Ships That Don't Come In

Catherine O’ Brady could sense something was coming, she could smell it, feel it in her very soul. Not wasting time with finding her slippers, she rushed upstairs to the spare bedroom, the hardwood floors creaking and whining under her bare feet. She flung the door open, her heart hammering inside her chest as she continued across the floor. The room was bathed in murky grey light, the curtains whipping in the breeze from the open windows. She opened another door and ascended a shorter flight of stairs, and upon opening that door she stepped out into the small round room of the observation tower. She pushed open the door and stepped out onto the roof and went to the wrought iron railing, gripping it tightly as her eyes scanned the sky.

Her long skirt whipped around her legs and the wind caught her long unbraided hair and tossed it all around. She brought a hand up and impatiently held it in place.

The early morning sky was an eery orange, with heavy clouds etched at the edges in red and yellow. Angry colors. From her vantage point she could see past the harbor where the ships and boats of different sizes swayed and rocked in the water to the dark, endless depth of the sea. Waves crashed against the shoreline and seagulls swooped in, loudly crying out. Usually there were dozens of vessels coming and going through the harbor, picking up freight to carry it farther south along the coast or even farther across the Atlantic. The shipyards along the harbor were rarely still or quiet and this morning the only noise she heard were the seagulls and the roar of the wind. Ships were docked hard and fast and she scanned the horizon as far as she could see for any boats coming into the harbor. Her husband, Captain John O’Brady had already been out to sea for two weeks. His crew had been headed south to Philadelphia to deliver a load of coal, then they were set to return to Belfast for a load of lumber.

She stayed on the widow’s walk until the chill in the morning air persuaded her to go back indoors. She walked downstairs and got the fireplace lit in the great room, then lit the wood cook stove in the kitchen and made some breakfast. She ate at the table, then went into the bedroom to get dressed for the day. She would go to the post office and inquire about any news that had come in. Perhaps her husband had been delayed by a rogue storm along the coast. She let a soft smile come to her face as she thought of her husband. John O’Brady was an oak of a man with a big booming voice that demanded to be heard. His crew respected him and in his twenty years on the water he hadn’t lost a single man. He could read the sea and her moods, and always seemed to know what was coming. She had never worried for his safety before, so this new feeling unsettled her a great deal.

As she walked down Northport Avenue on her way to the post office she passed several houses belonging to other sea captains. She paused on the road and called to Mary Ann Cottrell who was working in her yard.

“Mary Ann, have you heard any news about weather south of us?” she asked, wasting no time with pleasantries this morning.

“Why no, my husband just returned yesterday from a trip to New York. He said it was smooth sailing all the way,” Mary Ann replied. She saw the worry in her neighbor’s eyes. “He’s going out tomorrow. I can ask him to keep an eye out for your husband and his crew.”

Catherine nodded tightly. “Yes, please. I appreciate that.”

Mary Ann cast a glance toward the sky, which was still an ominous shade of orange and red.

“Red sky at morning, sailor take warning. I hope it doesn’t get bad today. It’s too still around here.”

Catherine had heard that phrase her entire life and knew it to be true. The sky looked as if it were on fire, the sun blotted out by clouds heavy with rain.

She continued on her way. The post master didn’t have any news for her so she went to the general store and picked up some dry beans, sugar, coffee, and flour.

She felt the first raindrops as she turned onto Northport Avenue. She hurried past the houses, then pushed open the wrought iron gate and hurried up the well-worn path to the front porch of her house. As she shut the door behind her, a loud clap of thunder startled her.

She put the groceries away and lit some candles. The increasing clouds had darkened the house like night. She fed the fireplace a few more logs, feeling a chill creeping in.

For several hours she busied herself with sewing while the storm brewed.

A loud boom rattled the entire house, startling her awake. The blanket she had been sewing lay in the floor at her feet and the fire had gone out completely. The house was dark and not a single candle burned. Rain pelted the glass and she heard wind whistling like a tea kettle. Remembering the open window upstairs, she grabbed a candlestick and made her way into the kitchen where the matches were. She struck a match and lit the candle. She lit another and left it in the kitchen as she went upstairs. Halfway up, she paused. Her ears strained in the darkness, trying to catch the noise she had thought she heard. Amid the booming thunder she could have sworn she heard footsteps, or a voice even.

“John?” she called out, taking another step.

Silly, she chided herself. If he had come home he would have woken her.

She pushed the bedroom door open and went to the window and shut it. As she turned to leave, she heard it again. Voices. They were muffled, as if they were farther away, but she was definitely hearing them.

“John?” she called, leaving the bedroom. She bounded down the stairs, a knot of fear forming in her stomach.

“John?!” she called again, desperately.

As her foot left the last step, the front door swung open and three people stepped inside her house.

“This is a beautiful example of how well some of these older houses were preserved through the years. The floors are original hardwood and the basic design of the house has remained unchanged. The kitchen was renovated a few years ago. Upstairs we have a bedroom and bathroom and access to the roof. It had an observation tower up until about ten years ago. The owners removed it and created a cozy outdoor space but the widow’s walk is intact.”

“A widow’s walk. Wow. You don’t see a lot of those anymore,” the man said, looking around the great room. He noted the rustic floors, the shiplap on the walls, the original fireplace.

“How old is this house again? 1840?” he asked.

“It was built in 1860 actually. Captain John O’Brady built it shortly after he married his wife, Catherine. Northport Avenue was once home to many sea captains and their families when Belfast was a bustling harbor. Many homes were lost in a fire in 1913 so this one got lucky. You don’t find these very often.”

The realtor guided them through the house, before making their way to the top of the roof where the widow’s walk was.

“Look at this view!” the wife gushed, stepping to the rail. From there, she could see across the tops of houses to the harbor where the handful of boats bobbed in the water.

The realtor continued talking about the neighborhood.

“You’ll see many historic homes along Northport, and as you can see, you’re only a short distance from the harbor. You’re about a quarter of a mile from downtown Belfast.”

The husband turned to the realtor.

“You were saying a sea captain built this house for his wife. Do you know anything else about what happened to them?”

The realtor cleared her throat. “I don’t really like talking about it but I am obligated to disclose delicate information.”

At her client’s questioning looks, she continued hesitantly.

“The story goes that Captain O’Brady was lost at sea. His body was never found, nor his ship. The boat and crew just seemed to vanish. The townspeople said at the time Catherine waited for him to return. Day and night she could be seen up here on the widow’s walk and they claim to hear her calling his name when the wind blows just right. Eventually she was driven crazy and she jumped to her death from the roof a year after he went missing. The previous owners never kept it very long. They said windows would open on their own, they’d hear footsteps, just things to shake them up. It always seems worse when there’s a storm coming in,” the agent cast a nervous eye to the darkening sky and grinned sheepishly. “Do you mind if we finish talking about the house out front?”

“Not at all,” the wife said, eager to leave.

As the three of them descended the stairs, Catherine climbed to the top to resume her watch of the harbor. She was waiting for a schooner to come in, and she wouldn’t rest until her husband was back home. As the sky turned a sullen grey and blotted out the sun she waited for a schooner that would never come in.