Read Online Dreadful Skin by Cherie Priest - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cherie Priest
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travelers often fear the boiler is about to explode.
I knew as well as the serving girl knew that it was a lie. It calmed them anyway. I’ve always been a good liar.
I told them to go back to their rooms and prepare for bed. We’d be stopped for the night, and they may as well rest. I told them that I would do likewise, but then I heard the screaming, and I knew that the bluff was up.
It wasn’t that howling sound—no. It was a woman in terror, or fury.
Based only on suspicion, I thought it must have been the serving girl, Laura. There was a primitive brutality to the sound, it was something less civilized than I thought an educated Irish woman might produce. It was not a sound that would come from a small woman, anyway; and Laura was a tall girl. Furthermore, something told me she wasn’t a nervous girl, prone to histrionics.
And she was screaming.
Only for a moment. It would be more accurate to say she emitted one great scream, and stopped. But it was a scream of decidedly imminent peril.
Several heads popped out of their respective cabins, but I ignored them—I don’t know why. I might have called for help, though they might have thought to help me on their own, and I don’t know why they didn’t.
Out in the elements—buffeted by the cascades and stings of the uncooperative weather—I ran toward the place where the scream might have originated. On the way and on a whim, I ducked back into the dining area and rushed to the kitchen.
Laura had taken the biggest knife, but I did not intend to charge headlong into danger unattended. I found a large serving fork. It was the size of my forearm, with three giant fangs as long as fingers. It might have looked silly, but it was heavy in my hand and I thought it would suffice.
Back into the rain. I was shocked; it hit my face as hard as a slap. It all but blinded me. It confused me, but I heard fast footsteps off to my right—so I chased them.
“Laura! Sister Eileen!” I called out. Nothing answered, so I kept following the patter, though it’d grown faint between the raindrops. I was following their memory more than their echo.
I was down the hall from the captain’s cabin, I thought. He might have been a tired old drunk, but he was the captain—he was the boat’s authority—and I thought that this must be a good time to rouse him. Strange things were happening on the Mary Byrd , and they were surely worse than strange. They were sinister.
But it was then that I realized why Laura had been screaming.
I came upon the captain’s cabin and was stunned into immobility. I stared into his cabin with my mouth agape, collecting the raindrops that streamed from my hair and down my chin.
His cabin had become a slaughterhouse.
The captain was sprawled, his chest and head on the floor—his feet and thighs on the divan. He was perfectly dead, without a doubt. No one lives while missing so much of his face and throat. Hardly any bit above his chest was recognizable, but for one bulging blue eye that pointed sightlessly at the ceiling.
His hands were torn and bruised too, and his wrists; he’d held them out to hold something else away. But what?
I thought of Laura with her knife, but I did not see her and I was not foolish enough to think she was responsible. No, it was only fear I felt for her, when I thought about her roaming the decks alone with her knife.
And where was she?
A crash might have answered me—or it might have told me nothing. At least it startled me away from the sight on the floor of the demolished cabin. At least it gave me something to look for and think about besides, “Where did the rest of him go?”
The crash was mighty, but brief. It sounded like a window breaking and taking part of a wall with it—it was decidedly different from the thunderclaps that coughed themselves into the sky every few minutes. The Mary Byrd shook a little—or maybe she just rolled with a river wave. The wind was moving her too.
The frantic patter of
I knew as well as the serving girl knew that it was a lie. It calmed them anyway. I’ve always been a good liar.
I told them to go back to their rooms and prepare for bed. We’d be stopped for the night, and they may as well rest. I told them that I would do likewise, but then I heard the screaming, and I knew that the bluff was up.
It wasn’t that howling sound—no. It was a woman in terror, or fury.
Based only on suspicion, I thought it must have been the serving girl, Laura. There was a primitive brutality to the sound, it was something less civilized than I thought an educated Irish woman might produce. It was not a sound that would come from a small woman, anyway; and Laura was a tall girl. Furthermore, something told me she wasn’t a nervous girl, prone to histrionics.
And she was screaming.
Only for a moment. It would be more accurate to say she emitted one great scream, and stopped. But it was a scream of decidedly imminent peril.
Several heads popped out of their respective cabins, but I ignored them—I don’t know why. I might have called for help, though they might have thought to help me on their own, and I don’t know why they didn’t.
Out in the elements—buffeted by the cascades and stings of the uncooperative weather—I ran toward the place where the scream might have originated. On the way and on a whim, I ducked back into the dining area and rushed to the kitchen.
Laura had taken the biggest knife, but I did not intend to charge headlong into danger unattended. I found a large serving fork. It was the size of my forearm, with three giant fangs as long as fingers. It might have looked silly, but it was heavy in my hand and I thought it would suffice.
Back into the rain. I was shocked; it hit my face as hard as a slap. It all but blinded me. It confused me, but I heard fast footsteps off to my right—so I chased them.
“Laura! Sister Eileen!” I called out. Nothing answered, so I kept following the patter, though it’d grown faint between the raindrops. I was following their memory more than their echo.
I was down the hall from the captain’s cabin, I thought. He might have been a tired old drunk, but he was the captain—he was the boat’s authority—and I thought that this must be a good time to rouse him. Strange things were happening on the Mary Byrd , and they were surely worse than strange. They were sinister.
But it was then that I realized why Laura had been screaming.
I came upon the captain’s cabin and was stunned into immobility. I stared into his cabin with my mouth agape, collecting the raindrops that streamed from my hair and down my chin.
His cabin had become a slaughterhouse.
The captain was sprawled, his chest and head on the floor—his feet and thighs on the divan. He was perfectly dead, without a doubt. No one lives while missing so much of his face and throat. Hardly any bit above his chest was recognizable, but for one bulging blue eye that pointed sightlessly at the ceiling.
His hands were torn and bruised too, and his wrists; he’d held them out to hold something else away. But what?
I thought of Laura with her knife, but I did not see her and I was not foolish enough to think she was responsible. No, it was only fear I felt for her, when I thought about her roaming the decks alone with her knife.
And where was she?
A crash might have answered me—or it might have told me nothing. At least it startled me away from the sight on the floor of the demolished cabin. At least it gave me something to look for and think about besides, “Where did the rest of him go?”
The crash was mighty, but brief. It sounded like a window breaking and taking part of a wall with it—it was decidedly different from the thunderclaps that coughed themselves into the sky every few minutes. The Mary Byrd shook a little—or maybe she just rolled with a river wave. The wind was moving her too.
The frantic patter of
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