Ghost Ship

The squat blue gray building hummed with danger. 

Was this where he would find Sophia? Whatever happened, Otis knew after tonight everything would change.   

Even in the barren wasteland of the old industrial district, the cement block warehouse stood out. Like an ancient mausoleum, the words ‘Ghost Ship’ were painted in 6-foot-tall letters high across the front of the crumbling façade.

  An auto body shop and a cell phone store girded in steel bars shared the block, but the warehouse was a thing apart.

 It breathed, alive with a rumbling and heaving wheeze from deep inside its bowels. Multicolored lights strobed and blinked out of dusty second floor windows, as if searching for its next prey. A side yard held the desiccated remains of past victims; two yellowed mobile homes canted into each other between broken appliances and skeletons of old furniture. A large construction of metal and wood reached a desperate arm up, its futile effort to escape reflected in red, orange and yellow lights from the windows.  

 “You really think Sophia will be here? I thought she had left Oakland entirely.” Otis said. In khakis and a thin jacket over a polo shirt he shuffled backwards to get closer to Daisy. An unease crept up his thighs and crawled into his belly. Maybe he was just too old for this. Women and men, girls and boys really, walked by him toward the Ghost Ship as if he was just another stop sign post, easy to ignore on the cold and clear December night.  

 Daisy, 22 the same age as Sophia and his last connection to her, wore a button front jean skirt and a bomber jacket over a cropped black t-shirt. She stepped away to put more distance between them.

 “Like I said on the phone Mr. Shea, she re-posted the link to this show by Golden Donna. If your daughter’s into them she will be here. The Ghost Ship shows are insane!”

 “You can call me Otis, Daisy." He stared at the gray building as it swallowed people one by one. Maybe I’ll just watch for her out here.” He rubbed his bald head.

 He examined each woman who walked in, scrutinizing their hair and the tilt of their shoulders hoping for Sophia. Guilt at her disappearance gnawed at him. Would he even recognize her, and if he found her, would she listen to him? A cold wind blew from where Daisy had stood, and he found her walking across the street.

“Come on. You have to see inside.”

After six days this was as close as he had been to finding her. The police were no help, they just repeated the same questions over and over, practically blaming him for her disappearance.

He had found Daisy on Instagram, and after listening to his story she agreed to help track down her old friend from middle school. He needed to find Sophia, convince her to listen to reason, before the police found her, or his world would fall apart. 

He followed Daisy.

Rust and graffiti covered the large metal roll up door to the warehouse, shut tight for years. Otis followed Daisy through the small door cut into it, the only entry into the building.

Dust, mold and the stink of unwashed bodies assaulted him. Otis blinked against the dim light, and at the unbelievable scene that surrounded him. Antique pianos and organs created a labyrinth into a large foyer.

He had stepped through a mystical portal, a time machine back 100 years to a world where modern plastic hadn’t been invented. Items of dark wood, steel or bronze were everywhere. He dodged an overstuffed red leather chair to enter a lounge area where two, no, three red and black checkered cloth lamps balanced on an art deco radio festooned with a string of white lights. Old couches covered with rugs and ottomans dotted the space.

 He saw a stairway to his right, while a hallway, created by positioning wood pallets and drawers stacked to the ceiling stretched out ahead of him. Light from nearby rooms leaked out of the walls around him, made up of wood scraps hammered into rough 2x4 frames. Paintings and tapestries covered the partitions, picture frames, posters, and clocks hung from nails and balanced on tilted shelves. 

A faded red and green flag stapled to the ceiling sagged down, brushing his head. Otis ducked, lifting his hands to hold the walls back that suddenly seemed to squeeze in.  He couldn’t get enough air, he gasped in short breaths. A hard edge poked sharp into Otis’ shoulder, and he leapt to the side, landing on a fire extinguisher and then overturning a stack of hardcover books. They clattered to the floor, bouncing off the layers of rugs covering the cement. He then made the mistake of looking up.  

Glaring down above him, a green, five-foot-tall statue hovered, a giant birdman with partially open wings, its hand reaching out for him.

“Oh my god!” Electric fear sparked up his back, shooting him to his feet, escaping backwards until he backed into another wall, rattling the statuettes, a collection of 12” tall black jazz musicians on a shelf. Otis spun away again.

“Shit! What is this?”

“-That’s a statue of Garuda.” Daisy said, pointing to the green god above her. “Hindu god of flight-”

“There’s so much junk!”

“It’s art!” Daisy waved both hands. “Isn’t it amazing? All made and collected by the artists in this collective.”

“Is this place legal? Maybe we should go-” Otis squeezed himself tight, trying to breathe in the cramped space.

“Why don’t we look through the downstairs first.” Daisy pointed to the narrow hall.

The walls of the hallway contained scraps of wood siding, and old recycled doors in different fading colors. Two steps down the hallway Otis looked in a room to see two men and one woman laid back on couches, feet stretched out on a fur covered footstool. Another woman painted a man’s fingernails, her purple hair gently swaying as she leaned over her work.

An old swing tune poured out of an ancient record player, mixing with the thick cannabis smoke in the airless lounge. The singer on the scratched record crooned, “...Don't Want to Set the World on Fire…”

 Turning into the next cubby hole room Otis saw a silver airstream trailer on four flat tires across from several mushroom infested couches and an ancient television in a wooden frame.

Across the hall, a yellow light illuminated a small room. An upright piano leaned against a tilted loveseat next to an armoire overstuffed with clothes. Thick orange extension cords stretched across the ceiling, and along the walls. A hot plate and electric kettle balanced on one small table. A camping stove with several green butane tanks squatted next to it.

“People live here?” Otis asked, mouth gaping. “I thought you said it was an artists’ studio and a theater -?”

“Yes, and a place to live.” Daisy said. “Where else can an artist find a roof over her head? Rents are impossible. People are desperate, do you know another place like this? Not everyone has first months, last months, security deposit, credit score-” Daisy counted on purple manicured fingers rental requirements.

 ”These people living here play music, write stories, they create art exhibits, anything to create beauty.” Daisy shrugged. “Just because they live on the creative edge they shouldn’t get to eat, have a place to lay their head?” Daisy turned to sit on the bright green velvet loveseat, rubbing the soft material under her hand as her eyes caressed the collection of pre-war movie posters high on the wall.

”Wouldn’t you want to live here?“ She pointed. “ Bette Davis, Ingrid Bergman, oh Clark Gable! Ahh. I would thrive here.” She threw her head back. “It’s safe, like a warm cozy nest.”

“How could someone live here, it’s all trash and dirt, and so many people!” Otis sneered.

A sleeve of a faded jean jacket reached out to Otis from the art deco wardrobe. Its specific color and worn cuff flared his memory like a struck match.

Sophia hadn’t wanted to stay, but he offered a glass of wine, a slice of the pizza he had ordered in. That night was special, they shared stories, and he knew she felt it too, their connection. They had been so close, her bright joyful laugh! Once she passed out, he had carefully removed her jean jacket, the soft cloth still warm from her body. Then he moved on to the rest of her clothes-  

He lifted up his sleeves to his nose. Did it smell like her, her skin, her hair? He fought his memory, trying to remember what she smelled like. 

“-I was at a frat party at Cal last weekend.” Daisy interrupted his thoughts. “This place is way nicer than that cesspool. Less chance of getting drugged and raped too.” Daisy stood, folded her arms, then popped her hip out. “We should go.”

Otis pushed the sleeve back into the closet, but instead of staying put, the jacket fell out. A hand drawn zig-zag pattern of black lines covered the back panel of the jacket in an artistic swirl. A design he recognized.

“This is Sophia’s jacket!” Otis cried out. He pulled open the door of the armoire as if Sophia herself was in it, pulling out dresses and jeans, underwear and bras, leggings and sweaters, tossing them all onto the Persian carpeted floor. 

“What are you doing!’ A voice screamed behind him. Otis turned, but the young woman was not Sophia.

“I’m looking for Sophia, my daughter-”

“-She’s not in my closet! Damn those are mine!” The woman squealed louder, diving against Otis to shove him away, grasping a pair of black leggings and a pink bra tight against her. She waved the bra at Otis. “Don’t you know to leave other people’s possessions alone!” 

Light pink hair covered her face, black drips of mascara streaked against pale cheeks.

“I'm sorry, it’s just- this jacket, where did you get it?” Otis stammered.  

“A girl gave it to me. I said I liked it, and she pushed it on me, something about memories. The girl’s eyes darted between Otis, Daisy, and her clothes piled on the floor.

“Was she, light brown hair, about 5’5, brown eyes-” Otis leaned in searching for recognition.

The girl collapsed down amongst her strewn clothes. “Maybe.” 

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Yesterday, day before? She’s around-”

“-She lives here?” Tumblers in a puzzle box clicked, an answer for how she could have disappeared so completely from his search.

“Probably upstairs right now. She loves that kind of music." She said. 

“What’s your name?” Otis asked.

 “Jojo.” 

“Thanks for your help, Jojo. If you see her again, let her know her Dad’s looking for her.” Otis gripped the jacket in both hands. He spun slowly, blinking against posters, scraps of wood, and overstuffed couches surrounding him. He couldn’t even find the door where he got in. 

“How do we get upstairs- this way?” Otis pointed past a small mobile home up on blocks. 

“No” Jojo gestured to her left. “There’s only one way up, the front stairs. Jacket?”

Otis handed it back, nodding to Daisy. “Let’s go.”

The lights flickered once, then twice.

“What’s that!” Daisy jerked up.

“Happens all the time.” Jojo shook her head. “The electricity here is whack.” 

The crowd, all young, beautiful people, had grown. One by one they flowed in through the small door, filling the front lounge, spinning, pointing and laughing at the art stapled, nailed or glued to every square inch.

A queue formed to get up the stairs. The switchback, handmade steps, pieced together from wood scraps and packing pallets shook so much Otis held up the line waiting for them to clear before he felt safe walking up.

Otis came up through a hole cut in the second floor. He peered through a doorway into another small apartment at the top of the stairs. A bright pink and green comforter, smiling dolls and a pink stuffed cat sat on the lower level of a short bunk bed.  

“Kids live here?” Otis pointed.

Daisy shook her head. “I hope they ain’t here now.” 

They passed a tall stack of old box radios lined up along the wall before turning into the theater space, and a crush of humanity. 100 people or more danced and swirled in the multi-colored lights, shaking the floor in the damp heat. The room stretched out to take up most of the top floor of the warehouse.

 At the far end, a nasal-voiced man wailed into a microphone over another smashing on a drum kit behind two women playing guitars. Tall black speakers pumped out the raucous music, among antique chairs, pianos and juke boxes collected alongside the stage.  

Wooden sculptures floated above in the metal rafters, their swaying movements following the dancers below. Otis couldn’t see anything, couldn’t tell one person from another in the dim lighting and swirling dust.

 He circled the room, dodging the dancers before coming back to Daisy. “There’s too many people,” He shouted above the music, ” I don’t know if I could find her even if she was here. I'll come back in daylight-”

An impossible vision materialized out of the haze, a woman with brown hair buzzed on one side and a profile that had been etched in his dreams.

  “Sophia!” Otis shouted.

  She turned, her face bright with joy and energy toward them. “Daisy? Why-”

And then her eyes caught his, and her face dropped into shock.

 “Otis Johnson?” She mouthed. “God, no! How are you here?”

Otis’ throat closed until he could not speak. The words he had thought about, had practiced for days, all flew away. Guilt from his actions clawed at him. He needed to explain himself, it was all just a misunderstanding.

 “We found your daughter!” Daisy clapped, beaming with joy.

 “Sophia!” Otis reached out and grabbed her arms, pulling her in as he shouted. “It’s over! You need to go back home and tell the truth. Not those made-up lies you told the police!”

Anger blazed inside him, her words had ruined his life. He had made a mistake, but should he have to pay for it forever? She needed to listen to him, or else.

Sophia shook her head. “No, that date was the worst night of my life!” Her jaw clenched. “You, you-"

An odor touched the edge of his consciousness, but he tried to push past the noise, the bright lights and now this smell assaulting his senses. What was Sophia trying to say? Otis twisted his head to put his ear near her mouth. A movement across the room caught his attention. 

A man pointed, shouting words he couldn’t hear over the thunder from the speakers.

 Sophia spoke again. Otis felt her hot breath on his cheek. 

“You fuckin’ raped me! You drugged me and raped me, then threatened my life! You’re a monster!”  

 “What?” Otis said. Then it all flooded in, what he had been trying to block out. 

 Fire.

 The music turned to distorted squeals as the musicians dove into the crowd still holding their guitars. The drummer fell into his kit, the cymbals crashed while he still held his drumsticks up, waving them as magic wands to stop the smoke. 

 The wall behind the now-empty bandstand flickered orange, while black smoke curled up the wall, thick arms shooting into the rafters before its fingers began stretching back down. 

“Sophia, we need to get out!”

“No!” She twisted free and tried to leave but the crowd running to escape held her in place. 

A boom! echoed in the room, and the back wall fell in, a huge bellows forcing hot air and flames toward them.

 “We have to go!” Daisy ducked against the heat.

 All around them people screamed toward the staircase. Dancers, who moments ago swirled in the music, rushed to the exit, clogging the narrow opening.   

The black fingers of smoke curled down and around to grip each person as if in a fist, clogging their airways, blocking their vision, and throwing them into confusion. 

The life-giving air became the enemy, hot and black; one breath hurt, two breaths knocked you to your knees, three breaths killed.

Otis squeezed Daisy and Sophia close, against the screams and shouts of the running madness. A man swung a fist, clipping Otis across his eyebrow.

 A thunderous crash banged below them. 

“The stairs collapsed!” a voice shouted.

 Shoved back again, they were suddenly against a cement wall, bodies pressing them hard. The cold wall acted as an anvil, while the crowd hammered against them over and over again. Through his shirt covering his face, the smoke burned his eyes, burned his lungs. 

 They were stuck. Would he die here? The reality of the danger came to him as visions from the floor below, so much wood, furniture, and paintings filling every inch. A giant box of tinder.

 Seconds more and it will erupt into a roaring inferno.

The cold wall gave him an idea. Blind from the smoke he could only feel along the concrete until his fingers reached the hard glass of the industrial windows.  

 He slammed his arm into the metal and glass once, twice, and then pulling back he dropped his shoulder and with a snap, he was through. Hope blew through the cracked window along with the cold, fresh air.

 “You have to jump!” Otis shouted to the two women. He cleared what he could of the glass, the sharp edges slicing his hands. 

 Feeling their hesitation, he pushed them both out.

Otis invoked the god Garuda as the two women leapt away from the fire, disappearing into the billowing smoke.

 Otis stood at the window against the cold air of reality.

 He had found Sophia, but the illusion he could escape his fate was over.  He turned back into the inferno.