Chapter 15

Within the fort, only a select few, including Carrack, were privileged to have private quarters. Nestled at the zenith of a tower at the heart of the main building complex, his abode stood isolated from the hustle and bustle below. To reach this sanctuary, Carrack had to navigate a winding, spiraled staircase. With each ascent, a sharp sting shot through his injured leg, twisting his face into a grimace of pain.

The chamber itself was austere. Bare brick walls contained the room’s expanse, only broken by a handful of quaint paintings. These canvases, each portraying a distinct corner of the island, were remnants from the previous commander’s tenure. Anchoring one side of the room was an old, robust desk, swamped under a sea of town reports—most of which had lost relevance over time. Amidst this pile was Carrack’s cherished possession: a leather-bound journal that held many of his thoughts and musings since arriving on Helena.

For years, Carrack had filled numerous journals with his introspections, choosing to burn each one once its pages bore the weight of memories he wished to release. The recent events had diverted him from his usual practice, making his room seem more distant and unfamiliar. As he picked up his pen, every stroke felt laborious, each word a struggle as he documented the spiraling events. The casual banter, official meetings, the exhaustive search, the enigmatic Lady Matilda, and the chilling scene at the bathhouse—all were jotted down in a chaotic narrative, interspersed with his own reflections on them.

These writings were his therapeutic escape: a conduit to channel the shadows of his experiences onto paper, making his spirit feel lighter with every word penned. It was his ritual to exorcise the dark specters that haunted him. This time, however, the usual catharsis eluded him. Those emotions clung to him, stubbornly anchored at his fingertips, refusing to be distilled into mere ink on paper, leaving a residue of unease.

After an hour engrossed in his writing, Carrack felt the weight of exhaustion settle upon him, his eyes heavy and his joints aching for respite. Massaging his cramping hand, he peered down at the journal. The words sprawled across more pages than he remembered penning. The inconsistencies stood out starkly: his usually meticulous handwriting was now disjointed and errant, bypassing the hand-drawn lines meant to guide crisp, orderly sentences. At places, he struggled to decipher his own scribbles.

His sigh wasn’t just an acknowledgment of his sloppy writing—it was a reflection of a deeper frustration. How had he allowed himself to be so drained? Could exhaustion have muddled his judgment? Were decisions like granting Foeham such sweeping authority misguided by his fatigue? These probing questions began to whirl inside his head. Yet, recognizing the unproductiveness of spiraling into doubt, Carrack forcibly pulled himself from the quagmire of introspection and made his way to get the rest he so direly needed.

His modest bed, no grander than those of his men, nestled snugly in a corner, its headboard abutting the wall and its side touching a modest bedside table. The room’s ambiance was dictated by a sparse scattering of candles and a lone window that overlooked the town and its docks. The persistent storm clouds rarely permitted sunlight or moonlight to filter in, so it was often the jagged streaks of lightning that momentarily brightened his quarters. Carrack always found solace in the small fireplace in his room, its warmth giving him an edge of comfort absent in most of the fort.

With the fire crackling and quickly taking the room’s chill away, Carrack set about readying himself for a restful sleep. Shedding his clothing until only his undergarments remained, he grimaced as he peeled off wet socks and boots, unveiling sore and chafed feet. Placing them close to the fire to dry, he then hung the remainder of his garments on a taut rope strung across the room near the fireplace. This nightly routine, born from the perpetual damp of the locale, had become a ritual since he began calling this place his refuge, the consistent rains demanding the ritualistic drying of clothing.

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His methodical preparation for sleep paused as he remembered the contents of his pockets. Sifting through the assortment, he found spare bullet rounds, waterlogged notes, and most importantly, his grandfather’s silver pocket watch. Without hesitation, he tossed the illegible notes into the fire and placed the bullets neatly on his desk. Yet, when he grasped the watch, he paused, transfixed. The watch, while seemingly unremarkable, held an immeasurable value for Carrack; it was his tangible bond to a grandfather he’d never known. Holding it was like touching a memory, a brief sensation that seemed to bridge the gap between the here and now, the past, and even the great beyond. But as moments do, it passed, and with a gentle sigh, Carrack laid the watch on his desk, the momentary spell dissolved.

The consistent rhythm of raindrops on the window and the fire’s gentle crackle typically combined to lull Carrack into a restful slumber. But the challenge wasn’t falling asleep; it was staying asleep. His subconscious often twisted the comforting sounds of nature into ominous echoes.

His dreams, already dark shadows that tormented his rest, grew even more vivid and troubling following his first encounter with Lady Matilda. She had promised a means to untangle the web of his recurring nightmares. But rather than alleviating his terrors, her “therapy” seemed to deepen their grip on his psyche, blurring the lines between dream and reality. He resented her for it, but part of him acknowledged that it was his choice to seek her out. He had willingly bared his soul to someone whose intentions were, at best, murky. Her persistent offers for further sessions only added to his confusion. Was she genuinely trying to help, or was there an ulterior motive? He was torn about trusting her further with his fragile mental state. And while Alaina’s concoctions promised temporary relief, he was wary of relying too much on them.

Tonight, like so many before, offered no respite from the nightly torments. Hovering on the edge of sleep and wakefulness, the ambient sounds of his surroundings contorted into foreboding omens. Gentle raindrops, once a soothing lullaby, now took on the form of relentless, determined fists battering on a barricaded door. The fire’s reassuring crackle, a symbol of warmth and protection, became the guttural growl of a lurking beast, ever watchful, ever patient. In this surreal limbo, Carrack couldn’t shake the feeling that this spectral predator was merely biding its time, choosing the perfect moment when he’d be lost in the depths of slumber to make its move. And if it were to strike, what fate awaited him?

Choosing to surrender to the dream’s embrace, Carrack tried to ease his mind, favoring slumber over awareness. Yet the imagined growls became more distinct, louder, and disturbingly nearer. There were muted footsteps now, echoing just beyond his line of sight, resembling the tread of something that did not wish to be seen. While the fire should have warmed the room, a cold crept in, contradicting the bright blaze of the flames. Each soft impact sent shivers down his spine and caused his skin to goosebump. The atmosphere thickened, every inhalation a laborious, frosty task.

The footsteps were punctuated by a menacing murmur, eerily reminiscent of someone drawing a sharp inhale through clenched jaws. As Carrack tried to shake off the trance, the siren call of sleep threatened to submerge him further into its depths. A numbing coldness spread from his extremities, inching its way toward his head. A scream welled up in his throat, but his body betrayed him, rigid and immobilized by sheer dread. Each footstep, each chilling exhale, every snarl threatened to drown him in horror. The once-vibrant flame dwindled until shadows consumed the room. And then … another step.

Abruptly, a sharp bang punctuated the thick atmosphere. The familiar glow of firelight rushed back, warming the room, and dispelling the cold void. The chilling, illusory sounds receded, supplanted by the ambient noises of the fort. Carrack jerked awake with a gasp, a stifled scream escaping his lips. Before him, in place of a fearsome creature, stood an out-of-breath soldier, urgency etched on his face.

“Sir!” The soldier panted, grappling for words. “Foeham … the town … Something’s gone terribly wrong.”