at Parrot Ridge, as the pair stood on the hilltop looking out over the sea, none of that seemed to matter.
Oliver couldn’t help himself. He grabbed Glenn’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
“ G, this is the place.”
Chapter 3
The Ground Below
OUR ISLAND INN came at a remarkably cheap price, or, at least, the land did. The property had been on the market for several years with no interested buyers. My partner was able to negotiate a substantial discount from the list price.
The seller was reportedly anxious to be rid of the place.
I guess that should have tipped us off that there might be something wrong, but we forged ahead anyway.
On paper, the lot covered nearly thirty acres. The scallop-shaped plot captured the entirety of Parrot Ridge, starting from the area that jutted up from the main road and extending over the summit all the way down to the sea.
F or practical purposes, only about five acres of semi-flat land at the top of the property was accessible and suitable for building.
The rest of the lot was too steep to navigate, even on foot. A tropical overgrowth of trees, shrubs, ferns, agave plants and ropelike vines covered the near-vertical grade, forming a green barricade that couldn’t be breached without the aide of a machete.
The strip of sand on the shoreline below was effectively unreachable. Several boulders combined with the coral reef to block boat access from the water.
We were building atop a natural fortress.
As it was, a special crew had to be brought in to shore up the foundations for the new structures. The men were hired from a neighboring island and ferried over.
At the time, I thought this was due to the technical nature of the work.
I later learned that no local laborers would venture anywhere near the tangled jungle at the lower edge of the clearing.
They knew the history of the place , what had happened to the previous innkeepers, and the legend of the tormented beast who lived below.
~ ~ ~
THE MONTHS PASSED slowly by, as they tend to do in the sleepy Caribbean, and t he main building began to take shape.
A series of sturdy concrete pillars rose up from the reinforced foundation. The pillars framed thick stone walls and supported a sturdy metal roof that was nailed down and cinched in place with special brackets.
It was a structure designed to withstand hurricane force winds and rain, the worst, or so we thought, that Mother Nature could throw at us.
Looking back, it wa s a time of blissful ignorance.
At the end of each day, I climbed onto the scaffolding that had been vacated by the construction crew. Sitting there amid the scattered rebar and stacks of lumber, I watched the sun dip toward the horizon. The shifting angles of light caused the sea to shimmer with a metallic sheen.
Lost there in my serenity, I often wondered about what came before. Who had lived here and how could they have ever given up this perfect spot, this magical view?
A few clues surfaced during the foundation’s excavation. The workers tossed the relics aside, but I gathered the items into a pile and placed them beneath a tree at the top of the drive.
The collection included several cracked dinner plates, a rusted iron cooking pan, and a ceramic bird that had lost one of its wings. The bird’s feet were stenciled with a name, but all I could make out was the first letter, an O.
The artifacts only spurred my interest.
After asking around, I finally found someone willing to tell me about the previous residents of Parrot Ridge.
The story permanently chilled my curiosity.
~ ~ ~
IT WAS ELSIE who relayed the tale to me, not long after I hired her to clean the inn’s guest rooms.
She was a quiet girl, slight for her twenty-two years. I was surprised when she pulled me aside, even more so when she reluctantly whispered in my ear.
I guess she felt it was her duty. My constant questioning could do nothing but hurt the new venture’s chances.
The tragedy happened over fifteen years ago, she told me,
Oliver couldn’t help himself. He grabbed Glenn’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
“ G, this is the place.”
Chapter 3
The Ground Below
OUR ISLAND INN came at a remarkably cheap price, or, at least, the land did. The property had been on the market for several years with no interested buyers. My partner was able to negotiate a substantial discount from the list price.
The seller was reportedly anxious to be rid of the place.
I guess that should have tipped us off that there might be something wrong, but we forged ahead anyway.
On paper, the lot covered nearly thirty acres. The scallop-shaped plot captured the entirety of Parrot Ridge, starting from the area that jutted up from the main road and extending over the summit all the way down to the sea.
F or practical purposes, only about five acres of semi-flat land at the top of the property was accessible and suitable for building.
The rest of the lot was too steep to navigate, even on foot. A tropical overgrowth of trees, shrubs, ferns, agave plants and ropelike vines covered the near-vertical grade, forming a green barricade that couldn’t be breached without the aide of a machete.
The strip of sand on the shoreline below was effectively unreachable. Several boulders combined with the coral reef to block boat access from the water.
We were building atop a natural fortress.
As it was, a special crew had to be brought in to shore up the foundations for the new structures. The men were hired from a neighboring island and ferried over.
At the time, I thought this was due to the technical nature of the work.
I later learned that no local laborers would venture anywhere near the tangled jungle at the lower edge of the clearing.
They knew the history of the place , what had happened to the previous innkeepers, and the legend of the tormented beast who lived below.
~ ~ ~
THE MONTHS PASSED slowly by, as they tend to do in the sleepy Caribbean, and t he main building began to take shape.
A series of sturdy concrete pillars rose up from the reinforced foundation. The pillars framed thick stone walls and supported a sturdy metal roof that was nailed down and cinched in place with special brackets.
It was a structure designed to withstand hurricane force winds and rain, the worst, or so we thought, that Mother Nature could throw at us.
Looking back, it wa s a time of blissful ignorance.
At the end of each day, I climbed onto the scaffolding that had been vacated by the construction crew. Sitting there amid the scattered rebar and stacks of lumber, I watched the sun dip toward the horizon. The shifting angles of light caused the sea to shimmer with a metallic sheen.
Lost there in my serenity, I often wondered about what came before. Who had lived here and how could they have ever given up this perfect spot, this magical view?
A few clues surfaced during the foundation’s excavation. The workers tossed the relics aside, but I gathered the items into a pile and placed them beneath a tree at the top of the drive.
The collection included several cracked dinner plates, a rusted iron cooking pan, and a ceramic bird that had lost one of its wings. The bird’s feet were stenciled with a name, but all I could make out was the first letter, an O.
The artifacts only spurred my interest.
After asking around, I finally found someone willing to tell me about the previous residents of Parrot Ridge.
The story permanently chilled my curiosity.
~ ~ ~
IT WAS ELSIE who relayed the tale to me, not long after I hired her to clean the inn’s guest rooms.
She was a quiet girl, slight for her twenty-two years. I was surprised when she pulled me aside, even more so when she reluctantly whispered in my ear.
I guess she felt it was her duty. My constant questioning could do nothing but hurt the new venture’s chances.
The tragedy happened over fifteen years ago, she told me,
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