THE BLACK PETREL .01

1

INTO THE WOODS

You fucking idiot.

Venus Pierce shake her shaved head simmering under the weight of her mistakes. She slouch at the old mahogany drafting table in the attic of Baba Vermont Victorian. Remind her of her cozy little studio in Chicago: no distraction, no noise, twice the size.

Fifty feet from where she is to the front of the house at the opposite end; half as wide, side to side. Sleeping bag unzipped and spread out under a rumpled bed sheet and heavy blanket on the oak floorboards behind her. Rickety brown space heater Baba refuse to throw away rattle orange hot in the near corner. Exposed brick and slanted beams trap the rising heat.

Venus push up her sweatshirt sleeves trying to cool off and calm down. She melt a hole through fog frosting the window overlooking Baba big back yard.

Trusted the wrong people. Said yes when she knew better. Said no thinking she was better. Got drunk on her own hype, driving her career off a cliff, crashing out a salty breakup.

Talent is not a plan.

Who do you blame is a trick question. You can only blame yourself.

And the price of arrogance is bottomless regret.

Venus stare at the empty notebook and silver fountain pen in the center of the table. Notebook and pen stare back, wondering what kind of magic she expect them to conjure.

Glazed donut and steaming mug of black coffee flank the notebook and pen on the left. Little black-owned bakery in the town square been there since she was five. Was surprised to see her in the off-season but kept it short; they was reading the lonely business in her eyes. James slipped two extra in the bag. Retta gave her a winking smile.

Venus tear out a chunk of donut and slurp a sip of their trademark bittersweet cinnamon blackness.

Focus.

Newton’s The Journal of a Slave Trader, Morrison’s Song of Solomon, and Gardiner’s Egyptian Grammar flank the notebook and pen in a stack on the right. Venus nudge Solomon in line with the other two; research for her third book, which is not writing itself.

Her sci-fi thriller debut about two cops in Chicago sold thirteen-thousand clicks in three months, despite a one-star-verified purchaser calling her depiction of Chicago disappointing. One Star questioned if Venus had ever been to Chicago (she been living there six years), as if this AWB could ever be considered an authority on people and places fifty shades darker than her.

Whatever.

Hollywood come calling with a six-figure option for the film adaptation. Deal fell apart over creative differences about casting. Production company wanted to go in a different direction. Venus knew what that meant.

Phone stopped ringing but she kept writing because what else she got to do? Two years later she spat out a four hundred page cautionary tale about two secret lovers in 1940s Hollywood. Biggest critique from the keyboard commandos about that story was how preachy it was, which was by design, but it flopped harder than an Argentine in the eighteen-yard box.

Three years caught in a doom loop of self-doubt and desperation, Hollywood come calling for the secret lovers. Showbiz tried to quit her, but content is queen.

Negotiated first refusal on the script but, again, the production company had notes on a specific kind of character development.

She lost her shit.

Apologized to the producer after the fact; offered to help her replacement get up to speed. No news was good news, so she kicked around a few ideas, thinking everything was green. Next day, agent dropped her.

Over email.

Seven years, tens of thousands of dollars in commissions suddenly worth a log of shit spiraling in the bottom of a toilet; over a misunderstanding about her place in the business of things.

There is. No. Loyalty.

Royalties dried up. Cost of living sucked up her savings. Was walking dead for four years wasting two degrees on dead-end jobs, trading time for money to make ends meet, stuck in a vortex of corporate misery until that car bottomed out on the road to nowhere.

She chose to bop instead of being a victim. Nobody was holding a gun to her head.

Venus side-eye Newton’s book.

Slave Trader.

Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, daughters, sons, aunts, uncles, grandparents—bought and sold, traded for barrels of pitch and sacks of rice like meat in a market.

Dead got tossed overboard. Numbers, not names. 84. 47. 92. Newton reported a drunk sailor rough-fucked a captive woman below deck in front of the others, including children. Squirted his colonizing filth deep in her womb then spat on her to remind her of how fixed her place was in the order of things.

Venus bang her fist on the table. She snatch up her pen, pop off the cap, writing:

Somebody . . . Has . . . To—

Plack.

Pebble smack off the outside of the window.

Venus snap a look outside.

Wind peel a channel through the fog to the line of pine and hickory at the back of Baba yard.

Stranger in a beige tunic and baggy slacks stand in the swirling mist.

Venus shrink from the window. Not sure if the stranger saw her or not. Overcast daylight should be throwing enough of a reflection to mask her in the attic, but the pebble bouncing off the glass not a coincidence. She crane her neck, peering outside.

Stranger dart behind a tree.

Venus shoot to the end of her chair, scanning the woods. Even if the stranger was standing sideways, she would still be able to see them.

Stranger, on cue, flit between two trees too far apart to travel with human legs and not be seen.

Venus yank the table drawer open. Her phone and a Canik TP9 Subcompact knock against the front.

Life choices.

Back door creep open. Venus step out, pistol low, clicking the door closed. Morning chill chew on her sweats. She step to the rail, scanning the yard. Potpourri of dead leaves, wet iron, and body odor brush her nose hairs. She clomp down the steps in vintage jump boots, marching through the back yard to the tree line.

Behind her, stranger glide around the side of the house from the front yard. They float up the deck, going inside, shutting the door.

Venus take a step into the woods. Blast of cold suck up around her, chilling the courage out her bones. She spin on her heels, racing to the deck, pushing into the kitchen, slamming the door. Flick both locks closed, peering outside, catching her breath.

Fog baking off. Stranger gone. If not, they better not come in this house.

Venus key in the alarm code. System, armed blast from the speaker a little too loud. She kick off her boots, trudging up the stairs.

Work to do.

Stranger float by the threshold between the dining room and the kitchen. Mop of dreadlocks mask her face; head cocked sideways, locked on Venus going up the stairs. Tunic and pants stitched together from coarse sackcloth, caked in earth. She pass out of sight, gripping a bone hunting knife by her side.

Venus haul herself into the attic, pulling the step ladder up with her. Drop the access panel into the frame, dusting her hands off. She stop halfway to the drafting table, confused.

Window open over the desk. Raggedy-looking squirrel squatting on the table stuffing her cheeks with manic nibbles of Venus glazed donut (which is now contaminated).

Venus ease into the chair not wanting to spook the squirrel, slipping her pistol in the drawer with her phone. She reach for the window, closing it to a crack.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

Heavy feet race across the attic floorboards. Venus whip around, but nobody there.

She heave a sigh, turning back to the little princess. Squirrel freeze, half-staring. Venus counter the squirrel fright with a smile, thinking she looking at her, but she not. She looking over Venus shoulder.

Bag of wet nickels and fried onion curl up Venus nose. Strange buzz tickle the back of her neck. If she making a move, the quicker the better. She cut a glance from over her shoulder to window to squirrel to drawer—four, three, two, one—she grab the pistol, jumping around to—

Thwack.

Dirty brown hand slap her into midnight.

***

Venus stir in the dark, bobbing up and down on her back. Water lap against groaning timber. Stale piss, shit and spoiled meat mix with the scent of sea salt and cedar. Venus bolt awake, knocking her head on the solid plank of wood above. Massaging her forehead, sound of her breath go a foot from her face, pinging back.

She throw her left hand out sideways, then her right. Left hand find a wall, tacky to touch. Right hand find air. Tacky something on her fingers smell like burnt pine. She think about how dark it is—bulb of light spring from her chest in an instant. It buzz. Her hand pass through it, no heat. Still in her sweats, she swing her feet over the edge, feeling with her toes, finding a shelf below.

Her heartlight shine to the back wall of three empty bunks as she climb down to the floor. Turning around, the light go out in a six foot cone before falling off into blackness.

Venus go down on all fours crawling on planks, sliding her hand along the bunks.

Chains drag on wood.

Venus smother her heartlight not wanting to get caught.

Voices whisper in the dark.

“Oo say dem take us?”

“Man say Gadsden.”

“Mamaaaaggghhh!”

“Shut up!”

Heavy boots boom across the deck above. Metal latch unlock. Iron grate bang open on rusty hinges at the far end. Square of light blast down nine wood steps into the void. Boot gang come stomping down—voices, no bodies.

Venus tuck herself under the bottom bunk. Boot gang stop inches away, blowing oiled leather and pickled feet in her face with a hint of lavender.

“Is this one here, number eighty-seven,” a gruff man say.

Eighty-seven moan.

“Turn him over, please,” a patient man say.

Phantom boots scuff and shuffle past Venus. Sticky flesh peel from floorboards.

“Oof, gods be damned that stench.”

“Doubt we get work or money from this one.”

“Can we save him?”

“I’m afraid these wounds are beyond my skill,” a haughty man say.

“Understood. Bring him up with the others.”

Eighty-seven moan. Boots scuffle around him. Chains clang. Shackles unlock.

Eighty-seven sigh. “ii . . . hrw.”

“What did he say?”

“Some ancient gibberish, damned if I know.”

Stacked leather heels squeak, gripping the boards on each step. Skin slide over wood slick with sweat and other juices.

Eighty-seven bony heels knock each step on the way up through the square of light. Venus push up from the floor, rushing to follow them.

She shield her eyes from blinding light until they adjust.

Black sails fat with salty wind pull tight on three tall masts, full rigging. High noon sun cook tarred human bones plastered bow to stern. Everything from forecastle and masts to the rails and quarterdeck covered in bones: woman, man, and child. Length and thickness give them away. Eight femurs spoke the barrel of the helm. Charred skull of an aardvark embedded in the axle.

Flies buzz around puddles of piss and smeared man-shit. Streaks of chunky vomit and blood stain the deck. Somebody did a terrible job scrubbing it, said to hell with it.

Splash.

Venus lunge for the starboard rail, desperate to see somebody. Hull cut foam through calm water. She drop her head, loneliness complete.

Splash.

Cool mist feather her fingers. Fog billow over the rails, pooling the deck up to her knees.

Splash.

“Dems da bodies.”

She half turn, not expecting to see nobody.

Dreadlock woman from Baba back yard lean between the spokes of femur at the helm, bone hunting knife limp in her hand.

“Sea took most.”

Buoy ding-dong.

“Sharks took the rest.”

Seagulls caw.

Venus look around, mystified. “What is this?”

Foghorn blare.

Dreadlock woman point her bone knife past Venus.

Tunnel whoosh through miles of fog in seconds. Rocky coast twinkle in the dusky distance.

Venus stare at the coast. “Why you showing me this?”

Four feet and three hands, nails packed with clawed earth, spider around Venus legs and torso from behind.

Fourth hand, with the bone knife in it, snake over her shoulder cradling her chest.

Dreadlock woman crane her head around, lips an inch from Venus ear.

“You tell me.”

Bzzzzzzzt.

Bzzzzzzzt.

Venus blink awake, drooling on the drafting table in the attic. Waking world come in slow. Window open to dark clouds. Steady rain pelt Baba back yard. No fog (except in her head), no dreadlock woman, no squirrel, and no donut. Nothing out of ordinary. No wet nickels—which she realize now was blood, no onions (body odor), no caked earth.

She trace the handprint on her face.

Buzzing rattle the wood drawer. She slide it open, pushing the pistol aside, pulling out her phone. She read the caller ID, answering on speaker, but head swimming somewhere between now and wherever she was an hour ago.

“Hey Baba. . . .” She turn in her chair scanning the attic, not convinced she alone.

“Must be nice sleeping in for a living.”

“I was working, actually.”

“You sound off, what’s going on?”

Venus spin to the table, looking at the unfinished sentence in her notebook.

Somebody . . . Has . . . To—

“I don’t know.”

“My house in one piece?”

Little claws snatch Venus attention over her shoulder. Shadow blot the window on the far side of the attic, at the front of the house, passing back into darkness. Venus grab the pistol from the drawer, drop the mag, slap it home and rack the slide, jumping up.

“Hello?”

“Yeah.”

Venus tap her phone flashlight on, crossing her wrist under her gun. She creep through the attic. No more surprises or strangers or slaps.

Squirrel scamper up one of the beams—

Pop.

She miss. Squirrel squeak its ass off, squeezing through the exhaust vent, out to the roof.

“Got-dammit,” Venus say.

“The hell was that?”

“Just—thought I saw something.”

“Well don’t kill yourself trying to find it.”

“I won’t.”

Venus lift the access panel from the attic hatch and lean down looking for signs to confirm her perceived state of aloneness. Mark her footprints in the burgundy high pile carpet. Dreadlock woman would have had to float into the attic—if she was there and not in Venus head. Different kind of investigation for that. Clear the house first.

She slip her phone in her hoodie pocket, wedge the gun in her waistband and climb down the step ladder.

Going room-to-room, she sweep the second floor, sighting over the muzzle, slicing the pie at each corner threshold for cover, looking for foot, leg, arm, head. Baba on speaker mean stealth a moot point; if anybody in this house uninvited, they better ID or get popped.

“So what you working on now?”

“More like working through.”

Second floor clear. She sidle downstairs to the first floor, pieing and crisscrossing from the parlor to the living room, study, dining room, kitchen. All clear.

“Know you not thinking bout that agent business.”

“Happens when you trust people and they shit on you.”

“That’s on you, not them.”

“That’s helpful.”

Basement door swing out. She hug the wall, kick it wide, pie the landing, first half of the stairwell. Clear. She flick the light on but pause her descent.

Scenario A: Down the steps. Look around. Noise behind. Dead.

Scenario B: Down the steps. All clear. Up the steps. Dead.

Scenario C: Down the steps. Look around—all unfavorable scenarios instigated by her going down the steps.

“You gotta decide what you want,” Baba say.

Venus slam the door and leave the light on because it got to be turned on or off at the top of the stairs. She lock the latch and tuck the gun in her waistband trudging up to the attic a second time.

“I wanna teach her ass a lesson.”

“Then put that energy into your book, cause I can tell you right now, she don’t give a damn about your feelings.”

“Good talk.”

Venus lay the step ladder across the attic hatch (like she should have done the first time). She plop down at the drafting table.

“Still say you oughta go down south for a week or two, get up close and personal with that history.”

“Hard pass.”

“Was reading bout this old hotel down in Charleston. Made me think about your little ghost story.”

“Little?”

“Mm-hm, not far from the water, look real nice. Telling you, they got something in the air down there.”

“Yeah, disdain.”

“Ain’t gotta go down south for that, hel-lo?”

“Hel-lo. . . . I’ll think about it.”

Timer beep on Baba’s end. “Oop, I’ma burn my ribs messing with you. Love ya, watch ya six!”

“Love you back. You too.”

Venus sit back, staring out the window, mindful of her breathing. Sounds and images blink from one to another: voices whisper in the dark, flies buzz around human waste and sick and death, a thousand screams fade to nothing.

Tree tops dance in the woods beyond. Venus sit up on her elbows rubbing her hands slow for the reveal. Black sail crack through the branches. Hull of the black ship dredge through the tree line into Baba back yard. It glide to a stop on a mound of earth, half in the woods, half out—about where she remember the dreadlock woman standing.

Venus lean on the table, more curious than afraid. Lightning flash behind her eyes a second time.

“AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHH!”

Wailing cry fade into the sound of lapping waves. . . . Seagulls caw. . . . Buoy ding-dongs. . . .

Venus pick up her pen, scratching dried ink from the nib in the margin to get it flowing. She add one word to that first line of her little ghost story. Most important word:

Somebody . . . Has . . . To pay.

feel free to leave me a comment or message about your experience with The Black Petrel. curious to know how you feel about Venus & where her story might be going.

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