Chapter 2: Mary-Allison Flagstone

It’s late. But Belzaar calls to me. After only getting lost in the castle twice, I make it to the lobby, which is beautifully adorned with golden chandeliers, windows reaching as far as the ceiling, and as low as to the ground. The stained glass would truly be beautiful if the sun ever breaks free from its cloudy prison. I wave goodbye to Henry and the hotel manager behind the check-in counter.

“Do be careful this late in the day, mum.”

Henry nods, his face flapping as he does.

“What is there to be careful about?”

Henry shrugs, the hotel manager shakes his head.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of Ms. Flagstone, Henry is an old man who believes in fairytales.”

“What kind of fairytales? I like fairytales.”

“Oh, Ms. Flagstone, you will love Belzaar then, feel free to explore as long as you wish.”

The manager steeples his thin fingers.

Henry steps forward, “Some fairytales are not full of fairies, and adventure, but creatures of the night that eat you before the adventure even begins.”

“What are you talking about, Henry?”

Before Henry can reply, the hotel manager welcomes a guest through the tall wooden doors with black rivets. Sculpted from iron, a screaming woman’s face frames the doorknob, and the handle acts like the woman’s long tongue.

“Oh, welcome back Mr. Dawson. Your usual room is ready, Henry will take you there.”

‘It can’t be.’

“It’s okay Hanson, I know the way.”

His voice, an accent from every country at once. The man from the ferry. I don’t mean to stare, but I can’t look away. He doesn’t even notice me…

‘He notices me!’

Our eyes meet on the line of tension I’ve strung between us. He nods, I’m a statue. No different than the hollow knights in black armor standing against the far-off wall away from the entrance.

And yet again, he’s up stone steps. Gone from my sight, but not my memory.

“Mr. Hanson… who is that man?”

“Ms. Flagstone, I couldn’t possibly divulge that information.”

“There’s nowhere else on the island for anyone to stay, mum. I’m sure you’ll see Mr. Dawson again.”

Hanson places his hands on the antique counter like he wants to slap Henry in the back of the head.

“Thanks, Henry. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

“Rent a bike, mum. It’s the best way to get around.”

“Henry, I believe it’s time to scrub some latrines, why don’t you get on that.”

Henry’s expression doesn’t change, his face still hangs like gravity is about to rip it off when he heads off to a dark passageway.

“Well, if there isn’t anything else Ms. Flagstone, enjoy your evening walk.”

“I’ll be renting a bike, thank you.”

***

Howling wind swirls in my ears, screaming like ghosts, ghosts that haunt every rock on this island. ‘It’s relaxing.’ For so long I’ve been trying to find a place, somewhere I don’t feel weird, strange, an outsider—A place I can be me. Though, who will I be in the end? ‘End…’ some words are meaningless.

Here, on Belzaar, I have arrived. Leaving the hotel that once served as a castle, which isn’t new, but there aren’t many renovations of the old fort since its construction in the 1600s—Castle Nightshade, that’s what the plaque in the lobby called it. When I glance back, Castle Nightshade becomes a miniature version of itself. The wheels of my purple bike take me far, fast. Or maybe I just like pedaling into the unknown.

It’s not long until I’m out of town, away from cobblestones and shops that look as though they could collapse at any minute. Though there is a charm, a different standard of beauty that most people won’t appreciate. I appreciate all things that hold their original form, but I could be biased.

My form doesn’t change. Just like Belzaar, I’m stuck in time. Do I have charm? Do people see beauty in me? Surface level, sure, but if they knew who I was, what I was—Would they run and hide? Or embrace me as the confused tragic being I am? Am I tragic? Most would say not, wishing for my gifts. But they don’t think about the loneliness.

The coast continues as I travel along its dipping and raising edge. Light beneath the clouds dims, becoming less reliable to navigate by. It’s the hour between the last bits of sunlight, and the silver of stars splitting the sky in two. Choppy waters below cease to exist. Only a few more minutes pass, and darkness consumes Belzaar.

There aren’t many lamp posts to guide me the rest of the way. I could ride so much further but, Henry comes to mind. His vague warning. The hotel manager’s persistence in shutting him up. ‘What is out there?’ What does Belzaar hide in the pitch black of its night?

***

Even the mornings around here are grey and dull. Another bike rented—green this time, and I’m off, soaking up the sea breeze and an alive island with tourists mixing with locals. Moisture sticks to my face with fog enveloping most of the horizon.

There’s a vibration inside me when I pedal out past my stop from last night. After speaking with an arguing couple at breakfast, they mentioned a beach a few miles outside of town, below the cliffs which adorn the background of Belzaar.

Descending down a steep hill, I kick my feet off the pedals, spread my legs, and let go of the handlebars, letting fate take over my life for a few precious moments. These are the moments I live for—might as well live for something in this long life. Though lately, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find any thrill that satisfies my thirst.

At the bottom of the hill, I take back control over my life, hit the brakes, and slide into a grass patch. Below, I spot what must be the beach. Red sand greets the tide, melting the grains darker, like the ocean is slowly murdering the beach, taking blood with it when the sea recedes. A stake with a worn-out sign attached reads, Blood Beach.

After a hike, overcoming numerous obstacles, scraping my forearm, and many bites from unseen bugs, I finally make it to Blood Beach.

It’s understandable why not a lot of people lay out. What would they be laying out for anyways? You only get burned with an overcast. But I’m here, I made it down, and I’m going to enjoy this bizarre beach.

Not knowing this is what I’d be doing today, I didn’t pack a bathing suit. There are only a few people playing in the sand, snapping pictures, all of them covered in red as if they’ve been in a horrible car accident. However, there’s an empty side of the beach near a cave. For reasons I can’t explain, I’m drawn to this side of the beach, like it’s waving me over.

Besides, I’m stripping down to my underwear, not everybody might appreciate that—Even though it’s basically the same as a bikini. You’d think by now, a woman could wear whatever they chose without whispering eyes. Skin is just skin.

When you’ve been around as long as I have, sexism means nothing. But I don’t think anybody here would mind, and I wouldn’t care if they did, but the cave is alluring, I want to be close to it. And it just so happens, that area is empty of judgmental eyes.

It feels like normal sand, maybe sharper, but still soft enough to stretch out on. My bare skin warms with the few rays of the sun that escape the clouds. Music of crashing waves rolls in my ears, but they pick up another, undistinguishable noise, echoes but, from where?

Sand leaks through the spaces between my fingers, and a small amount remains in the palm of my hand like blood turned to dust. I blow on it, sending grains into the chill air. And the echoes become more distinct. Maybe I’m finally breaking, going crazy, but the small voices come from the cave like it’s speaking directly to me.

Barefoot, leaving my clothes and backpack behind, I balance on the uneven ground, making my way to the mouth of the cave. Two large stalactites drop like fangs from the outside ceiling. Stalagmites grow from the ground, becoming sharp teeth for a hungry beast—And I’m about to enter through its mouth.

But, there isn’t a beast yet I haven’t tamed. Still, my stomach tangles up in knots, my heart races, warm blood fills my face with each step forward. Echoes turn to louder voices, all speaking at once, impossible to make out a word. The edges of my vision darken, a vignette around the mouth of the beast…

“Hey! You! Be careful!”

A chorus calls, not from the cave, but inside my head. One louder than the rest. A shriek. Nothing but black on the edges of my peripheral. My legs keep moving whether I’m fully in control or not—I must enter the mouth…

“You, stop! It’s not safe over there.”

Voices and heartbeats become intertwined, I can’t stop…

“Hey, please don’t—It’s dangerous!”

My vision clears. The ocean becomes music again. Wind howls with more than ghosts. A hand grasps my left arm.