Does It Hurt? (36)

I assume the ensuing silence is awkward based on how Sawyer looks like she’d rather be the kingfish beneath my knife, though I don’t feel any of it. His implication that I'm not a real man is obvious, but him being sorely mistaken is also fucking obvious.

Sawyer glances at me. “Enzo is a shark expert. He likes to swim with fish. Not eat them.”

I meet her gaze for a moment before focusing back on my task. Not sure why she’s defending me to an old crook who undoubtedly has an outdated view of what it means to be a man. I'm not even sure why she's defending me at all.

I'm not so threatened by Sylvester that I lack confidence in my manhood. He can think what he wants, it doesn't make him any better than me.

“Shark expert, huh? I s'pose you got to have a pair to get in the water with one o'them. You’ll like it here then. We get sharks on this beach all the time.”

I pause, looking at him and echoing, “We?”

“Sorry?” he asks, unsure of my point.

“You said we get sharks,” I clarify, grabbing another fish. “Is there anyone else here?”

“Well, you two are, ain't ya?” he grunts. “This'll be yer home for the next month or so.”

“Enzo is also a dick,” Sawyer cuts in.

I keep quiet, debating on if I should push. Normally, I'd chalk it up to a figure of speech, but not after hearing what I did last night.

“Thought I heard someone walking around last night,” I say finally.

Sawyer's eyes snap to me, but I avoid her gaze. After she had laid down again, I couldn't fall back asleep, bothered by her crying, and pissed at myself because I couldn't fathom why.

I wasn't sure how long I had been lying there for when I heard footsteps from above us, along with the sound of dragging metal.

A booming laugh bursts from Sylvester’s throat, startling Sawyer.

“Was wonderin’ how long it'd take ’em.”

“Take who? And to do what?” Sawyer asks.

“When this place first opened, lots of freight ships were passin' by in these waters. Then, the biggest storm I ever seen hit in 1985. A huge ship got caught up in it. Didn't know it at first, but it was carrying about eighty criminals. They were being transferred to a different prison when the boat capsized.

“I had my beacon on and waited up all night to see if anyone would make it.”

“Did they?”

Sylvester grunts. “They sure did. Four of ’em. Used some of the wood from the boat to keep afloat and kick their way here. Was on edge, let me tell ya. These was some dangerous men. Convicted of murder and rape. I couldn't just leave them to die, but I wasn't stupid enough to invite them in. As far as they were concerned, it was their lucky day.”

“So, what did you do?”

I continue to cook while Sylvester goes on with his story.

“I gave ’em some tents, a first aid kit, and some food and water. Storm was sticking around for a while yet, which means I was all alone until help arrived. Wasn’t letting ’em in for nothin', and they wasn't too happy about it. Later that night, two of ’em decided to break down my door. Course I saw it coming and was forced to shoot ’em dead. They died with those chains around their ankles.”

Sawyer gasps, her blue eyes rounding in shock.

“The other two learned their lesson and stayed outside.”

“Then what?” she asks, riveted by the story. I'm still waiting to hear how this has anything to do with what I heard last night.

“Only one of them survived. The other came down with a fever and eventually kicked the bucket. I did let him in when it got bad enough, and tried my best to nurse him back to good health, but he didn't pull through. Eventually, help arrived, and they took the remaining prisoner. Out of eighty men, he was the only survivor.”

“Wow,” Sawyer breathes.

“Those two I shot decided to stick around. Been creepin' in these halls ever since. Those damn chains dragging across the floor. Used to it by now, but I'll admit it took a few years to stop sleepin' with my shotgun in hand.”

I sigh, place a cast-iron skillet on his stove, and drop a fish into it, glowering at the pan while the oil crackles.

“So, you're telling me this place is haunted,” I deadpan.

“Sure is.”

Bullshit.

“Interesting,” is my only response.

I’ve always been a skeptic of ghosts, though I wouldn’t consider myself a disbeliever, despite being raised Catholic. But I am a disbeliever in Sylvester and everything that comes out of his mouth.

The old caretaker chuckles. “I know what yer thinking. Truth be told, I'd think the same thing if I wasn't living with these sons of bitches the last thirty years or so. That's ah’ight. I respect a skeptic. 'Fraid that's the only explanation I got fer the weird noises at night, though.”

Sawyer's still wide eyes turn to me. Clearly, she believes him.

And I'm not sure if that’s a good thing or not yet. Either she's going to sleep better at night, or worse.

“Do they, like, touch you and shit?” she asks, turning her alarmed stare back to him.

“Nah, they just get a little restless at night, that's all. No reason to worry. They’re harmless.”