Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set by Scott Nicholson Read Free Book Online Page A

silver trees beyond. She could arrive a thousand times, in a thousand different colors, from all directions above or below.
    I can almost her hear now, her soft footsteps on the stairs, the whisper of her ragged lace, the mouse-quick clatter of her fingerbones on the railing.
    Almost.
    It's not fear that binds my limbs to this chair, for I know she's not bent on mortal vengeance. If only I could so easily repay my sins.
    Rather, I dread that moment when she appears before me, when her imploring eyes stare blankly into mine, when her lost lips part in question.
    She will ask me why, and, God help me, I will have no answer.
     
    I came to Portsmouth in my position as a travel writer on assignment for a national magazine. In my career, I had learned to love no place and like them all, for it's enthusiasm that any editor likes to see in a piece. So neither the vast stone and ice beauty of the Rockies, the wet redwood cliffs of Oregon, the fiery pastels of the Southwestern deserts, the worn and welcoming curves of the Appalachians, nor the great golden plains of the central states tugged at my heart any more or less than the rest of this fair country. Indeed, much of my impression of this land and its people came from brief conversations and framed glances on planes, trains, and the occasional cab or boat.
    So the Outer Banks held no particular place in my heart as I ferried across Pamlico Sound to Ocracoke. To the north was the historic Hatteras Lighthouse, the tallest in the country, which was currently being moved from its eroding base at a cost of millions. I thought at the time that perhaps I could swing up to Hatteras and cover the work for a separate article. But assignments always came before freelance articles, because a bankable check feeds a person much better than a possibility does.
    So on to bleak Portsmouth for me. At Ocracoke, I met the man who was chartered to take me to Portsmouth. As I boarded his tiny boat with my backpack and two bags, my laptop and camera wrapped against the salt air, he gave me several looks askance.
    “How long you going to stay?” he asked, his wrinkled face as weathered as the hull of his boat.
    “Three days, though I'm getting paid for seven,” I said. “Why?”
    “You don't look like the type that roughs it much, you don't mind me saying.” His eyes were quick under the bill of his cap, darting from me to the open inlet to the sky and then to the cluttered dock.
    “I'll manage,” I said, not at all pleased with this old salt's assessment of me. True, I was more at home in a three-star hotel than under a tent, but I did hike a little and tried to be only typically overweight for a middle-aged American.
    The man nodded at the sea, in the distance toward where I imagined Portsmouth lay waiting. “She can be harsh, if she's of a mind,” he said. Then he pushed up the throttle and steered the boat from the dock in a gurgle and haze of oily smoke.
    We went without speaking for some minutes, me hanging on the bow as the waves buffeted us and Ocracoke diminished to our rear. Then he shouted over the noise of the engine, “Hope you brought your bug repellent.”
    “Why?” I said, the small droplets of ocean spray making a sticky film on my face.
    “Bugs'll eat you alive,” he said.
    “Maybe I can borrow some at the ranger station,” I said.
    The man laughed, his head ducking like a sea turtle's. “Ain't no rangers there. Not this time of year.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Hurricane season. That, and federal cuts. Government got no business on that island no way. Places like that ought to be left alone.”
    My information must have been wrong. Portsmouth was now administered by the National Parks Service, since the last residents had left thirty years before. An editorial assistant had assured me that at least two rangers would be on duty throughout the course of my stay. They had offices with battery-operated short-wave radio and emergency supplies. That was the only reason