Pale chests and arms, white as angel feathers. Hands tucked into the pockets of their stained shorts.
Glowing figures, they moved in unison, walking together lightly over the soaked sand. Blue eyes locked on Lea. Closer.
Until Lea was forced to cut the spell. She blinked a few times. Then, squinting harder at them, she called out, shouting over the roar of the dark rain, “Can I help you?”
PART ONE
1
BLOG POST
BY LEA HARMON SUTTER
I suppose it’s odd to begin a travel blog by saying that no one comes here. But before I can begin to describe the unique charms and dark mystique of Cape Le Chat Noir, I really have to start with that fact.
No one comes here.
Of course, no one really believes the island is cursed. But there are too many frightening stories from its past to ignore. The dozens of Spanish ships that mysteriously sank off the island shores in the 1600s? The rumors of dark-magic rituals? The stories-that many believe to this day-of the living dead walking the island in broad daylight?
If you are an adventure traveler like me, those all seem like
But the fact is, no one has paid much attention to this island of whitewashed shacks, tall pine forests, fishing villages, and eccentric islanders-despite the fact that you can almost reach out and touch the place from the Outer Banks beaches of South Carolina.
Located a hop, skip, and a splash from the Cape Hatteras National Seashore, vacationers have avoided Cape Le Chat Noir like-shall I say it? — a black cat crossing their path.
For you history nerds, here’s the 411: The island was annexed by the English sometime around 1650. They had little interest in it. Too small and too far from the mainland. Most English settlers chose the Roanoke Colony to the north (and we all know how that worked out).
Small groups of nomadic American Indians found their way to the island. Spanish pirates arrived later, sometimes unhappily, because they watched their ships go down just offshore.
Yes, this part of the ocean is known as the Graveyard of the Atlantic. You can Google it. Don’t bother to look for a
When French traders arrived and heard the stories, they gave the island its unlucky name. I haven’t been able to find out what they were trading. Most likely rum or some concoction like it. The islanders I’ve met seem to drink from morning till night. And if that’s your idea of travel adventure, go ahead-pack your bags.
I’ve saved the best (or worst) for last. Here’s the most interesting historical detail-and it’s definitely creepy. Especially with frightening forecasts of a big hurricane heading this way.
I don’t want to talk about the hurricane now. I’m pretending it’s not going to happen.
You see, Le Chat Noir was devastated by one of the most powerful storms in hurricane history. It was the Labor Day Hurricane of 1935. And I have every finger crossed that history is not going to repeat itself now.
I heard the story of that dreadful hurricane shortly after arriving at Cape Le Chat Noir and stepping off the bouncing, wooden dock. Believe me, folks-it did not exactly make me feel as if a welcome mat had been put out for me.
The jeep-taxi to take me to my hotel was late. Squinting in the bright sunshine, I glanced around. The dock area seemed to be deserted, except for two ragged-looking fishermen setting off in a tiny flat-bottomed skiff. Definitely no official tourist greeter waiting with a rum punch or even a friendly smile.
I spotted a tiny brown shack across the dirt road with the sign
Inside, the room was dimly lit, with red neon lights over the mirror at a bar and small gas lamps on each table. The tables were round cylinders, like conga drums. Wall posters from tea companies provided the only cheeriness. I liked a poster that showed a grinning Chinese child holding a big steaming cup, and the words
The place was totally empty. I took a seat at a table near the bar. I coughed, hoping it might summon someone from in back. A wooden overhead fan squeaked as it slowly made its rounds.
An old woman emerged-white bristly hair under a black bandanna, pale skin tight over her cheekbones, silvery gray eyes, a little hunched over. She wore a long black dress, not exactly island wear. Without asking, she set a cup of dark tea down on my table with quavering hands.
“Thank you.” My voice sounded muffled in the heavy air of the tiny room. The squeaking fan seemed to grow louder.
“Why have you come?” Her voice was velvety smooth, much younger than her looks. Not exactly a friendly hello, huh, folks?
I stammered an answer about writing a travel story about Le Chat Noir.
“There’s a big storm on the way,” she said. “Hurricane Ernesto. Didn’t you hear about it?” She had no accent at all. Her eyes were so glassy, I thought she might be blind. But then I remembered she had set the teacup down on the little table with ease.
“Yes. My husband warned me not to come here in hurricane season,” I said, inhaling the bitter steam from the cup.
Mark is so sweet. He always wants me to stay home. But exploring my backyard would make for a dull travel blog, don’t you agree?
Well, to cut to the chase, the woman told me her name was Marguerite. She procured her own cup of tea, sat down across from me, stared unblinkingly into my eyes, and began to talk in her smooth whisper of a voice.
“The hurricane of 1935 didn’t have a name. They didn’t name them then. But it didn’t need a name to be remembered.”
I blew on the cup, then sipped the tea. “You mean it was a bad one?”
She nodded. Her throat made a rattling sound. I pretended not to notice.
“The storm showed no mercy. It swept over the Outer Banks, up to Chincoteague Island and the Virginia coast, flattening everything in its path. Nothing was left standing on this island. Not a house, not a shack, not a bait shop, not a teahouse. All shattered. All ruined. Even the lighthouse on the south shore was toppled over, into the ocean.”
I tsk-tsked. “That’s horrible.”
“My friends. . people I knew, members of my family. . Many were crushed, buried, drowned. I was a child. I saw the corpses. They were floating in lakes and rivulets caused by the storm. Even at my age, I knew the horror. I knew the pain, the suffering. No one could decide where to pile the bodies. They lay sprawled in the sand and sea grass and on piles of wreckage. The corpses. . They were feasted on for days by seagulls and starving dogs.”
