Fables & Other Lies

“Thanks.” I blinked the tears swelling in my eyes and composed myself before looking at him again. “So, where in DR are you from?”

“How do you know I’m from DR?” He raised an eyebrow. I shot him a look that made him laugh. “The capital. Born and raised. I did study in Connecticut for high school and college though.”

“Why’d you move back?”

“Home is home.” He shrugged a shoulder, smiling. “Besides, I’m hoping to make a name for myself in journalism. Everyone says newspapers are dead, but I want to bring them back and show people that they’re not.”

“How in the world are you going to do that?”

“I don’t quite know yet.” He chuckled. “It’s another reason I love coming to Pan Island.” He said it as the ferry began to dock, perfect timing. We held on to the bars in front of us as the boat swayed slightly. “Pan Island seems to be stuck in another era, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s a fair assessment.” I nodded. I left six years ago and hadn’t returned, but I’d kept in touch with my best friends and they were always complaining about the lack of change. “So, that’s what brought you here? To study the way of ancient times? I can’t imagine someone dressed like you appreciates mosquiteros and outhouses.”

“I don’t.” He laughed. “But Carnival is this week. I figured I’d enjoy it while I’m here. Besides, I was invited to the Caliban Gala.”

“Oh.” My brows rose. “You’re brave. You lost friends just off the coast of that island and you’re still willing to visit?”

“You know the tides dry up this week between the islands. I’ll be fine.” He smiled. “So, have you visited since you left?”

“Nope.” I gave a half-hearted smile. “I don’t do haunts.”

It was a total lie. My job was haunts. Or rather, taking photographs of places people believed were haunted. I was proud of what I had been able to accomplish with a camera in my hand, even if it was also what tore my family apart. When I was seventeen, my father gave me a spanking new Canon for my birthday. It was the most impressive gift he’d ever given me. More so than the Cartier watch he’d given me the previous year or the pale blue Vespa he’d purchased for me just a month shy of my birthday, a token of celebration for my early high school graduation. Little did either of us know how much trouble that Canon would bring. I’d taken photographs of our island, of the fog that never seemed to lift, even on the beaches that were visited by tourists from all over the world, not because of the sunny blue skies and palm trees, but rather their lack thereof. The photograph that really brought me success was the one I didn’t remember taking at all. It was a picture of Caliban Manor, a black estate, perched high on a hill, so secluded and covered in fog that no one had ever taken a clear picture of it until I did.

That picture had been the stepping stone to my successful career taking pictures of abandoned places and old houses, but it had also caused an irreparable rift between my family and me. It had gotten me kicked out of my house at seventeen and left me to fend for myself. Thankfully, I had great friends who had good families, and landed on my feet. It didn’t change the fact that I lost my father that night, lost my mother by association, and had a strained relationship with my grandmother, the person who had been closest to me.

Through the years, I’d been asked countless questions about that photograph and still couldn’t quite come up with a clear answer for them. To have taken the picture, I would have had to be standing directly in front of the Manor. The only way to get to the Manor was to go to Dolos Island. There were all kinds of myths surrounding just that alone. The tide was high most of the time and the turbulent waters between the two islands meant a likely death. Historians had long deemed it unsafe. Conspiracy theorists labeled it the second Bermuda Triangle. Those of us from Pan Island saw it for what it was though. The Caliban Manor was cursed and anyone who went near it suffered greatly for it. So, the question really should have been, how did a Guzman heiress stand in front of Caliban Manor and take a picture and live to tell about it?

I wasn’t sure. The only thing I knew was that the Caliban Manor had been the very first picture I posted on my website, The Haunt, and now there were Reddit message boards dedicated to deciphering everything I posted. As a side hustle to my side hustle, I took pictures for a real estate company called Old Houses Inc., which was exactly that. A real estate company dedicated to only finding and selling old houses.