A Sighting
By Timothy McDonald
Jack took the one-way ticket from the woman in the booth and pulled into the lane to wait for the ferry. He wasn’t so sure that this was a good idea, this island refuge, but his agent had insisted on it. It had been five years since he last wrote anything, and Los Angeles wasn’t doing him any favors anymore. At 49 years old, he was thirty pounds overweight and single without a hint of a social life in a city that all but ensures the spectacles of gaudiness—a retreat to an island in the Pacific Northwest certainly wouldn’t affect any ongoing commitments he didn’t have.
When the ferry sloshed its way into the harbor, Jack cranked his 1970 Fiat 500 onto the port side and parked, then got out and took the stairs to the upper deck to look upon what would be his new world for the next indefinite period of time. The ferry glided quietly through the dark seemingly still water floating through the mist and fog like the ferry along the Acheron. Pockmarked glows slowly poked through the dark hills in the foreground as the cold, icy wind sliced into Jack’s face, readying him for a nicely stoked fire and a glass of amontillado at his final destination, a house booked somewhere in the middle of Whidbey Island.
The straight, narrow drive along the dark road with encroaching pines, or their shadows, induced an eerie feeling of loneliness and only every now and again, a lamplight would brighten up the roadway as a small town slipped by like a blip in time. The Fiat’s bright lights lit up the skeleton forest as Jack drove along, his eyes fluttering to stay awake as he already began to feel the soporific pull of the island. Jack’s drowsiness quickly diminished as he swerved just in time to avoid a large buck lingering near the edge of the roadway. He checked his rearview mirror and saw the shadow of the beast lope off into the forest.
“Strange,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “I never see anything exciting.”
As he neared Admiral’s Bay, the fog crept in and out like patches of torn edges of a night blanket. Every tree, stump, bush and mailbox fashioned itself in Jack’s mind to be some nocturnal animal frolicking in the night. He turned down Perry Loop. The long, steep driveway up to the ominously looming ecclesial facade of a house turned Jack’s insides, but he parked and ferried his belongings in through the garage and up into the main room. He turned on a light and quickly lit a fire to warm away the cold and to give the house some cheer. White carpet, white walls, an inviting kitchen couldn’t keep away the quietness. It was all so still. Jack looked out the large church-like windows and all he could see was blackness and forebodings. Not a creature was stirring, and he felt like he was at the edge of the world.
“We’re not in Los Angelos anymore, Toto,” he whispered as the words permeated the stillness. He opened his journal and a bottle of amontillado and began to write.
Jack opened his eyes the next morning having slept with the inevitable strange dreams of a first night in an unfamiliar place. He sleepily sauntered into the main room and looked out from his new home. Clouds roved quickly across the grey skyline that hovered over the Crockett Lake Preservation, a large wetland just beyond a fence line of trees, a refuge for myriad chickadees, deer, blue heron, harrier, hawks and falcons, coyote, ducks, raccoons and as Jack would later discover, one lone sea otter. Parallel to the wetland was a long, narrow strip of roadway leading to another ferry terminal, the ferries braving the choppy green water with white caps crashing into
the shoreline—they were heading west towards Port Townsend and the Olympic Mountains. The day was rainy, windy and chilly, but Jack took out his journal cheerfully as he brewed himself a nice cup of coffee, stoked up a fire and began writing down his thoughts.
Dec. 11th
As you know, my trusty friend, I have left the City to treat myself to a retreat; although, both you and I know this retreat is no treat. Compulsory really. My agent thinks it’s high time I get another project going, and I, although reluctantly, agree with him. Yes, he wants more money, but all in all, he’s a good guy. Why Whidbey Island you ask? I don’t know, but I think he’s from here, or nearby at least. It looks fairly sparse, but I suppose I’ll go into town today and see if anything happens on this island. Island folk—it’s probably just a bunch of old timers who want to keep to themselves or maybe the types who want to rehash every lame boring story all the others have heard countless times. Either way, I’m sure I’m going to be cooped up in this large house all alone with nothing to do but to write. I guess I’d better start putting what’s left of my brain to use…
Jack drove into the quaint town of Coupeville to pick up a few things at the local grocer and decided to stay and have lunch at an eatery called Toby’s. A seaside bar filled with what must have been the entire town of local patrons as people were bustling from the bar to the tables gabbing over this and that. Jack saw that the bartender was pouring tap beer, opening cokes, taking orders, and food running all at once—she was no slouch. All the tables were taken, so Jack cozied up between two fellas at the bar.
“Be right there, hon,” the bartender called to him.
“Yeah, yeah, take your time,” Jack called back, but she had already turned away to ring in an order.
The man to Jack’s right, a large older gentleman wearing overalls and a big, bulbous nose turned to Jack. “Sally’s the best in town. She’ll be right over. Where’re you coming from?”
“That obvious huh?” Jack hadn’t unpacked yet and wore the same clothes he came in on—dark navy slacks, a white dress shirt a bit too tight and a large black puffer jacket.
“You look a bit like a bible salesman caught in a storm I’d say. Name’s Dave, but everyone calls me Bingo.”
“My name’s Jack. Let me guess, you play a lot of Bingo.”
“Bingo.”
“Bible salesman caught in a storm. I like that.”
“Your first time here at Toby’s. Start with the Penn Cove mussels and a lager from Penn Cove Brewery. You’ll be thanking ol’ Bingo here in no time.”
The man to Jack’s left abruptly turned and grunted, “You don’t need to be doing any of that stuff. That tourist stuff only brings more tourists here. And we don’t need that nor want that. Drink your beer and have your mussels. Then be off.” At that, the man got up and left.
“Sorry, young fella. That there’s Bill Dunlop. We island people put up with him only because he’s lived here his whole life. I reckon he wouldn’t make it too far anywhere else. You probably saw his house on your way in—it’s the one with all the political signs.”
Jack chatted up Bingo for the better of an hour, he telling Jack all the places to go and see: Ebey’s Landing, Fort Casey, Captain Whidbey Inn, Deception Pass, Meerkerk Gardens, and especially all the different watering holes likes Penn Cove Brewery and Whidbey Winery.
As Jack was heading back to the house, he was thinking perhaps the winter island was perfect: not too many tourists, great writing weather (he loved the rain and wind) and Christmas lights fired up by 3 pm. He began writing earnestly his early observations as soon as he arrived home. A few hours in, a storm began brewing and the desolate streets all but shunned the living.
When night came upon the island, it was so black that Jack couldn’t see anything out the glowing insides of the house. But he heard everything. The howling wind rattled the windows and blew the flames of the fire about like will-o’-the-wisp. Rain crashed against the panes of glass, painting strange elusive shapes on its canvas. Jack finished a glass of amontillado and poured another. He sat down, flung his arms out and then began to write with frenzy, a stream of consciousness of wild ideas, mostly slush pile stuff but some that could be used to light a fire of a story. Jack downed another glass and suddenly had the urge to brave the storm.
Rain pounded his face and wind bitingly cut into his body, but there was something majestic and surreal about being in the elements. His thoughts wild and rapid, he walked the middle of the road without a care or concern.
The next morning, Jack rose early and headed into town to walk along the boardwalk. The day was misty but calm. Few people were about, and Jack had the boardwalk to himself. He walked out onto the dock and in and around the sailboats that were there. The water was filled with mussels, tiny sea creatures and the occasional jellyfish. Some noisy gulls were cawing around something that had washed up on the beach. And a silent killer, a blue heron, stood statuesque in the water waiting to pounce upon an unsuspecting fish. The air smelled of brine and Jack took in a deep breath.
He popped into an antique shop once he was back on the main street. The shop smelled of old wood and perfume, and two older ladies were bent over some jewelry in one of the cases and an old man sat reading a newspaper from behind the register. Jack perused the ware, but it was the ladies’ conversation that intrigued him mostly.
“She never came back from her walk yesterday. No trace of her,” said a hawkish looking woman wearing a long dark coat and a blue scarf.
“Nothing whatsoever huh? Nobody found anything?” asked her friend who also appeared to look like an animal, Jack thought—mousy with dainty ears and dainty nose. Lovely blue eyes on her, he reflected as he peered into an old oval mirror.
“I’m sorry to interrupt and to nose around, but my name is Jack and I’m new here. Just arrived two nights ago.”
“Oh yes, we’ve heard all about you from Bingo. How’re you liking it so far?” said the mousy lady.
“Oh, it’s lovely.”
“Where’re our manners?” the hawkish woman said. “I’m Matilda, and this is Betsy.”
“Pleasure to meet you both,” Jack said. “Sorry to nose, but did you say a woman went missing last night?”
“Oh yes,” Betsy exclaimed. “A lovely woman too. Mackenzie Jones, she’s lived here her whole life.”
“And she’s very fond of her walks,” Matilda added. “In fact, she was out walking when she disappeared. She always walks around Ebey’s Landing, just north of where you’re staying.”
Word did get around quickly. “It was a scary storm last night,” Jack mused. “Maybe she got caught in the storm?”
The two women chuckled softly. Betsy put one tiny hand on Jack’s forearm. “Oh heavens no. Mackenzie has been waging war with the storms for almost 75 years. She’d certainly win if they tried to take her.”
Matilda added, “No, she went missing, vanished in thin air. And I’m sure ol’ Bill Dunlop could answer a few questions about it.”
“Wait, I met him yesterday. Quite a fellow if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, we know,” Matilda said. “Bill and Mackenzie used to be sweethearts until she turned his marriage proposal down. He was an ornery bull before that, and he’s been worse ever since. That was nearly 60 years ago. And he takes his walks at the same time at the same place as Mackenzie just to drive her nuts.”
Jack left the shop glad to have met the ladies. He bought some old painting of a ship on the sea because he felt bad having used the store as a hub for gossip. After lunch he decided to head out to Ebey’s Landing to snoop around a bit. He felt an urge to shed some light on this disappearance as he didn’t want to become suspect himself being the newest inhabitant of the island.
The scenic drive from Coupeville was filled with grazing cows in long stretches of farmland interspersed with forested areas and stunning views off the cliffs overlooking the Salish Sea. Jack careened around a corner in the Fiat and saw a large green pasture leading up to a bit of land that looked like the tip of a finger pointing out to the sound. A deep forest lay above the pasture and Jack saw a dirt road that could be walked along. He parked and began the trek up to the forest huffing along as his sedentary Los Angeles lifestyle kept his fitness in want.
Grey clouds drifted in from the west and rain began to come down, but Jack kept going. He came to a cemetery with old gravestones, some a hundred years old or more. Old island families he thought, and perhaps their ghosts. He kept walking until he came to the forest entrance. It was already becoming dark, and the trees blunted what light there was. Eventually, he came to a bench along the side of the forest path with the name Mackenzie Jones carved into the wood. This must be her route, Jack thought.
Suddenly, he heard a snap of a branch and spun around. Nothing was there. He waited and watched. It was eerily quiet, and he couldn’t see anything. The darkened forest seemed especially cold and gloomy, and Jack was about to turn back when he saw a flicker of light deep into the wood. His thoughts oscillated between absconding away or rushing with temerity headlong into the shadowy trees. There was another flicker of light, and Jack decided to move towards it; he snapped branches and slushed through the wet leaves. He was now so deep in the forest that
he could not locate the sun, and the darkness was all about him. He took out his phone and lit up the sinister trees seemingly smiling twisted grimaces. The flicker was gone, and he listened intently, but there was nothing—not a bird, not a deer, not a squirrel. Nothing. Jack heard his heart thumping inside his chest and the darkness drew out the fear of what could be out there. He quickly scurried back to escape the forest.
The next day, Jack headed down to Toby’s for lunch, and when he walked in, he found himself in the midst of a heated discussion between Bill Dunlop and Bingo.
“I ain’t seen her,” Bill yelled. “I saw her that night as I always do when we was out walking, but she didn’t say anything to me and I didn’t say anything to her.”
“Seems like you were the last one to see her,” Bingo said.
“I came here that night like I always do. Ask Sally. She’ll tell you. But anyway, it’s none your business. I already talked to the police.”
Jack sat down a stool away from Bingo.
“Now enough about it,” Bill yelled. “You’re scaring the tourist.”
Jack figured he meant him. Bill left a twenty on the bar and stalked off and out the door. Bingo turned to Jack.
“Sorry you had to hear all that. These island squabbles get heated sometimes,” Bingo said.
“I take it you asked him if he had seen Mackenzie that night.”
“Bingo,” he said. “Everyone knows their routine, and it was no different that night, but seeing as Bill was the last to see Mackenzie and their history and all, it’s a bit suspect.”
“Hey listen,” Jack began. “I went out to Ebey’s Landing last evening. I saw something a bit strange. There was a flicker of light out in the forest, but when I got closer, it would disappear.”
“Hmm, that is strange. Can’t say what that could be,” Bingo said.
“Yeah, it was almost as if something were lighting a campfire and then exhausting it just as quickly.”
“Hmm, strange indeed. Well, it is the island.”
“I’m going out there again tonight. Just in case I don’t return, you’ll know where I had been.”
“Bingo.”
Jack packed a flashlight, granola bars, a water bottle, his journal, and he put on gloves, a scarf and beanie hat that he’d picked up in town, a large warm coat, jeans and boots—he didn’t know what to expect out there. The night sky was clear, and Jack looked up, amazed at the multitude of stars twinkling down upon him. He found Scorpio and Orion, the Big Dipper and the small one. Jack hadn’t seen so many stars since he moved to L.A. fifteen years ago. A drafty wind picked up, and Jack wrapped his scarf around his neck and began walking towards the forest.
As he entered, he realized he would need the flashlight right away. It was dark as night in there and the mossy trees were clumped together—there wasn’t any light penetrating them. Out there, Jack could smell the earth and wet leaves. It was pungent, strong. He reflected that he could use all five of his senses on the island unlike in L.A. wherein everything was drowned out by vehicular noise and smog ruined any sense of smell. But out here, it was all coming back.
He walked along until he came to Mackenzie’s bench; he decided to sit down for a minute and see if anything would happen. He wondered how on earth a woman could possibly just disappear on the island. He could only imagine that she had had a fall from the cliffs and was taken out to sea, as horrible as that sounded in his mind. Or, even worse, it was Bill Dunlop’s doing. But, out here with the sky lit up and the peaceful forest, it just didn’t…
Suddenly, Jack saw a flicker deep in the forest as before. He bolted upright, turned off his flashlight, and waited. Then he saw it again, but this time it seemed to be a quick, iridescent flame. Jack moved slowly towards the light until he heard a low growl coming from somewhere. He stopped and looked around him. Only darkness. Flashes of light began popping up all around him in short bursts until one lasting iridescent flame lit up a part of the forest and Jack saw something, someone? No, it was too large to be a someone. And it had…Jack couldn’t think clearly. There was no way. It was an illusion in the lights, but where were the lights?
Jack was in the dark again. He waited, more from fear than anything else, until he felt he could turn his flashlight on again and get the heck out of there.
When he got home, he tore off the cork of a bottle of wine and tore open his journal.
Dec. 12
I saw…I saw something. This is going to sound absurd, but I believe I saw a big foot, Sasquatch.
I don’t know what to think. I was in the forest at Ebey’s Landing and suddenly there were lights all around me and I saw a large, extremely large leg of a creature. It had a dark fur, a humanoid leg, but twice, three times the size of a man’s. And I think I saw the foot as it scampered?—no, ran away into the forest. It was a tremendously large foot attached to that large leg. And then it was gone, and lights were gone, and I’m drinking some wine right now, but I didn’t have any all day. This is going in here my trusty journal because who can I really tell this to? Now…I really wonder what happened to Mackenzie Jones. There’s something strange going on on this island.
The next morning, Jack cautiously opened the door to Toby’s. There was a group already gathered at the bar, including Bingo, Matilda and Betsy and a couple of others. Bingo spotted Jack and waved to him.
“Jack, come meet Mackenzie Jones.”
Mackenzie was a smallish woman with a slight hunch but aged beautifully with clear blue eyes and a flirtatious smile.
“Oh, so you’re Jack. The gang has been telling me about you,” Mackenzie said, taking Jack’s hands into hers.
“I don’t understand,” Jack said. “But, you’ve been missing.”
“Well, that’s what they’ve been telling me, but I’ve been here the whole time. Never left. I think people on the island start to look for anything to talk about even if they have to make it up.”
“Jack here went looking for you last night,” Bingo said. “He was going to get to the bottom of your disappearance.”
“Well, that is sweet, not even knowing me. But, I understand you’re here to stay a while so I guess we shall become good friends,” Mackenzie said, giving Jack another big smile.
“But, I was there last night in the forest. I saw the lights and…”
“And what?” Mackenzie asked.
Jack leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “Surely you must know since you walk out there every evening. You know what I saw.”
“Oh Jack, you are too much. You are ridiculous. I love it. You truly are a writer. I think you’ve might’ve found your next story on this little island of ours. I suppose I’ll have to let ol’ Bill know I’m still alive and he can’t die yet. He won’t want to let me have any peace you know.”
At that, Mackenzie said goodbye to her friends and headed towards the door, but then she stopped, turned and looked Jack in the eye. She smiled at him and winked. “Come by my house sometime young man; I have some stories a writer might like to hear. Bring merlot, my favorite.” Then, she opened the door and walked out.
Jack called up his agent that evening. “Tom, yeah, everything’s going here. I’m happy you suggested this place. Hey look, I think I’ll extend my stay for a bit. I’ve got a story to write. Yes, a novel.” Jack sat down in the big room as the fire heated the house. He sipped on his glass of merlot and put his feet up on the cushion in front of him. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
