Haunted Shipwreck Read online

  Kill ‘em, spill thar insides, blow boys blow!

  The guttural voices repeated the verse while the breeze bit harder, drowning out the words. Jack snapped out of his trance. A flicker of light off in the woods caught his eye. It was approaching fast, shifting in the mist, like someone running with a lantern. Jack stood still, fear rooting him down, adjusting his eyes camera-esque, closing, narrowing, squinting, widening, striving to focus.

  The mist dissipated like washed out soap bubbles. A figure in a weathered gray robe and hood glided toward Jack. The heavy garment dragged across the ground, scraping twigs and dead leaves. Its arms were outstretched, flames jumping from its hands.

  The figure shot forward like a bullet and stopped a foot from Jack. A thick stench of saltwater surrounded him. The figure held the burning book up to its face. Through the flames Jack saw beneath the hood was a young woman glaring, her features flawless and shiny like a baby doll’s.

  A million thoughts flooded Jack’s head. He wanted to run. He wanted to stay. He wanted to see what would happen next. He wanted to know where this robed woman came from.

  The flames extinguished. The woman’s leer broke and looked down. Jack’s eyes followed. The black pages of the burnt book flipped on their volition with hummingbird speed. Sparks flew as if the parchment blur was flint and steel. And then the skimming stopped.

  The young woman held up the book before Jack’s face, blocking out her own. A single singed map of a shoreline spanned both pages. Words in an ancient language noted various landmarks. Jack could not discern if it was Italian, Latin, or Greek, for that matter. Though no sooner had he contemplated on it, the foreign dialect morphed into English. Jack’s heart fluttered. The name PASSING BELL surged on the outlined coast. It was a map of his own town!

  The map shot up into flames like a flare, disappearing through the forest canopy. The robed woman and saltwater perfume were lost in the mist, which had thickened to swirl in a mini tornado at Jack’s feet.

  He bolted without another look back. Old Man Willard had been right. The woods were haunted. And the folklore seemed more like nonfiction. Sailor songs, burning maps, a robed woman. What did it all mean? Jack wondered if he had finally lost it. No. Now way. The experience had been way too real.

  He spotted Rivulet Road up ahead. By the time he emerged from the woods, the entire surreal ordeal seemed like a figment of his imagination. He paused at the curb and struggled to catch his breath.

  “Jack? Where’d you come from?”

  Jack spotted Chelle Terrace standing ten yards to the left. She knelt before an herb garden near her two-story house with the caduceus weather vane on its gable end. She was a few years younger than Jack and the daughter of the town pharmacist. She was dressed in her Monday’s best, an angora sweater and skirt that matched her green tea eyes. Her honey-lemon hair was braided beneath a pillbox-Jack’s birthday present to her last month-and her cocoa butter skin glistened as if the sun shone.

  Jack sighed off his last pant. “The path.”

  Chelle stood and brushed off her knees. “Why didn’t you ride your bike, silly?”

  “It’s locked up.” The boneshaker was still fresh on Jack’s mind. Then he remembered his Huffy. “My mom won’t let me ride it.”

  “How come?”

  “Beats me. She’s in one of her snits today.”

  “That time of the month, huh?” Chelle grinned as if she had recently learned firsthand of the cycle.

  “Uh…I think she lost track of that time awhile ago. Listen, I got to go.”

  “Have you seen Bobby around?”

  “Blue? I’m on my way to his house. You want me to have him call you or something?”

  “I’ll be by later, silly.”

  “All right then. Later, Chelle.”

  “Bye, Jack.”

  He followed the curb past Chelle’s house. His gaze drifted southward. Halberd Park sat in the middle of the circle formed by Rivulet Road. He considered taking a shortcut and crossing through the woods to Blue’s house. He squashed that thought as soon as it formed. He would rather walk barefoot on hot coals than risk hearing that melody from the grave or running into the robed woman. He shook off a tremble.

  “Jackie!”

  Jack looked up as he passed Lisa Lynd’s house. She beamed at him from her third story bedroom window.

  “Wait up!” She waved and then disappeared.

  “Shit.”

  Lisa was a nice girl, and Jack’s age, but she was on clearance in the looks department. She had a teen idol crush on him. In truth, it was flattering, though the guys heckled him. It was one thing to have jailbait such as Chelle ringing your phone off the hook. It was quite another thing to have a geeky, bucktoothed Pippie Longstocking look-alike chasing you down the block.

  Lisa rushed out her front door with a slip of paper in hand. She stopped at the curb and adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses.

  “How are you, Jackie?”

  “All right.”

  “What’s that?” Lisa pointed as she twirled her right pigtail. She then giggled behind her hand.

  “A porkpie. Glad you find it funny.”

  “Oh, Jackie, I’m sorry. I’ve never seen one before. It sure has a funny name, though.”

  “Yeah. Ha-ha.”

  “You’re not mad at me, are you? I’m really sorry, Jackie. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Do you want to see what Daddy gave me yesterday?”

  Lisa’s father was the postman. He delivered mail to fifty mailboxes, the fiftieth being his own. Whatever Lisa had in her hand was not going to get more exciting than a check from Publisher’s Clearinghouse.

  “Sure,” Jack deadpanned.

  “Limited edition Michael Jackson stamps! Aren’t they awesome?”

  Jack eyed them with raised brows. The stamps depicted the Thriller years, for the King of Pop was dark-skinned with a glistening jerry curl.

  “That’s, uh…cool, Lisa. Well, I’d better beat it.”

  “Hold on, Jackie. Don’t you want a couple? I thought we could send each other postcards or maybe even…love letters.”

  Jack gaped at her, taken aback. The word “love” had never escaped her mouth before. It was obvious that her crush had reached a new depth. He shook his head. As bad as he wanted to tell her off, he lacked the heart to hurt her feelings. So instead he walked away.

  “Why don’t you mail them to me, Lisa? I got to get going. I’m supposed to meet Blue in a few.”

  “Just don’t forget to use the stamps!”

  Jack followed Rivulet Road to the fork where Bodkin Bend intersected the circle, all the while dwelling on the recent conversation. What would it take for Lisa to get the hint? Maybe he should tell her outright. That thought gave him butterflies. He did not want her going Fatal Attraction on him or, worse yet, her father going postal. His fear was rooted to the fact that he had never dumped a girl in his life. Even though they were not together, he would still be kicking her off the curb into oncoming traffic. Boy, relationships were a hassle.

  He passed Bodkin Bend, his eyes roving the line of makeshift mailboxes - nine rusted oilcans on fence posts. He sighed. It was a further reminder of Lisa and her love letters.

  “Jack!”

  He squinted and spotted Teddy Shay on the steps of his rambler, munching on a candy bar. Teddy was the tagalong of the town. His parents owned the sweetshop, which was why he had a serious sweet tooth. He was a year younger than Jack and a candy-ass to top it off. Throw in the lisp, the candy-striped clothes, the curly butterscotch hair, and the retainer, and it was no surprise that he was the follower of the bunch.

  Jack paused at the bikeway as Teddy hopped down the steps. “Hey, Teddy. What’s the word?”

  “Tryin’ out the new Nethle Crunch.” Teddy tore off the wrapper and shoved it in his pant pocket. “What the hell’th the point of white chocolate anyway?”

  “Beats me. You’re the candy man.”

  “Well, if it’th chocolate, it’th thmooth, thw
eet, and brown. White chocolate’th like black ithe. Don’t make thenth.” He looked up from his candy bar and knitted his brows. “What the hell’th on your head?”

  Jack refused to be ridiculed by a lisping idiot. “A hat, you Pixy Stick.”

  “You know what I mean. What’th it called? You get thomethin’ from that hermit every week.”

  “His name’s Willard and the hat’s a porkpie.”

  “Porkpie?” Teddy’s toffee eyes widened and he busted out laughing. He then clamped his hand on his mouth as he nearly lost his retainer. “That’th the funnieth thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Guess you’ve never listened to yourself then.”

  “Bite me, Jack. If it wathn’t for thith retainer…”

  “Keep telling yourself that, Teddy.”

  A gunshot bang had the boys whirling. Next door, Bobby Blue flew out of his front door on his Schwinn Sting-Ray. He tore through the mistletoes that crowded the steps and barreled across the yard.

  The Sting-Ray never failed to make Bobby look like he was rolling a tank. He crouched behind the ape hangar bars like they were turrets as he pushed the gunmetal-gray bike to its limit. The glitter grips, banana seat, and chrome fenders sparkled like shrapnel. Bobby cranked the handlebars and the back wheel skidded through the grass before Jack and Teddy, spraying them with dirt.

  “At ease, men!” Bobby flipped out the kickstand and dismounted. He saluted the Sting-Ray, then spun and faced his comrades.

  Bobby was as gung ho as they came. His father was a bluejacket stationed in California for the summer while his mother ran the market. Bobby was Jack’s age and dressed as if he was going to war. His shirt and pants were camouflaged and a black beret hid his crew cut. He was the only kid Jack had ever seen ride a bike in combat boots.

  Bobby clasped his hands behind his back. “Ready to bite the bullet or what?”

  “What’s the plan of attack today, Blue?” Jack knew Bobby had something in mind. There was always a plan.

  “I ain’t shopliftin’ from your mama’th thtore again.”

  Bobby shook his head. “How long have you lived in this war zone? It’s D-Day. The nineteenth. We’re seeing Skelt tonight if I have to arm the infra-red scope.”

  “Who’th we? I got a curfew. My folkth won’t let me out patht midnight.”

  “You can take your candy-ass to Mack’s house, Shay. Nail up another two-by-four while you’re at it. Jericho, don’t let me down.”

  “I’m with you, Blue. When am I not?”

  “Operation: Skeleton Man assigned! And Lieutenant Jericho, what’s that sorry excuse for a helmet on your dome?”

  Teddy grinned from ear to ear. “Yeah, Jack. What kind of hat ith that?”

  Jack turned on Teddy. “A jawbreaker, if you keep it up.”

  “What the hell’re you babies whinin’ ‘bout now?”

  All three friends spun to see Charlie Harmon approaching from up the street. He was a smart-mouthed eighteen-year-old, the rotten apple in the orchard. He wore a leather jacket with the skull-and-crossbones on the back and ripped blue jeans with kneeholes. He kept his greased black hair in a ponytail, save for the spit curl on his forehead, and always had a comb in his back pocket. His mother ran the diner in town. No one knew what became of his father. One fact was common knowledge amongst the boys: he had a hankering for Chelle like Adam had for Eve.

  “Jack’th hat! Tell everybody what it’th called!”

  Jack shoved Teddy. Teddy grinned even wider, basking in his split-second glory of fitting in.

  Charlie removed his comb and ran it through his ponytail. “What’s so special ‘bout the hat? Looks like a dump truck ran over it.”

  The morning’s mockery had Jack at the boiling point. “This better be the last laugh. It’s called a porkpie. I bought it at Willard’s. Ragtimers like Scott Joplin used to wear them.”

  “You kiddin’ me, Jericho? You just earned a new nickname.”

  Bobby tottered on the curb’s edge. “Lay off him, Chuck. Why don’t you go wow Chelle with that greasy comb of yours?”

  “Buzz off, Private Benjamin. At least I have somethin’ on the side. Though I must admit, Jericho, it’s not as bad as that poke bonnet you gave my girl.”

  “It’s a pillbox.” Jack’s birthday gift to Chelle a month ago still had Charlie fuming. “It was meant as a joke. You know, her dad being a drug dealer and all.”

  “Sounds more like an insult to me.”

  “C’mon, guy’th. Not thith again. It wath a birthday prethent, Chuck. I gave her candy thigarette’th. That didn’t pith you off.”

  Charlie pocketed the comb. “For Christ’s sake, Shay, look at yourself. Now why am I not threatened?”

  Bobby climbed onto his bike. “Man, Chuck, can you warn me when you’re gonna toss the grenade? I’d at least like to dig a trench. And on that note, soldiers…Jericho and I have some unfinished business to settle.”

  “It’s a little early to be porkpiein’ each other, don’t you think?”

  Charlie and Teddy chuckled. Jack and Bobby flipped the bird and turned their backs on the posers of Passing Bell.

  Bobby pedaled toward the side of his house where Old Glory swayed from the porch. “We’ll rendezvous at oh nine hundred hours!”

  Jack was hot on his trail. He rounded the corner of the house. Bobby had his kickstand down, waiting with crossed arms.

  Jack panted. “So what’s this “unfinished business”?”

  “An excuse to go AWOL. C’mon.”

  They walked side by side, holding their hats as the wind gusted. As usual, Bobby’s backyard was a battlefield. Once again, he had been busy building an obstacle course. Green bicycle tires were scattered amidst the dandelions and grass. Camouflaged water balloons swayed from the clotheslines. Roman candles encircled the elm in the center of the yard and a red holey target was nailed to the trunk. An air rifle with “BB” engraved in the gunstock leaned against the patio.

  “So I went to Willard’s today,” Jack said as Bobby grabbed the rifle and aimed at the elm.

  Bobby clicked off a shot. “What’s new? You bought that porkpuss there, right?”

  “That was yesterday. I bought a boneshaker this morning.”

  “A boneshaker? Since when does Old Man Reed sell Voodoo maracas?”

  “It’s a bike, dumbass. It’s a good hundred years old. Though I’m starting to wonder if it’s cursed.”

  “What do you mean?” Bobby squinted through the scope, then pulled the trigger. A BB ricocheted off the clothesline. “It has black streamers or something?”

  “Not exactly. The whole frame’s iron, and it smells burnt.”

  “No kidding? Why didn’t you ride it over?”

  “My mom pitched a fit and locked it up in the shed.”

  Bobby laughed and set the rifle down. He then withdrew a pair of sunglasses from his right combat boot.

  “Jack Jericho, thirteen years old and grounded from riding his Big Wheel. Ha-ha! So that’s why you didn’t tell anybody about it.”

  “I didn’t tell anybody cause…well…yeah, that’s why.”

  “So, what’s up with the bike?”

  “I don’t know, it’s really weird. I was in the woods, and I heard some singing. I heard a sailor song, and…”

  “Maybe Old Man Reed was stalking you on his way to the beach. I bet he has a liking for you. Or it was the dead pirate! You believe all those horror stories now?”

  “I’m telling you, Blue…I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. Before I bought the bike nothing ever happened in those woods.”

  “But you walked here.”

  “I know! I can’t explain it.”

  “I have to see it to believe it, soldier.” Bobby donned the shades and tilted his beret. “This calls for a change of plans. Meet me at the gazebo at twenty-three hundred hours. From there we’ll rendezvous at the barracks where we’ll break the bike out of the brig. Then we’ll haul it through the bush and saddle up for Operation: Skelet
on Man at midnight. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?”

  “On one condition: you bring that rifle with…and something to bust a padlock.”

  “I’ll be armed and dangerous. Dismissed, soldier!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Willard Reed poured a healthy dose of Southern Bell as he gazed out his bedroom window at the choppy ocean. Beside him, on the nightstand, sat the Devil’s bellows. He still could not believe he had found it amidst the ironworks. It was undoubtedly the tool mentioned in the legends. The pentagram was a giveaway. He recalled one seafarer tale in particular that chronicled how the bellows drove an entire crew mad. But it was just a tale, and one he thought preposterous until now. The longer he stared, though, the more he wondered if it was a replica.

  Christ, look at me. Hands tremblin’, knots in my gut. It’s just a damn bellows!

  The tumbler shuddered as he raised it to his lips. The ice cubes clinked like hail on a headstone. Willard sucked the drink dry and set the glass on the sill.

  He picked up the bellows. The handles conformed to his hands.

  Here goes nothin’.

  He snapped the bellows open, and then slammed it shut. The air was still. Nothing happened.

  Willard thought for a moment. The ancient folklore told of a catalyst. There was only one thing the bellows worked its magic on. But what was it? Gold? Silver? No.

  Willard dwelled on the morning’s shipment.

  Iron!

  He rushed downstairs to the shop. He threw the curtain aside and took aim. The pentagram flashed crimson. An adrenaline burst flooded his veins and made his head swirl. His eyes burned and smoke curled from his nostrils.

  The bellows drew a breath and exhaled, fogging the room in burgundy.

  *****

  Hoyer Milton parked his cherry red 1952 Columbia at the curb and paused to catch his breath. Rivulets of sweat dripped from his double chin onto his off-white tank top, where a T-bone-shaped stain formed above his drooping belly. He reached into the pocket of his maroon and gold Zubaz pants and withdrew a bag of pork rinds. He stuffed five in his mouth, smacked his lips, and then belched into the mist.

  “Mmmm. Finger lickin’ good.”