The moon is full tonight and it hangs just at the edge of the horizon, right where the water meets the sky. It’s got a reddish tint to it, something that we don’t get to see very often. The sailors call it a Blood Moon and I can see why. It’s ethereal and beautiful; haunting, actually. It’s why I’m here tonight.
I start snapping pictures; kneeling, standing, then kneeling again.
When a large wisp of fog floats partially in front of the moon, I gasp. I’ve never seen a more perfect picture. It will make an amazing painting. And the framed print will look good, too. Either way works for me since I’ve got customers for both.
I take at least a hundred pictures before I’m finally satisfied with the light, the luminosity and the angle. As I tuck my camera into its bag, I take a huge breath of the fresh, crisp lake air and enjoy my walk back along the beach. I love the way my bare feet sink into the thick silvery sand and I take care not to trip over random pieces of jagged driftwood.
It’s a good night to let my thoughts drift. The air is so still and the silence is enormous. Even the seagulls have gone to sleep, so there is no one here to bother me. Complete and perfect solitude.
As the breeze blows my hair away from my face, I absently think of my to-do list in my studio and what I need to order tomorrow when I re-stock my supplies. I also wonder if I remembered to lock my house, although it won’t be a huge issue if I didn’t.
In a larger city, I’d have to be more careful about that, and definitely more careful about walking alone at night. But here in Angel Bay, I’m as safe as I’m going to get. We have a crime rate here that belongs in a 1950’s Mayberry kind of town. The most crime we see is jaywalking during peak tourist season.
As I climb over a dune and into the parking lot where I left my car, I’m surprised to find a black, glistening muscle car facing the lake. It hadn’t been here when I arrived earlier.
I sigh. My solitude has been interrupted. But honestly, it doesn’t matter. I’m leaving anyway.
Slipping my shoes back on, I pad across the pavement toward my car, but as I do, I notice that the other car’s door is standing wide open. I can hear the dinging sound from here. Apparently, the keys are still in the ignition.
That’s strange and I pause, staring at the lonely car.
I’m uncertain, because it’s dark and I’m alone. But the insistent buzzing ding of the open car door pulls me to it. I can only hope that the owner isn’t a mass murderer. I curl my fingers around the cell phone in my pocket, as if it could actually shield me from danger. Regardless of the ridiculousness of that thought, I keep the phone planted firmly in my palm.
As I draw closer, I see a black battered boot dangling through the doorsill of the car. It isn’t moving.
Normally, I wouldn’t think anything of it. I’d think that the person attached to the black boot was just asleep. But something seems wrong here. Something tangibly ominous seems to hang about like a cloud. Not many people could sleep with that annoying buzz coming from the open door.
I creep up on the car and gaze inside, covering my mouth with my hand as I do. There is an overpowering stench of vomit and I immediately see the reason. The guy in the driver’s seat has passed out in a large pool of orangey-red puke. His mouth is slack, hanging open, and sticky tendrils of vomit stretch from his chin to his chest. I shudder. It’s definitely not this guy’s finest hour.
He’s very, very still, but I know he’s breathing because he’s making strange gurgling noises. The tiny snorts vibrate through the cartilage of his nose, muffled by the vomit bubbling around his mouth.
That can’t be good.
I gag from the smell and shake his shoulder. His head lolls loosely around and hangs to his chest. I shake him again, but he doesn’t come to, his head just jerks limply from side to side, like a doll with a broken neck.
Holy crap.
I feel more panicky by the minute, my heart thrumming like a hummingbird trapped inside my ribcage. I’m not sure what to do. He could’ve just passed out from drinking too much. In fact, I see a bottle of whiskey on the floorboard that could attest to that. But there’s something wrong. Something that I can’t put my finger on, but my gut is screaming at me now.
So I do the first thing that I think of.
I pull out my phone and call 9-1-1.
They answer on the second ring and ask what my emergency is. I stare at the young guy.
“I’m not sure,” I say uncertainly. “But my name is Mila Hill and I’m down on Goose Beach in the parking lot. There’s a guy here, passed out in his car. I can’t wake him up. I think something’s wrong with him.”
“Is he breathing?” the woman on the phone asks calmly. I check again, then tell her yes.
“That’s good,” she tells me. “Do you feel comfortable waiting there until help arrives?”
“Yes,” I tell her. “I’ll wait with him.”
Knowing that help is on the way calms me down.