Joanna Henny

Unveiled

Novel extract

Chapter One

Arling, Rhode Island is not a popular vacation destination. There are prettier beaches, less rocky with fewer washed-up plastic and shattered glass bottles. Beaches you’d see advertised on travel brochures where if you call now, you can also get a complimentary couple’s massage. But Vivian isn’t here for the beach, nor a promise of an uncomfortable sixty-minute shiatsu. She’s here for the mystery. The mystery of the cryptid whale, Muna.

The town itself is not so remarkable either. A broken-down Muna-themed park with a noticeable lack of people and copy-and-paste neighborhoods devoid of any creativity. At least the sun is out, Vivian thinks as she leans against the taxi’s window, soaking up as much sun as possible. Her taxi nears closer to the shore, closer to her hotel, evident from the sliver of blue between brick buildings that make up their downtown. 

 The hotel feels out of place compared to its surroundings. It’s large, with soft yellow wood and a wrapped porch decorated with blue-and-white striped lounge chairs. It’s charming, with well-kept flowerpots and hedges; picture-perfect for a relaxing day by the beach. It was advertised on a brochure sent to her by the hotel staff, joined by some of Arling’s notable attractions. It seemed like the town was desperate for some tourism. Vivian doesn’t care for the hotel in particular, but according to the other cryptid enthusiasts on online forums, this was the best place to sight the whale. 

Vivian shuts the door of the taxi, leather suitcase in hand as she takes in her surroundings. Salty air, seagulls squawking, not a cloud in sight. The taxi’s wheels skid on gravel, and she makes her way up the white stairs toward the front door. The lobby is vacant, save for a middle-aged man leaning against the reception desk. He rests his head against his left hand, right hand flipping through what looks to be a tabloid magazine with its bold colors. Vivian’s entrance doesn’t disturb him, so she draws closer and sets her bag down with a clear of her throat. Only then does he glance up through his spectacles, wrinkles deepening as he raises an eyebrow. Vivian’s mouth twitches into a grin, one he does not reflect. 

“Name?” His voice is loud and gruff, and she has to steel herself to not take a step back. 

“Vivian Monroe?” she says, voice lilted as if unsure of her own name. 

He pulls out a hardcover book and dusts off the cover, flipping toward the back where he scans the names with a meaty finger. He stops at what she assumes is her name and he turns toward the wall behind him, chalk-full of keys that hang off tiny metal hooks. He pulls off a key with the number “204” on the attached keyring and turns back to her where he reaches across to hand it to her. Vivian pockets it in her slacks. 

“Check out’s at 11 AM. We offer breakfast from 7 AM to 9 AM. Access to the beach is just through that door,” he explains as he points to her right toward the lounge.  

“Thank you,” she looks down at his nametag, “Mr. Greene. Do you recommend anywhere to spot Muna?” Vivian’s eyes practically shine as she stares at him expectantly. 

“No.” 

She pauses, her smile wavering. He’s probably being sarcastic. She reaches down for her luggage to busy herself. 

“That won’t be necessary. We’ll have our bellhop here take that up to your room.” 

A large set of fingers grip at the handle from her, and she gasps. Next to her is a man well over six feet tall, his uniform stretching to accommodate his movements. Bellboy’s face is blank as he stares down at her. Vivian relents and hands him her luggage. He gives a bow and marches toward a door behind the reception desk labeled “Employees Only.” She looks back toward Mr. Greene. 

“Thank you again,” she says. He nods to signal the end of the conversation and focuses back on his magazine. From the style of the page, it appears to be an advice column on dating with exaggerated hearts and kiss marks. 

The elevator is situated near the lounge, which has a few blue, paisley couches with matching chairs and wide windows that overlook the ocean. A bar sits off to the side, a golden sign that states that it is currently closed. A man and woman sit in the corner, dressed in what can only be described as hiking gear. Matching khaki shorts, clunky Columbias, large backpacks set at their side. They’re hunched over a map, rushed whispers exchanged. Vivian presses the elevator button and waits patiently. 

Just as Vivian steps inside, a young woman joins her, a trail of jasmine perfume filtering in. The woman looks as though she stepped out of a silent film with dark eyes, bold lips, and an expensive fur coat that drapes across her figure. She pays Vivian no mind and reaches to press the third floor button, a clutch purse in hand. Vivian presses the second floor, suddenly conscious that she could’ve taken the stairs. Would the woman think she’s lazy? The elevator dings open, and Vivian steps off. Before the elevator door closes, she makes eye contact with the woman. Her eyes snap back to the hallway. 

The hallway itself is not as inviting as the lobby was. It winds like a maze, the dark wood flooring creaks with each step. The shell-shaped sconces on the wall barely light her way; Vivian squints at each door number until she finally finds her room at the end. A small, circular window allows her to see outside, the calm water easing her nerves. 

When she steps inside her room, the overhead light illuminates her neatly placed luggage. It’s a simple room with a queen-sized bed, wooden dresser, and a balcony that faces the ocean. Vivian props the door open. Perhaps she’ll hear Muna’s call. 

The buzz of her phone startles her, and she slowly pulls it out of her pocket. Harley. Lightheaded, her pulse steadily fills her senses. She takes a few breaths, just as her therapist instructed, and the beat of her heart begins to slow after a few rounds. Vivian tosses her phone on the bed and moves to the bathroom. She drips the sides of the porcelain sink and turns the water to the coldest setting. The cold water shocks her nerves before it soothes them.

The mirror in front reflects a woman with bloodshot eyes that could easily be remedied by a nap. Her chestnut hair, pulled up into a bun, has a few fly-aways that she attempts to pat down. It’s almost time for dinner, but with how her eyes droop, she can’t wait to sleep tonight. As Vivian stretches out on the firm mattress, her anxieties on whether or not the forums lied about Muna eat at her until she falls asleep. 

*

When her eyes crack open, Vivian readily feels the heaviness that had settled in her lift. The sun casts an orange glow over the horizon, and one glance at the radio clock tells her it’s 6 PM. There’s a slight rattle against the balcony doors. The wind is picking up. Vivian straightens her blouse and wrangles her hair back into a sleeker bun. Her phone sits on the side table, and she taps the screen to see if any messages appear. Her shoulders release all tension when nothing appears.

The lounge is busier. A group of elderly are playing chess, a mother reading a book while her child runs laps around her. The woman from the elevator sits at the bar, left hand clasped around a cocktail glass. Vivian knows she won’t get any insight on Muna standing around, so she slowly settles into a seat at the bar. She scans the room in search of anyone that is potentially here for the cryptid whale. What would that even look like, she wonders, only imagining someone wearing a tin foil hat and an alien graphic T-shirt. She shakes her head. She’s just like them and she surely doesn’t match that description. 

“What can I get you, ma’am?” the bartender asks. He’s a young man, dressed rather nicely in a white button-up and black vest, a neutral expression on his face.

Vivian isn’t much of a drinker, but orders what she believes the woman at the other end ordered: a martini. A few of them, if the line of empty glasses tell her anything. The man moves to make her drink.

“Excuse me, mister. Have you ever seen the cryptid whale?”

The bartender shakes the cocktail shaker with a blank look, the ice rattling loud enough to drown out the other guests. He must’ve not heard her, so she asks the question once more as he pours the drink in a glass.

“Sorry, ma’am. Haven’t heard anything about that,” he says as he pushes the glass toward her, adding an olive for garnish. His expression is difficult to distinguish, as if he truly has no idea what she’s asking. How can an employee of a hotel that advertises Muna not know who she is? Vivian attempts to follow up with a question but stumbles, reaching down for her drink to add a dash of courage to her system. It’s bitter, and she has to choke it down discreetly. 

The screech of metal against wood echoes through the room as the stool beside her pulls out. Elevator Woman takes a seat, setting a drink delicately beside Vivian’s with a cigarette in the other hand. Baffled by her boldness, Vivian says, “You can’t smoke that in here.” The woman raises a manicured brow and blows smoke out slowly in front of the bartender who does not look bothered in the slightest. She flicks her cigarette into an ashtray and extends a hand toward Vivian who hesitantly shakes it. 

“Lillian Davis. Charmed.”

“Me too. I mean…” Vivian chokes, “I mean it’s nice to meet you, too. I’m Vivian.” 

“Well, Vivian. You’re here for our gal, Muna?” That catches her attention, so Vivian shifts her body to fully face Lillian, taking a moment to look at the woman beside her. She still has the bold makeup, a short pixie cut, and silver jewelry adorning her ears and neck. She does not match the conspiracy theorist Vivian had in mind.

“So, you know about Muna?”

“Oh, sure. Many come here for a glimpse of her,” Lillian replies. “It’s not common anymore, but people do visit.”

“I was, but I haven’t given her much thought recently. She’s been very quiet.”

Lillian doesn’t look much older than the legal drinking age to have visited Arling often. Just how long has she been staying here? Lillian snubs out her cigarette completely in the ashtray. 

“The best advice I can give you, doll, is to ignore the calls.”

“The calls?”

“Excuse me, everyone. May I please have your attention?” Mr. Greene interrupts. He stands in the center of the room, fingers pulling against his suspenders. He continues, “There is a storm moving in and the local authorities have asked everyone to stay indoors until it passes. It’s just high winds, so there’s no need to worry. It’s just a precaution.” 

A few people call out. What do you mean, storm? Will we be safe? I can’t stay here, I have a flight tomorrow morning! The volume steadily increases before Mr. Greene silences them.

“Please, just listen. The storm should pass by morning, but we ask for everyone to stay indoors. We will be closing off access to the beach until the authorities give us the all-clear. Thank you for your understanding.”

The thought of being stuck in a building full of strangers brings a sense of discomfort. Vivian pinches the skin of her wrist to focus on anything besides her pounding heart. Lillian releases a low sigh and stands.

“Here we go again. I’ll see you later, doll. All of this excitement has given me a headache.” Definitely not the copious amount of alcohol, Vivian thinks. Lillian’s fur coat flutters behind her as she makes her way toward the elevator.

A quick look outside the window shows just how dark it’s gotten. The palm trees begin to bend at the top from the sheer strength of the wind. Sand whips up from the shore, slightly obscuring the rest of the beach. Despite Mr. Greene’s assurance that it’s just wind, there are a few rain clouds that hang above. There goes Vivian’s plan on taking a tour out on the ocean tomorrow. She pulls out some cash and leaves it under her glass. 

When she arrives in her room, the rain picks up. It hits the windows gently as the wind gently knocks against the balcony doors. From where Vivian grew up, it hardly rained, so it’s difficult to see the signs of the weather potentially worsening. Is Muna doing okay out there? Do sea animals struggle out there like humans do on land?

Vivian pulls out her laptop, a decade-old piece of technology that heats up after just ten minutes of use. It’s decorated in random stickers she’d find at art stores and coffee shops. She pulls up her cryptid enthusiast forums, scrolling until she finds the Arling cryptid whale thread. There are a few posts dating back to the early 2000s, all claiming to have caught a glimpse of Muna. The most recent post is dated ten years ago, 2010, but claims go as far back as the sixties. Most take a boat to search for her, but others claim to have been lucky enough to see her from the shore. One post shows article clippings from the early 20th century, when Muna was first sighted, with a grainy photo of something far off in the distance. Clearly inconclusive, but more recent stories provide sharper footage. She’s described to be similar in appearance to a blue whale, but rather than the deep blue skin they have, she has a galaxy. White speckles on an almost black background that shimmers and illuminates in the night. But it’s her song that catches people’s attention. 

A whale call so deep it shakes the water on the surface, shifts the currents and almost drags you to her. A sound that surrounds you in warmth, taking away all worries in that moment of bliss. An otherworldly song that few have had the pleasure of experiencing. 

   It’s that song that Vivian is chasing, in the hope that she will be one of the chosen to have her problems disappear. Months prior to her visit, her friends told her that this trip is a waste of time and for her to grow up. Even her mother scolded her for her persistence as she dropped her off at the airport. But they don’t understand, Vivian thinks, staring out the balcony window in search of her savior, Muna.

—

The morning comes quickly, though the grey sky would say otherwise. The rain has not gone away, only growing heavier. There’s a flash of lightning that sets Vivian’s nerves alight. Now it’s certain that her tour is cancelled, and Muna will have to wait. 

In the darkness of her room, her phone lights up. Without looking, she silences it and heads for the bathroom to get ready. Her phone rings once more. Heat prickles her ears, the familiar thud of her heart fills her senses. She hits answer before she can stop herself.

“Viv?”

Her breath hitches at the man’s voice, but she does not respond.

“Viv, seriously, I know you’re there. Just come back and we can talk about it. You’re being ridiculous.”

Being ridiculous, it seems, is being frightened of man-made holes in the wall and condescending comments. She ends the call before Harley can continue, and holds the power button to completely shut it off. Breakfast sounds like a good idea right now, and she continues her routine. There’s a slight tremor in her movements, one that isn’t easily fixed by breathing in and out. She turns the radio until is clicks on to classical. Vivian straightens out the wrinkles in her clothes, brushes her hair down once more, and heads out.

Today, the lounge is relatively empty. There’s a man in a suit angrily whispering into his flip phone, something about wanting a refund for a flight he’s going to miss. Vivian walks through the reception toward the dining area, and finds it to be more occupied with last night’s faces. There’s a buffet full of breakfast foods set in the back and small, round tables draped in a white cloth. Vivian grabs a plate and fills it to her heart’s content. 

She sets up at a table beside the mother and her son. Much like Vivian, the mother looks exhausted as she watches her son play with his food. They exchange a polite smile and nod. The most normal interaction so far, Vivian thinks. Glancing at the little boy, she notices he’s wearing a cartoon whale shirt. She perks up and leans over. 

“Are you both here to see Muna?”

At the mention of the whale’s name, the boy whips around with wide eyes, magnified by his glasses that are strapped safely around his head, and nods quickly. The mother’s smile shifts into a more genuine one and she tilts her head at him. Like a floodgate has been released, he shares what he’s learned about Muna, practically vibrating in his seat. Vivian nods along but can only pick up bits and pieces of what he’s saying. Muna is recorded to be 110 feet long, prefers cotton candy over krill, and can cause hurricanes. Vivian smiles wide, his enthusiasm only adding to hers. 

Before the boy can continue his onslaught of knowledge, Mr. Greene steps into the room and loudly clears his throat. 

“Good morning, everyone. Apologies for the delayed news, but local authorities have just notified us that we need to continue staying where we are. There is a possible level one hurricane heading our way, and we are not sure when it will clear. For now, please use caution near the windows and refrain from walking outside. Thank you for your understanding.”