The Root and the Grave: A Cat Is. Horror
Act I: The Unbinding
Chapter 1: The Breath of God
The wind did not howl; it screamed. It was a high, thin sound, like metal being sheared on a lathe, a sound that vibrated in the teeth and the marrow of the bone. Hurricane Zephyr, a late-season Category 4 monstrosity, was currently grinding the spine of Cat Island into the Atlantic Ocean.
Sarah Seymour huddled in the basement of the swaying guesthouse in Port Howe, her arms wrapped around her knees. The darkness was absolute, save for the strobing flashes of lightning that illuminated the dust motes dancing in the humid air. Above her, the timber-framed house groaned, the nails popping like pistol shots as the pressure dropped.
Sarah was a historian, a woman of facts, dates, and architectural blueprints. She had come to Cat Island to catalog the ruins of the Deveaux Plantation, to preserve the fading legacy of the 18th-century cotton barons. She did not believe in ghosts, or obeah, or the "bad wind" the locals whispered about. But tonight, huddled in the dark while the island was flayed alive, the rational world felt very far away.
Three miles east, in the heart of the "deep bush" surrounding the ruins of the Deveaux Mansion, the storm was doing something more than stripping shingles. It was performing an excavation.
Standing like a sentinel near the crumbled limestone walls of the old slave quarters was a Silk Cotton tree. It was ancient, its trunk a massive, grey buttress of twisted wood that looked less like bark and more like melted wax. In Bahamian folklore, the Silk Cotton is the house of spirits, a gateway between the earth and the underworld. Locals gave this specific tree a wide berth, even in high noon.
The wind caught the massive canopy of the tree. The ground, already saturated by three days of torrential rain, turned to soup. With a sound that mimicked a tectonic shift, the earth tore open. The tree, which had stood since the days when the whip cracked over the fields, began to tilt.
Roots as thick as pythons ripped free from the limestone bedrock. They snapped and groaned, pulling up tons of wet soil, coral rock, and history.
As the tree crashed into the ruins, crushing a wall that had stood for two hundred years, it revealed what its roots had been clutching for a century.
Wrapped in the stranglehold of the taproot was not just rock. It was a box. A coffin, carved from heavy lignum vitae—wood so dense it sinks in water. It was bound in rusted iron chains, crisscrossed and padlocked, and sealed along the seams with black beeswax.
The storm raged on, blind and furious, washing the mud away from the lid, exposing the strange, distinct markings burned into the wood: crosses that were inverted, and the symbols of the adinkra distorted into warnings.
The guardian tree was fallen. The jailer was dead. And the prisoner was waiting.
Chapter 2: The Gold Seekers
The eye of the storm passed at dawn, leaving a deceptive, grey calm. The tail of the hurricane was still lashing the northern settlements, but in the south, the silence was heavy.
Two figures picked their way through the devastation of the plantation grounds. Nardo and T-Boy were scavengers, opportunists who saw disaster as a business model. They carried crowbars and machetes, their boots sucking loudly in the muck.
"I tellin' you, bey," Nardo panted, wiping rain from his eyes. "The old man say the Deveaux gold buried near the big tree. The wind knock it down. It’s a sign."
"It’s a sign we gonna get crush if that tree shift," T-Boy muttered, though he kept walking. He was younger, superstitious, wearing a rosary that clicked against his teeth as he shivered.
They reached the crater left by the uprooted Silk Cotton. The smell hit them first. It wasn't the smell of storm-rot—dead vegetation and brine. It was something sharper, acrid like sulfur and old, dried spices.
"Look," Nardo whispered, pointing into the hole.
The lignum vitae coffin lay exposed in the tangle of roots, looking obscenely black against the white limestone mud.
"That ain't no gold chest," T-Boy said, backing up. "That’s a box for the dead. Look at the chains, Nardo. You don’t chain the dead unless you scared they comin' back."
"Chains mean they lockin' somethin' in," Nardo countered, his greed overriding his instinct. "Or lockin' people out. Rich white folks buried with they jewelry. Rings, watches, gold teeth."
Nardo slid down into the mud. He raised his crowbar.
"Don't do it," T-Boy pleaded, his voice cracking. "The air... it feel heavy down there."
Nardo didn't listen. He jammed the crowbar under the rusted iron chains. The metal was old, brittle from a century of corrosion. With a grunt of exertion, Nardo torqued the bar.
Snap.
The chain gave way with a sound like a gunshot.
Nardo grinned. He jammed the bar under the lid of the coffin, cracking the wax seal. A hiss escaped the box—a pressurized release of air that had been trapped since 1890.
The smell exploded outward. It was a physical blow. T-Boy gagged, doubling over on the edge of the pit. It smelled of formaldehyde, musk, rotting orchids, and copper blood.
"Open it!" Nardo yelled, adrenaline surging. He heaved on the bar.
The heavy wooden lid flipped back.
Nardo stared. T-Boy peered over the edge.
There was no gold.
Lying in the box was a man. He was tall, dressed in the tattered remains of a black frock coat. His skin was not skeletal; it was leathery, drawn tight over the skull, preserved and darkened like cured tobacco. His lips were pulled back in a rictus snarl, revealing teeth filed into points. But the most disturbing detail was the silver.
Two large, heavy silver coins rested over his eyes.
"Silver," Nardo whispered, disappointed but pragmatic. "Well, silver is money."
He reached down. His fingers brushed the cold, leathery forehead of the corpse. He pinched the first coin.
"Nardo, stop!" T-Boy screamed.
Nardo plucked the coin from the left eye. Then the right.
The corpse’s eyelids did not flutter. They snapped open.
There were no eyes underneath. Just hollow, black sockets that seemed to absorb the grey morning light.
A sound emerged from the chest of the thing—a dry, rattling wheeze, like dry leaves skittering on pavement. Innnn-haaaaale.
Nardo froze, the coins clutched in his hand. The corpse’s hand, a claw of jerky-like flesh and black nails, shot up with the speed of a striking viper. It clamped around Nardo’s throat.
He didn't even have time to scream. The grip was hydraulic. There was a wet crunch of cartilage, and Nardo’s head lolled at an impossible angle. The corpse tossed him aside like a ragdoll.
T-Boy turned to run, his boots slipping in the mud. He scrambled up the root ball, screaming for Jesus, for his mother, for anyone. He didn't look back. If he had, he would have seen the thing in the box sit up, its joints cracking like pistol fire, turning its eyeless face toward the scent of the living.
Chapter 3: The Transfer
Constable Marcus Bethel adjusted his cap, looking at his reflection in the rearview mirror of the patrol jeep. He saw a man who didn't belong. He was thirty, sharp-featured, and accustomed to the concrete and sirens of Nassau. He had been transferred to Cat Island three weeks ago—a disciplinary transfer, technically, for being "overzealous" with a politically connected suspect.
To Marcus, Cat Island was a purgatory of mosquitoes, potholed roads, and silence.
"Vandalism," the dispatcher had crackled over the radio. "Old Bight settlement. Near the ruins. Screaming reported."
Marcus drove the muddy track toward the plantation. The destruction from the hurricane was everywhere—power lines down, roofs peeled back like sardine cans. He parked the jeep near the trail head where a group of locals had gathered.
They weren't looting. They were standing in a tight circle, whispering. When Marcus stepped out, the crowd parted.
"Constable," said an old woman, Mrs. Rolle. She was gripping a Bible. "You need to go see. But don't touch nothin'."
"What is it? Looters?" Marcus asked, pulling his notepad.
"Worse," she said. "The Man in the Earth."
Marcus sighed. "Mrs. Rolle, please. I'm dealing with downed lines and..."
He walked past her, down the trail. He found T-Boy sitting on a stump, shivering violently, despite the humidity. The boy was catatonic, muttering, "The eyes, the eyes, the eyes."
Marcus left him and slid down the embankment to the uprooted tree. He saw the body of Nardo lying in the mud.
Marcus’s police training kicked in. He noted the bruising on the neck. Strangulation. Massive trauma. He looked at the coffin.
It was empty.
The velvet lining was torn. The impression of a body was clearly visible.
Marcus crouched. There were footprints leading away from the coffin. They were barefoot, narrow, and the toes seemed to dig unusually deep into the mud.
"Alright," Marcus muttered to himself. "Someone dug up a grave, killed the grave robber, and... stole the body?"
It made no sense. Why steal a corpse?
He climbed back up. "Who was in that grave?" he asked the crowd.
The silence was deafening. Finally, a man spoke up. "That be Silas Malone. The Overseer."
"Malone?" Marcus frowned. "That’s a 19th-century name."
"He didn't die natural," Mrs. Rolle said, her voice trembling. "They say he deal with the devil. When the slaves rose up, they didn't kill him. They bound him. Put him in the ground alive with the silver on his eyes to blind him from the road to the afterlife. You unbind him, Constable... you let the devil out."
"Okay, that's enough," Marcus snapped. "This is a crime scene. A homicide. Someone killed Nardo. I want everyone back in their homes."
He walked back to the jeep, frustrated. He needed forensics. He needed a coroner. He didn't need ghost stories.
Chapter 4: The Bush Doctor
That evening, the sun set in a bruise-colored sky. Marcus sat in the small police station, typing his report. The generator hummed outside.
Victim: Nardo Smith. Cause of Death: Asphyxiation / Broken Neck. Suspect: Unknown. Note: Grave of 'Silas Malone' disturbed.
He looked at the evidence bag on his desk. He had found a fragment of the chain near the coffin. It was wrought iron, cold and heavy.
He needed to talk to someone who knew the history, not the folklore. The locals kept mentioning one name: Joshua Adderley. Pa Josh.
Marcus drove his jeep deep into the interior, toward the Golden Grove ruins. Pa Josh lived in a shack that looked like it had grown out of the limestone itself. The yard was cluttered with conch shells, bleached driftwood, and blue glass bottles hanging from the trees.
Marcus stepped out. The air here smelled of burning sage and damp earth.
"Officer," a voice rasped from the porch.
Pa Josh sat in a rocking chair that seemed held together by hope and twine. He was eighty years old, skin like crumpled parchment, eyes milky with cataracts but disturbingly sharp. He wore a faded mechanics shirt and held a carved walking stick made of Buttonwood.
"Mr. Adderley," Marcus said. "I'm investigating the death of Nardo Smith."
"Nardo was a fool," Josh said. He didn't stand up. "Greedy fool. He break the seal."
"You know about the grave?"
"I know what my grandfather tell me. I know what the bush tell me." Josh pointed a gnarled finger at Marcus. "You smell like city, boy. You smell like skepticism."
"I deal in facts, Mr. Adderley. A man is dead. A body is missing."
"Not missing," Josh corrected. "Walking."
Marcus rubbed his temples. "Look, I know you're the... local healer. The Obeah man. I respect the culture, but I need to know who would want to steal a corpse."
Josh laughed, a sound like dry hacking. "You think this is a game? Silas Malone was a wicket man. He work the people to death. He work the land to death. He learn things from the books he bring from Haiti. Dark things. He wanted to live forever. So he make a pact."
"A pact," Marcus repeated flatly.
"He fix himself," Josh said, leaning forward. "He drink the mixture. Mercury, gunpowder, grave dirt. When the people rise up, they couldn't kill him. The cutlass bounce off his skin. So they chain him. They put the silver on his eyes to weigh down his spirit, and they bury him deep under the silk cotton to hold him down."
Josh stood up, surprisingly tall. "The storm move the tree. The fool break the chain. Now the spirit and the flesh are reunite. But the spirit is angry. And the flesh is hungry."
"Hungry for what?"
"For the bloodline," Josh whispered. "He comin' for the children of the people who put him there. And he comin' to finish the ritual he start a hundred years ago."
Marcus turned to leave. "If you hear anything real, let me know."
"Constable!" Josh called out.
Marcus stopped.
"Law books don't work on things that don't breathe. Get yourself some salt. And stay out the dark."
Act II: The Wrecking
Chapter 5: The First Blood
The attacks began at midnight.
In the settlement of Devil's Point, a farmer named Clement woke to the sound of his goats screaming. It wasn't the bleating of hungry animals; it was the terror-shriek of prey.
Clement grabbed his shotgun and ran to the pen. The flashlight beam cut through the humid dark.
The scene was a slaughterhouse. Six goats lay dead. But there was no blood on the ground. They hadn't been mauled by dogs. Their heads were twisted around 180 degrees. Snapped.
And standing in the center of the pen was a figure.
It stood seven feet tall. The tattered frock coat hung in strips. The skin was grey and tight.
"Hey!" Clement shouted, racking the slide of the shotgun. "You get out of there!"
The figure turned. The flashlight caught the face—the eyeless sockets, the lipless grin.
Clement fired. Boom.
The buckshot hit the figure squarely in the chest. It should have torn a man in half at this range.
The figure didn't even stumble. The pellets hit the leathery chest with a sound like hail hitting a tin roof. Pink-pink-pink.
The figure walked forward. It didn't run. It moved with a jerky, unstoppable momentum.
Clement fired again. The shot went wild as his hands shook.
The creature reached out. It backhanded Clement. The blow lifted the farmer off his feet and threw him twenty feet into the wall of his barn. Darkness took him.
Chapter 6: The Skeptic Breaks
Marcus got the call at 1:00 AM. He arrived at Devil's Point to find the medics loading Clement onto the back of a truck to take him to the settlement clinic. The farmer was alive, barely—concussed, broken ribs.
"He say a monster hit him," the medic told Marcus. "Say he shot it, but it didn't bleed."
Marcus walked to the goat pen. He saw the dead animals. He found the wadding from the shotgun shell. He looked at the ground.
There were footprints. The same barefoot, narrow prints he had seen at the grave. But here, the earth was scorched, as if the feet were burning hot.
Marcus followed the tracks. They led out of the settlement, onto the main road, heading north.
"Where are you going?" he whispered.
He got back in the jeep and followed the road. Two miles up, he saw the head lights of the transport truck which had left ahead of him, stopped in the middle of the road.
Marcus pulled up, hand on his holster. The driver was standing in the road, pointing.
"It... it just walked through the truck," the driver stammered.
"What?"
Marcus looked. The front grill of the truck was smashed inward, shaped like a human body had simply walked into it without stopping.
And then Marcus saw it.
Walking down the center of the Queen’s Highway, illuminated by the high beams, was the figure. It walked with a stiff, lurching gait.
Marcus grabbed the loudspeaker mic. "Police! Stop right there! Get on the ground!"
The figure stopped. It slowly turned.
Marcus froze. Even at fifty yards, the aura of malice was palpable. The thing raised a hand, pointing toward the hills.
Then, with a burst of impossible speed, it darted into the bush. It moved not like a man, but like a spider, scrabbling over the limestone rocks.
Marcus stood there, the humidity sticking his shirt to his back. He had seen the shotgun wound on the creature's chest. It was just a grey smudge. No blood.
Law books don't work on things that don't breathe.
Marcus holstered his gun. His hands were shaking. He turned the jeep around. He wasn't going back to the station. He was going to Golden Grove.
Chapter 7: The Fix
Pa Josh was awake when Marcus arrived. He had a fire going in the yard, boiling a large iron pot that smelled of turpentine and bitterness.
"You see him," Josh said. It wasn't a question.
Marcus sat down heavily on the porch steps. "I shot it. Or... Clement did. It didn't care."
"Bullets is for flesh," Josh said, stirring the pot. "Silas ain't flesh no more. He is a vessel. A dry husk holding a demon."
"How do we stop it?" Marcus asked, his voice stripping away the facade of authority. "I need to know how to kill it."
"We can't kill him," Josh said. "He done dead. We have to unbind the spirit from the body. We have to make the house too hot for the guest."
Josh hobbled over to a table covered in jars. "Silas want two things. He want his silver back—the coins T-Boy run with. They are his eyes. Without them, he see only shadows. With them, he see the world. And he want the High Place."
"Mt. Alvernia," Marcus realized. "The Hermitage."
"The highest point," Josh nodded. "The Holy Ground. If he spill blood there on the altar during the Blood Moon—which is tonight—he can anchor himself. He won't be a rotting corpse no more. He will be a permanent thing. A lord of the dead."
Marcus stood up. "T-Boy. We need to find T-Boy and get those coins before Silas does."
"And we need the Bath," Josh said. He poured the black liquid from the pot into a glass jar. "Guinea pepper, grave dirt from a priest, holy water, and Gum Elemi. This will burn the spirit. But you need to get close. You need to hold him down."
"Me?"
"I am eighty years old, boy. I can do the chanting, but I can't wrestle a zombie. You the police. You used to wrestling bad men."
"This isn't a man."
"No," Josh handed him a machete. The blade was smeared with a white paste. "This here is dipped in salt and lime. It will cut him. It will hurt him. But it won't stop him. Only the fire will stop him."
Chapter 8: The Hunt for T-Boy
The wind was picking up again. Not a hurricane, but a stiff trade wind that rattled the palms. Marcus drove, Josh riding shotgun, clutching a bag of powders and the jar of black liquid.
"Where does T-Boy live?" Marcus asked.
"He hide," Josh said. "He scared. He go to the old packing house near Smith's Bay."
They sped down the darkened highway. The island felt empty, as if every cricket and tree frog had gone silent in anticipation.
They reached the packing house, a derelict concrete shell. Marcus drew his gun, holding the flashlight in his other hand. Josh gripped his staff.
"T-Boy!" Marcus shouted.
Silence.
They entered the building. The beam of the flashlight swept over rotting crates and old machinery.
"Do you smell it?" Josh whispered.
The scent was there. Sulfur. Spices.
"He's here," Marcus said, clicking the safety off.
They found T-Boy in the back office. Or what was left of him.
He was pinned to the wall, suspended by a rusted length of rebar that had been driven through his chest. His eyes were wide, staring at nothing.
And his pockets were turned inside out.
"The coins," Josh hissed. "He has the coins."
A low rumble shook the floor. It wasn't thunder. It was a laugh. A dry, rasping sound coming from the roof.
Marcus shined the light up.
Silas Malone was crouched on the rafters, twenty feet up. He looked different now. Stronger. The grey skin had taken on a sheen, like polished leather. And in his eye sockets, glinting in the flashlight beam, were the two silver coins.
He could see.
"Cover your ears!" Josh yelled.
Silas opened his mouth and let out a sound that wasn't human. It was a sonic wave of pure malice.
Marcus dropped to his knees, his hands clamping over his ears. The glass windows of the office shattered.
Silas dropped from the rafters, landing in a crouch. He looked at Marcus, the silver coins catching the light.
"He... is... mine..." The voice sounded like stones grinding together.
Josh stepped forward, throwing a handful of powder. "Back, you devil! In Nomine Patris!"
The powder hit Silas. It sparked like gunpowder. Silas roared, stumbling back, smoke rising from his coat.
"Run!" Josh yelled. "He is too strong here! We have to beat him to the Mount!"
Marcus scrambled up, firing three shots blindly at the creature to cover their escape. They bolted for the jeep.
As they peeled out of the lot, Marcus looked in the mirror. Silas was standing in the doorway, watching them. He didn't chase. He turned and began walking south, toward the silhouette of the highest hill.
Act III: The Ascension
Chapter 9: The Holy Hill
Mt. Alvernia is not a mountain by continental standards, rising only 206 feet above sea level. But on the flat landscape of the Bahamas, it is Everest. At its peak sits the Hermitage, a miniature stone monastery built by hand by Father Jerome in 1939. It is a place of profound peace.
Tonight, it was a battlefield.
Marcus and Josh parked at the base of the hill. The moon was rising—a heavy, amber Blood Moon that bathed the scrubland in bruised light.
"He is coming," Josh said, leaning heavily on his staff. "He will take the direct path. Through the bush. We have to take the stairs."
They began the climb. The stone steps were carved into the rock, flanked by the Stations of the Cross.
"Why here?" Marcus panted, the machete heavy in his hand.
"The connection," Josh wheezed. "Father Jerome build this place to be close to God. But before him, the old slaves used this hill to talk to the ancestors. It is a thin place. The veil is weak. If Silas spills blood on the altar up there, he tears the veil. He brings hell to Cat Island."
They reached the summit. The monastery was small, a beautiful labyrinth of stone arches and tiny cells. The wind whipped around them.
Marcus looked out over the island. He could see the ocean on both sides, silver and black.
"Prepare the circle," Josh commanded.
They went into the small chapel. Josh began pouring salt in a circle around the stone altar. He lit candles—black wax. He uncorked the jar of "binding bath."
"When he comes," Josh said, "he will try to enter the sanctuary. You must stop him at the door. I need time to read the psalm. When I say 'Now,' you douse him with the oil. And then..." Josh pulled a silver lighter from his pocket. "We burn him."
"We burn the church?"
"Better a burnt church than a kingdom of the dead," Josh said grimly.
Chapter 10: The Confrontation
They didn't have to wait long.
The sound came from the cliff face—the sound of rock crumbling. Silas wasn't using the stairs. He was climbing the sheer vertical face of the limestone.
A hand, black and clawed, gripped the edge of the parapet.
Marcus stepped out of the chapel, into the small courtyard. He raised the white-smeared machete.
"End of the line, Silas!" Marcus shouted, trying to project authority he didn't feel.
Silas pulled himself up over the ledge. He stood to his full height. The silver coins in his eyes reflected the Blood Moon, making him look like he had eyes of fire.
"The... Law..." Silas rasped, his voice stronger now. "I... am... the Law."
He lunged.
The speed was terrifying. Marcus barely had time to sidestep. He swung the machete.
Thwack.
The blade bit into Silas’s shoulder and stuck in deeply. The salt and lime paste reacted instantly. Silas roared—a human sound of pain this time. Smoke hissed from the wound.
He backhanded Marcus. It felt like being hit by a car door. Marcus flew backward, crashing into the stone bell tower. His vision swam.
Silas advanced, pulling the machete from his shoulder and tossing it over the cliff.
"Josh!" Marcus groaned.
From inside the chapel, Josh’s voice rose, chanting in a mix of Latin and Old Tongue. " Exsurgat Deus, et dissipentur inimici eius..."
Silas flinched. The words seemed to physically strike him. He turned toward the chapel door.
Marcus forced himself up. His ribs were definitely broken. He saw Silas reaching for the chapel entrance.
Marcus tackled him.
It was like tackling a tree trunk. Marcus wrapped his arms around the creature’s waist, driving him away from the door. They crashed onto the stone patio.
Silas smelled of the grave and the storm. He grabbed Marcus by the throat. The grip tightened. Marcus saw stars. He looked into the silver coins and saw his own distorted reflection.
"Die..." Silas whispered.
"NOW!" Josh screamed.
The old man stood in the doorway, holding the jar. He didn't throw it at Silas. He threw it at Marcus.
The thick, oily liquid splashed over Marcus’s face, soaking his shirt, and splashing onto Silas, who was on top of him.
It burned like acid. Marcus screamed. Silas shrieked, his grip loosening.
"The light, Marcus!" Josh yelled. "Light it!"
Marcus fumbled for the lighter Josh had given him earlier. His fingers were slippery with the oil. Silas was clawing at his face, trying to wipe the stinging fluid away.
Marcus flicked the wheel.
Spark. Nothing.
Silas raised a fist to crush Marcus’s skull.
Marcus flicked it again.
Whoosh.
Chapter 11: The Fire
The Gum Elemi oil was highly flammable. The fire didn't catch slowly; it erupted.
Marcus felt the heat sear his eyebrows. He kicked Silas away, rolling across the stone floor, frantically patting out the flames on his own arms.
Silas was a torch.
The creature stood up, engulfed in blue and orange flames. The fire was spiritual as much as physical; it consumed the preservation spells, the dark magic, the unnatural bond.
Silas didn't scream. He laughed. A high, wild sound.
He stumbled toward the edge of the cliff. The silver coins fell from his eyes, melting in the heat, hitting the stone with a ping.
Josh stepped out, his staff raised. "Go back to the dirt, Silas! Dust to dust!"
Silas looked at the old man, then at the moon. The body was disintegrating, the leather skin peeling away to reveal blackened bone.
With a final, convulsing shudder, the creature toppled backward over the parapet.
Marcus crawled to the edge. He watched the ball of fire fall two hundred feet, crashing into the thick canopy of the deep bush below. The fire continued to burn for a moment, then, as if swallowed by the island itself, it winked out.
Marcus lay on the cold stone, gasping for air. The smell of smoke and ozone was overpowering.
Josh limped over to him. He looked down, his face weary.
"You okay, Constable?"
Marcus looked at his burnt arms, his torn uniform. He looked at the melted silver coins on the patio.
"Yeah," Marcus rasped. "I'm okay."
"Good," Josh said. "Because we got to clean this up before the tourists come in the morning."
Act IV: The Morning After
Chapter 12: The Report
The sun was bright and harsh the next day. The sky was a polished blue, innocent of the violence of the night before.
Marcus sat at his desk. His arms were bandaged. He typed slowly.
Incident Report: Old Bight / Mt. Alvernia. Subject: Vandalism / Fire. Details: A lightning strike caused a localized fire at the Hermitage. Minimal damage to structure. Suspects in the grave robbery of 'Silas Malone' (Nardo Smith, T-Boy) found dead. Cause of death: Storm-related trauma / Structural collapse of packing house.
He stared at the screen. It was a pack of lies. It was the only story the world would accept.
He printed it and signed it.
He walked out to the jeep. On the passenger seat was a brown paper bag. Inside was a bottle—a blue glass bottle, filled with sea water, a pinch of dirt, and sealed with red wax.
Chapter 13: The Guardian
Marcus drove to Golden Grove. Pa Josh was on his porch, whittling a new piece of Buttonwood.
"Report filed?" Josh asked, not looking up.
"Filed," Marcus said.
"And the coins?"
"I threw them in the Blue Hole," Marcus said. "Deepest water I could find. No one’s getting them back."
Josh nodded. "Good."
Marcus took the blue bottle from the jeep. He walked over to the large Tamarind tree in Josh’s yard. He took a nail and a hammer and drove the nail through the neck of the plastic bottle, securing it to the trunk.
It was a protection charm. A way to catch the spirits before they could enter the yard.
Josh stopped whittling. He smiled, a genuine, toothless smile.
"You learning, Constable. You learning."
Marcus looked at the old man, then at the dense, green wall of the bush that surrounded them. He knew now what lay in the shadows. He knew the history wasn't dead; it was just waiting.
"See you around, Pa Josh," Marcus said.
"Walk good, Marcus," Josh replied. "Walk good."
Marcus got in the jeep. He didn't turn on the radio. He rolled down the window, listening to the wind in the casuarinas, listening for the whispers in the trees, ready to listen if the island spoke again.
