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Overview
FOUR DECADES AFTER TYPHOID MARY WENT TO HER GRAVE, FIVE CURIOUS GRADUATE STUDENTS STRUGGLE TO ESCAPE ALIVE FROM THE ABANDONED ISLAND THAT ONCE IMPRISONED HER. CONTAGION DOESN’T DIE. IT JUST WAITS.
In the Hell Gate section of New York’s East River lie the sad islands where, for centuries, people locked away what they most feared: the contagious, the disfigured, the addicted, the criminally insane.
Here infection slowly consumed the stricken. Here a desperate ship captain ran his doomed steamship aground and watched flames devour 1,500 souls. Here George A. Soper imprisoned the infamous Typhoid Mary after she spread sickness and death in Manhattan’s most privileged quarters.
George’s great-granddaughter, Karalee, and her fellow graduate students in public health know that story. But as they poke in and out of the macabre hospital rooms of abandoned North Brother Island—bantering, taking pictures, recalling history—they are missing something: Hidden evil watches over them—and plots against them.
When death visits Hell Gate, it comes to stay.
As darkness falls, the students find themselves marooned—their casual trespass having unleashed a chain of horrific events beyond anyone’s imagination.
Disease lurks among the eerie ruins where Typhoid Mary once lived and breathed. Ravenous flies swarm puddles of blood. Rot and decay cling to human skin. And spiteful ghosts haunt the living and undead.
Soon five students of history will learn more than they ever wanted to know about New York’s foul underbelly: the meaning of spine-tingling cries down the corridor, of mysterious fires, of disfiguring murder, and of an avenging presence so sinister they’d rather risk their lives than face the terror of one more night.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781250089717 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Picador |
| Publication date: | 05/03/2016 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 224 |
| File size: | 759 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Prisoner of Hell Gate
A Novel
By Dana I. Wolff
Picador
Copyright © 2016 Verbitrage LLC, Series 1All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-250-08971-7
CHAPTER 1
Mary
Brothers she had once, but none so suffocating as this Brother.
It is a stifling September night. The summer does not relent. Dampness prevails, as always, but at this time less from the river and more from the mugginess that weighs on everything. It penetrates the very bricks, their crumbling mortar spongy to the touch.
The lettuces in the greenhouse sag under it. Under its weight, the shreds of old window canopies hang from desolate buildings like the fingers of discarded gloves.
More worrisome, the human souls who share her island float over the disused pier, glowing in the night, and she is their only witness. They yawp yawp yawp, chittering for help.
As if. They are long past earthly assistance.
To the west, thunder rolls, mocking the skyscrapers that in her time cropped up across the river like mushrooms. Sometimes she wonders whether they will be left to rot one day by those who now inhabit them, as all mortal people once abandoned her island. Every effort of man, she thinks, is but the scratch of a broken stick in eternal clay.
Just look! Weeds grow between floorboards of the gymnasium. Rust eats the iron hinges of boiler house doors. Long ago, her unhappy cottage rotted into the soil. Today, rats bathe in the puddles of its old depression.
She traps them sometimes for supper, which is only right, since she freed them in the first place.
"Mary," Mr. Cunningham, the medical supply clerk, once persisted, "have you seen who opened that cage?"
"He was dead, Doctor." She called them all doctor then. "Buried him, I did."
But she had not. She had concealed the rat in her apron — the apron they gave her for work in the admitting ward. Concealed him and freed him in the woods with the others.
They were white, the original pack, white as any nurse's starched uniform. Now, many generations later, their colors run from nut-brown to dull black. They have their warrens under the leaves, where the forces of nature cut fissures in the schist of the forest floor. Also, no more than a few dozen live under the warped gymnasium floorboards. There is not enough natural food to sustain more than that, and they will not venture nearer her sleeping quarters. They know enough to keep their distance from her, and she sets her traps far from where she usually rests her head.
The thunder nears. It rattles loose windowpanes in what remains of the vast hospital.
Without breaking stride, she walks through the pitch dark, accustomed to it. Even up and down stairs without touching the loose railing. Her gait is lumbering, unfeminine. Everyone always said so. It matches her guttural voice, like a mumble from the beginning of sound, from deep within the earth. Though she spoke when there were people around, few ever heard her. Now she sometimes calls into the empty rooms just to register the echo, to affirm her own tenacity.
She measures the passage of time only by the height of the choking vines, once kept at bay, now running riot. And by the changing skyline across the way.
When lightning strikes the bent rod atop the old foghorn tower, she grunts aloud, thinking maybe Mathilde will hear her — Mathilde, whose hatred burns so hot and strident. Next to it, Mary's bitterness throbs like a dull ache. No less intense, only of a different texture.
She leaves the building and walks down to the pebbly shore, follows it along as the rain starts to fall in fat drops, hissing through tree leaves. The island has the shape of an amoeba. She traces its outline with her path, callused feet insensible to the sharp rocks and broken bits of iron and twigs and thorns.
When the lightning flashes again, she sees more ghostly forms, mostly women and children. They lie atop submerged pebbles, river water fluttering what remains of their clothing the way breeze stirs the frayed wings of a decaying moth. The sight of them no longer surprises her — not even their charred and blistered faces, their stump fingers, their pleading stone-dead eyes.
Is that water or trapped air or fistfuls of posies bulging their pockets? She may never know. They lie beyond her reach.
Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down.
Fire always factors into life's most plaintive moments, does it not? No matter whether it comes from outside or within.
And there is always blackness, too.
"Mary," calls Mathilde through the wind-driven rain. "Mary!"
"I'm here."
"This happened not by accident. Men it was did this. Men."
Mathilde harries her all the way along the path in the muddy woods and through the door and up the steps and down the hall and into the old laboratory, where she stops. Blue lightning illuminates in flashes the damp dusty room, and she sees George A. Soper standing there, imperious. Stiff like his instruments.
"Leave me alone, Mr. Soper." The only one she will not call doctor. "Leave me alone or I'll take out your eyes with this here —"
She clutches the sturdy carving fork in her fist, eighteen inches long, the tines sharpened. She had it in hand when they first pursued her, and she will never let it go.
"Now, Mary," says Soper. "By one means or another, I'll have that sample."
"You won't!" She screams and charges him. But he is gone, long dead. The points of the fork bury themselves in the wooden cabinet. Its shaft twangs, vibrating at a high frequency.
She outlived Soper — has long outlived all those who strapped her down and had their way with her.
Ring around the rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes! Ashes!
Yet he haunts her still.
The rain presages something. She feels it.
She squeezes a drop of water from her hair into her palm and licks what tastes like vinegar. Acid. It eats the island hardscape. The world changes but she does not. The world ages. She maintains.
Sometimes — rarely nowadays — men visit the island. Never to stay. Only to check on things or to snap pictures. She hid from them all these years, but must she forever?
The storm is passing. It leaves behind the scent of electricity and rotting fish. And a sense that something is different this time, her environment altered. No living person stands across from her in the dark laboratory, yet the man's terrible presence persists longer than it ever has. Soper.
"He's coming for me," she says aloud.
"No," whispers Mathilde into her left ear. "You are coming for him."
CHAPTER 2Karalee
Karalee Soper sits on the back bench of a Boston Whaler, cruising down the East River with four of her closest friends. On Karalee's lap rests her dearest possession: a brand-new Nikon 35 mm camera that she purchased on layaway from B&H Photo on Ninth Avenue in Manhattan. The Nikon replaced a Canon that she had owned from freshman year of high school straight through college, her first 35 mm and her first love. For eight years she carried that camera everywhere, wearing through three cases and yearning for a darkroom where she could develop her own shots. She carried it so incessantly that it made her father jealous, and he would tease her about it, sometimes hide it from her, other times cover his face with his hat to ruin her shot. That camera was the first thing his eyes settled upon when she told him more than a year and a half ago that she might want to change her career plans. He threw it so hard that it exploded against the stone kitchen wall of their house in Pelham, the lens cap catching her left ear as it sailed by, cutting her.
The scar on her ear itches sometimes. It remains fresh and pink, a thin line running from the antihelix — she knows her anatomy — through the scapha to the helix. But the loss of the camera disturbs her worse than the damage to her body.
She wishes she'd had the reflexes to snatch that camera out of midair. Instead, it shattered against the wall into thirty-nine pieces — she counted them through tears — the same number of lashes that Jesus received. Although her father apologized when the blood began flowing, the broken camera felt like that kind of loss to her at the time, like religious-scale suffering. She mourned for two weeks and acquired the new Nikon with her own money, saved from busing tables over two summers. Although she couldn't afford to buy it outright, she made the down payment with a few bucks to spare. Thirteen more months, and she'll have it paid off.
On the way downriver from Poughkeepsie, she shot an entire roll of film, mostly taking portraits of her friends, they who playfully call themselves the Sewer Rats. She is profligate with film — can't help herself — but that improves the odds of a great shot. For instance, she snapped half a dozen pictures of Chick at the helm, and one or two actually might have come out quite well. His round, red-cheeked face glowed in the early sun, his gaze falling on the Tappan Zee Bridge as they prepared to pass under it.
And she may have captured a characteristic gesture of Josh's, the way he pushes the black-framed glasses back up his nose with the knuckle of his pinky finger. But she got only one of those, and it's entirely possible she had the shutter set too slow and it blurred.
She snapped a good picture of Gerard, she thinks, in his San Diego baseball cap, reading a mass-market paperback copy of Norman Mailer's Executioner's Song, holding it up in front of his buff, bare, hairless chest, soft Korean eyes riveted on the words like nothing else existed in the world at that moment. Gerard, so easily distracted in other respects, focuses like a laser on printed words.
She may very well have done her best work so far with Estela, getting the Spaniard in midconversation, that flamboyant sweep of her black hair, the waving around of that half-dead arm of hers. In one unself-conscious motion — frozen in film, Karalee hopes — Estela flaunted her determination not to let anything hinder her, least of all her physical limitations.
Karalee lifts the camera to her eye again as their boat, the Flagellum, enters an area of the East River known as Hell Gate. But there's nothing worth noting in the frame. No one doing anything interesting, and the skyline behind them looks dull in the haze.
She feels a rumble from the boat's engine, which springs to life like an animal newly alert, and although she never held the wheel, she has a sense that the river is resisting them here. The engine's vibrations travel up through the soles of her bare feet — up through her hamstrings and the small of her back, too — and flutter her guts. Something like the feeling she knows from trips to Rye Playland, when the Dragon Coaster takes a precipitous drop, and for one fleeting second you confront your own mortality. But the river today holds no further sense of drama. It is stippled only by the tiniest waves.
Thirty minutes ago, Josh began calling out random public health facts, such as the amount of effluent that used to pour untreated into the waters around Manhattan and how yellow fever arrived from Barbados at the end of the seventeenth century. Now this casual recitation has segued into a full-blown lecture, Karalee listening with only half a mind. She looks out across the river and notes how the urban enterprise overwhelms what little bits of nature they can see. Buildings tower over trees. Bridges disrupt the sweep of the river. Planes and boats force waterbirds to the margins, where the Sewer Rats saw a few ducks and herons on the way down. Nature endures if you look hard enough. It's there if you scratch the façade of civilization.
One aspect of photography that Karalee loves most is its ability to scratch that façade, to explore the layers of people and things. Even when she can't find them with the lens — for now she returns the camera to her lap — she likes to catalog the layers in her head.
She thinks of her place as a physical object on the earth, listing in her mind that which lies beneath her now: the thin nylon, damp with sweat, of a modest navy one-piece bathing suit; a boxy pair of tan Bermuda shorts that Chick hates because they make her ass look big; in contact with those shorts the lightly soiled vinyl boat cushion with torn piping, stuffed with spun petroleum; then the hard slick fiberglass bench and hull; the striated gray water that fights the boat, struggling to wrestle them backwards and dump them into New York Harbor; finally, the hidden sheer rock cliffs of the channel, deepened by dynamite a hundred years ago to allow for the passage of ships much larger than this small pleasure boat.
What lies at the base of the underwater cliffs? Josh, when he imparted this bit of information, didn't say. He has moved his running disquisition onto the subject of Randalls and Wards Islands, which they just passed. Pot and alcohol make him garrulous. Gerard and Estela, expressionless, listen with the laughable focus of stoned people peering through mist. Maybe that's why, all at once, they've become so unphotogenic. Chick, for his part, grips the wheel with two hands and appears to have other things on his mind.
Josh speaks of how nineteenth-century New Yorkers used the East River islands as a way to banish the sick and forlorn from their sight. On Wards and Blackwell's and other islands, they built quarantine hospitals and orphanages and poorhouses and retirement homes for disfigured Civil War veterans. Later they built madhouses and prisons. They disappeared the unwanted dead there, too, even disinterring and reburying those unfortunates who moldered in Manhattan's original potter's fields. These souls would find no peace in death — no more than they had found in life. Wasn't it always this way? Uneasy rest for a man who impedes the course of progress.
"Here lies Tom, who weren't known to anyone with the scratch to afford him a proper burial." Josh giggles, putting on something between a cockney and an Appalachian accent. He's from Roslyn Harbor, a wealthy Long Island suburb, and "doesn't know from" poverty — at least not the real condition beyond the statistics that he's studied ad infinitum. "Died on the sidewalk of Canal Street," he continues, narrating the life of fictional Tom. "Buried in the earth of Madison Square. Dug up to make room for a park where the bourgeoisie could soak in the sun and sit in the shade. A fresh hole dug on some godforsaken island. An unmarked grave as anonymous as the life he once lived."
"Oh, shud up already." Estela's brash Latin accent compensates reasonably well for the vulnerabilities she can't hide. Her body may be out of balance, but her mind and her determination sing in perfect harmony.
Josh shoves his glasses back up his nose with a pinky and squints in her direction. He is gangly and scoop-chested, no more than a wisp of hair showing between his paper-plate pectorals. "Do I offend you?"
"Worse." Estela exaggerates a sigh. "You're boring me."
Since beginning his lecture about the islands, Josh has uttered few facts they don't already know. All of the Sewer Rats attend the Graduate School of Public Health at Havermeyer University — everyone but Chick, who's a junior professor. They are the best and brightest of the doctoral program, in fact, capable of citing obscure statistics and macabre bits of history, such as the geometric progression of the Black Death or the number of World War I soldiers who died from dysentery in the trenches along the Marne.
Josh blushes, adjusts his chin as if Estela has slapped him, and looks to the two other men for support. But their attention has turned elsewhere. Again: stoner focus. Karalee is the only sober one on the boat, has never touched more than the occasional glass of wine or beer, fearing it will make her sloppy. She lifts the Nikon to her eye but misses Josh's pout by a fraction of a second.
"Thar she blows!" Gerard calls, smiling proudly through squinted eyes at his own bit of inanity. He's staring at the Bronx shore; they all are now. He drops his water-stained paperback onto the copilot's seat — the copy that he's carried all summer like an old friend, visiting and revisiting it. The book bounces off the seat cushion and lands on the deck, but Gerard hardly notices. He's looking at the smoke in the sky.
Karalee follows his gaze.
CHAPTER 3Mary
She is alone, but no more alone than she ever was.
Next morning, the halls of the old dormitory are quieter than the dust that plasters every untouched surface. Disrupting the silence, her thick bare feet clop on loose linoleum tiles almost as loudly as the blocky high-heeled brogues that she once favored. She recalls the sound they made in the tenement stairwell on Third Avenue, climbing on her rare days off to discover the empty room at the top with Briehof's doused cigarettes floating in glasses of cruddy water.
Sometimes she would wait for him to stumble in with the dog. At other times she went down again to find him at the bar across the street, surly and brooding. She would ask if he had eaten and he would nod noncommittally to his whiskey, and did she not feel alone then? But she always allowed him back into bed, the tenement room being so cold otherwise and sleep so elusive with trains rumbling night and day on the elevated tracks outside.
In the old country, in Cookstown, the only girl in a family of boys, she walked the streets in her brothers' hand-me-downs and appeared to all the world like an orphaned guttersnipe. No one ever got too close to her. Her simpleminded mother would not meet her eyes or anyone's, as if she concealed a shameful secret. Mary learned to cook not at her mother's apron strings but by observing from the corner, where she crouched many afternoons with a thick wooden splinter to pick the coal dust from beneath her fingernails. Those nails! For all her efforts, they held dirt like a starving man clings to a crust of bread.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Prisoner of Hell Gate by Dana I. Wolff. Copyright © 2016 Verbitrage LLC, Series 1. Excerpted by permission of Picador.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page,Copyright Notice,
Dedication,
Epigraphs,
Mary,
Karalee,
Mary,
Karalee,
Mary,
Karalee,
Mary,
Karalee,
Mary,
Karalee,
Mary,
Karalee,
Mary,
Karalee,
Mary,
Karalee,
Mary,
Karalee,
Mary,
Karalee,
Mary,
Karalee,
Mary,
Karalee,
Mary,
Karalee,
Mary,
Karalee,
About the Author,
Copyright,