Eighteen-year-old Jack spent his life in Chester, New York until the day an armed man broke into his place and murdered his parents. Tormented by his guilt, he moves to New York City to find a job and escape his past. Under pressure, Jack signs a questionable lease with a married pair of landlords.
Just days later, the handyman of the building dies unexpectedly, and Jack is offered the job. It’s not long after accepting the position that his nightmare begins. Caught between the slumlord owners and mysterious beings that haunt the building, Jack struggles to maintain his sanity as the tenants die around him. Will he be next?
“Jack’s pace decreased as he drew close to a dead-end where a secluded and crumbling three-story brownstone apartment rested: the 1761 Williamsburg Housing Building. His shabby clothes matched the state of the dwelling.”
I was hiking solo on a secluded path in Dingle on a typical drizzling day. The white curtain of mist in the background suddenly shifted, driving toward my direction and embracing the path. Goosebumps scattered on my back—it was a spooky experience!
The breeze turned into a squall, and the black water of the North Channel churned. Bolton was a determined giant. He left the Dunseverick Castle to see his uncle, who was on the verge of death, in Rathlin Island. As he paddled his canoe along the coast, dark clouds rolled in; a storm was approaching.
The tide suddenly went frantic, and the draft steered his canoe toward the vast open sea. A rush of adrenaline flowed through his veins as he attempted to paddle against the current. Forks of lightning flashed. The canoe swayed like a cradle while his stomach gurgled, craving food and seeking for shelter. A deafening thunder clapped. He yelped with an ashen face and imagined the sea swallowing him and dragging him down in the abyss. He paddled swiftly along with his racing thoughts.
The torrential downpour thumped with a herculean force. Bolton leaped and dropped the paddle. The canoe spun in the ripple, then an overpowering current jetted him toward the gloomy horizon and the infinite sea. His heart pounded to the beats of the raindrops pelting on the vessel.
He lunged forward to the opposite end of the canoe to hug the buoy to save it. The stern of the canoe rose and tossed Bolton into the sea. He held tight to his buoy, which kept him afloat. He watched the turbulent current dragging his vessel to the horizon. His heart sank as he fought to keep his head above water. Then Bolton squinted his eyes. He saw a dark tower sitting on an island with a curtain of thin mist scattered across the island.
It was when he swam to the shore that he realized it was Staffa Island off the Scottish coast. Midnight crows perched on the leafless oak trees and cawed in disharmony. Bolton approached the crows and paused before the tall charcoal and ruby hexagonal basalt columns that were formed by volcano eruptions. The island was a land of giants that wandered about the castle and thatched-roof cottages. Bolton made his way to the castle and knocked on the tall, arched wooden door. The door creaked open. Libby, a gorgeous giant with sparkling emerald eyes, greeted him with a beaming smile.
Bolton bowed and water dripped from his drenched clothes. He twisted the bottom of his shirt, squirting water all over the floor. Libby laughed at his predicament, and her smile widened at his goofiness. He explained the story of his struggle at sea while his stomach gurgled aloud. He expelled hiccups.
She smirked and said, “You must be starving.”
Bolton’s face flushed abruptly. The sinister-looking and gigantic Killdare stepped in, narrowed his brows, and examined Bolton from head to toe. “Intruder? You have trespassed onto my property.”
“I got carried away by the storm,” said Bolton.
Libby confronted Killdare. “Our guest is injured. We can’t just let him go.”
After a few exchanges, Killdare left the couple alone.
Steam spread in the castle’s kitchen. Paintings of landscapes hung on the stone walls. Libby wiped the gash on Bolton’s forehead and scrapes on his shoulder. He munched a generous portion of oatmeal while slurping and adding various noises. Libby wondered. “Where did you learn to eat?”
He emptied the bowl and burped.
“So, what’s your plan?” She patted the wet cloth on his forehead.
“Go back home, I guess.”
She laughed. “You’re being a jester.”
“I’ll search for my vessel.”
“Your vessel is probably waiting for you somewhere in the middle of the ocean, perhaps at the bottom of the sea.”
“I’ll build a path then.”
“A path? That’s foolish.” She snickered.
“I got to build a path to cross the North Channel.”
“You’re telling me tales?”
“I got to see my uncle. Poor guy twisted his leg.” He stared away from Libby and uncorked the bottle of wine. “Poor fellow has a tumor growing on his face.” He poured wine into the wooden wine cups.
She palmed her mouth.
“He’s on his deathbed.”
“That’s awful. I don’t know how I can help. Killdare won’t let anyone leave the island.”
He said, “Your Killdare doesn’t approve of me.”
“He doesn’t trust outsiders. I don’t need his approval. I’m old enough to decide.”
“But it’s his castle…”
“It’s our castle. It’s our family’s castle. He’s just a rotting maggot who bought us and owns us.”
“Nice when you’re outside. Ugly when you’re inside.”
He nodded. “Why not leave?”
Libby jumped from her seat and kissed him. “Take me with you.”
A maid entered the kitchen and fetched Libby. “Our guest must be tired from the perilous voyage.”
Bolton leaped, and his hand knocked the bottle of wine. It shattered and spilled on the stone floor. Libby left. Another maid cleaned his mess with her jaw clenched. Killdare fetched Bolton. They crossed the main dim hallway while the torches on the walls flickered and cast their shadows on the floor. Their footsteps echoed as they descended the steep staircase.
The steel door opened. Bolton felt his nerves tingle when he entered the guest room. There were chains hung to the ceiling; saw blades on the wall and a sledgehammer sitting in the room’s corner. The bed was bare, no blankets. The steel door clashed. The deadbolt clicked. His heart raced faster than he dashed to the door. He pounded on the door and howled. Face fuming with anger, he punched the steel door till his white knuckles turned crimson.
Libby climbed up the tower’s spiral staircase. When she approached the second flight, she overheard the conversation trailing in the hall. She froze in her tracks and gave ear to Killdare’s voice. “—We’ll send him to the gallows at sunrise…”
Her face brushed with terror. She blasted to her bedroom, slipped into a long gown, and packed spare clothes and blankets. Libby grabbed fresh fruits and nuts in the kitchen before heading to the basement.
Bolton’s chest and legs quivered as he lied down on the floor. The door opened. Libby entered with a torchlight, illuminating their presence.
The couple snuck out of the castle and barreled through the sleepy and gloomy forest. When they approached the seashore, they paused before the cluster of hexagonal-shaped basalt columns. His sparkling, desirous eyes met her gleaming beam under the bright full moon. He pulled out a ring and proposed to her. They exchanged a tender and passionate kiss.
Bolton reached to a pillar and shook it. “What are you doing?” asked Libby. Her face dropped and her eyes widened as she watched Bolton plucking honeycomb basalt columns and hurling them to the sparkling sea where the moon reflected. A sound of cracking and snapping struck from the forest. Several keepers stepped in with stakes poking at them. It took only a few blows for Bolton to defeat them. The path made of basalt pillars stretched from the shore into the sea. Bolton raced back and forth from the volcano hill to the edge of the path to extend the path across the North Channel. Patches of fog spread off the coast of the Giant’s Causeway near Dunseverick, where Bolton lived.
The couple settled down at Bolton’s oceanfront, crooked log cabin. They sat on a timber before the cabin, which offered a view of the basalt columns that stretched from the shore to the sea. They wolfed down oatmeal and apples. Bolton fought with the spoon with his shaky, blistered and bloody hands. He dropped the spoon. Unable to lean forward, he ate with his swollen hands.
The earth rumbled.
Bolton saw a giant strolling on the path from the misty sea.
A hint of unease brushed on Libby’s face. “The almighty Glendor of the Hebrides Islands!”
“What? You know him?”
“He’s coming for us.”
“It’s my fault…”
Bolton placed both hands on the log, attempted to pull himself up, and howled in pain. He felt sparks on his back and sunk on the log. Libby tried to pull a worn-out Bolton up to his feet in vain.
Glendor drew close to the misty shore.
Bolton stood on his feet at last. Deep in his thoughts, he planned his next move.
The shaped and bulky Glendor stepped on the shore. He scanned his environment with eyes of prey: the soaring seagulls, the waves clashing on the basalt pillars, the sea of trees standing in the background, and the crooked cabin. He marched to the cabin. There was a wooden sign at the cabin door grooved with Bolton’s and Libby’s names. He gritted his teeth. Just before entering the cabin, he stared down, and his eyes narrowed.
A cradle made of tree barks sat along the house. There was someone wearing red and green-colored pieces of fabric wrapped around their chest and down to their feet. The bonnet pulled down over their forehead and concealed the eyes. They had they thumb in their mouth.
Glendor bent, then the baby shrilled. The Almighty ruler grinned. He scratched his head as he scanned the baby’s size, who was as tall as him. Glendor then noticed giant footprints trailing from the cradle to the entrance of the forest. He stamped his foot beside one footprint and his face froze as terror seized him. The giant footprints were at least five times the size of his footprint. He looked at the baby again and deduced those footprints must be the baby’s father, who must be taller and bulkier than him. Glendor zoomed to the shore, hopped on the rocky path that crossed the Northern Channel to Staffa Island off the Scottish coast. Glendor’s face turned bloody red as he growled and tossed the hexagonal-shaped stones into the sea with madness to prevent Bolton and Libby from crossing the North Channel. Honeycomb columns and stones flew high and splashed into the dark, abysmal water. The tide was out. Bolton and Libby stood on the shore—on the remains of the black and red hexagonal basalt pillars staring at the vast open sea. Bolton pitched the bonnet, then tore the pieces of fabric wrapped around his chest and legs. The couple burst into laughter.