Haunted Shipwreck (2 page)

“It’s an antique, Mom, not a meth lab!”

“It’s an addiction. You’re at Willard’s everyday spending your hard-earned money. For now, this hunk of junk is getting locked up in the shed. When you can prove to me that you’re financially responsible, then maybe I’ll consider letting you have it.”

“And how long will that be?”

“When you impress me. End of argument.”

Jack’s mom stormed around the house with the bike in tow.

“That’s bullshit!” Jack picked up a quarter-sized rock, reached around the side of the house, and hurled it. It clinked off the bike.

“Jack Allen!”

“Better dig out the Huffy, Porkpie.”

Mack squeaked by on his Supergoose, chuckling. Jack snatched up another rock and whipped it. It hit Mack square in the back. His bike wobbled, and he nearly toppled.

“Up yours, Jericho!”

Jack would have grinned had he not been so pissed off. Why did his mom have to confiscate his best antique to date? He had yet to even show it off. She could have at least warned him not to spend any more money. Then again, she probably had. He never took her threats seriously. But now his prized possession was on lock down.

He was beside himself. His mom had treated him like a drug addict for buying a bike. Christ, he wished she would get over her menopause. He had half a mind to march into Willard’s, drop him five dollars for that potbelly stove, then drop the stinking relic on her doorstep and run.

He watched Mack disappear down the bend. He considered digging out the Huffy. Then he remembered it was in the shed.

“Damn.”

CHAPTER 2

Jack gazed across the street. The dirt path through the woods was his escape. The hike would give him a chance to let off steam on his way to Blue’s house. He left the yard as his mom rounded the corner, calling after him.

“Where are you going?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!”

Jack yanked up his collar and headed for the path. His eyes fixed on the Skelt house. It was a three-story eyesore. The bluestone was crumbled and faded to a dismal gray. The foundation was in similar disrepair, surrounded by detritus and curled shingles. The wood mullions on the cracked windows had buckled inward, and the black shutters banged in the breeze.

Jack stared at the second story window. The day’s date flashed in his brain. It was August nineteenth. Blue would undoubtedly suggest a midnight stakeout in hopes of spotting Lester’s ghost with a noose in hand. Mack, of course, would opt to catch up on his beauty sleep. He might even nail an extra board across his window.

Jack bit back a grin as he entered the foggy forest. It had been a few months since he last traveled the shortcut. He usually stuck to the bikeways, but then again he usually had his bike.

His eyes darted about his surroundings. The locusts-easily eighty feet tall-soughed and swayed, a symphony of raspy murmurs. Jack shivered.

The forest folklore surfaced in his mind like a shark. He squinted at the windy path. The tale of dead pirates wandering the woods was ridiculous. Though he disbelieved it, he also was not about to stage an archaeological dig to prove its validity. Old Willard said that the woods were haunted, that he even once saw a legless corsair skewered on an anchor dangling from a branch. But just the fact that Passing Bell’s dead were buried beneath Jack’s feet unnerved him.

Jesus, it’s just a legend. How old are you?

A cold gust snatched the porkpie. Jack let it bounce on his neck, knowing it was useless to replace it only to have it blown off again. The reek of fish swarmed his head. He wondered if his dad was stalking him with a doggie bag of shrimp.

A branch slapped his face. He snapped it in half and whipped it into the brush.

The wind died.

A clacking sound echoed throughout the forest. Jack’s mind latched onto the urban legend and identified it as an anchor being raised out of water.

He whirled. The mist swirled over the path and a gust shoved him back a step, as if warning him not to run. The locusts soughed deafeningly, like blaring radio static. The rasps were suddenly clear to Jack. He turned on his heel like a music box ballerina, the melody entrancing him.

Blow ye winds at midnight, blow ye winds hi ho!

Skin ‘em in the riptide, blow boys blow!

Blow ye winds at midnight, blow ye winds hi ho!

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, thweet, 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.