What follows is an account this author has pieced together from private journals, archives, and the recollections of witnesses, relatives, and associates. Where appropriate or necessary, this author has taken the liberty of recreating scenarios that may have occurred.
I
Alastair Tilden was a surveyor for the state, a newlywed, and a fisherman. Much to his dismay and that of those around him, he was not very good at any of these things. His choice of career was no choice at all, really. Unable to capitalize on his family’s connections to the top universities in the Northeast, Alastair failed to earn a degree and was, out of a lack of options, apprenticed to an uncle as a surveyor. His uncle was fond of saying that his nephew was ill-suited for surveyor work or any work for that matter. Alastair had a penchant for wandering off. This was not a good quality for someone who tramped around in the woods of Rhode Island for a living. It also made him ill-suited for marriage.
The union to Ms. Violet Madison of the Dunwich Madisons was arranged by Alastair’s family and started off promisingly. During the courtship, Alastair and Violet would walk for hours along the shore and rivers. They shared a love of nature, especially marine life, and spent much of their time discussing it. It was Violet’s idea that Alastair might find fishing enjoyable.
Violet’s father was an avid angler, and Violet made arrangements for Alastair to accompany the elder Madison on his surf fishing excursions. If Alastair’s efforts and abilities as an angler were earnest, his luck seemed intent on thwarting him at every turn. When the entire party landed multiple fish, Alastair found none.
Undaunted, Alastair threw himself into the sport. He learned all he could about his quarry, striped bass; he sought out the latest techniques and gear; and he spent all his time, when not working, trying to catch his first fish. During the courtship and engagement, Alastair’s frequent absences were a little more tolerable. After they had wed, however, Violet lamented that she often felt “abandoned,” “alone,” and “forgotten.”
It was, as Violet noted in her journals, Alastair’s habit to bring his fishing gear with him when he left for work and then to go straight to the shore and fish until all hours of the night. When the weather prevented him from doing that, he would frequent the pubs around the docks and wharves. One of those places, The Hag’s Tooth Pub, would be the last place anyone would remember seeing Alastair Tilden alive.
II
As the widow Tilden would tell it, Alastair left for work that day, his fishing gear bundled and slung over his shoulder. It was a Thursday in early October. A brewing Nor’easter forced the surveyors to return early, and Alastair told his uncle he would be heading to the Hag’s Tooth instead of going home.
Given the Hag’s Tooth’s reputation, his uncle objected, but Alastair insisted. Alastair’s uncle, dismayed, went to the couple’s modest apartment and told Violet where to find Alastair. Young Violet, upset as she was, could not bring herself to go there and bring him home. The Hag’s Tooth had a reputation for being a dark and dangerous place.
She entreated Alastair’s uncle to assist, but he would not. “Grown man makes his choices. Not my place to intercede.” And with that, the uncle tipped his hat and left. Violet waited and wondered when her husband would come home. She would spend the rest of her remaining seventy years in much of the same state.
Much of what may have happened to Alastair Tilden after that evening is subject to theory, speculation, and rumor. Still, there are a few remaining patrons of the Hag’s Tooth and local fishermen who, on the condition of anonymity, claim to know his fate. If not in specifics, it is enough to paint a chilling, but hard-to-believe account of his last days. What follows from this point on may be considered truthful as much as this author can swear to, but the reader may find some of it beyond their imagination’s willingness to accept.
III
The Hag’s Tooth clung to the edge of a rickety old dock and on good days could be felt to sway with the tides. In the throes of one of the worst Nor’easters anyone could recall, the old one-room pub shivered in the wind, the water slopped under the door, and a cold wind drove through every crack in the walls.
Alastair Tilden, it was recalled, seemed blown through the front door in a squall of wind and rain. He took up residence in the corner by the window, as was his habit, and leaned his gear against the wall. Ordering a rye, he set about to ask any and all fishermen present how the striper fishing had been before the storm. Those who reported good fishing were peppered with questions about where they caught the fish and what they were using to catch them.
Some were in their cups enough to reveal their secrets, but most, like any self-respecting Yankee angler, held their spots and tactics close to their vests. That didn’t stop Alastair from pressing them. After being particularly adamant with a patron who clearly did not want to talk, there were threats of a physical altercation. Whether Alastair was in the wrong depends largely on whose account is to be believed, but one thing everyone remembers is the stranger who intervened.
Absolute fidelity is unheard of when collecting people’s memories of an event. Colors change, timing changes, words are reshuffled, and so forth. In this one case, though, none of the witnesses to what happened next deviates from their accounts. The exchange between Alastair and the other fisherman was getting heated. Both made threats, and the two stood ready to exchange blows when, from a darkened corner of the pub, a noise rose. All who heard it described it as a cross between a whistle and a shanty, but in a language no one recognized.
Shadows covered most of him, save for his right hand, which tapped out a beat in time with the sound. That hand, all interviewed agreed, was illustrated with the most detailed squid tentacles they had ever seen. Some of the patrons of the Hag’s Tooth claim, rather fervently, that, as the stranger tapped and whistled, the tentacles writhed independent of his hand and fingers. Some would say it was the drink, some would say it was a trick of the light, and others would just refuse to comment on it at all.
There is full agreement that it had the effect of utterly halting all conversation and activity in the otherwise noisy drink hall. Once there was complete silence, the stranger stopped his singing and rasped a drawn-out “Tilllldddennnn”. And with that, everything resumed as it were, save for the brewing fight.
The fisherman Tilden had been hectoring sat down without another word. The stranger called out his name again. “Tilllldddennnn” and beckoned Alastair to his table with a tentacled finger. Leaning out of the shadows, a wizened, scarred face beneath a ragged white mane smiled a toothless grin. “Come. Let me tell ya where d’fishes are.”
And, on this point, no one disagrees. The stranger then let out a cackling laugh that seemed to coincide with a blasting howl of wind and a battering of rain. Alastair paused for a moment, but just a moment, before he made his way to the table and sat with the stranger. They spoke in hushed tones, and few of the patrons could recall anything that was said between them. The ones that claimed to have overheard the conversation have the stranger directing Alastair to “Pickman’s Point” and “Korvost’s Bait and Tackle.”
At least one semi-reliable source, the bartender, swears he saw the old man draw a map on a napkin and pass it to Alastair, before clamping both hands down on top of Alastair’s and leaning to whisper something in his ear. That was when this semi-reliable bartender said he saw Tilden’s eyes widen and the young man nod in fervent agreement as he stood and made his way back to his gear. After that, all who were present had a hazy recollection of when the storm passed or whether the old man in the corner ever left.
And if all this were not strange enough, the story of Alastair Tilden takes another bizarre turn.
IV
There are no public records of a business under the name of Korvost’s Bait and Tackle, but its existence and prominence in the striper fishing community of the day are not in question. Korvost’s was long rumored to be the only place an angler could get directions to the fabled Pickman’s Point, and the only shop that sold the legendary Devil Fish lure. Pickman’s Point was said to be a spit of rock and sand that jutted far out into the Sound and intercepted a rip over a large hump of rock. No modern map has any feature remotely close to this on it, and ask ten anglers, and you will get twenty different answers as to where it might have been.
The same goes for Korvost’s. Anglers from all over the country will say that they’ve been there and purchased something, but none of them have the same recollection of the shop’s location, layout, owner, or other salient detail. For some, it was close to the Connecticut border, while others claimed it was far inland. Some would swear it was a franchise that had outlets in Maine and California. The counter may have been run by a blind old woman, maimed sailors, a family that resembled fish, or an old man covered in tattoos; it all depended on who was telling the tale. Consensus was that Korvost’s knew the location of Pickman’s Point and was willing to divulge it if you were willing to purchase one of their special Devil Fish lures.
Fabled among striper fishermen, the Devil Fish lure was said to have guaranteed the angler a fish over 50 pounds. That no one actually possessed one of these lures or could tell with any accuracy what shape, size, or action it had did not deter the speculations. The Devil Fish was a castable spoon that would fall with the most incredible wobble. It was a cedar plug handcrafted by Korvost, with intricate carvings that gave it a darting, swimming motion, the perfect imitation of a wounded mackerel. It was a hybrid of both, a special amalgam that no other lure maker could duplicate. And it caught big, big fish. Or so it was believed. There were no photos or reproductions of this lure anywhere. Which only helped the legend even more.
Pickman’s Point, Korvost’s, and the Devil Fish Lure are all names that striper fishermen up and down the coast speak about in hushed voices, but with reverence. Alastair Tilden’s name is mentioned only as a caution and an admonition.
While none of the Hag’s Tooth’s patrons or employees could be of much assistance in trying to trace Alastair Tilden’s movements after his conversation with the stranger, there are a handful of residents who think they saw Alastair leaving town and heading north along the state road after the storm. These accounts are what led this author to attempt to retrace a possible route Tilden took on that fateful day.
What follows is both this author’s best account of what happened during that trip, as well as the recollections of a local hermit. It must be said that these alleged eye-witness accounts of the hermit must be viewed with a high level of skepticism, as the man was most definitely mad.
V
The road north rose and dipped along the rocky Rhode Island coast. There were few places where one could access the coast and even fewer that might be suitable for a shop of any kind. While deer paths and very rough trails might have led down to the coastline, where they did, fishing would have been impossible. Those areas were quickly discounted as possible locations for Korvost’s. After several hours of traveling the road and taking notes, a more promising location appeared at the bottom of a sloping bend.
Framed by a set of red cedars that looked like arthritic hands clutching at the sky, the opening to a narrow but defined trail wound down into the darkening woods towards the shore. If Korvost’s was along this road, this was the most likely of places to find it. The trail was rugged but navigable, and it curved in and around copses of cedar and birch. It was so serpentine that after only a minute or two, the road was completely gone from view. It continued this way for what seemed to be a very, very long time until there was a clearing.
The sandy patch was far too uniform to be natural. It bore all the hallmarks of the foundation plot of a small house or shack that would have been common at the time of Alastair’s disappearance. No timber, shop sign, or other remnant of a store or livable house was evident. While there was no physical indication that anything resembling Korvost’s had been there, there was something that hung in the air.
It was coldness, a dampness, an indescribable chill. For reasons that are still unclear, it was that unnamed atmosphere that made this empty patch in a dark wood, the best and most likely spot for the fabled Korvost’s. But with so much time passed and nothing of the place at all remaining, it had appeared to be the deadest of ends.
Until a frail voice rose from the shadows.
VI
It was impossible to tell how he arrived so noiselessly, but there he was, swaddled in rags, missing teeth, and thin as a post. He sat on a stump and called out, “You ain’t gonna find it. Not it. Not them. Not any of it.” His voice had the timorous quality of someone unaccustomed to being around other people. “You should go. Go on. You won’t find it or them or Pick…” his voice trailed off, and his eyes darted back and forth from the trail leading to the shore and back to the lot.
Attempts to gather any reasonable biographical information were met with a gibbering series of diverging stories. In one, he was a game warden sent to the area to investigate fishermen poaching out-of-season striped bass. In another, he was a hunter who had gotten lost and could not find his way to the road, despite the trail’s visibility. Another, he called himself, Claude, and muttered “un survivant du naufrage” over and over. Each branching tale was peppered with the near chanting “You ain’t gonna find it. Not it. Not them. Not any of it.” Failing to establish who this hermit was, an attempt to find Korvost’s or Pickman’s Point had to be made, however unlikely this madman would be helpful.
Then, like so much of this story, surprises abounded.
VII
The mention of Korvost’s elicited a definite, if not clearheaded, response. “Gone! Good and gone! Some years now and won’t be back for some years more! Come back when you’re told to!” Any further attempt at clarification was met with the same refrain: “Come back when you’re told to!”
When the conversation moved to Pickman’s Point and whether he could guide the way, he shuddered, grasped his arms around him, and quaked. “Not for me to show. Not for me to tell. Find your own way to hell.” His eyes darted from the sandy patch to the trail that clearly led to the shore. He repeated, “Not for me to show. Not for me to tell. Find your own way to hell.”
Producing a photo, given by the widow Tilden, followed by another question about Pickman’s Point, had the most unexpected effect. His quivering voice deepened and grew stern; he stopped shaking, straightened, looked down the trail, and began his account.
“That boy? He must have been called. Showed up right after the blow like most of them. Most of them show after a blow, and they are all called. You’re the only one who showed without being called. Came down with all his gear, like them all. I remember that one. Younger than some others. Fresh-faced. He practically skipped down the trail. Damned fool, damned for sure. He was called, and he came.
Old Korvost was waiting. Door open and all. The fool just sauntered in. If he had only known. Came out a bit later. He had it and tied it on. I could see it, just like all the others. Then the damned fool went down there.”
That is when he pointed his bony finger, like a branch from the red cedars at the trailhead, toward a deep black hole in the woods. “You ain’t been called, just like I ain’t. So, I guess we can go. Guess it’d be safe. Maybe.” He jumped up with more alacrity than his physical nature seemed to allow and trotted down the trail.
Following him was difficult. Despite heading into the woods at midday, it was now dusk, growing darker by the minute. The trail was all angles and turns and switchbacks. The patch that may have been Korvost’s was gone in an instant, and the only real guide was the crashing of the surf and the smell of brine. All of which grew stronger until the trail opened to a rocky outcropping that looked down on an angry stretch of coast. The hermit hopped up on a rock and balanced like some sort of shorebird, pointing down the cliff side.
“It ain’t open for you, because you ain’t been called. But that boy was called, so it opened for him. The way was opened when he tied it on, and he went. Went all the way down. I watched him, like I watched the others. All the others. They all tied it on and all walked the way down.” His eyes glinted with a wet delight as well as fear. “The bar, the bar shows for them too.” He pointed to a barely visible spit of land that was being pummeled by waves. “Then he walked, they, they all did, walked on out to the end of the bar and cast it out.” This is when his voice, still clear, shifted to a much more solemn tone.
“He got one…a cow, a cow for sure. I could hear him hootin’ and hollerin’ from all the way up here. It was as long as he was tall. He was gloating and preening when it slipped from his grip and back into the drink. He cursed and swore and stamped. Then he heard something, turned back to the water, and cast, and cast, and cast.” There was a long pause in the hermit’s tale. He stared at the sea and, eventually, turned and, with what seemed like a tear in his eye, ended his story.
“That boy, like all those others, he cast like a madman and then…well then something hit. Hit hard. Yanked the rod down. Pulled the drag ‘til it smoked. That boy worked it, horsed it, hauled, and huffed. Gained ground and then lost it. That’s when he started to slide. The rocks were wet, and waves were coming in. He was sliding towards the sea. He should have cut the line. They all should have. But he, they, didn’t.
He fought, and it fought. It wanted him more.” With that, the hermit hopped down from his rock and ambled up the path. “It wanted him, them, all of them…more.”
Despite being close behind and still being able to hear him muttering, “It wanted him, them, all of them more,” the hermit was gone. As quickly and quietly as he arrived, he disappeared.
This is the sad and strange tale of the disappearance of Alastair Tilden as best as this author could tell it. That it is unbelievable, that it is bizarre, that it is mad is not by design. It is what the only evidence available suggests.
A poor, hapless, young man went in search of a fish and found something else. That is, unless something else had gone in search of him.
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