I lean over the railings of the ‘The Ross River Ferry’ and see the reflection of a very sick man in the water below. He throws up, suddenly, and the reflection is muddled. I stand and wipe my mouth. Seasickness is not a demon with which I have yet contended. It is an unpleasant surprise.
‘‘The Ross River Ferry’ covers the short stretch of ‘Ross River’ between the twin towns of Chester and Greenville. Neither is much of a destination in and of itself but a ride on the ferry negates 200 roundabout miles of twisting mountain passes that make up a portion of the more typical route from the north.
‘The Ross River Ferry’ earns its place in this collection by the simple virtue of being haunted. Known only as the Rattler, the ferry’s ghost is often spotted in or near the off-limits engine room, making this a risky pilgrimage for paranormal investigators and their ilk. Those that brave the trespass will find the Rattler a dramatic, but harmless specter that does not yet understand he has passed.’
I throw up for a little while longer, until there is nothing left inside. A woman lends me a dramamine and the nausea eventually passes. I wash my face in the restroom.
‘The Ross River Ferry’ is not a pretty ship, its walls are thick, unpainted steel and its sitting areas mainly tarnished chrome. It was not designed to be anything more than a sea-worthy parking lot and there is a certain charm in the earnestness with which it fulfills that purpose. The wayside is a shifting, unsteady sort of place and I have been exploring it for too long. It’s imparted a fondness for the opposite, things that are solid in purpose and design. ‘The Ross River Ferry’ has a single job and it is fantastically tangible, a comfort to my shaking sea legs.
It is not difficult to find the engine room but, on the way, it is difficult to think of reasons I might give for being there. The ferry’s crew is sparse but their signage is to the point and no matter what I do people tend to realize that I… don’t belong.
It’s with a certain mixture of luck that I make it to the engine room door unseen only to find it locked tight. I have picked up many skills in this endeavor but lock-picking is not among them. Most places I visit don’t go out of their way to limit entry.
I peer through a thick window on the door and into the rumbling dark beyond. There is a faint smell of exhaust, of oil and dust. I turn to the light on my phone and am startled, at first, by my reflection in the window and then, again, by the man staring back at me from behind it.
He squints at me suspiciously and I panic.
“I’m looking for the restroom!” I yell through the glass.
The door unlatches and the man steps halfway out.
“You on the tour?”
I look each way down the hall and suspect that he will answer his own question but he doesn’t seem to see anything but me.
“Does the tour include the engine room?”
The man opens the door wider and steps aside, far enough to let me through.
“Don’t know why everybody’s so interested in this old thing,” he says, leading me on a walk around the engine, “Same as what you’ll find in any other ferry. They replaced it 20 years ago, not even the original.”
The engine is massive and half-sunk in the floor. It’s not very interesting at all, nothing in the room is. The man points out a couple machines but the majority of what he says is lost in the noise. He doesn’t seem to mind that no tour group has followed me.
“Did I miss anything?” he yells and I shrug.
I didn’t come to see the engine.
The man gestures as though to communicate the room is at my disposal for further perusing and he retires to a small table and chair in the corner to roll a cigarette. I fake interest for a while longer and turn to wave goodbye.
The man is gone.
I allow myself a moment of quiet reflection before circling the engine once more. As I come around to the back I see the man has returned, leaning over to pick his smoke up off the floor. His hands shake and he makes a mess of tobacco on the table.
“Are you the Rattler?” I ask.
“What?”
The engine has increased its effort, making it nearly impossible to be heard. My vision briefly swims and then snaps back to focus.
“Are you the… uh… Rattler?” I yell, realizing, with repetition, how stupid it sounds.
“Godda… ghost… ler…!”
The man is clearly agitated but it’s difficult to make out why.
“What?” I shout, stepping closer and turning so my ear faces him.
“I said I ain’t a goddamn ghost, kid!”
“Do you know…”
I turn back and he’s gone again, which answers the question at least.
In the presence of a bonafide ghost, I find myself very unprepared. A part of me insists on leaving, another on circling the engine to see if that’s what triggers the haunting. I wonder, briefly, what would happen if I sat in his chair and, seeing it’s gone, I wonder about the ghostly tobacco and how inanimate objects factor into the afterlife.
Standing perfectly still, I stumble.
The engine is roaring now; the ferry is picking up speed. My stomach churns and I stagger to steady myself on a wall. I miss by several feet and fall to the floor where the force of the sudden acceleration pushes me between two machines. From my new vantage point I see the Rattler again, crouched under his table and staring intently at me. He points up and I see, above him, a comb case. My comb case.
Cold panic anchors me to the floor, even as the Rattler fishes about for the case from below, even as his clumsy, shaking fingers press it further and further out of his reach.
“Stop!” I yell.
The Rattler says nothing. He looks at me and his arm seems to stretch and bend in its pursuit.
“That’s mine!”
The ferry’s speed presses the words back in my face. The Rattler does not hear me and does not look away. I grasp at pipes and cords and panels but cannot find my feet.
And then the door creaks open and light spills into the room. It had been… dark. I look back at the table and see the Rattler has gone. The comb case rests on its surface. Sound, sound other than the engine, has returned to the room. I hear a voice.
“Some junkie going on about noise,” it says.
Two men move past the threshold and I recognize the Rattler is one of them. His cigarette is tucked neatly behind his ear. The other man flips a switch on the wall but the room remains dark.
“Light’s busted again,” the Rattler tells him. He turns back to the room and calls, “You in here, kid?”
I slip lower between the two machines and I keep my eye on the comb case. It will not be hard for them to spot.
“Got a flashlight?” the man asks the Rattler, “I ain’t hunting junkies in the dark.”
“Kid?” the Rattler calls again.
He takes another step into the room and stops, confining himself to the lit floor.
I say nothing.
“Looks like he’s cleared out,” the Rattler says.
“Cleared out or never here?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Captain says the place is haunted.”
“Captain’s an idiot,” the Rattler says, “Kid’s got a black jacket and junkie eyes. Keep an eye out.”
They close the door and leave me in the milky half-light leaking from the hall. My heartbeat slows and I flex my extremities. I prepare myself for standing, for retrieving the comb case, for keeping a low profile until we reach our destination.
“Let me help you up,” a voice says.
There is no one there.
-traveler
