Ghost Ship

by P. J. Alderman

  “Oh, now, that’s not necessarily true …” Bob murmured.

  “Where did you see the ship?” Tom asked.

  “She sailed toward the spit, then at the last minute, turned and went to the north past the lighthouse.” Jordan’s exasperation with them was growing.

  He nodded sagely. “That makes sense, since that’s roughly where she went down. The course she would’ve taken if she hadn’t run aground—in other words, if she’d succeeded in turning and avoiding the rocks—is exactly as you described.”

  Jordan stared at them, chilled.

  Tom merely grinned, then turned to address the room at large. “Hey, folks? Looks like we’ve got ourselves the first confirmed sighting of a Pacific Northwest ghost ship.”

  Amid widespread applause and cheers, Darcy told Jordan, “Seriously cool. Your powers are expanding.”

  Chapter 4

  JORDAN gripped the edge of the bar sink. “You mean to tell me that instead of just the occasional ghost here and there, I’m now seeing entire ghost ships?”

  “Looks like,” Bob replied cheerfully. “What’s the problem? It’s not as if sightings like yours haven’t been fairly common—just not so much in these waters.”

  “Why is she out there?”

  “She’s probably repeating her voyage at the time of the shipwreck.”

  Jordan conjured up an image of what she’d seen. “So your supposition is that the ghost of a wrecked ship forever sails the waters, running the same course over and over, but as a spectral … whatever, gets to avoid running onto the rocks?”

  “Depends on the ghost ship. Some are seen sailing the waters successfully, righting the old wrong; others are doomed to forever repeat their captain’s mistakes.”

  Jordan concentrated on what was becoming her favorite pastime—breathing.

  “Ever heard of the Flying Dutchman? Or the Mary Celeste?” Tom asked her. “There’ve been stacks of books written about famous phantom ships down through history. Trust me, you’re in good company.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, the ‘good’ company of the whack jobs who write those kinds of books.”

  “ ‘Whack jobs’ being, of course, another term reviled by the psychiatric community?” Darcy wondered out loud.

  Jordan shot her a dirty look.

  “At least it doesn’t sound as if the ship had it in for you—some of them can be pretty malevolent,” Bob said.

  “Gee, that’s nice to know.” Jordan seized the bottle of Cuervo Gold from Jase, poured herself a shot, chugged it, then started coughing.

  “Careful there.” Jase pounded a fist between her shoulder blades. “What, exactly, did you see?”

  “An old-fashioned sailing ship, dammit!” she croaked, then paused. “Okay, maybe I didn’t see a lot of crew, but I heard them singing. And the light was a little weird, but I’m sure that was just because of the fog, right? You can’t convince me she wasn’t real.”

  Everyone looked amused.

  Jordan turned back to Bob. “All kinds of tall ships are supposedly sailing into port right now, because of the Wooden Boat Festival, right? Rationally speaking, it could’ve been one of those.”

  “Actually, only a few have shown up so far—we’re over a month out from the festival. And a lot of the boats that enter the festival are small craft.”

  “Okay, okay.” She paced back and forth in the six square feet of space she had behind the bar. “Wait—we’ve established that the gardener saw the ship, too.”

  “Which stands to reason, since she’s the ghost of one of the rescue party that night back in 1893,” Tom said.

  “If she’s a ghost,” Jordan corrected him stubbornly. “And why the hell do you think it makes sense that a ghost would see a ghost ship?”

  “Why do ghosts see other ghosts?” Jase asked, maddeningly logical.

  Jordan glared.

  “Plus,” Tom said, “even if I go with your theory that the gardener isn’t a ghost—which I don’t, by the way—a lot of the sightings of phantom ships throughout history have been by more than one person, sometimes entire groups of people.”

  Jordan resumed her pacing. “I suppose it’s possible I have a brain tumor.” She halted. “Yes, that’s it! I really am imagining all of this. There are all kinds of weird stories about people believing in entire alternate universes because of pressure on parts of their brains from a growing malignant brain tumor. Now that works for me.”

  “If a tumor was to blame, what you see would have no correlation to actual historical events,” Darcy pointed out pragmatically.

  “She’s right,” Jase said. “You see things, then you do the research and find out they existed.”

  But Jordan refused to concede the point. “Maybe I’m overhearing a few historically accurate tidbits, then my tumor embellishes what I heard, then I do the research.”

  “You can’t seriously tell me you would prefer to have a brain tumor rather than see ghosts and ghost ships.” Darcy said it carefully.

  “A girl can dream.”

  Darcy shook her head. “Sarcasm.”

  “You aren’t alone in this, you know,” Bob assured Jordan. “There have been dozens of sightings of ghost ships.”

  “But why me?”

  They all looked at her as if the answer was obvious.

  “I meant, why me, why now? If there have been dozens of these sightings, why hasn’t anyone else sighted this ship over the years?”

  “Maybe you’re supposed to investigate what happened that night?” Tom speculated.

  “No, wait—she does have a point,” Jase said. “The timing of the sighting appears to be unexplained. How would any spectral entities know that she’d be hiking today, or that she’d put two and two together, for that matter?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Darcy mused. “I’d assume that along with Jordan’s powers comes some kind of connection with the spectral entities, such that they’d know what she was up to and when it would make sense to try to influence her.”

  “You guys do know how insane you sound?” Jordan fumed.

  “But why now?” Jase asked, obviously considering her question rhetorical. “Do you suppose we’re coming up on the anniversary of the shipwreck?” He turned to Bob. “Do you know the exact date?”

  “Sometime in August of ninety-three, I think. I’d have to look it up. And I don’t think it has anything to do with the upcoming boat festival, since nothing like this has happened in prior years.”

  “Jordan wasn’t in town in prior years, though.”

  “Hmm. Valid point.” Bob rubbed his chin. “At any rate, I’m not sure the sighting is supposed to mean anything other than what it was. Such sightings have occurred throughout history, but they didn’t translate into some kind of cry for help from a different dimension.”

  “Still,” Tom said, “it makes sense that she should look into the shipwreck.”

  “I can assure you I feel absolutely no desire to do so,” Jordan replied grimly.

  “There was never any conclusive evidence as to whether the Henrietta Dale was deliberately lured onto the rocks,” Tom continued as if she’d never spoken. “If Jordan researches the incident, maybe she can find some tidbit that provides proof one way or the other, thus giving the ship some peace of mind.”

  Jordan groaned and buried her face in her hands.

  “I can bring you some books to read as a starting point,” he offered.

  “If you darken my doorstep with any books on the subject, I will take Darcy’s gun and shoot you between the eyes.”

  “Are you all right?” Jase asked.

  “I need to go home.” And climb into bed and pull the covers over my head. Denial, that’s the ticket.

  “You can’t leave now—we want to hear every detail,” Bob protested.

  “Giant wooden ship. Lots of masts and sails. Singing crew,” Jordan ticked off on her fingers. “What else do you need to know?”

  “Well, for starters, we need to carefully document
your sighting—the exact longitude and latitude of the ship, time of day, atmospheric conditions, and so on. Experts who track this kind of thing will want a full accounting for their records.”

  “It might also be a good idea for you to work with a sketch artist,” Tom added, receiving an eager nod of agreement from Bob. “You can generate a sketch from your memory of what you saw. Then we could compare it to the specifications for the Henrietta Dale, to see how accurate the sighting was.”

  “I can put you in touch with the sketch artist the police department uses on occasion,” Darcy offered. “She’s very good.”

  Jordan looked at her.

  “Or not,” Darcy said.

  “No, that’s an excellent idea.” Bob grabbed a bar napkin and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket to start making notes. “I’ve got calls to make. Jordan, we need your eyewitness account recorded right away, so that it’s as accurate as possible.”

  “That’s it!” Jordan muttered. “I’m out of here. Darcy, I’ll drive—you’re too tired. Keys. Malachi! Let’s go.” When Bob started to protest, she held up a hand. “I’ll come by your offices tomorrow.” She crooked the fingers of her extended hand at Darcy for the keys.

  Darcy opened her mouth as if to say something—probably, Jordan thought darkly, some pithy observation about who was in the worst shape and therefore who should be driving—but then wisely seemed to think better of it. Without a word, she handed over the keys to her SUV.

  Jase placed a hand on Jordan’s shoulder. His expression was solemn, but his blue eyes held a definite twinkle. “Want me to carry you out to the truck so that you can retrieve your shoes?”

  * * *

  IT took less than a half hour to drive Darcy home, talk her into taking her pain medication, and make certain she was alert enough to get ready for bed on her own. Jordan then pulled on her damp, salt-encrusted running shoes, and she and Malachi walked the two blocks to Longren House in the dark.

  As they turned the corner on her block, Malachi growled low in his throat. Jordan slowed, laying a hand on his collar. She studied the surrounding shadows, wondering what had set the dog off.

  Nothing looked out of place in the yards on either side of her house. Amanda, the landscaper she’d involuntarily adopted, had probably already retired to her tent in the backyard, having long since quit for the day. Jordan recognized Amanda’s handiwork in the careful pruning and temporary supports for the wisteria, which would eventually climb a new iron trellis along the library wall. She halted in her tracks, peering more closely at the support structure. Was that … scaffolding? Maybe that was what had spooked Malachi—it was certainly enough to spook her.

  The moon and stars had come out, providing enough illumination that Jordan could make out the lines of her house’s nineteenth-century Queen Anne architecture. Though relatively small in terms of square footage, her home was a glorious example of the ornate, wacky home designs of that era. A covered porch ran the length of the front, curving around the corners and decorated with gingerbread-style carved balusters. The turret off her master bedroom rose into the night sky above her, its darkened antique glass windows shining in the moonlight. A hall light glowed softly through the beveled glass of the front door. Someone had left lights burning in the kitchen and the library.

  Jordan loved how the house looked at night, when darkness obscured the peeling paint and missing siding. Her first priority had been to hire a carpenter to repair and hang the old porch swing, whose use was essential in helping her cling to her dream of a warm, cozy home.

  Malachi growled again, straining against her grip on his collar, and, increasingly uneasy, she studied the house more carefully. The gallon of wood brightener she’d bought the day before at the local hardware store still sat on the porch where she’d left it. Nothing seemed out of place.

  Something flew past the library window, inside. She stared, wondering if her imagination was running away from her. A smoky, amorphous shape flew past again, this time in the opposite direction. It was followed by several airborne books. She heard a faint crash in the general direction of the antique table and wing-back chair.

  Malachi pulled out of her grip, barking, and leapt onto the porch. She followed, easing open the front door and cautiously entering the hall. The sound of crashing objects in the library intensified. Crossing to the arched doorway, she peeked inside.

  Books she had meticulously dusted and shelved in alphabetical order in the ceiling-to-floor bookcases now lay in heaps on the floor. Ornately framed pictures of dour Longren ancestors hung askew. The wing-back chair was overturned. Plants in the conservatory had toppled, their soil spilled onto the red and white Aubusson rug.

  Hattie and Charlotte huddled together behind the massive oak desk, holding onto each other. As usual, the sisters wore elaborate examples of the gowns of the time. Charlotte’s was the more fashionable of the two, made up of yards of shimmering dark blue muslin and sporting a small bustle, a tiny waist almost certainly created by a tightly laced corset, and a rather revealing bustline. Hattie, who believed more in comfort and in not damaging her internal organs, wore a simple shirtwaist-style teal bodice with a high, lacy neck, tucked into a straight black skirt that fell to her ankles. Both women’s expressions were wary, their materializations weaker than normal.

  Two other ghosts flew around the room at dizzying speed, engaging in fisticuffs. One landed a punch, the other exploding in a puff of particles. The air across the room shimmered as he reappeared, and they circled each other once again. At ceiling height.

  Malachi took one look and fled to the back of the house.

  Jordan recognized one of the ghosts as Frank Lewis, Hattie’s handsome, brawny lover from the 1890s, whom Jordan had posthumously cleared of any involvement in Hattie’s murder. The other ghost, however, Jordan had never seen before.

  For a brief moment, she considered quietly backing out and returning to the pub. Someone would surely offer her and Malachi a bed for the night. Or there was always the porch swing. Maybe the ghosts would be gone by morning. Then again, her house might be rubble by morning.

  “Oh!” Hattie spied her. “Thank goodness you’re here!” she breathed, wringing her hands. “I haven’t been able to make them stop.”

  “Do something!” Charlotte cried, fading in and out spastically.

  “Hey!” Jordan tried to get the men’s attention, but they ignored her.

  A lamp bit the dust as Frank exploded, then rematerialized on top of the leaded glass shade, shattering it.

  Jordan put two fingers to her mouth and whistled loud enough to raise the dead.

  The ghost she didn’t recognize halted in a hover not far from her, clapping his hands over his ears. “Good Christ, woman! Cease that infernal racket! Have you no sense of decorum?”

  She scowled. “Who the hell are you?”

  Frank lingered not far away, his expression still murderous. Jordan shot him a stern look, just in case he was considering landing another punch.

  The other ghost dropped to floor level, straightening his cravat and black swallowtail coat. “Must you swear like a sailor as well?”

  “ ‘Hell’ is perfectly acceptable as part of modern-day speech,” Jordan retorted. “Who are you?”

  He executed a mocking bow from the waist. “Michael Seavey, at your service.”

  She gaped. “The shanghaier?”

  “Please, madam.” He looked offended. “I merely supplied a much-needed commodity.”

  Oh, no. No, no, no. This was bad. Having ghosts around who had been hardened criminals in their former lives was very bad. Light-headed, she reached out to brace a hand against a bookshelf.

  Seavey withdrew a cigar from an inside breast pocket. He ran it under his nose, sniffing appreciatively before preparing to light it.

  “This is a no-smoking establishment,” she said faintly. When he looked confused, she clarified. “I don’t allow anyone to smoke in my house.”

  “Then we shouldn’t have a problem,�
�� he replied smoothly, holding the flame to the tip of the cigar and drawing to create an even burn. He eyed the tip of the cigar critically, seemingly satisfied. “For unless I’m mistaken, this house belongs to Hattie.”

  “Michael …” Hattie began hesitantly, sending Jordan an apologetic glance.

  “You are, in fact, quite mistaken,” Jordan said, recovering enough to walk over and set the wing-back chair upright. “I bought the house last month.”

  “Nonsense.” Seavey ignored her request. “You may currently have squatter’s rights, but the house remains Hattie’s.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Jordan shoved an armload of books onto a shelf, then turned to face him, waving at the cloud of smoke. “Put that out, dammit.”

  “You’re the only human who can see and smell the smoke,” he said, amused. “Except, interestingly, for the odd interloper in my hotel suite. If I blow smoke right in their faces, they seem to get a whiff.”

  “You have your own place here in town?”

  He inclined his head. “I maintain a suite of rooms at the Cosmopolitan Hotel, of course.”

  “Then you could go back there, right?”

  “You’re being uncommonly rude,” Charlotte admonished Jordan.

  “Now, Charlotte,” Hattie reproved. “I think Jordan is taking all this quite well.”

  “That’s only because after the day I’ve had, nothing could faze me,” Jordan muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind.”

  Seavey blew smoke in Jordan’s face, and she waved her hands more frantically. “Dammit! You’re putting me at risk for secondhand smoke.”

  He looked exasperated. “You humans persist in talking in riddles. What the devil is ‘secondhand smoke’?”

  “Your smoking can cause cancer in the other people in the room. Now please, do as I say, or I’ll take that cigar away from you and dispose of it myself.” It was an empty threat—she doubted she could put out a spectral cigar.

  “Michael,” Hattie said quietly. “If you would be so kind …”