Dreamcatcher
Honorable Pirate
Stephanie King's
IT
Forward
I have always loved the Autumn, it is easily my favorite one of the four seasons. The crisp New England mornings, the leaves changing colors, giant pumpkins and hot cider at fairs, and of course, Halloween. It seems Halloween becomes larger and busier every year, and it goes by much too fast now.
Remembering back to when I was growing up it was a very long month, waiting forever to go trick or treating on the 31st, and then when it finally got here, it was over in a blink, except for the mountainous candy coma aftermath. These days it is a month long event, cramming in as many parties, scary movies, and haunted houses as you can, on nearly every October weekend.
I don't know about the rest of the country, but scaring the bejesus out of people is big business here in New England. Spookyworld, Canobie Lake Park Screemfest, and Six Flags Fright Fest, to name three, have massive horror theme parks here, with multiple haunted houses in each. They are always packed, you always have a great time, and really, who doesn't like a night of candy apples and screaming your bloody head off?
The most entertaining place on earth on Halloween night is hands down the "Witch City", Salem, Massachusetts, and if you have never been, it is ground zero for a wicked good time. Witch museums with reenactments of actual witch trials, real dungeons with torture devices from the 1600s, and costumes-costumes-costumes wherever you go. It seems like it's a law to be in costume in Salem on Halloween.... um, I think they are costumes, anyway.... it simply has to be seen to be believed.
A good playful scare is fun, it gets your heart pumping, and your blood flowing. In fact, a Dr. had even told me once that "screaming your lungs out as some dude in a hockey mask chases you past the fried dough stand with a rubber knife, while grunting "Kill! Kill! Kill!", as you hide behind the laughing detail cop that's eating a fried Twinkie," was very healthy for you. Alright, alright, it was Dr. Frankenstein, but he IS technically a Dr, he just doesn't work on the living very often.
So anyway, seeing as it's October, I thought it would be fun to do something Halloweenie, like take a haunted hayride and listen to a scary story. Please climb up on the creaky flatbed wagon, take a seat, and when the sun goes down we will depart.
We shall travel the dark and twisting dirt path through the woods, ride the streets of the .....um, mostly ....deserted village, and perhaps linger in the the old abandoned Tortuga graveyard for a bite. No, there is no food on this trip, we are the food.
In between all of the overly friendly residents of the forest approaching the wagon, to ah, "meat" and greet us, I will attempt to weave us an unsettling Halloween tale as best I can.
The story is loosely adapted from the Stephen King book "It", and takes place in the Caribbean instead of Maine, and is set in the present day. The players are myself, and five of my Forum peeps, who were unknowingly shanghaied into joining in on the macabre fun, like it or not.
I have consulted my lawyer, and was told that since I only used first names, if they try to sue, they haven't got a leg to stand on. And they very well may not have any legs at all by the time the story is over, anyway. Or heads, for that matter.
If you have read King's book, you know "It" is a classic story of good vs evil, much like "The Stand" was, and both have always been two of my favorite books. I took the basic structure of the story and tried to add a dash of pirate to it, to more reflect the characters, who are now adults, and are twenty five years separated from Tortuga and their pirate days.
Also, King's books were always laced with a sometimes haunting 50s and 60s soundtrack, which is the music he grew up with, and fit amazingly well into his stories. I decided to keep that theme, and I hope, selected several songs which reflected the events in the chapter.
Whenever possible the original was used, but Youtube sometimes worked against that, so another was chosen. I think they work, but it isn't my judgement that matters, it is the readers. I realize most here aren't into oldies, but those are the breaks.
Ahh, the woods are finally dark at last...... and the wagon will now leave the relative safety of the well lit main road. Please, do not exit the wagon while it is moving, for we shall not be returning for you.
My name? It is of little importance on this journey, but if you must, you may call me Stephanie King. I am your...mostly living... guide, and I will point out areas of interest along our trip, and in between, attempt to relate to you a tale of seven childhood friends and a promise. A promise that was made at the end of a horrible, bloody summer, 25 long years ago, and one that they will all most assuredly die in honoring.
Some promises are more than just simple ones, even those made between twelve year olds. Some may define and shape the direction of our entire lives, while others may simply just eat us alive.
The wagon is now nearing the Tortuga sewers up on the left, and no Timmy, it is far too late for you to go home, sit down. We are passing the large outflow pipe now...shhh, do not even breathe...if IT sees you as we pass, I cannot help, no one can. Whew, we somehow made it past, unfortunately the last group was not quite so lucky.
As we now travel deeper into the woods, the only advise that I can offer is, if you happen to see a clown with large, blood stained teeth, who looks a bit like Tim Curry, do NOT look into his eyes. That is where IT lives. Oh, and if the clown offers to give you a balloon ... a dark blood red balloon ... well, I imagine that running would be a very good idea........
Stephanie King's
IT
Chapter 1
The phone must have been ringing for quite a long time before it managed to claw its way through my alcohol hazed sleep. It was midnight, and I had been drinking and writing for most of the day and night, and had only just poured myself into bed. The deadline for the latest book was looming, and I had been feeling especially evil today, so the blood and the rum had been splattering heavily onto the pages.
I never have understood why Horror is looked down on by so many critics as not a legitimate form of writing, but there are ones that seem to feel the entire genre is somehow beneath them. I can still recall the interview I did for "A Fistful Of Horrors", my first, um, stab at writing. The interview had begun badly, and then had quickly spiraled downhill from there.
A very brusque and somewhat condescending reviewer had asked me, "Why on earth would such a ...seemingly... bright little girl, write those .....horror books?" He had spat out the word "Horrorrrrr" as if it were a curse word, obviously trying to get a reaction from me, perhaps to punch up his shows rather flaccid ratings.
I can distinctly remember staring at his amazingly bad comb over for a very uneasy length of time, and then simply stating: "That it was because nightmares are like headaches, some people get them, and some people give them. Not unlike rude basic cable entertainment reporters, who review books that they have obviously never even read." Needless to say, the follically challenged gentleman did not give me two thumbs up. The book sold well regardless, and "For A Few Horrors More" had sold even better.
Bleary eyed, I sat up on the bed and thought to myself, nothing good had ever come from a midnight call, they were nearly always bad news. Picking up the phone, I rubbed my eyes, and not recognizing the caller, really hoped that it was a wrong number. Of course, it wasn't.
The woman's voice on the other end of the line asked for me, and I said yes, and inquired as to what this was about. The voice hesitated for a long moment, and then like a sucker punch to the gut said, "Tia is dead. She was butchered last night in the swamp, and her heart was ripped out of her chest and eaten."
I couldn't speak, I just sat there praying that this was some sick practical joke. Again, it wasn't. They had found her in her shack in the swamp, the caller said, still clutching her talisman in her hand, with her face frozen in terror. In the other hand was the locket with a picture of Tia and I together when I was a child, back in a time when smiling had seemed to come a whole lot easier.
The voice on the phone seemed very familiar, but I couldn't place it. She paused for a moment after telling me, and then finally said in a tired sounding whisper, "IT ... has come back. We didn't really kill It that summer, we thought we did, but It just went back to sleep...and waited. The cycle is beginning again. Please come home now, we all made a promise."
I sleepily replied, "Promise? I don't remember any promise. Who is this?" There was silence for a moment, then she said, "Of course you don't remember, none of you do. But It will kill again unless you all come. We have to end it this time, we won't get another chance. Please come home. Tia's funeral is in two days, I think she really would expect you to attend." Then I heard the phone click, and the line went dead in my hand.
As I sat on the side of the bed and stared out the window at the crescent moon, it seemed to look like a dagger hanging over me up in the sky. I looked over at the empty glass of rum on the nightstand, cursed under my breath, and got up and went into the living room and put on the TV.
Not surprisingly, there was nothing on the news about it, since the game had closed, Channel 5 in Boston had stopped covering the Potco islands, and moved on to the LOTRO and the Scrolls realms, so I turned it off and went over to make a drink. I had no idea what I had poured in the glass, and my face made a grimace when I took a large gulp, and tasted Irish whiskey in it. I put the glass back on top of the cabinet, and rummaged around underneath.
I pulled out a few bottles that weren't to my liking, and saw a dusty one, way in the back behind the pomegranate passion brandy. I looked at the label declaring "now with a bold splash of extra tart persimmon", as if that somehow made it better. The bottle of rum had to be almost 25 years old, I seem to remember that someone had given it to me after .... after... hmmm, after something, but I can't seem to remember why.
Taking the bottle, I sat back in the chair and looked at the label, Gunner's Reserve, it said. I had always found it very odd that a teetotaler like Gunner would be in the rum business, he had always seemed such a soft spoken, clear eyed gentleman. I opened it, poured a generous amount into the glass, and then took a taste.
The rum was very smooth going down, and I looked over the label again. Turning it around, I only saw a stamp at the bottom with the bottled on date, and when I read it, I nearly dropped it to the floor like it had bitten me. The cork had been stuffed into it's chipped and scratched neck exactly 25 years ago today, and I suddenly felt as if I was walking across someones grave.
Getting a flashlight, I went down to the basement and over to the far corner, and opened up the large cedar chest full of things that I hadn't seen in years. Wiping off the cobwebs from the top, I reached down and found it at the bottom. The wood was stained, and I had lost the key to it long ago, but it was still there.
It was the grandest pirate chest I had ever seen, I thought then, and I had bugged Mom until she had gotten it for me for my birthday. It wasn't grand at all. Even new, it was a cheap looking hunk of fake wood from China. I guess young eyes see things older ones didn't, I thought, while closing the big chest and taking the little one upstairs to figure out how to get it open without breaking it.
I sat for hours at the kitchen table, drinking rum and trying in vain to pick that cheap lock, but it seemed like it didn't want to be opened. I threw the pick on the table and gave out a slurred arrr, and as I upended what was left in the rum bottle into my glass, I heard a tinkling noise from inside.
Upending the bottle again, I shook it over the empty pizza box on the table, and out fell a tiny silver key. No, the rum eyes must be playing tricks I thought, as I was reaching for it. I picked up the key, rolled it over in my hand, and then flicked off the anchovy that was stuck to it.
I drained the glass of rum, and went to insert the key in the lock, thinking to myself, this was stupid, how could it possibly fit that lock? It fit, but I guess some part of me knew that it would, and I immediately felt very cold, like someone was walking across MY grave. I turned the key, and heard the lock click open, now suddenly afraid of what I would find inside.
Sitting on the top of the pile of photos and trinkets was the same picture that Tia had been holding when they had found her. My shaking hand reached for the glass of rum, but it was empty. "Why is it always empty" I muttered, and I held the picture to my chest and put my head down on the table and began to cry.
I woke up with the sun streaming in my eyes, and a pepperoni glued on my forehead. I flung it into the pizza box, then got up and made coffee, I was going to need it. As I stepped out of the shower, I heard the machine gurgling, and I dried off and filled up a mug and sat down again.
Each thing that I took out of the chest was another layer of my younger life, some I hadn't seen in years, and some I swear I had never seen before. Pictures of my parents when they were young, old school items, and a broken Wang Chung cassette that my '94 metallic tangerine Ford Probe had eaten, all brought back a flood of memories. But the pile of pictures on the table of people I could not recall was getting larger, and the most frightening part of it was, I was in all of them.
I got a red eye flight to Florida that night, then found a pilot that would get me into Cuba quickly. The price was high, but I had little time to find a bargain rate. We landed at a remote section on Rumrunners, and I scanned the beach as they stowed me on the small dinghy.
Silently, I wondered if the cellar I had spent that first night in after leaving Tia, cold and alone, was still there. Odd I can remember that, but so much from that time is just a blank. As the tiny boat was rowed across the bay, I could hear the birds on Ravens Cove engaged in their annoying chatter. We landed in Cuba, and I looked at the small shacks, the bar, and the shipwright, and suddenly remembered what a dump this place was.
As I waded through the water to the ramp, the alligators just stared at me, somehow looking sad and without purpose, I thought. Walking up the ramp to the swamp seemed more like I was climbing the steps to the gallows, there wasn't a single sound that could be heard from the other side.
I emerged onto the platform that overlooked a swamp that had been so familiar to me at one time, but now looked like a different place. I ran my hand over the half rotted railing, and it took me a few minutes to realize that the swamp had not changed a bit, I had been the one who had changed.
Like Peter Pan, I had grown up and I had left most of my childhood wonder and magic in this swamp, I thought sadly. Walking down the ramp, I still heard not a single noise, it was as if every creature in the swamp was asleep. But I could feel them watching me, every last one of them, as I climbed up the creaky steps to the door to Tia's shack.
Opening the door, I went to the tiny table in the middle of the room and lit a candle, bathing the room in eerie, flickering shadows. As I walked around the room, memories of what I once was came flooding back to me with everything I saw or touched. I stared at the pictures on the wall, then walked over to the small kitchen and looked at the empty pot on the counter and said, "I want some of your pudding, Tia. Its been so long since I've tasted your pudding."
I touched the pot and I closed my eyes, and memories of her putting a bowl of it on the table in front of a tiny me flashed by like a movie in my mind. The spoon looked enormous in my little hand, as I sat waiting for her to bring her own, so we could eat. I took my hand off the pot, and the vision was gone, and I just stood staring at the empty pot in a daze.
"I M-m-m-m-miss you, T-t-t-tia. I wish I had c-c-c-come home sooner." I stuttered to the empty room. Ugh. Stop it, I thought, immediately disgusted with myself. It had been 25 years since I had gotten over that awful stuttering, and I still cannot forget most of my childhood being plagued by it. I had a pet turtle then, and I would watch him pull his head and legs into his shell and hide from the world. God, how I had envied that turtle back then.
The more it had happened, the harder my mind had tried not to let it, and that had just made it worse. I can remember the looks people always had given me, and I can still remember my Fathers look too. I will take that look to my grave, he may as well have just called me a dummy. It hadn't happened since I had left here, and moved to Boston. Actually, ran away might be a better term. My God, I thought, I really needed a strong drink right now.
Peeking through the door to the modest back room we had both slept in, I saw that it looked exactly the same as the day I had left. She had never even taken my bed out, and that first doll she had given me still sat on the pillow, as if waiting for me. I picked it up, and tried to cast a spell with it, but it quickly became clear that the grown up me had forgotten how.
I lay down on the bed and held the doll tight, thinking to myself that Tia must be ashamed of me right now. My last thought was that the doll felt warm in my arms, before I fell asleep in that silent and lonely room, sitting in a swamp that seemed like it was in mourning for it's Mother.
End chapter 1
IT
Forward
I have always loved the Autumn, it is easily my favorite one of the four seasons. The crisp New England mornings, the leaves changing colors, giant pumpkins and hot cider at fairs, and of course, Halloween. It seems Halloween becomes larger and busier every year, and it goes by much too fast now.
Remembering back to when I was growing up it was a very long month, waiting forever to go trick or treating on the 31st, and then when it finally got here, it was over in a blink, except for the mountainous candy coma aftermath. These days it is a month long event, cramming in as many parties, scary movies, and haunted houses as you can, on nearly every October weekend.
I don't know about the rest of the country, but scaring the bejesus out of people is big business here in New England. Spookyworld, Canobie Lake Park Screemfest, and Six Flags Fright Fest, to name three, have massive horror theme parks here, with multiple haunted houses in each. They are always packed, you always have a great time, and really, who doesn't like a night of candy apples and screaming your bloody head off?
The most entertaining place on earth on Halloween night is hands down the "Witch City", Salem, Massachusetts, and if you have never been, it is ground zero for a wicked good time. Witch museums with reenactments of actual witch trials, real dungeons with torture devices from the 1600s, and costumes-costumes-costumes wherever you go. It seems like it's a law to be in costume in Salem on Halloween.... um, I think they are costumes, anyway.... it simply has to be seen to be believed.
A good playful scare is fun, it gets your heart pumping, and your blood flowing. In fact, a Dr. had even told me once that "screaming your lungs out as some dude in a hockey mask chases you past the fried dough stand with a rubber knife, while grunting "Kill! Kill! Kill!", as you hide behind the laughing detail cop that's eating a fried Twinkie," was very healthy for you. Alright, alright, it was Dr. Frankenstein, but he IS technically a Dr, he just doesn't work on the living very often.
So anyway, seeing as it's October, I thought it would be fun to do something Halloweenie, like take a haunted hayride and listen to a scary story. Please climb up on the creaky flatbed wagon, take a seat, and when the sun goes down we will depart.
We shall travel the dark and twisting dirt path through the woods, ride the streets of the .....um, mostly ....deserted village, and perhaps linger in the the old abandoned Tortuga graveyard for a bite. No, there is no food on this trip, we are the food.
In between all of the overly friendly residents of the forest approaching the wagon, to ah, "meat" and greet us, I will attempt to weave us an unsettling Halloween tale as best I can.
The story is loosely adapted from the Stephen King book "It", and takes place in the Caribbean instead of Maine, and is set in the present day. The players are myself, and five of my Forum peeps, who were unknowingly shanghaied into joining in on the macabre fun, like it or not.
I have consulted my lawyer, and was told that since I only used first names, if they try to sue, they haven't got a leg to stand on. And they very well may not have any legs at all by the time the story is over, anyway. Or heads, for that matter.
If you have read King's book, you know "It" is a classic story of good vs evil, much like "The Stand" was, and both have always been two of my favorite books. I took the basic structure of the story and tried to add a dash of pirate to it, to more reflect the characters, who are now adults, and are twenty five years separated from Tortuga and their pirate days.
Also, King's books were always laced with a sometimes haunting 50s and 60s soundtrack, which is the music he grew up with, and fit amazingly well into his stories. I decided to keep that theme, and I hope, selected several songs which reflected the events in the chapter.
Whenever possible the original was used, but Youtube sometimes worked against that, so another was chosen. I think they work, but it isn't my judgement that matters, it is the readers. I realize most here aren't into oldies, but those are the breaks.
Ahh, the woods are finally dark at last...... and the wagon will now leave the relative safety of the well lit main road. Please, do not exit the wagon while it is moving, for we shall not be returning for you.
My name? It is of little importance on this journey, but if you must, you may call me Stephanie King. I am your...mostly living... guide, and I will point out areas of interest along our trip, and in between, attempt to relate to you a tale of seven childhood friends and a promise. A promise that was made at the end of a horrible, bloody summer, 25 long years ago, and one that they will all most assuredly die in honoring.
Some promises are more than just simple ones, even those made between twelve year olds. Some may define and shape the direction of our entire lives, while others may simply just eat us alive.
The wagon is now nearing the Tortuga sewers up on the left, and no Timmy, it is far too late for you to go home, sit down. We are passing the large outflow pipe now...shhh, do not even breathe...if IT sees you as we pass, I cannot help, no one can. Whew, we somehow made it past, unfortunately the last group was not quite so lucky.
As we now travel deeper into the woods, the only advise that I can offer is, if you happen to see a clown with large, blood stained teeth, who looks a bit like Tim Curry, do NOT look into his eyes. That is where IT lives. Oh, and if the clown offers to give you a balloon ... a dark blood red balloon ... well, I imagine that running would be a very good idea........
Stephanie King's
IT
Chapter 1
The phone must have been ringing for quite a long time before it managed to claw its way through my alcohol hazed sleep. It was midnight, and I had been drinking and writing for most of the day and night, and had only just poured myself into bed. The deadline for the latest book was looming, and I had been feeling especially evil today, so the blood and the rum had been splattering heavily onto the pages.
I never have understood why Horror is looked down on by so many critics as not a legitimate form of writing, but there are ones that seem to feel the entire genre is somehow beneath them. I can still recall the interview I did for "A Fistful Of Horrors", my first, um, stab at writing. The interview had begun badly, and then had quickly spiraled downhill from there.
A very brusque and somewhat condescending reviewer had asked me, "Why on earth would such a ...seemingly... bright little girl, write those .....horror books?" He had spat out the word "Horrorrrrr" as if it were a curse word, obviously trying to get a reaction from me, perhaps to punch up his shows rather flaccid ratings.
I can distinctly remember staring at his amazingly bad comb over for a very uneasy length of time, and then simply stating: "That it was because nightmares are like headaches, some people get them, and some people give them. Not unlike rude basic cable entertainment reporters, who review books that they have obviously never even read." Needless to say, the follically challenged gentleman did not give me two thumbs up. The book sold well regardless, and "For A Few Horrors More" had sold even better.
Bleary eyed, I sat up on the bed and thought to myself, nothing good had ever come from a midnight call, they were nearly always bad news. Picking up the phone, I rubbed my eyes, and not recognizing the caller, really hoped that it was a wrong number. Of course, it wasn't.
The woman's voice on the other end of the line asked for me, and I said yes, and inquired as to what this was about. The voice hesitated for a long moment, and then like a sucker punch to the gut said, "Tia is dead. She was butchered last night in the swamp, and her heart was ripped out of her chest and eaten."
I couldn't speak, I just sat there praying that this was some sick practical joke. Again, it wasn't. They had found her in her shack in the swamp, the caller said, still clutching her talisman in her hand, with her face frozen in terror. In the other hand was the locket with a picture of Tia and I together when I was a child, back in a time when smiling had seemed to come a whole lot easier.
The voice on the phone seemed very familiar, but I couldn't place it. She paused for a moment after telling me, and then finally said in a tired sounding whisper, "IT ... has come back. We didn't really kill It that summer, we thought we did, but It just went back to sleep...and waited. The cycle is beginning again. Please come home now, we all made a promise."
I sleepily replied, "Promise? I don't remember any promise. Who is this?" There was silence for a moment, then she said, "Of course you don't remember, none of you do. But It will kill again unless you all come. We have to end it this time, we won't get another chance. Please come home. Tia's funeral is in two days, I think she really would expect you to attend." Then I heard the phone click, and the line went dead in my hand.
As I sat on the side of the bed and stared out the window at the crescent moon, it seemed to look like a dagger hanging over me up in the sky. I looked over at the empty glass of rum on the nightstand, cursed under my breath, and got up and went into the living room and put on the TV.
Not surprisingly, there was nothing on the news about it, since the game had closed, Channel 5 in Boston had stopped covering the Potco islands, and moved on to the LOTRO and the Scrolls realms, so I turned it off and went over to make a drink. I had no idea what I had poured in the glass, and my face made a grimace when I took a large gulp, and tasted Irish whiskey in it. I put the glass back on top of the cabinet, and rummaged around underneath.
I pulled out a few bottles that weren't to my liking, and saw a dusty one, way in the back behind the pomegranate passion brandy. I looked at the label declaring "now with a bold splash of extra tart persimmon", as if that somehow made it better. The bottle of rum had to be almost 25 years old, I seem to remember that someone had given it to me after .... after... hmmm, after something, but I can't seem to remember why.
Taking the bottle, I sat back in the chair and looked at the label, Gunner's Reserve, it said. I had always found it very odd that a teetotaler like Gunner would be in the rum business, he had always seemed such a soft spoken, clear eyed gentleman. I opened it, poured a generous amount into the glass, and then took a taste.
The rum was very smooth going down, and I looked over the label again. Turning it around, I only saw a stamp at the bottom with the bottled on date, and when I read it, I nearly dropped it to the floor like it had bitten me. The cork had been stuffed into it's chipped and scratched neck exactly 25 years ago today, and I suddenly felt as if I was walking across someones grave.
Getting a flashlight, I went down to the basement and over to the far corner, and opened up the large cedar chest full of things that I hadn't seen in years. Wiping off the cobwebs from the top, I reached down and found it at the bottom. The wood was stained, and I had lost the key to it long ago, but it was still there.
It was the grandest pirate chest I had ever seen, I thought then, and I had bugged Mom until she had gotten it for me for my birthday. It wasn't grand at all. Even new, it was a cheap looking hunk of fake wood from China. I guess young eyes see things older ones didn't, I thought, while closing the big chest and taking the little one upstairs to figure out how to get it open without breaking it.
I sat for hours at the kitchen table, drinking rum and trying in vain to pick that cheap lock, but it seemed like it didn't want to be opened. I threw the pick on the table and gave out a slurred arrr, and as I upended what was left in the rum bottle into my glass, I heard a tinkling noise from inside.
Upending the bottle again, I shook it over the empty pizza box on the table, and out fell a tiny silver key. No, the rum eyes must be playing tricks I thought, as I was reaching for it. I picked up the key, rolled it over in my hand, and then flicked off the anchovy that was stuck to it.
I drained the glass of rum, and went to insert the key in the lock, thinking to myself, this was stupid, how could it possibly fit that lock? It fit, but I guess some part of me knew that it would, and I immediately felt very cold, like someone was walking across MY grave. I turned the key, and heard the lock click open, now suddenly afraid of what I would find inside.
Sitting on the top of the pile of photos and trinkets was the same picture that Tia had been holding when they had found her. My shaking hand reached for the glass of rum, but it was empty. "Why is it always empty" I muttered, and I held the picture to my chest and put my head down on the table and began to cry.
I woke up with the sun streaming in my eyes, and a pepperoni glued on my forehead. I flung it into the pizza box, then got up and made coffee, I was going to need it. As I stepped out of the shower, I heard the machine gurgling, and I dried off and filled up a mug and sat down again.
Each thing that I took out of the chest was another layer of my younger life, some I hadn't seen in years, and some I swear I had never seen before. Pictures of my parents when they were young, old school items, and a broken Wang Chung cassette that my '94 metallic tangerine Ford Probe had eaten, all brought back a flood of memories. But the pile of pictures on the table of people I could not recall was getting larger, and the most frightening part of it was, I was in all of them.
I got a red eye flight to Florida that night, then found a pilot that would get me into Cuba quickly. The price was high, but I had little time to find a bargain rate. We landed at a remote section on Rumrunners, and I scanned the beach as they stowed me on the small dinghy.
Silently, I wondered if the cellar I had spent that first night in after leaving Tia, cold and alone, was still there. Odd I can remember that, but so much from that time is just a blank. As the tiny boat was rowed across the bay, I could hear the birds on Ravens Cove engaged in their annoying chatter. We landed in Cuba, and I looked at the small shacks, the bar, and the shipwright, and suddenly remembered what a dump this place was.
As I waded through the water to the ramp, the alligators just stared at me, somehow looking sad and without purpose, I thought. Walking up the ramp to the swamp seemed more like I was climbing the steps to the gallows, there wasn't a single sound that could be heard from the other side.
I emerged onto the platform that overlooked a swamp that had been so familiar to me at one time, but now looked like a different place. I ran my hand over the half rotted railing, and it took me a few minutes to realize that the swamp had not changed a bit, I had been the one who had changed.
Like Peter Pan, I had grown up and I had left most of my childhood wonder and magic in this swamp, I thought sadly. Walking down the ramp, I still heard not a single noise, it was as if every creature in the swamp was asleep. But I could feel them watching me, every last one of them, as I climbed up the creaky steps to the door to Tia's shack.
Opening the door, I went to the tiny table in the middle of the room and lit a candle, bathing the room in eerie, flickering shadows. As I walked around the room, memories of what I once was came flooding back to me with everything I saw or touched. I stared at the pictures on the wall, then walked over to the small kitchen and looked at the empty pot on the counter and said, "I want some of your pudding, Tia. Its been so long since I've tasted your pudding."
I touched the pot and I closed my eyes, and memories of her putting a bowl of it on the table in front of a tiny me flashed by like a movie in my mind. The spoon looked enormous in my little hand, as I sat waiting for her to bring her own, so we could eat. I took my hand off the pot, and the vision was gone, and I just stood staring at the empty pot in a daze.
"I M-m-m-m-miss you, T-t-t-tia. I wish I had c-c-c-come home sooner." I stuttered to the empty room. Ugh. Stop it, I thought, immediately disgusted with myself. It had been 25 years since I had gotten over that awful stuttering, and I still cannot forget most of my childhood being plagued by it. I had a pet turtle then, and I would watch him pull his head and legs into his shell and hide from the world. God, how I had envied that turtle back then.
The more it had happened, the harder my mind had tried not to let it, and that had just made it worse. I can remember the looks people always had given me, and I can still remember my Fathers look too. I will take that look to my grave, he may as well have just called me a dummy. It hadn't happened since I had left here, and moved to Boston. Actually, ran away might be a better term. My God, I thought, I really needed a strong drink right now.
Peeking through the door to the modest back room we had both slept in, I saw that it looked exactly the same as the day I had left. She had never even taken my bed out, and that first doll she had given me still sat on the pillow, as if waiting for me. I picked it up, and tried to cast a spell with it, but it quickly became clear that the grown up me had forgotten how.
I lay down on the bed and held the doll tight, thinking to myself that Tia must be ashamed of me right now. My last thought was that the doll felt warm in my arms, before I fell asleep in that silent and lonely room, sitting in a swamp that seemed like it was in mourning for it's Mother.
End chapter 1
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so... continue to write as soon as ye can as (I just know) I am going to have some "nightmare" :skullpeak:tonight as I dream about the inside of Tia's (POTCO) cabin, lol.
No doubt; I would be getting the heck out of there if that had happened to me. 
I can't wait to read other chapters!