Poetry, Prose, & Peonies

This story is close to my heart. I worked on this piece for 8 months alongside an amazing editing team at Vision. UTM’s ICCIT Council has worked extremely hard to publish Vision Vol. 1! Please go and check out some of the amazing work that UTM has to offer.

Chacachacare is a real island and the events in this story are based on true events. However, creative liscence was taken to best represent the story. I hope you all enjoy!

Special thanks to Melissa Barrientos, Tania Khan, and Ananya Ananth for truly bringing Chacachacare to life. It wouldn’t be what it is without you.

Gabby Alysia
xo

A crescent-shaped island rises out of the water, barren and brown. The waters of the Gulf of Paria glisten in the sun. My hair whips in the wind as the little white speedboat, La Cucaracha, cuts through the waves off the North-West coast of Trinidad. The rays of the beaming sun soak into my skin. I glance past the bare island to the horizon. Livid mountains from Don Pedro, Macuro, and Patos Island, of Venezuela peer through the rough, open waters of the Boca Grande. Dad slows La Cucaracha and steers toward the last island. We cruise into the bay.

Chacachacare, the infamous haunted island Mom warned us about. The disturbing stories from this island echo throughout Trinidad. When Dad asked my little brother, Eduardo, and I if we wanted to go ‘Down the Islands,’ I never thought he would bring us here.

“Hey Gab, why do they call them Bocas?” Eduardo asks. He walks toward me from his seat in the back.

I expected that he’d take us to Monos where we’d hear the screams of the wild Red Howler Monkeys. I figured Huevos, Egg Island, was out of the question because of the Venezuelan drug and weapon cartels that frequent there. I was hoping we’d go to Gasparee, to search the limestone caves for the famed pirate’s treasure buried somewhere below the waterline. I would have expected him to take us to Gasparillo, island of the centipedes, before bringing us here.

“Bubby, Boca means mouth in Spanish. They call it Boca Grande ‘cause it’s a literal mouth to the ocean,” I say, wrapping my arms around him.

“Did you know that they’re actually known as Bocas del Dragón?” Dad says from the front of the boat. “The Spaniards called it that because the islands used to eat their ships.”

“Eat their ships?” Eduardo asks.

Aunty BJ’s eyes brighten from her seat next to Dad, and she nods furiously.

“Yes, each island is surrounded by rocks hidden below the water.” Aunty BJ’s slick smile spreads across her face. “It was said that going through the Bocas, and around the islands, is like trying to avoid being swallowed by a dragon. There are a lot of shipwrecks here, mostly unrecorded.”

“That’s so cool!” Eduardo says.

“Dad, are you taking us to swim at Chacachacare?” I say, cutting a side glance at Aunty BJ, Dad’s ‘sister-in-law.’ “Mom said that we shouldn’t come here.” I glare at the back of Aunty BJ’s bottle-blonde head. The divorce is her fault. Mom and Dad wouldn’t be throwing tantrums and kitchen spoons like toddlers without her influence.

“Your Mother and her silly superstitions are wrong. This island is not haunted or dangerous,” Aunty BJ sneers.

“Besides, you should trust God to protect you from anything that comes your way,” Dad preaches. Eduardo and I roll our eyes.

“Okay, are we just going to swim at the beach?” Eduardo asks.

“What else do we come Down de Islands for?” Aunty BJ’s voice drips with sarcasm.

Dad drives the boat toward the only stretch of sand in the bay.
Last time we came Down the Islands, we went to Scotland Bay. Scotland Bay is on the mainland facing Monos. We drove from Trincity in the east of Trinidad, passed Port of Spain, to Chagaramas in the west. We hopped on La Cucaracha with Uncle Carlos, Aunty BJ, and their kids and drove out of the marina towards Casa Navarro, the family island house. We docked the boat on the exclusive Casa Navarro jetty.

Dad waved at several of the families on their boats. One yacht, Sweet TnT, played Machel Montano’s new soca song ‘The Road.’ Bodies writhed and bobbed to the rhythm, sweaty, and swaying in the sun. Beer bottles in every hand encouraged the large families to scream excitedly at each other. I recognized Jordan Pierce from school and her boyfriend – of the week – grinding on each other to the loud beat.

Another small fisher boat tied to the shore played ‘Congo Man’, an old calypso made famous by Trinidad’s national treasure, Sparrow, on an old, analog radio. The conflicting pulse of the two songs bounced off each other in the small bay. Families shouted from boat to boat, laughing and drinking. Little kids jumped from the jetties into the teal waters. Giggling and splashing around.

The empty, brown bay of Sanders Beach stares at me. No families, no boats, no music. Nothing. Two broken, concrete jetties stick into the water at the base of the two ports at opposite tips of Chacachacare’s crescent. Both jetties sit – broken, rusty, and undisturbed – as they have since the island was abandoned in the late 1990s.

“Dad, I don’t know how I feel about this place. It feels kind of eerie,” I mutter.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Your damned mother is filling your head with shit.” Deep lines mar his forehead and his nose turns bright pink.

“Don’t talk about Mom that way,” Eduardo spurts out.

“Bubby now is not the time,” I whisper to him.

Dad parks La Cucaracha near the shore. I take off the black dress covering my bikini. The semi-clear water of the bay gleams to the bottom. Soft waves rise and fall across the grainy sand. Anxiety crawls across my skin. I note the absence of people, the absence of colour in the water, the absence of life on the island.

“Hey Gab, you wanna go in?” Eduardo asks.

“Yeah, sure.” I shake myself. It’s just water. “Off the bow?” I glance over at Aunty BJ’s hand on Dad’s chest, a pit of annoyance fills my own, and my jaw clenches.

“What other way is there?” Eduardo laughs.

We scurry up the front of the boat. The bow rises two feet out of the water. I hold out my hand to Eduardo. He stretches out and squeezes my fingers.

“One, Two, Three!” We free-fall together into the sea. The second I’m under, the coolness soothes my sun-warmed skin. I sink to the bottom of the ocean. My toes cringe at the squishy, mud-sand at the bottom. I push up to the surface and run my hand through my curls.

“Gabby, look!” Eduardo points to the other side of the bay. A purple porpoise arches out of the water.

“That was amazing!” I yell.

“Dad, did you see that?” Eduardo cries.

“Yes, sweetheart, I did.” He smiles through clenched teeth.

Eduardo swims away, kicking mounds of water into my mouth. Salt burns my nose and eyes. I swim to the back of the boat. I make sure to flip my soaking hair as I run past Dad and Aunty BJ, up the bow.

Eduardo floats, eyes closed. I smile and cannonball next to him. His head submerges and he comes up coughing. We laugh.

“Watch out! Anchor is going down,” Dad calls out.

The large silver hook plummets into the water. The chain clanks and clunks as it lowers the hook. Billows of sand explodes where the anchor meets the floor. Dad presses a button and jumps into the water. Aunty BJ spreads across the bow on a towel and spreads tanning oil across her pudgy, freckled skin.

I ogle at the dilapidated buildings peeking out of the foliage across the large bay. The yellow and white building at the edge of the cliff looks dirty, even from Sanders Beach. Two other buildings crumble behind it, but dead trees obscure my view.

“Are you looking at the hospital?” Dad asks. His black hair sticks up in all directions, slick with water.

“Yeah, I don’t know much about the legend to be honest. I just know it’s haunted,” I whisper. I glance around. “I know this stuff freaks Bubby out.”

“That’s okay, do you want me to tell you the legend?” Dad asks.

“Maybe, I don’t know much about it. But I do know a lot of stuff about the island. First, no electricity or phone service, so no Instagram. I know that Chacachacare used to be a colony for leprosy and that creepy nuns ran the hospital. I know a lot of people died here from disease and the great fire, and I’ve heard about the woman,” I say.

“The woman,” he laughs. “You make it sound so ominous. The legend has it that there was a nun who lived in a house across the bay from the hospital. Do you see the faded red building on the other side of the crescent?” I nod. “That was supposedly where she lived. There are different versions of this legend, which is how I know it’s crap. But this is the most common.”

Dad straightens his shoulders. My eyes lock on the little red building.

“One night, a Venezuelan naval officer lost his way and came across the island. He saw a light on in the little red house. Because of the dangers of the Bocas at night, he was looking for refuge. He rowed his small boat up to the shore.” Dad points his finger to the port at the end of the crescent next to the red house.

“Supposedly, the on-site doctor had to return to the mainland to get medicine. One of the Saint Dominican nuns was to stay and watch the house until his return. Legend has it that the nun, Mary Luigi Sansoni, was a stunning woman. With her long black hair and pale skin, the sailor was lovestruck. He tried to make an advance, but she was devout to the Lord. She refused him, though tempted.

“Now this part is up for debate. Nana’s version of La Mujer de Chacachacare is that the naval officer raped her. After raping her, it was said that he murdered her. Now she haunts the island, waiting for anyone, particularly young men and naval officers, so that she can exact her revenge. But most Trini’s believe she slept with him and killed herself because of guilt. I’ve also heard that she got pregnant, and both she and the child died in childbirth. What a load of crap.”

“I don’t know, I’ve heard a lot of stories of people we know having bad experiences here,” I say.

“All lies of confused men.”

“How do you explain Uncle Richard? He’s not confused, crazy, or even religious. But he’s seen her and he was pushed down the stairs in that house. Mom has seen her. Uncle Derek and Uncle Gervais were both attacked and pushed down the stairs, just like Uncle Richard. Plus, how do you explain Uncle Derek’s stay in the ICU?” I frown. “No one lives on this island. No one was here. He had eight broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, and had to stay in the hospital for months! You know these people!”

“They all hit their heads,” Dad says. “They’re all idiots.”

“Mom didn’t. She saw the woman point-blank, long black hair, white dress, and a beautiful pale face that distorted into a demon. How can you explain that? She wasn’t pushed. She didn’t hit her head. And,” I pause, take a deep breath, and gaze through the top window of the red house, “she wasn’t the only one who saw her that night.”

“She imagined it.”

“She imagined a nun-ghost beating her friends to a pulp in front of her eyes. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Superstition explaining drunk idiots who fall down the stairs.”

“Okay, what about the hundreds of accounts of other people who heard screams, footsteps, and seen not only the woman, but disfigured people who look like lepers? What about the man who’s always checking his watch? Are you really saying everyone was drunk or had a concussion?” I exhale in a huff.

“I promise you there is nothing to worry about,” Dad laughs.

“I don’t know, Dad. It’s just too much not to be real…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dad interrupts. “Even if it was real, you should know by now that God will protect you from everything. You shouldn’t be afraid. Deuteronomy says, ‘Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.’ Your damned mother is putting crazy thoughts in your head.” His brows furrow.

“Dad, Mom has nothing to do with this. I’m old enough to make my own assumptions and decisions. Plus, Deuteronomy says to be unafraid, not stupid,” I say. “Stupid is bringing her on our family trip. It was supposed to be just us today,” I whisper, glowering up at Aunty BJ’s ugly feet hanging off the bow.

Eduardo swims around from the other side of the boat, red-faced and excited. I glare at the back of Dad’s head.

“Hey bud! How would you like to go to the hospital up there?” Dad asks Eduardo excitedly. Eduardo widens his eyes and a mischievous smile spreads across his face.

“Seriously? You’ll take us?” Eduardo exclaims.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say.

“Don’t be a bum.” Eduardo holds my face and squishes my cheeks.

“Someone should stay with the boat, plus I have a bad feeling about it,” I persist.

“You’re being ridiculous. We’re going. End of story,” Dad states firmly.

“Aunty B can stay with the boat. You’re coming.”

“Are we going to sail over?” Eduardo asks Dad.

“No, the anchor is holding really well here and it’s too rocky near the hospital. We can swim across the bay.”

“Swim across this whole bay? I don’t think my knee can take that,” I say, wide-eyed.

“Yes, swim. Your ACL should be healing by now. You tore the ligament over a year ago.”

Dad climbs into the boat and grabs our flip flops and boogie boards from the small cabin under the bow. He locks the cabin and zips the keys in his pocket. Aunty BJ and Dad share a brief, intimate, whispered conversation. She hands him the water-proof walkie-talkie and lays back down.

We start the swim across the bay. The sea becomes deeper, darker, and colder as we move further in. I kick and kick. The clear water near the shore deepens into a navy blue. What creatures lurk below my dangling feet? What creatures wait for me once I’m out?

My legs burn and the cliff seems no closer than before. Breathless, I kick as hard as I can to keep up with Dad and Eduardo. My knee burns and clicks. My eyes dart around to every flicker of motion in the water.

After half an hour, the stone jetty becomes large and looming. The water slowly shallows. Stone chunks from the dock sit, moss-covered, at the bottom of the ocean. Dad and Eduardo climb over the massive rock chunks strewn across the shore. They lean over the side of the jetty and pull me up. At the end of the dock is a wall of mountain. A treacherous, broken, concrete staircase sinks into the mountainside. Wild bushes grow through the cracks.

“Dad, I don’t want to go up there. My knee is really hurting from that swim. These stairs look steep,” I say between pants.

“Don’t be a baby, your knee is fine,” Dad says.

“Yeah, but that was an intense swim. It was like, half an hour.”

“I just want to go upstairs,” Eduardo mumbles.

“Suck it up Gabs,” Dad says, sizing up the stairs.

We trudge up the crumbling staircase. Trash lines the crooked, cracked stairs. Cigarette butts litter the path. Dented, faded pop cans and shattered beer bottles lay carelessly scattered around. A dirty deck of cards sprinkles the path. The Queen of Clubs stares at me, dirt caked around her. Lady Clubs’ eyes seem to say leave. Panting, I get to the top. The graffiti-laden yellow building towers above me. Splintered floorboards spill onto the dirt path. Broken windows with liquidy brown stains make my gut twist.

“Guys, I don’t want to be here. I don’t like the vibe here,” I say.

“You’re being silly, nothing is going to happen,” Dad says. “We’re going to see the buildings. One by one.”

Each building has fewer walls than the last. The first, yellow, building stands tall with two levels. Faded white Victorian-latticework frames each window and door. Metal poles stick out of the building. Bold red letters on the staircase declare “Danger! Camping restricted. Asbestos Exposure.” Scrawled across the side of the building in black spray paint screams “Ozzy fucking rules!”

Eduardo and Dad step through a door frame with no hinges. Eduardo’s face pales. I walk over and peek behind the wall, not stepping past the threshold. A putrid scent catches in the slight breeze and I gag.

“What is that?” I cover my nose.

“Dead rats,” Dad says. “Poor rats ate Machineel apples.”

“What is that?” Eduardo asks.

“They’re poisonous trees. You can’t touch their bark either. There’s a sticky sap on them that will cause boils on your skin. It causes your throat to burn and swell, then you develop fever and chronic pain, and usually, you die. These bad boys are designed to kill. If you burn the trees, the smoke can make you blind. One bite of a manzanilla de la muerte, you’re toast.” Little apple of death, it rings in my ears.

Dad leaves the building and heads toward the next. The path leading from one building to another, passes under two dead trees that curl into each other like ugly, ragged hands. I pass through and my foot catches on a knobby root.

“Gabs, are you okay?” Eduardo asks, turning his head back to look at me.

I nod.

Five crows sit on the roof of the sun-faded lilac, blush pink, and pale blue Victorian house. Old, rusty bed frames sit stacked deep in the house on the remaining floorboards—the springs coil into each other. The stairs to the entrance of the house broke into sharpened spikes. They seem to wait for you to dare to enter.

A crow flies down from the roof. It caws and caws. It swoops past me, catching my hair in the breeze of his black wings.

“No, I want to leave,” I scream. “I know Mom wouldn’t be comfortable with us being here. This place feels wrong. Can we go? Please?”

“Stop. We have one more building to see and then we can go.” Dad brushes past me and hikes further up the mountain, dragging Bubby at his side.

A motherfucking crow literally touched my hair. A fucking crow! I glance back towards the birds flapping their wings on the roof. Six more crows fill the balcony of the Victorian building. Their beady black eyes follow me as I catch up with Dad and Eduardo.

The third building sinks into the land. Trees grow through windows. Bushes and flowers poke out of cracks in the walls. The front wall of the building lays flat on the ground, exposing what used to be a chapel. Broken pews, caked with leaves and jungle debris, sit empty. An icon of Jesus on the cross hangs by one arm. Jesus faces the ground. A rope hangs ominously above the altar, swinging in the breeze.

I walk further down the path to small cement rooms. Black soot cakes the walls and the twisted-metal bed frames. A half-burned, damp cloth lay crammed with dirt and leaves in the corner. Can I get leprosy from that?

The wind picks up and a shiver runs through my body. I glance around me. Dad and Eduardo are gone. My eyes scan the concrete building. Anxiety drills through my veins. I half-run around the corner of the building and stumble through a rusty wrought-iron gate. A tall, white cross towers over me. Six small markers lie on either side of me. Name by name. Date by date.

My eyes halt at the headstone in the cross’ shadow. Sister Mary Luigi Sansoni, October 31, 1918 – July 12, 1942, Aged 28. My heart picks up and my breath heaves fast.

This is the woman’s grave.

“Dad! Dad!” I scream. Tears pool in my eyes.

I whip around and sprint back the way I came. Tears flow as I grapple through dead branches, tearing and snatching my clothes like hungry giants.

“Dad! Where are you?” I cry.

“Gabby?” A faint voice whispers.

I whip around. Nothing. No one.

I step backward and my foot catches on a broken floorboard. I land on my ass and see a rusty nail sticking out near my eye. I quickly stand up and bolt down the path. Dozens more crows line the dead trees. One caws and it’s all I hear.

Dad leans against the gnarled finger-trees. Eduardo lounges on the ground.

Panting and sobbing, I crash into Dad’s chest, clutching at his t-shirt.

“What happened to you? See a ghost?” Dad laughs.
Sobs wrack my body.

“Dad, she isn’t okay. Maybe we should go,” Eduardo says. He stands and hugs me around the waist.

“Fine, we’ll go,” Dad says.

Finally. We turn and head back on the path we came down. I am met with the stare of Lady Clubs again. I hold on to the splintered railing for support. I step down carefully.

“Ouch!” Eduardo screams.

My head snaps up to him hopping on one foot and holding his toe. My foot slips and I’m falling. A sharp pain lances across my left calf. Blood gushes warm and sticky from my leg. Tears burst onto my cheeks. I cry out.

“What happened?” Dad asks calmly.

“I don’t know. I lost my balance… I just knew we should’ve stayed away. Mom was right. Mom is always right,” I pant.

“Why do you feel the need to validate that woman every chance you get? You think she knows everything? She knows nothing! I genuinely don’t understand what she has over the two of you! Y’all must be idiots to follow her so blindly,” Dad shouts.

“Dad! Are you really choosing now as the moment to try to prove that you’re better than Mom?” Eduardo explodes. “If you were better than her, you would have respected Gabby when she wanted to leave. You also wouldn’t be yelling at her for feeling like it was a mistake to come here. Look at her leg! It’s bleeding so much.”

Eduardo crouches next to my leg and takes his shirt off. He holds pressure on my leg and pain lances through me.

“Who, the ass, do you think you’re talking to? Boy, you better respect me. I will not tolerate rudeness from you,” Dad bellows.

“Dad, please just go get the boat. I’m in so much pain…please,” I say through laboured breath.

“Whatever, fine,” he says. He takes off his shirt and ties it around my leg. Dad takes the walkie-talkie from his pocket and takes a step back to radio to Aunty BJ.

Eduardo speaks to me, but I don’t hear him. My head feels light and my leg weeps with me. I glance up at the staircase. My blood screams from the stairs. Leave. Just like Lady Clubs.

Dad speeds over to La Cucaracha. Aunty BJ hands him the first aid kit and he runs to me. After patching my leg, he wraps me in a blanket, and lifts me onto the boat.

The brilliant blue sky starts to change. Bright orange, magenta, and lavender sweep across the sky. The brightness of the sun fades behind the horizon. Dad starts the boat and speeds toward the Bocas.

I turn my head to look back at the little red house across the bay. The three-tier house, faded and overgrown, haunts me. The house’s curved staircase greets the wraparound porch. I lean on the side of the boat, ready to forget this island. One more glance towards the faded red house and I’ll forget it. A light flickers on in the top window.