1st Chapter
Mistmoor Bay was a shithole of sagging houses and crooked alleys, clinging to the coast like drunks gripping a bar counter. Pine-green and rocky as hell, it was a melancholic soul frozen in time, winding down from the interstate in a steep curve toward the sea. The town stank like a gutted fish left to rot—a stench that stuck to your skin and burrowed into your chest with every breath. Seagulls screeched overhead, their cries sharp as switchblades, and the wind howled down from the cliffs, whispering secrets the ocean only spat out in code.
The main street was a parade of losers: bums sprawled across the pavement, nursing hangovers; Black Pete Leland’s hardware store, a catalog of rusty tools, cement, and expired paint; Sam Scoffield’s oil-stained garage, full of cars he’d never fix for broke—or dead—clients who’d never pay; Old Burt Sanders’ bar, packed with weathered fishermen, its faded sign and termite-chewed wood creaking; and the damp-timbered parish, begging for mercy with no fat tithes and just one mass a week. They all stared at each other, knew each other too damn well, and tolerated each other like old enemies too tired to keep fighting. The streetlights, eaten away by salt air, cast jagged shadows at dusk, and up on the cliffs, Steep Reef’s lighthouse stood like a lonely bastard draped in moss and lichen, its beam long since useless against the fog.
The fog itself was the town’s guts—a wet, gray shroud sliding in from the sea, smothering everything, sticky as regret. The old-timers swore it had been there since the first natives lit bonfires on the shore over a century ago. But those with veined hands and gutted-fish eyes muttered it wasn’t just fog—it carried something, something the bay had buried deep and couldn’t shake off.
That morning, the sun barely clawed through the clouds. Don “Steeler” Lawson’s voice growled from RMR radio, perched up in Eagle’s Port among the last pines, pumping rock and rumors into the haze. It was the only thing keeping the place from unraveling, a thin wire against collapse. He introduced James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain,” bleeding through the speakers, heavy with pain, while on the beach, the waves chewed on a wrecked boat and a mangy dog barked beyond the horizon. Nobody noticed, but the parish bells tolled six as a thicker, darker sludge of mist started creeping in from the distance. Soon it would choke the bay, and you wouldn’t see past the hood of Renato’s beat-to-hell Chevy, rattling beside the half-erased sign:
“WELCOME TO MISTMOOR BAY”
The engine coughed its last gasp next to the only gas station, giving up like it was done with this shit. Renato sat there, hands clamped on the wheel, sweat gluing his shirt to his back. It wasn’t lack of gas but the MAP sensor, fucked beyond repair, corroded to shit. Gasoline fumes and salt stung his nose through the cracked window, mixing with the sour bite of the whiskey he’d chugged back in Seattle when he told everyone to go to hell. In the rearview, Barbra’s eyes—big and unrelenting—stared out, cutting through the fog and stabbing straight into the guilt he carried like dead weight.
“We made it, Babs,” he said, mostly to hear a human voice after the long, silent drive, scratching his wiry beard. She didn’t answer. Hadn’t since the accident. Just the squeak of her wheelchair, a sound that clawed at his brain, screaming: “you fucked up, buddy.”
He pulled a cigarette from his cracked leather jacket, lit it with a clumsy flick, and stepped out, the smoke curling into the fog swirling around the poles. The town was a dump, uglier than he remembered. The street was a bad joke, more craters than the moon, wooden houses buckling under the damp, streetlights weeping rust like old wounds, and a pier fading into the mist, cluttered with fishing boats and bigger, ancient, rickety hulks.
He’d picked this desolate Mistmoor Bay to disappear—far from the galleries and critics who spat on his canvases, the dives where he’d busted his knuckles, the echo of Clara’s voice tearing into him before the steel silenced her. Here, he thought, he could breathe, or at least stop running. As he pulled Barbra’s chair from the trunk and helped her down, a sharp chill hit him, unexpected and biting. The gas station had some tables outside, a spot to choke down whatever crap they sold. It’d do.
“What do you see out there, babe?” he asked, following her gaze, fixed on the horizon where the land sank into the water, rooftops poking out like broken teeth. The fog was thick there, alive, slinking over the sea like a predator biding its time. Renato squinted. Nothing but gray, but for a second, a green flash flickered—maybe a lantern, though that made no sense. He brushed it off, blaming the liquor and exhaustion.
The pumps were dead, or damn near, but an old man shuffled out of the garage next door, face like weathered leather, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better days.
“Ain’t nothin’ worth a damn,” the man rasped, voice rough as gravel. “Town’s gone to shit. You passing through or staying?”
Renato shot him a sideways glance—nosy bastards pissed him off—but before he could snap, the old man added:
“Let’s see if you can handle the weather, and the ocean’s stink. It drags up shit you won’t see till it’s on top of you.”
“I know the place, thanks,” Renato growled, exhaling smoke and crushing the butt under his heel. The old man looked at him like he’d burned a Bible, probably thinking Renato was dumb enough to spark the pumps.
“Then you don’t remember shit about this damn hole, kid,” the old man croaked.
Renato snorted. He didn’t give a fuck about the old man’s opinion. He just needed a roof and some peace, knowing peace was a lie he didn’t deserve. The old man’s eyes flicked from Barbra to the Chevy, then he turned, figuring they weren’t here for gas—maybe just chips. Renato shouted after him:
“Know a place to crash?”
The old man half-turned, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.
“You don’t even remember the motel by the interstate, across from the pines?” he grunted, then ducked into the shed next door, its sign muttering: Used tires. Decent shape. Gas once a week. Diesel every two. Don’t like it, drag your ass to Astoria, four damn hours from here.
Renato looked at Barbra, lost in the coastal haze.
“Locals. You’ll get used to ’em.”
She shrugged, her eyes searching the horizon for something—maybe a Starbucks in that shithole, which was a fucking fantasy.
“How about we park by the pier? Stretch our legs a bit,” he said. “Before we hole up in a room with a TV. The beach ain’t half bad, huh.”
No answer. Not a twitch. She didn’t care. They could go to hell for all it mattered.
© 2024 [Andres Prieto Spool] All rights reserved.
PS: Thanks for reading the 1st Chapter of my serialized novel, even though it's already finished and copyrighted. If you’re a native Spanish speaker, I’ve also written it in Spanish in my domain, so, just go there. I could write it in Portuguese too, since I’m trilingual, but it’s a massive pain. Just one thing, a warning: this adventure starts soft but it won’t stay that way. It’ll hurt to the core, and if you’re not used to authors like Norman Mailer, James Ellroy, or Charles Bukowski (my damn literary education), better not even start, because you’ll break a few pages in and want to throw me on the bonfire. Anyway, there are more polite works out there, made for you, but you’ve been warned.
