Haunted Shipwreck (3 page)

“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: Skeleton 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.”

He approached the double doors, opened them wide, and entered. A thick scent reminiscent of smoked salmon pricked his nostrils.

“Reed! Where are you, you old bastard?”

Hoyer scanned the shadowy shop, half-expecting to spot the geezer hunkered beside a hunk of junk with a feather duster in hand. But such was not the case. There was only clutter and grime.

He heard clanking. Maybe the old man was fixing all of the broken crap in his shop.

“Reed, goddamn it! Where the hell are you?”

“Mister Milton.”

Hoyer jumped and dropped his snack bag. He whirled and then winced as the pork rinds crunched beneath his weight.

“Jesus, Reed! You always sneak up on your customers like that?”

“Who’s sneakin’?” Willard raised his right hand. “I can almost count the years on one hand since ya last left pork rinds in ya wake.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I’ll have Mack come round later and sweep ‘em up.”

“Don’t bother, Mister Milton.” Willard swept back a strand of hair. “What brings ya by?”

“Oh hell, Reed, my damn roaster went kaput.”

“I’m a vegan. What do I care?”

“Cause I have a shop to run, you codger! Do you have something that’ll get me by a day or two? I’ll take anything. A charcoal grill if I have to. My retailer’s in Portage. I’m not trying to pick my nose for three hours on the ferry while my customers line up.”

Willard blinked hard, and then nodded. “I’ve got just the thing.”

Willard brushed past Hoyer and headed toward the rear of the shop. Hoyer turned, paused, and took a deep breath. He drooled at the hint of rotisserie in the air. Man, he missed his roaster.

“Comin’, Mister Milton?” Willard drew aside the curtain. “My antiques won’t walk to ya. They’ll just sit there and collect dust.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming, old man.”

The pork rinds crunched as Hoyer followed in Willard’s footsteps. Claustrophobia nagged at him. The aisles were narrow and cluttered; Hoyer was wide and clumsy. He sucked in his gut, but to no avail as a copper stein clunked on the floor. By the time he was halfway down the aisle, ten antiques had toppled over. He scowled, certain the blue-hair was standing there with a grin on his face. But there was only the velvet swaying as if there was a breeze.

And the odd clanking, which had grown louder and more furious.

Hoyer forged ahead and crashed his way to the back room. The aisle behind him was nonlinear in his wake. He barged though the curtain.

Inside the room, Willard stood with the bellows, waving it at the ironworks pile.

Hoyer furrowed his unibrow. “This ain’t some kind of freaky peepshow, is it? That might explain why the Jericho boy’s over here every day.”

Hoyer’s sight focused on the junk pile. He grimaced as if he had eaten overdone sirloin. He had never encountered a worse smelling pile of crap in his life. Everything was black as burnt toast and reeked like a skillet after a grease fire.

Hoyer felt as if he might puke up his pork rinds any second. “What the hell’s this?”

Willard whirled and stumbled past Hoyer, holding the bellows high. The entire sleek mass shifted and advanced, clanging like loose pipes.

A potbelly stove with an eighteen-inch tall stovepipe led the army. It was as round as Hoyer’s ex-wife and probably blew more smoke. He shook his head.

“What’s this, Reed? What are you trying to pull?”

The potbelly stove rumbled and its bolts rattled loose. The stovepipe coughed a burgundy plume of smoke that blanketed the ceiling. The grate flung open and blue flames lashed out tongues. Hoyer stumbled back and hacked up a lung.

“Reed, goddamn it! Who do you think you’re messing with?”

Walter’s eyes rolled into his head. His lips parted and blood streamed down his chin. “Skin ‘em in the riptide…”

The smoke cascaded down the walls. Hoyer spun, searching for the door. Then the haze parted and the iron army attacked. At that moment, Hoyer wished he had his meat cleaver, or his electric knife, anything for self-defense. Though nothing would have fared against the devilish onslaught.

Hoyer’s last thought dwelled on the irony. He had been barbecued and skewered like the lamb chops that hung in his butcher shop window.

*****

When the hour arrived, Jack snuck out his bedroom window as usual and hauled off to Halberd Park. He was grateful his mom’s cleverness only kicked in on occasion. She may have jailed the boneshaker, but she had yet to relocate his room to the attic. He grinned as he wondered what she was thinking by trusting a teenager.

He glanced down Skean Street. The mist clung to the blacktop, thick as the humidity, burying Bodkin Bend. He considered following the curb to Rivulet Road, and then reminded himself that he was on a time crunch. Whether he wanted to or not, he had to take the shortcut.

Geez, Jack, stop being a candy-ass!

His gaze glued to Skelt’s bedroom window. The broken glass and shutters rattled in the wind. His brain burned for confirmation of the Skeleton Man’s presence, but there was no revelation. He would have to wait until midnight.

He paused at the dirt path. Though reluctant, it was the quickest way to Blue’s house. He took a deep breath, chided himself once more, and entered the dark, foggy forest. He immediately stepped up his pace to a jog. The trees rustled, whispering urgently, aware of his return.

His jog became a sprint. He strained to focus on the path, gauging the terrain, trying to determine if he was nearing the street. He tried his hardest to ignore his periphery.

Then the ghost song split the darkness, breaking his concentration, a dead squid stench on its heels.

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

Jack’s pace faltered and his eyes roved, blinking with his heartbeat. The woods whipped and whistled. The path hissed and suddenly swirled with mist.

“Skin ‘em in the riptide, blow boys blow!”

Again the rasping. But the forest was deserted. The voices were coming from the canopy.

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

Jack looked up, and then quickly decided he did not want to see what lurked in the branches. He envisioned dead sailors dangling from anchors, and that thought had his shoes kicking up dust.