Matthew Cornachione - Dansk Bay Hotel

But, I had to try.

Thea might have thought she was helpful, but all I had from her was a useless clue. So I made an idea of my own. I’d steal a boat.

I’d never driven (or was it “captained?”) a boat before, but how hard could it be? Certainly easier than walking 30 miles. And it had a better chance of success than visiting an old museum. Resolved, I pushed through the door and turned toward the docks.

And, nearly jumped out of my skin.

An old couple strolled down Main, the first people I’d seen out and about. Were they working for the ghost? Did they know what I was planning?

As they walked past me, heads down, I realized how paranoid I had become. The balding husband gently ushered his white-haired wife into a small church. Nothing sinister. These were normal people, living here under this evil oppression.

The ghost, or spirit, or whatever it might be, was scary as hell and dangerous. Even so, it couldn’t be all-powerful. I had a chance to escape it and damned if I was going to waste it. I took a few deep breaths, calming my nerves. I continued on toward the docks.

When I reached the ocean, the marina was empty save for a tiny silver motorboat, a dingy fishing trawler, and a wooden derelict. The tiny boat didn’t look seaworthy, not with whitecaps on the bay. My best bet was the trawler.

I headed toward it, but before I made it to the dock, a door opened over at Nekker’s warehouse. Instinctively, I slipped out of sight, hiding behind a bathroom stall. Definitely still jumpy.

Breathing heavily, I waited as footsteps approached. I thought they were coming my way, but they turned out onto the dock, then stopped. They were close enough that I could pick up on their conversation.

“Lucas still isn’t here. Got anyone else for me?”

“I’m afraid you’re on your own today.”

I recognized the second voice: Nekker.

The first man sighed. “Well, I need someone else soon. Damn hard to get a good catch alone.”

“I know, but it can’t be helped. Lucas was acting strangely, not a good fishing hand for you anymore. I’ll hire a better replacement.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes. Survival of the business comes first. Just don’t be surprised if it’s a lean week.”

“Of course not, Captain. You’ll give it your best.”

With that, the pair split, one heading along the dock, the other heading back toward the warehouse. I stayed hidden, though I wasn’t sure why. Something felt wrong about the talk. Lucas had to be the young man I’d bumped into yesterday, the one who wouldn’t tell me anything. He had been acting strangely, but more than that, he’d been acting scared. Did he know what was going on? Had Nekker fired him over it?

I had no answers, but, as the boat engine roared to life, I knew that my plan was sunk. The captain was leaving with the only seaworthy vessel. Sure enough, a minute later, the engine chugged, and I heard the boat speed off into the ocean.

For a moment I stayed quiet, listening for any sign of Nekker, or anyone else. When I heard nothing, I emerged from hiding. The fishing trawler was shrinking from sight leaving two lines of white in its wake. The warehouse was quiet. I was alone.

I still didn’t want to chance the motorboat. Maybe the derelict ship was in better shape than it looked. Not that I had a choice.

As I crossed the marina, I spotted a wooden sign lying askew on the deck. The word “MUSEUM” was printed in big lettering. Closer in, I saw Net Profit painted in script along the bow. Below it was a picture of a net scooping up fish-shaped dollar bills. So, this was Thea’s big tip. Classy.

I stepped onto the deck, the boat swaying beneath my feet. I hadn’t gone boating since I was younger, but the gentle rocking brought back happy memories. If only times were still so innocent.

Edging around the damaged sign, I tugged on the door. Locked. I rapped on it, as though there was a museum attendant inside who would let me in. Nothing moved inside.

My excitement stirred; I was about to do my first ever breaking and entering. Warily, I glanced around the docks. No one was around, not even the ghost. I shuffled back, then ran at the door, slamming my heel into the weathered wood.

It felt like kicking a tank. Pain blossomed in the back of my leg. I hopped backward then tripped over the fallen museum sign. I crashed onto my back, banging my head against the deck. Stars dotted my vision.

Looked like the spirit wasn’t going to need to kill me; I was doing a pretty good job on my own.

Groaning, I rolled to my stomach and pressed back up. My head swam, my hamstring protested, but I stood. I hobbled back to inspect the door, wincing with each step.

I’d pictured a gaping hole in the door. What I found were a few loose splinters. The door was old, but it was a hell of a lot tougher than I’d expected.

I needed something heavy duty. I walked along the deck and found a large toolbox toward the stern. Fortunately, it opened easily to reveal a tangle of aged fishing gear. I dug past a few nets until I found something perfect: a wicked looking spear. I didn’t know what they used it for, but I knew that it had a solid handle with a heavy metal end.

Returning to the door, I smashed the spear into the wood, again and again. Each blast echoed across the water. I was sure Nekker or someone would hear, but I didn’t stop. Finally, the wood split. A couple more blows and I made a wide hole.

Chest heaving, I tossed the spear aside and stepped into the museum. From the ragged exterior, I hadn’t expected much, but the layout was actually nice. A few intact exhibits stood in the middle with ancient nets, anchors, and various tools enclosed in dusty glass. Each item was labeled and captioned. The walls were lined with photos of old sailors and fishing vessels, some with articles detailing their exploits. It was small but cute.

I checked for some kind of engine control station, but saw nothing. If the ship could still be piloted, it couldn’t be done here. I strolled through the exhibits, scanning through articles for anything of interest. Maybe something could still help me out.

What I got was a quick history lesson. Dansk Bay had been founded in 1924 as a fishing town. They displayed dozens of different fish; I at least recognized salmon and king crabs. The town had grown rapidly until about 1940. That agreed with my earlier guess; the war had devastated the town. After that, there wasn’t much here. A couple of articles from the early 50’s proclaimed Dansk Bay’s plans for expansion to a fishing mecca. I already knew how those plans had turned out.

Other than that, I found a smattering of useless facts: tales of the dangerous-but-exciting life of a fisherman, schematics of boat design improvements, and a picture of the largest sea bass ever caught in Alaska. Not even a mention of the hotel.

Finally, I found another door toward the bow. My heart picked up. This had to be the control room. I tried the handle.

Shockingly enough, the door was unlocked. Maybe my luck was changing. I slipped inside.

As it turned out, this was the museum office. The room was abandoned save for a barren desk, a host of dusty filing cabinets, and a few rows of shelving.

Then, I spotted it, half covered by a tarp. A steering wheel. I rushed over. Once I dragged the tarp off, I saw the wheel was rusted solid. I tugged at it, but it wasn’t going anywhere; this ship must have been docked for decades. My shoulders slumped. I felt stupid for thinking I could captain this piece of junk.

I surveyed the rest of the office. At this point, it was little more than a large closet. I’d call it a museum archive.

Junk lined the shelves, stuff that hadn’t met the cut for the showroom. One section held old equipment, including a dozen spools of fishing line and, for some reason, a rusted toilet seat. Another held a collection of old books and journals from the town. The last section had stacks of rejected exhibits including “Widow Continues Char Fishing Pro’s Legacy.” Hard to imagine how that one got cut.