An icy wind shook the bare branches of the copse that edged the grounds of The Squid and Teapot, bringing with it a heavy sea mist. It curled around the feet of the two men standing in the inn’s open doorway, blotted out the moon, and chilled the bones.

“Quite a pleasant evening,” observed Reggie Upton.

Tenzin, the young Buddhist monk, nodded in agreement. He had been on Hopeless long enough to recognize the truth in this, and besides, for one who had grown up in the less-than-hospitable high Himalayas, the night felt positively balmy.

“Did I ever tell you,” began Reggie, settling in for a lengthy anecdote, “about the time I almost lost my trousers in the Hindu Kush?”

We will never know whether Tenzin had previously enjoyed this particular nugget of military history, for before he could reply, an unearthly wail cut short their conversation.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Reggie. “Some poor soul’s out there in distress. Let’s go and rescue the blighter.”

Ten minutes later, a bedraggled figure stumbled through the inn’s doorway, supported on either side by Reggie and Tenzin. Water dripped from his tattered clothing, forming small puddles as he was lowered into a chair and handed a glass of the Gannicox Distillery’s finest. He looked as though he had just emerged from the sea – which, considering that this is the island of Hopeless, was entirely possible.

Philomena caught Reggie’s eye.

“Another shipwreck?” she asked.

“Looks like it,” Reggie replied. “But we didn’t spot any other survivors.”

“But there must be!” blurted out the damp and disheveled newcomer. “My wife was with me… she has to have survived.”

“We’ll organize a search party,” Philomena said comfortingly. “If she’s anywhere on the island, we’ll find her. Now, let’s have some details.”

The young man, who apparently rejoiced in the name of Cedric Shambles, took little prompting to pour out his tale.

“Clarissa and I were eloping – escaping from her domineering family,” Cedric explained. “We were bound for New England, where no one would know us.”

“But you said she was… that she is your wife…” Philomena interrupted.

“She is,” Cedric said with a half-smile. “The ship’s captain agreed to marry us. He’d just invited me to kiss the bride when we struck the reef. Water started pouring in through the gunnels… it was awful.”

“That’s dashed bad luck for a chap on his wedding day,” observed Reggie. “But don’t worry, old bean. We’ll check along the shoreline.”

“You look very young to be married,” said Philomena.

“I’m not that young,” replied Cedric. “I am just twenty-two.”

“So that means you were born in… ?” said Reggie. Philomena knew exactly where he was going with this.

“Why, eighteen forty-eight of course,” Cedric said 

Reggie glanced at Philomena and raised a single eyebrow. The island was up to its old tricks again, meddling with time. That meant, if Clarissa had managed to survive the shipwreck, she could have arrived on Hopeless at any point in the previous century – or even earlier.

To the surprise of no one (except Cedric), no trace of the young bride was found. Indeed, there was no evidence of a recent shipwreck at all. But despite this, Cedric wandered the island day and night, heedless of peril, searching for his lost love. As time passed, he grew more haggard, more unkempt. Not even the best efforts of Philomena and Reggie could persuade him to abandon his quest, or even rest. Then one night – again, to no one’s surprise – he disappeared completely.

                ——————                                                                                               

Muffled and distant, the church clock struck three. Winston Oldstone, the Night-Soil Man, had almost finished his round. His home, known locally as The House at Poo Corner, was still a good half-hour’s walk away, so he decided to take a breather before the last stretch. Setting his bucket down on the wiry grass of the headland, he flopped down beside it with a weary sigh.

Like every Night-Soil Man before him, Winston felt safe, protected as he was from even the most predatory denizens of the island by the all-pervading stench that accompanied him always. This was both the blessing and the curse of his profession.

Secure in the knowledge that he would not be disturbed, Winston closed his eyes – only to have them snap open when a voice, just a few feet away, said, “Good evening.”

Even in the poor light, he could see that the young man approaching was unshaven, his wild eyes and wilder hair giving him the look of someone who had long since abandoned sanity. His clothing was tattered, even by Hopeless standards. But stranger still was the companion on his arm.

She wore a flowing dress of white taffeta and lace, torn and stained beyond repair, with a bridal headdress still in place, its veil drifting ghostlike in the breeze.

Winston was fairly sure they were not ghosts, yet they made an incongruous – if not downright unnerving – sight, promenading along the headland in the early hours. As they passed, the bride turned to look at him. For just a few seconds, the wind lifted her veil, revealing what remained of her face. Much of the flesh had been eaten away. It was only then that Winston noticed the skeletal fingers protruding through the rotting fabric of her gloves.

Frozen in horror, he could only watch as the pair walked on, until they disappeared into the mist.

Cedric Shambles had at last found his lost bride, but neither were ever seen again on the mysterious island of Hopeless, Maine.