Island Has Ghosts

Chapter 3

In fact, Vsevolod had no desire to plunge into the icy water. He was only going to look around the neighborhood alone and try on routes, but the appearance of 'this one', as he called Violet to himself, left no other choice.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"Take a shower," he replied angrily, realizing that swimming away was the only way to get away from her for at least a quarter of an hour.

The water was cold, like a thousand sharp blades scraping against his skin at once. Vsevolod hissed, but then he made a few vigorous strokes and swam as fast as if he were competing in an Olympic swim - away from 'this one' and not from the shore.

It had been so long! The wounds that had not healed seemed to have healed, turned into rough scars. And the name of her, which had been inscribed in his heart with inked hatred, had not disappeared, but had faded considerably. Even the intransigence that raged in his soul had subsided, like the sea at a change of weather. It seemed to him that he would never hear her name again, nor meet her in person. And yet... Trying to run away from himself is a bad idea, like trying to outrun the wind. And yet, as his body warmed, peace was restored to his soul. Relative, tolerable under the circumstances.

It was still unclear how he had ended up on the cursed shore. The last thing Vsevolod remembered was the conversation with Angela. He remembered the girl's displeased grimace and the phrase thrown with deliberate indifference: 'Well, if you want it so much! Just don't drag me along with you!' The conversation took place in a room with a disassembled bed, and it was neither his nor Angela's apartment. The atmosphere was reminiscent of a hotel, but not of a fancy hotel, but of a small boarding house with a few rooms. Tulle curtains, a plaid bedspread tossed carelessly in an armchair, a polished secretaire, and a bouquet of garden flowers in a vase added a homely note to the interior. Angela favored red roses, which meant the bouquet was a compliment from the staff, not a gift from them. Vsevolod distinctly remembered the scent of the flowers - the smell of greenery, spicy cloves, and for some reason pepper. What happened then, after that little scene, which was not even a spat? He and Angela could agree: he - to go where he was going, and she - to go shopping. But where would he go? Angela must have missed him by now and alerted the hotel staff. It's good if they're looking for him. And if we take into account that he was not the only one in an incomprehensible situation, then the chances that they will grab and organize a search, multiply.

Participation in a reality show, as Kostya and Rina suggested, seemed unlikely to him. Angela would have gone with him in that case, because she liked to watch such programs. They did not look like victims of an airplane crash or shipwreck: all unharmed, without scratches, in dry clothes and shoes. He didn't even lose his knife, and Rina's face still had the remnants of makeup on it. So what happened?

Thinking about it, Vsevolod didn't notice how he dodged his intended route, and the rock that should have remained on his right hand was behind his back. He made a small circle and swam, now keeping the dark ridge in sight, but as he drew nearer he saw that further on was a high wall made of stone. It was much lower than the rocks, but it was impossible to climb over it without special equipment. The difficulty lay not only in the steepness, but also in the fact that the stone, devoid of ledges and overgrown with algae, was slippery.

Vsevolod drew air into his lungs and plunged into the water, but the wall remained as monolithic and unbroken at depth. He came to the surface, shook his head, sniffing, and swam along the endless wall until he found himself in a zone of dense fog. The air suddenly thickened to a pudding, and it was hard to breathe, as if there was absorbent cotton in his nose and throat. His ears rumbled, as if someone had turned up the radio to full volume and stopped between stations. His movements became sluggish and slow, like in a dream when you're trying to escape from a chase. Vsevolod tried to turn toward the shore, but he failed to do so. The fog didn't want to let go of the victim, wrapped around his body with a predatory cocoon, almost released tentacles with suction cups. The memory of Stephen King's book with the same title shook him up and drove away the veil of drowsiness. Vsevolod worked his arms and legs with all his remaining strength, but his attempts to turn around were like the fiddling of a fly stuck in molasses. He jerked again, realizing that he could only break out of the trap with vigorous jerks. And the fog filled with noises - vague whispers, rustling and splashing. Whether it was the lack of oxygen that was causing the hallucinations, or whether the fog, like the plot of the King of Horrors, was inhabited by someone... Fear, mixed with disgust, gave him strength. Vsevolod finally saw a strip of thin haze, beyond which the water was already darkening. Another tug - and he finally swam out. But at the moment when the front part of his body was outside the fog and his legs were still sinking in the haze, something nasty and cold slipped on his right shin. Vsevolod jerked his leg and felt a brief but intense flash of pain. He immediately forgot about it and, finding himself free, took a greedy breath. Vsevolod covered the distance to the shore in a matter of moments. Only when his feet touched the bottom, he realized how tired he was - so much so that he was even glad for a second that 'she' had not left, but was waiting for him on the sand.