John Saul - Cry for the Strangers

“Seward Park,” Elaine answered. When the chief looked blank, she explained. “It’s on the lake, at the south end.”

“Sounds nice,” Whalen commented neutrally. Then, eyes narrowed: “Why do you want to leave?”

“We don’t, not permanently. I’ve been kicking around an idea for a book for quite a while, though, and in Seattle I just never seem to get to it You know how it is — if it’s not one thing it’s another. I finally decided that if I’m ever going to get the damned thing written, I’d have to get out of town for awhile.”

“Why Clark’s Harbor?” the chief probed. “Seems to me there’s a lot of better places for you than this. Pacific Beach or Moclips, or up to Port Townsend maybe.”

Elaine smiled at the chief cordially, but she was growing annoyed by all his questions. If he has a house to rent why doesn’t he just say so, she thought Why the cross-examination? It’s as though he doesn’t want us here, the same as Mr. Glind. Being unwanted was a new experience for Elaine. Suddenly she was determined — almost as determined as Brad — to settle in Clark’s Harbor and make these people accept her. Carefully keeping her annoyance concealed, she spoke warmly.

“But those are exactly the sorts of places we don’t want to be,” she said. “What we need is someplace quiet where Brad can concentrate. I don’t know about Pacific Beach, but Port Townsend has entirely too many people who spend all their time having parties and talking about the books they’re going to write. Brad wants to avoid all that and get the book written.”

“Well, you people seem to know what you want,” Harney said when she was finished. He smiled thinly. “Ever been on the peninsula during the winter?”

The Randalls shook their heads.

“It’s cold,” Whalen said simply. “Not a nice kind of cold like you get inland. It’s a damp cold and it cuts right through you. And it rains all the time — practically every day. Not much to do during the winter, either — you can walk on the beach, but not for very long. Too cold. There’s no golf course and no movies and only one television channel. And I might as well tell you, we Harborites aren’t very friendly. Always been that way, likely always will be. We stick close together — most of us are related one way or another — and we don’t take kindly to strangers. As far as we’re concerned, if you weren’t born here you’re a stranger.”

“Are you telling us not to come to Clark’s Harbor?” Elaine asked.

“Nope. Only telling you what the town’s like. You can make your own decision about whether you want to come. But I don’t want you coming to me six months down the road and saying I didn’t tell you this or I should have told you that. I believe in playing fair, and I believe people should know what they’re getting into.”

“Then you do have a house for rent?” Brad asked.

“If you can call it a house,” Harney said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Tell us about it.”

“It’s out on Sod Beach. Been empty for quite a while.” He smiled tightly at Elaine. “Ever cooked on a wood stove?”

She hadn’t, but wasn’t about to admit it to Whalen. “I can manage,” she said softly, and prayed that Brad wouldn’t laugh out loud. He didn’t.

“You’ll have to,” Whalen said flatly. “The place has no gas or electricity.”

“Running water?” Brad inquired.

“That it has, but only cold. Hot water you’d have to boil on the stove. As for heat, there’s a big fireplace in the living room and a smaller one in the master bedroom. Nothing in the upstairs, but it doesn’t get too bad since the stairs act like a chimney.”

“You don’t make it sound very inviting,” Elaine admitted. In her mind’s eye she pictured the old house she’d seen on the beach the day before, almost sure that was the one the police chief was describing. “How long has it been since anybody’s lived there?”

“Nearly a year,” Whalen replied. “As a matter of fact, most of their stuff’s still there.”

“Still there?” Brad repeated. “What do you mean?”

“They skipped out,” Whalen said. “They got behind on the rent and one day I went out to tell them to pay up or go elsewhere, but they’d already gone. Took their clothes and their car but left everything else and never came back. So there’s some furniture there. If you want the place I suppose you could use it. Don’t think you’ll want it though.”

“Really?” Elaine said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice but not entirely succeeding. “Why? Is it haunted?”

“Some people think so. It’s the beach, I imagine.”

“What about the beach?”

“It didn’t used to be called Sod Beach. That just sort of came into being by accident. Used to be called the Sands of Death years ago. Then the maps shortened it to S.O.D., and that eventually got turned into Sod Beach.”

“The Sands of Death,” Brad said softly. “I’ll bet there’s a story about that.”

Whalen nodded. “It was the old Klickashaw name for the beach. Can’t remember what the Indian words were, if I ever knew. It don’t matter anyhow. What matters is why they called the beach the Sands of Death. The Klickashaws had a wonderful custom — makes a hell of a good story for scaring kids with. It seems they had a cult — they called themselves Storm Dancers — that used to use the beach for executions.”

“Executions?” Elaine echoed the word hollowly, not sure she really wanted to hear the tale.

“The story goes that the Klickashaws didn’t like strangers any more than we do now. But they dealt with them a little bit different than we do. We at least tolerate ’em if we don’t exactly make ’em welcome. The Indians didn’t.”

“You mean they took them out on the beach and killed them?” Brad asked.

“Not exactly. They took them out to the beach and let the sea kill them.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Elaine said softly.

“They buried them in the sand,” Harney Whalen said. His voice had become almost toneless, as though he was repeating the tale by rote. “They’d wait till low tide, then put their victims in a pit, and cover them with sand until only their heads were left showing. Then they’d wait for the tide to come in.”

“My God,” Elaine breathed. She could picture it in her mind — the terrified victims waiting for death, watching the surfs relentless advance, feeling the salt water lap at them, then slowly begin to wash over them; she could almost hear them gasping for air during the increasingly short intervals between the waves, and finally, inexorably … She forced the horrifying image from her mind and shuddered. “It’s horrible,” she said.

But Brad didn’t appear to hear her. His eyes were fixed on the iron-haired police chief. “I don’t see what that has to do with people not staying in your house on the beach,” he said.

Whalen’s smile was grim. “The legend has it, those people are still buried in the sand out there and that their ghosts sometimes wander the beach at night To warn strangers about the beach,” he added, leaning back in his chair to stare at the ceiling for a while before he spoke again. “Don’t know if there’s any truth to it, but I do know nobody ever stays in that house for long.”

“Which might have something to do with the lack of amenities, right?” Brad said.

“Might,” Whalen agreed.

“When can we see the house?” Brad asked. There was little point in further discussion. They would look at the house; either it would be suitable or it wouldn’t.

“If you really want to look at it I suppose we could go out there right now. Frankly, I don’t think you’ll like it.”