Page 4 of Property of Anchor
Right?
I exhaled and glanced down at my sketchpad.My latest drawing was a half-finished mural, a woman surrounded by shadows, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open, as if she were about to scream or confess.
I figured whoever I would be meeting with on Monday would have more details on what they would want, but I wanted to go in with examples of what I could do.My weekend was going to be nothing but drawing and daydreaming until I saw the island with my own eyes.
Monday couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter Three
Anchor
Saturday night on Skull Island wasn’t just busy, it was buzzing.
From the haunted house’s turret-style roof down to the gravel paths near the lake, every inch of the island pulsed with life and noise.Fog drifted like breath from the trees, curling around strobe lights and actors in blood-soaked costumes.The chainsaws were already screaming, the speakers inside the haunted house piped in thunder and moans, and a crowd of tourists lined up at the dock, their excitement thick enough to taste.
I stood near the boathouse, coffee in hand, watching it all unfold.My kind of chaos.The kind that made us money.
Kids ran around the ticket kiosks with glow sticks clutched like torches.Parents milled behind them, some pretending to be too old to be scared, others clinging to their partners as if they might not make it out alive.Our crew, dressed in everything from plague doctor masks to rotted sailor uniforms, wove through the crowd.The makeup team had outdone themselves tonight: sunken eyes, twisted teeth, jagged wounds that looked way too real.
Lost was near the dock’s edge, helping a group of teenagers onto the boat for the next haunted cruise.The lake behind them was pitch-black, perfectly still, until you were halfway across and the ghost town lights came into view.
The guests screamed, ran, laughed, and, most importantly, spent money.
“We’re almost at capacity,” Push said as he stepped up beside me, clipboard in hand.“Another three boatloads before we hit our limit.Haunted house has a 45-minute wait.Bob’s running out of peanuts.”
“That means it’s a good night,” I muttered and sipped my coffee.
“It’s a damn great one,” he agreed.“And Skull says the generator’s running clean.No surges.”
I nodded.That was rare.Usually, we lost a fog machine or lighting rig halfway through a Saturday night.
I turned to scan the edge of the path leading back toward the food court and saw Skull gesturing near the funnel cake stand.He was half in costume: leather duster, fake axe slung over his shoulder, dark makeup around his eyes that made him look half-dead.He pointed to the ticket line, made a twirling motion, and then jerked a thumb toward the dock.
“Skull says rotate boat crew after this run,” Push translated.
“Fine.Send Pull in for Lost.Tell Wannabe to help him.”
I moved back toward the dock, passing a group of twenty-somethings doing their best to act braver than they felt.One of the girls screamed as an actor lunged from behind a crate.She laughed right after, breathless, and I smiled to myself.
It was working.
Everything we built—the haunted tours, the scare setups, the ghost town, the elaborate boat ride—it all sold the story.
We made the freak show run like a machine.
Until Lost’s voice crackled through my radio.
“Anchor, come in.”
I hit the button.“Go.”
“You need to come down to the lower dock.Now.”
The tone in his voice made the hairs on my neck rise.
“What is it?”
“It’s...we found something.You just need to see it.”
