap is her first novel.

Book preview

1coverimage.jpg

Chapter 1

Caethian Island—Summer 1775

A hira pierced the leathered fox pelt with a rib bone honed sharp. Once the pelt was lined with holes, she fastened the matching piece to it using thin strips of cording. Monotonous work, work that didn’t allow for her to be distracted by calls from the gentle breeze, from the crash of the surf on the nearby beach.

Once she’d turned sixteen, she’d become aware she had gifts unique to only her. In addition to hearing voices, she saw moving pictures in the fire and on the earth. At first, she thought the voices were in her head, the pictures a trick of the sun or the moon. But when what the voices told her came true, when the pictures she saw became reality, Ahira knew her abilities were real.

So when the earth told her she had the ability to transform a human into another form, she gave it a try. When Ahira crafted a crude fox mask out of the earth, mixed with salt water, the earth allowed Ahira to draw upon its power. And as she placed the fox mask over her little sister’s face, Ahira felt the raw elemental power of the earth and water rip through her.

Tell no one of this, her father had demanded as her sister, in fox form, nipped at his feet. Behind the anger that flushed his cheeks, Ahira saw the fear that flickered in his eyes when he’d found her laughing at the baying fox kit. Ahira’d run her hands along the kit’s back and rubbed her face in the softness of her sister’s fox fur. She’d giggled when the pup’s warm tongue lapped at her cheeks. Begrudgingly, Ahira had asked the powers of the earth to restore her sister to her human form. When the mask dropped from her sister’s face, it crumbled into pieces, the magic used up.

You must stop, her mother begged when a dead crow that Ahira had lifted from the ground ruffled its feathers and squawked as it sipped its first breath of life after death. She’d opened her hands and watched as the bird flew out of sight, leaving behind one of its blue-black feathers as a gift of thanks. Ahira carefully wove the crow feather into her braided hair.

You don’t understand, her mother told her. When we were exiled from the mainland many years ago, it was because of the magic our ancestors possessed. We don’t want to show anyone that you have such favor from our gods. The priests, they might … Her mother could no longer speak, tears streaking her face.

But Ahira didn’t need her mother to remind her of what happened to girls her age on their island. She already knew. She also knew many other things, things the elements had foretold, things she’d keep to herself. She wanted to reassure her mother that despite her coveted gifts, she’d never be a sacrifice to the gods like so many girls from generations before her. No, she’d bring something greater to the island, in time.

When the high priest’s son developed a high fever and the whites of his eyes turned yellow, Ahira snuck into his hut late at night, knowing she could help him. The wind had told her salt water was healing. The earth showed her that teas and tinctures made from some plants could help his body to recover.

Ahira, what … what are you doing? The high priest’s face was ruddy and mottled with red and purple. He lashed out with a great hand and pushed her to the ground. The tea she’d been allowing Peter to sip drenched the front of her, and the wooden cup rolled across the floor, leaving a trail of muddled herbs behind.

Father? Peter asked, using an elbow to prop himself up in his bed. Why are you so angry? His eyes were clear, his face no longer flushed with fever.

My son, you’re healed. The high priest touched his son’s face, his forehead, grabbed his son’s arms in disbelief. He’d been expected to make his way to the afterlife in mere days but no longer. When the high priest turned to Ahira, she was gone.

After Ahira’s healing, she was asked to be seated among the high priest and the other priests that made up their council. Peter, marked to become the next high priest, was also in attendance. Ahira noticed a level of fear quaking behind her parents’ stoic faces. Her mother was paler than normal, her eyes moist with unshed tears. No other island folk were seated among them, and Ahira knew then that the voices that had sung to her from the wind had been correct; the priests would now question her abilities. Abilities that far exceeded any that had ever been chronicled among them.

Please. The high priest motioned for Ahira to sit across the fire from him. When you look into the fire, what do you see?

Ahira stared into the flickering flames. Orange, white, and blue tongues of fire licked at the logs, devouring them. The glowing red embers drew Ahira to them, mesmerizing her. At first, the pictures she saw were just shadows, but the more she concentrated, the more they took shape. She saw corn wilting under a scorching sun, the fissures of fresh water that ran through the island, dry. She saw fellow island men and women with parched lips, protruding ribs. The whites of their eyes yellowed.

I see the colors of the harvest, Ahira said. There were grumbles among the priests. Ahira felt her mother shake beside her. This was no revelation. The harvest was coming in just a few weeks.

It’s been rumored that you are able to see moving pictures in the flames. And those pictures tell of the future. The high priest searched Ahira’s eyes with his own accusing eyes. Is this true?

Ahira sighed. All her life, she was told to stop connecting with the elements, stop using them to do her will. She had never sought them out; they had found her and whispered their secrets to her. The things the elements showed her and told her about would only help her people, warn them of foreboding things like the drought she’d envisioned moments ago.

It is true, she said. Ahira felt her father’s anger settle like a scorching ember on the back of her neck. And again she heard the rumbles of the other priests.

What do you see in the flames, Ahira? Peter asked, his soft and gentle eyes searching her face. A slight smile curved the corners of his lips, and something passed between the two of them. Something foreseen by the elements, something Ahira knew connected with her purpose on this island.

When Ahira fixed her gaze to the fire, it once again foretold of a terrible drought and a lackluster harvest. Her hands shook, and her bottom lip trembled. She didn’t want to tell the truth, tell them bad news. The priests might become angry, might ostracize her, might demand her head in sacrifice for telling blasphemous lies. But she’d been given these gifts to help the island. It was her duty to tell what she’d seen. Ahira lifted her eyes to meet the high priest’s. His eyes widened as she told him of the upcoming suffering the island folk would experience.

We must prepare. Cure meat. Dry fruits and vegetables. Save water, one priest said.

We don’t know if this girl is telling the truth. She could be making this up, trying to impress us, save her life, another priest said, crossing his arms, his eyes black with doubt.

No one can read moving pictures in the flames. The girl is clearly ill, a third priest chimed in, looking at Ahira with what looked like sympathy. No one, certainly no woman, has ever been gifted with the favor of the elements.

Since she was sixteen, she’s shown considerable ability, her mother said, her voice soft yet commanding. Ahira’s mother spoke of the times when Ahira had turned herself into different woodland creatures, when she’d healed a snakebite her father had suffered while hunting, when she’d cured her brother from an illness that had settled into his lungs.

Everything she’s said she’s seen in the fire has come true, her mother continued.

A woman cannot use the gods’ abilities, the second priest said, his hands now balled into fists that shook.

Why not? asked Peter. What are the rules that say so?

The second priest’s eyes widened, and he sputtered, his lips opening and shutting like a carp.

We will prepare as if Ahira’s prediction will come true. When it does, we will strengthen our favor with the gods. Ahira will become Peter’s wife, and their sons will inherit all of their combined gifts. Their union will ensure our future, the high priest said.

When the other priests began to raise their concerns, the high priest raised a hand.

Ahira is a gift given to us by the gods. We must heed their will.

Peter and Ahira smiled at each other. Ahira’s prediction would come true, and the islanders would survive.

So when a group of fishermen ran to her and told her of two large black ships that were cresting the horizon, Ahira dropped her sewing and opened her ears to listen to the insistent voices brought to her by the sudden winds that now curled around her, voices that foretold the future. Ahira collapsed to the earth, her face streaked with tears as the sweet, coppery scent of death surrounded her.

1coverimage.jpg

Chapter 2

Today

C old sea spray kissed Elizabeth Galloway’s cheeks as the ferry to Caethian Island sliced through the surf of the Chesapeake Bay. She brushed it away and kept reading through the brochure she’d picked up at the docks. Liz glanced sideways at her companion, Maura O’Neill. Her tanned, lean legs were stretched out in front of her, an arm slung over the back of one of the benches, sunglasses perched on her pert little nose. She looked like she was posing for the cover of some high-fashion magazine.

Liz shook her head. Maura was offering flirtatious smiles to the oldest son in what appeared to be a large Mennonite family. His face grew redder as Maura twirled her white-blonde locks around her finger. Liz rolled her eyes and fought with the jab of jealousy twisting in her gut.

Liz and Maura’s parents had been friends since college and, as adults, decided it would be fun to take their families on annual summer vacations. And it had been fun for many years. But now that she and Maura were both seventeen, it was clear they’d grown apart. While at one of Liz’s equestrian shows, Liz learned that Maura would sooner die than traipse through a fly-infested, poop-laden barn. And horses smelled like unwashed butt (Maura’s exact words). If Liz had any guts whatsoever, she’d have told Maura that the little golf skirt and visor she wore on the putting green wasn’t nearly as cute as she thought. And that watching her and a bunch of other stuck-up snobs chase tiny white balls around was as boring as watching a YouTube video buffer.

The nerd herd. Maura had snorted when Liz pointed out her friends in the math league and theater in her yearbook.

And what about your friends? Liz asked.

Over nine hundred people follow me on Twitter. I have like over a thousand on TikTok. I think that says enough about my friends, don’t you?

Liz had never understood why there was so much competition between them, or where it even came from. But there it was. Each year. More and more of it. And whatever Liz’d accomplished was nothing in comparison to what Maura had done.

This morning, their families had trekked from the cabin they’d rented for the week to the tip of the Northern Neck, the tiny part of Virginia that jutted like a taunting middle finger into the Chesapeake Bay. According to the brochure Maura’s dad, Dave, had produced at breakfast that morning, there was a marina, a medium-sized shopping area (no doubt with lots and lots of Chesapeake Bay T-shirts to choose from), a nicely sized aquarium (Feed a Sting Ray! Pet a Shark!—things that she and her little sister, Sarah, had already done a hundred times), and an adjacent water park.

To Liz, a water park was good for nothing more than catching an incurable combination of E. coli, the swine flu, and a rocking yeast infection. For once, Elizabeth and Maura had agreed wholeheartedly; they weren’t doing that. No friggin’ way.

Dave had looked up from his phone. There’s a ferry to an old Welsh island off the coast. Supposed to have great crab cakes and lots of shopping.

Liz perked up. That sounds fun. We’ve been to a thousand water parks. Maybe we can check out that island instead?

That’s a great idea, said Maura as she rolled her eyes.

Just a thought, but, Maura’s mom, Jenny, said, why don’t the two of you go to the island while the rest of us hit the water park?

Liz turned to look at Maura to gauge her opinion, but Maura’s nose was buried in her cell phone. Given they’d determined that there was no WiFi on day one, Liz didn’t understand Maura’s constant attention to it.

What do you think, girls? Liz’s dad, Joe, asked. Little one-on-one time?

Liz gave a small smile. Maura snapped her gum.

I’ll book it. Dave pushed his glasses up on his nose. Then he put the phone to his ear to secure the tickets.

And now Liz and Maura were cruising through the bay. The ferry’s engine roared, and the wind whistled as it whipped through Liz’s hair. Dark clouds smeared the sky a smoky gray along the horizon, an unwanted scribble in the bright blue sky. Liz hoped the rain would hold off until they got back to the mainland.

Maura’s perfume, some mix of musk and patchouli, arrived just before she did. Liz felt an elbow jut into her ribs.

Land ho.

Mmmmm. Liz flipped to the back of the brochure.

You’re gonna miss everything if you keep your nose stuck in that stupid thing. Maura pecked at the glossy paper with a long, manicured nail. When Liz looked up, Maura cocked her head to a strip of land that was manifesting on the right.

This island is actually pretty interesting. Liz tucked the brochure into her rucksack. There was a map on the back, and she wanted to hold onto it so she could make sure she’d be able to find her way back to the docks.

Welsh mercenaries hired by the king of England were sent out to find a spot that could be used as an ammunitions depot during the Revolutionary War.

Oooh. Guns. Bullets. Maura rolled her eyes.

Do you want me to tell you more or not?

Maura twisted an index finger in the air, her get on with it motion, and gazed at Liz over the rims of her sunglasses.

Anyway, the island was already inhabited by a group of exiled prisoners. From what they can figure, they might have been some outcasts from some of the early colonies. Apparently, they cursed the island with magic, and each year on August 16th, a sacrifice is made to appease their pagan gods.

Maura clutched a hand to her chest. Why, that’s today! Maura smirked.

Liz shot her friend a dirty look.

I hope they sacrifice you this year. Liz patted the pocket of her denim shorts, making sure her cell phone was there. She secured her rucksack that contained cash, a credit card, and the return ferry ticket over her shoulders.

It would be the most fun and interesting part of this stupid vacation. That’s for sure. Maura yawned.

As the strip of land grew closer, Liz figured she should take a cursory glance at the people on the boat around her, making certain to remember a few faces to ensure she was on the right boat on the way home. There was the Mennonite family: husband, wife, seven children, and their grandmother; the extra-large man, both in height and width, wearing the camouflage T-shirt, who failed to blend in; the man and woman with the two-year-old son in the sailor suit who’d screamed the whole boat ride. None of them would be hard to spot later on.

Not much longer, Maura said. She’d taken her oversized round sunglasses from the top of her head and tucked them into the zippered pocket of her slim black backpack. Hopefully, there’ll be Wi-Fi here.

Maura had complained almost nonstop about the lack of service at their remote cabin getaway. The fact that she hadn’t been able to check in with friends via Instagram or Snapchat or Tik Tok had her throwing toddler-like temper tantrums for the first three days of their stay. After that, she’d settled in and began tanning like it was a full-time job.

What do you think there is to do? Liz asked.

If I can get a great cup of iced coffee and pick up some cool island knickknacks, I’ll be one happy girl. Mom gave me her credit card, so I’m good to go.

Liz didn’t want to be stuck sipping iced coffee and wandering around dusty gift shops for four hours. There had to be more to this interesting little island than just that.

According to the pamphlet she’d picked up at the harbor, the exiled colonists and the Welsh mercenaries had developed a unique culture on Caethian Island by merging their language, customs, and lifestyles over hundreds of years. Liz was up for exploring their culture in any way she could.

The ferry’s engines soon took on a different sound; a loud metal grinding sound filled the air, and the boat slowed. A dilapidated shack built on barnacle-laden stilts leaned toward the water off to Liz’s left. It couldn’t have been more than the size of a small hotel room, with a rickety wooden porch, the roof caving in above it. Weather-beaten shutters hung on by a handful of rusted nails and scraped against the side of the dwelling in the coastal breeze. Wind chimes, many of the chimes snapped off long ago, blew around, the roar of the boat’s engine too loud to hear their piteous song. Several corroded crab traps were stacked on the dock, discolored, fraying ropes wrapped loosely around them.

What the … Maura’s eyes were as big as saucers as she stared at the ramshackle dwelling. When the boat passed by a second home, this one with an added-on room dipping into the water and its tin roof rusted through in parts, Maura set her mouth in a firm line and blew a huff through her nose.

As the boat drew closer to the island, more of these shacks dotted the bay, all in the same state of disrepair, all appearing to be inhabited, as evidenced by small boats docked out front. Mismatched chairs that somehow balanced upright on the slanted porches or thin cords that served as a clothesline were fixed between rickety porch posts with yesterday’s T-shirts and underwear pinned to them.

As the ferry cruised closer to the dock, Liz noticed an inlet surrounded by a jetty made of piles of large boulders that separated the water from the beach. Behind it was a wooden structure that curved in what looked like a horseshoe that appeared to be in the process of being built. It seemed almost like a sports stadium of some sort. Four-by-fours stood tall like sun-bleached bones piled together, anxious for a skin of brick or siding or whatever facade the building would eventually take on.

Dotted along the beach were mounds of refuse—wood, concrete, and other building debris as well as piles of what looked to be garbage bags. Seagulls cawed overhead as flocks of their friends circled the piles below, looking for leftovers to eat.

Is that what I think it is? Maura asked, the revulsion clear on her face.

Smells like it, Liz said, wrinkling her nose as the odor of rotting fish and something that smelled like diarrhea wafted toward them.

Great, Maura said, a scowl plastered on her face. What a way to greet your guests. Classy.

Liz couldn’t disagree. But as the ferry rounded the island and drove into port, the sight in front of her nearly took her breath away.

At the end of a long dock was a beautiful archway made of stark white lattice, almost fully covered in blooming red and deep pink Mandevilla vines. A whitewashed stone wall flanked each side of the archway and stretched toward the end of the dock, Caethian Island written in gold script on both sides. Potted palm trees and great white rose bushes lined the path, providing a lovely welcome to their guests as the boats cruised into port.

As she and Maura walked down the dock along with the crowd of people that poured from the ferry, Liz caught a whiff of cinnamon and crab cakes, and her mouth began to water. The offensive odors from the ferry were soon forgotten. A group of islanders, each wearing a different, brightly colored polo shirt that advertised the name of a restaurant or some other business, handed out menus and coupons to tourists as they passed. Before she knew it, Liz had accumulated a handful of colored papers as vivid and eager as the island’s residents.

Upon entering the island under the trellis of flowers, a massive, bright white-two story building with dormers that budded out from a third floor stood before them. A low, black, wrought iron fence surrounded the emerald-green, well-manicured lawn. Long windows took up most of the front of the house, ebony black shutters on each side. Black pots of bright red geraniums stood like stout soldiers alongside the open door. A whitewashed porch stretched the length of the front of the house, welcoming wicker swings hung on either side of the door. An orange tabby cat was curled on one of the cushions. A sign reading Prickett Inn est. 1832 on a black tablet with gold letters was stuck into the lush lawn. Standing with perfect posture in the doorway of the inn was a woman dressed in a long black dress, her shorn gray hair tight to her scalp. A shiny silver cane was clutched in her veiny hand. As Liz made eye contact with her, the old woman scowled.

Dozens of golf carts, their colors matching the brilliant colors of summer flowers that bloomed in the yards of the quaint clapboard cottages, lined the narrow streets. Drivers called out for passengers to take island tours. Giddy tourists with loud voices and shockingly agile gaits swooped in, wanting to be first to get a ride.

Pfft. As if, Maura muttered under her breath as a family of four pushed past her to clamber into a sea-foam-green cart. The driver’s wrinkled skin was tanned to the color of