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“Off Topic: Urban Legends & Paranormal Activity” sub-forum
JUNE 3, 2016
My grandpa was in the air force during World War II. He always said that the scariest story he had wasn’t from his days dodging German Messerschmitts over Europe, but on our own home turf. Early in the war, he was stationed at an airstrip on a tiny Alaskan island. They dubbed it “Fort Bird Shit.” It was a boring assignment. The Japanese threat was farther west, so the biggest problem they had to deal with was the salt water in the air corroding the metal on the planes.
Some weird things happened, but nothing that couldn’t be chalked up to men being drunk, bored, and isolated. Seeing people who weren’t there, hearing weird noises, that sort of thing. One man insisted that someone was speaking Russian to him whenever he started drifting off to sleep. Then one day my grandpa gets the job of taking the ranking officer back to themainland. There was a thick mist that night. They headed back the next day—and everyone was gone.Everyone.
Whatever happened, it was just after dinner, because the dishes were being washed. They were abandoned in the tubs. Some boots and rifles were missing, but not all of them, which meant that some of the men were barefoot and unarmed. One of the planes was crashed in a ditch, like someone had tried to take off. A wall nearby was riddled with bullet holes.
They never found out what happened. The official report said a storm killed everyone, but Grandpa insisted the night was calm. Not even a breeze. Just fog.
I would say he was pulling my leg, but I have to be honest—my grandpa didn’t have a sense of humor. At all. And when he told me the story, he seemed terrified. Whatever happened, he was still scared seventy years later.
2
LIAM GAVE MEan amused look as we started off toward Mrs. Popova’s. “So you must really love birds,” he said.
“I guess,” I replied, then cursed myself silently. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to give myself away before I ever stepped foot in the LARC. And then I’d get sent home without finding out anything about my mother.
“Is there another reason you’d want to fly out to the edge of the world for an entire summer? Because if you came for the nightlife, you are going to be deeply disappointed,” he said, his tone teasing. “And according to Dr. Kapoor, you wereextremelypersistent. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who could wear her down before.”
“‘Persistent’ is one word for it,” I said. My teachers tended to go with “stubborn.” My last foster mother had preferred “goddamn pigheaded.” I’d been emailing Dr. Kapoor for months,trying to convince her to let me work for the LARC over the summer. Nobody just visited Bitter Rock. I needed a reason to be here. But I couldn’t tell Liam any of that, and he was still looking at me like he was waiting for an explanation. “So you call your mom Dr. Kapoor?”
“Since I was five,” he said. “She’s never seen fit to correct me.”
“Should I check in with her? Before I turn in?” I asked.
“She and Dr. Hardcastle are over on Belaya Skala doing their science... stuff,” he said, waving a hand vaguely. “Dr. Kapoor meant to be back to greet ‘our wayward intern,’ but then we heard the storm warning, and weassumedyou’d be delayed.” He raised an eyebrow, like it was a downright supernatural phenomenon that had ushered me here in defiance of bad weather.
“I talked Mr. Nguyen into it,” I said with a half shrug.
“That would be why I’m staring at you. Mr. Nguyen’s from the mainland. And nobody from the mainland comes out here if they can avoid it when thereisn’ta storm.” He looked like he was going to say something more, but then the radio at his belt crackled to life.
“Liam?” it was a woman’s voice, distorted by static.
Liam held up a finger to ask me to wait as he replied. “Here.”
“That storm’s staying offshore, but the mist’s coming in quick. Where are you?”
“Walking toward Mrs. Popova’s. The intern got here. Sophia.”
I wasn’t sure if I should say hello, but the voice continued without giving me the chance. “Get yourselves back to Mrs. Popova’s and stay there. I don’t want you to get caught out in the mist trying to get back to the house on your own.”
“What about you?”
“We’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the morning.” There was a finality to the clipped words.
“You heard the boss lady. Mist’s coming,” he said. “Best hurry.”
“What’s the big deal?” I asked. “Can’t you just walk home?”
“Nobody goes out in the mist. There are so many sharp drops and rocky hills around here, even just walking around when the mist is up is dangerous. Driving is worse, given the quality of the roads. Driving in the mist in the dark is suicidal.”
“It doesn’t get dark this time of year,” I pointed out.
“Then we may yet survive our journey,” he told me, mock-dramatic. I chuckled, amusement cracking through my tension for a moment, at least.
