Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  “Great steaks,” grunted Bortnicker as he chewed away. “Were they expensive?”

  “Dude, you don’t want to know,” said Mike, forking some butter onto his potato. “Thank you, Adventure Channel!”

  “You must be away from home a lot,” said Tom Sr.

  “Yeah, about half the year, all told. We film all over the place in the States, and we’ve been down to Puerto Rico and South America, too. But none of the four of us is married, and we all get along pretty well.

  “We started doing this in college at Fresno State just for a goof, but then we began having experiences—weird stuff that made us want to learn more and push the envelope. Along the way, we’ve tried to use every bit of technology available to stay ahead of some of those dull paranormal shows.

  “The show itself started by accident. One of our team members, Caroline—”

  “She’s really hot!” cut in Bortnicker.

  Mike laughed and continued, “Her brother had a connection at The Adventure Channel. So, we went to this deserted prison in Nevada and filmed the pilot for the show, and incredibly, they liked it! So here we are, a couple seasons later and going strong.” He put his knife and fork down and looked directly at T.J.

  “But in all the investigations we’ve done, and all the crazy evidence we’ve picked up on audio and video, nothing compares to what happened to me last year in Gettysburg. I was talking to a real, honest-to-God ghost, and I blew the chance to document it. That’s what keeps me going—the quest to, beyond a doubt, prove to America that the spirit world really exists. That’s why I admire you dudes so much, and your cousin, too. When it was crunch time, you showed more guts than I ever did.”

  “I’m sure the opportunity will present itself to you again,” assured Tom Sr. “You’re too passionate about it to not achieve your goal.”

  “Well, I’m hopin’. But, hey, life is good. We’ve all made a lot of money on the series, and there’s no end in sight. So, when they asked me last year about a possible spinoff, I said, ‘How about kids?’ and they said, ‘Why not? Let’s give it a try!’ You have no idea how many letters we get from young people all over the world who have either formed their own teams or want to. So, if this project is successful, it could open the door for lots of other dudes like yourselves.”

  “Gee, no pressure there,” said T.J. to Bortnicker.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mike, sipping his beer, “I have a feeling you guys are gonna do great. Now, fill me in about today.”

  “Well, it was kinda mixed,” said T.J. “First, Chappy took us to this restaurant near the dive shop that’s owned by one of his friends, a lady named Dora. Real authentic Bermuda food, so we were pretty psyched. But when we mentioned that we’re here to investigate Sir William Tarver we got the silent treatment, kinda like the reaction from Chappy on the way back from the airport.”

  “Interesting,” said Mike, chewing on the last of his steak.

  “But that’s not all,” said Bortnicker. “There were these two local guys there, pretty tough looking dudes in overalls, who must’ve been listening in because one of them came over to us and said that we should leave it alone.”

  Tom Sr., concerned, asked if the boys felt threatened in any way.

  “Not exactly,” said T.J. “But it was a little awkward.”

  “That’s why our meeting with this Mrs. Tilbury over at the National Heritage Trust Museum on Monday is so important,” said Mike. “There’s got to be something going on with Tarver that’s being kept on the DL—”

  “But then, why publicize him in the first place?” said Tom Sr. “You know the show will draw attention to Hibiscus House.”

  Mike frowned. “All I can think of is that, with the economy as weak as it is over here, there’s a lot of competition for the American tourist dollar. And Bermuda’s a very expensive place to visit. But, believe me, you mention the word “haunted” and interest picks up. Maybe the people in charge over there just don’t know what they’re dealing with, if there’s anything at all. You know, we’ve been called in to investigate places based on some pretty wild claims by the local government or whoever runs the facility, and they turned out to be total duds. I mean, we can spice up the investigation here and there, though not to the point of fabricating our results to fit the reports we were handed. But like you said, whether the place is a hot spot or not, there’s instant publicity generated, which means mucho dinero for the owners of the property.

  “Please tell me things went better at the dive shop.”

  “Oh, yeah, no problem there,” said T.J., pushing his plate away. “We met the owner, Mr. Goodwin—”

  “And his daughter also?” cut in Mike, a mischievous grin on his face.

  “And Ronnie,” said T.J. “I think Bortnicker’s in love.”

  “Well, she did seem to take a shine to me,” Bortnicker said proudly as he polished his glasses with his Red Sox tee shirt.

  “Whatever,” continued T.J. “Mr. Goodwin showed us a map of all the wrecks around the island, and where we’d be going to dive. It’s not too far off the coast around here, in the area of the Gibbs Hill lighthouse, which we passed on South Road on the way to Somerset. We’re scheduled for two dives, on Tuesday and Thursday. It’s a long shot, but he’s hoping we can find out if the wreck is Tarver’s ship.”

  “And what happened when Tarver’s name came up with Goodwin?” asked Tom Sr.

  “Mr. Goodwin didn’t react one way or the other,” said Bortnicker, “but his daughter went off on how he was a great Bermudian, blah blah blah. She seems pretty patriotic, among other things.”

  “The people here are very proud of their country,” said Tom Sr. “Take it from me. You ask them a question about their culture and they’ll bend your ear, which is all part of them being so accommodating. But Bermuda, as great as it is, has dark parts in its history like any other country. You might be dealing with one; who knows?”

  Mike looked at his watch. “Wow, 8:00 already. Do you guys think you can give me another hour to show you the equipment you’ll be using during the investigation?”

  “I’m pretty beat,” said T.J. “but I think we can make it through another hour.”

  “I’m in, too,” said Bortnicker.

  “Well, I’ve got some calls to make,” said Tom Sr. “My process begins tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. on the first tee of the Coral Bay Golf Club. I’m playing with my buddy and a couple guys from the government. Then, hopefully, our conversations will continue over lunch and drinks, so you won’t be seeing me for most of the day. And if tomorrow goes well, you won’t be seeing much of me at all, which I guess is okay because I’d only be in the way.”

  “No problem, Tom,” assured Mike. “I’ll keep an eye on things, and Chappy will be a help, too.”

  “So, tomorrow it’s okay if we take a trip to St. George’s in the afternoon?” asked T.J. hopefully. “Ronnie Goodwin promised to take us around, show us the sights.”

  “Lots of sights,” added Bortnicker with a devilish wink.

  Mike laughed out loud. “You dudes are too much. Of course you can go to St. George’s. It’s part of picking up on the local history of the investigation site. And it’s a Sunday anyway; not everything’s open.

  “Listen, when Gonzo Ghost Chasers does an investigation, we spend anywhere from three to five days in the area of the place we’re checking out. But I convinced the suits at The Adventure Channel that if they wanted you to do a thorough job they’d have to make it worth your while. So, we’re booked here for up to two weeks if we need it. I want you to have some down time, because if you’re rushed, the final product will show it. Understood?”

  “Great,” said T.J. “So I was thinking that tomorrow morning I’ll go for a run, then maybe me and Bortnicker could hit the pool for a little bit before we go pick up LouAnne at the airport. Then, Chappy could take us to Blue Lagoon and we can pick up Ronnie and go to St. George’s.”

  “He’s very organized,” explained Bortnicker.

&nb
sp; “Okay, whatever,” said Mike. “I’ve been invited to go charter boat fishing tomorrow by a young lady I met in Hamilton the other night. Since you guys seem to have your plans under control, I think I’ll take her up on it. Maybe bring home some fresh fish to grill.

  “Now let’s talk tech.”

  * * * *

  The men of Jobson’s Cove were just sitting down to their succulent steak dinner when Nigel Chapford entered Dora’s Corners for the second time that day. She was bent over the stove, stirring three pots simultaneously for the dozen patrons seated at her tables. He slid onto a stool at the counter and said, “And here I am, back again in search of the beer a certain lady promised me this afternoon.”

  Dora cut him a look over her broad shoulder that signaled her displeasure.

  “Have I done something wrong?” he wondered aloud.

  She stopped stirring and strode to the counter, leaning her elbows on the chipped wood until her moist face was only inches from his. “I don’t like this thing you’ve got going with those boys,” she hissed. “Stickin’ their noses where they don’t belong.”

  “I take it they mentioned William Tarver,” he sighed.

  “Of course,” she said. “The odd one with the glasses was making like the town crier, for goodness sake.”

  Chappy frowned, tracing an old water ring stain with his finger. “They’re good boys,” he said patiently, “and it’s understandable they’re all caught up in this TV thing. Wouldn’t you be, at their age? It’s a big adventure in the tropics for them.”

  “At whose expense?” she retorted. Then she dropped her voice a few octaves. “Nigel, you know quite well the rumors about what went on in that house—”

  “Never substantiated—”

  “Says you.”

  “And you honestly expect a group of teenagers to uncover a mystery that’s been locked away from the public for over 250 years? I’m surprised at you, Dora.”

  “You listen here. I realize that to most of the people on this island you are Mr. Nigel Chapford, chauffer to the stars, but don’t forget where you came from, Chappy—the Back of Town, just like me. Just like your wife. Don’t you ever let me see you putting outsiders before your own people. I don’t care how nice they are or how much they pay you!”

  Chapford was actually afraid that Dora, who was never the greatest specimen of health, was on the verge of a major coronary attack. He reached out and laid a tentative soothing hand on her muscled forearm.

  “Dora, my love, I will do everything in my power to keep things under control,” he assured, his teeth gleaming white. “So please calm yourself. Believe me, it will all work out. Now, about that beer?”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Okay, here goes,” said T.J., completing his preliminary leg stretches on the concrete deck of the deserted pool. It was barely 7:00 a.m., but the sun had broken through an early morning cloud cover to beat down on Bermuda and evaporate the morning dew. He’d tiptoed past the snoring Bortnicker, pulled on his Bridgefield High Cross Country tee and shorts, and carried his New Balance 1226 sneakers outside. Now, as his cousin would say, it was time to rock. The fact that she would be here in a few hours only heightened his excitement. Following Chappy’s directions, he headed left out of the driveway, then found the Tribal Road that went uphill to the Railway Trail, which was clearly marked. He hung a left and began padding on the mat of dirt and fallen leaves that formed the floor. Overreaching trees shielded him from the sun, and although there was no breeze to be had, it was quite pleasant under the canopy. Nothing like his first run with LouAnne last summer on the wide open, blazing battlefield when he almost killed himself attempting to keep up with her. He chuckled at the memory of his foolishness in trying to impress her. Instead of cannon and regimental markers and statues, T.J. was treated to a colorful riot of Bermuda flora, most of which had been imported from other countries to thrive in the island’s warm climate and ample rainfall. Bamboo and orchids, bougainvillea and begonia, Poinciana and hibiscus and scarlet cordial—they all swirled together around him as he clipped along.

  Running always gave T.J. quiet time to think; rarely did he use an iPod to make it go faster. This fine morning many things crossed his mind. The previous day’s events flew by like a flipbook: the plane flight, the cliffs of Astwood Park, the strange man at Dora’s and the intriguing girl at the dive shop.

  And Bortnicker. Jeez, was he going to make a fool of himself again? Okay, this Ronnie was a bit of a flirt, but wasn’t that the byproduct of accommodating the tourists day after day? Bortnicker was probably so stunned that a girl had even noticed him that he’d misread a little innocent byplay. Of course, he reasoned, this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Perhaps, he thought selfishly, it would divert his friend’s thoughts from LouAnne.

  Ah, LouAnne. The failure of them to meet up during the school year vacations had only elevated the anticipation of this trip. He knew, deep down, how he felt about her, adopted cousin or no. How she felt was another story altogether. T.J. had gotten what he believed were mixed messages last summer. However, he feared that what little knowledge he had about females and their ways, and the way he had built her up in his imagination into some kind of teenaged goddess, had left him as off base—and hopeless—as Bortnicker was with Ronnie Goodwin.

  Suddenly he slowed and looked up. Through the canopy of palms and lush vegetation he could make out a towering pink hotel.

  What? He thought. Can I have gone this far? He stepped into a small clearing; sure enough, he’d reached the Southampton Princess resort, which they’d passed way down along South Road the previous day. T.J. checked his watch. Yup, he’d been running for a half hour, lost in his reverie. He chuckled at himself, then turned around and hit it for home.

  After a breakfast of cold cereal, the boys lounged in the pool. Bortnicker, who’d slathered his fair skin with sunscreen, floated around on a rubber tube, his Ray Ban sunglasses pointed to the sky. T.J., tired from his run, just sat up to his neck in the shallow end.

  “How’d the run feel?” Bortnicker said, his hands behind his head.

  “Not bad at all,” T.J. answered. “I’m glad I started training last week at home. I’ll be ready for her.”

  Bortnicker checked his watch. “Touch down in an hour and forty minutes. We have to grab a shower soon, Big Mon.”

  “A few more minutes,” said T.J. contentedly.

  “Hey, what did you think of the tech session last night? Think we’ll be able to actually use all that equipment?”

  “I have my doubts. Listen, I understand what Mike said about the TV audience liking gadgets, but I don’t know if we’ll get to use all the stuff, and if it really works at all. I mean, there’s the night vision camcorders with the infrared lenses, full spectrum still cameras that we have to set up, thermal imaging cameras and digital EVP recorders—”

  “And don’t forget the underwater movie camera LouAnne’s gonna have to shoot from the surface, probably lying on a float or something. It’s incredible that she’ll be able to zoom down to where we are. That is, if we have a crystal clear day.”

  “Modern technology, man. Anyway, Mike said we don’t need that much underwater footage.”

  “And Mike said his main job is to help us get set up and then review the audio and video at the end of each investigation, right?”

  “Yeah, so I wouldn’t sweat it. We use camcorders and stuff all the time when we do projects at school.” T.J. rose up from the water and grabbed his beach towel. “I’ll get in the shower first, wash this chlorine off.”

  “Make yourself look nice, now!” called Bortnicker behind him.

  T.J. showered quickly, then gave his hair a thorough toweling. He had what the girls at school called “perfect hair”, which these days constituted a Justin Bieber (actually, a Beatle) cut that fell across his forehead and brushed his ears. Kate, the girl who cut the Jackson men’s hair at her Fairfield salon for free (Dad had designed the salon at a bargain price because she’d been a friend
of his mom’s) never failed to compliment how enjoyable giving him a haircut was. Bortnicker, on the other hand, presented a challenge. There wasn’t a hairstylist alive who could get his unruly mop under control. It was all he could do to keep his locks from obscuring the Coke-bottle glasses through which he observed the world.

  “Well, don’t we look rather suave!” chided Bortnicker as he entered the apartment to find T.J. primping in front of a hallway mirror and sporting a dark blue golf shirt to go with his khaki cargo shorts.

  “What’d you expect me to wear, my Gonzo Ghost Chasers shirt? It’s bad enough we have to have our logo plastered all over Chappy’s minivan.”

  “Ah, you love it,” his friend said dismissively. “Be out in a second.” And, as was his MO, Bortnicker emerged dripping wet some scant minutes later, shook the water out of his hair, threw on a clean tee shirt and shorts, and was good to go.

  A car horn sounded down below. “That’s Chappy,” said T.J. “Let’s get to the airport.”

  It was Bortnicker’s turn to ride up in front, and he immediately inserted Rubber Soul into the CD player. “And how are you men this fine day?” asked the driver.

  “Can’t complain,” said T.J. as the appropriate first track, “Drive My Car”, began to play. “Another beautiful morning.”

  “You’ll get the odd shower here and there this time of year, but no worries,” said Chappy, tapping the steering wheel to Ringo Starr’s backbeat. “It may be raining on one side of the island and not the other. In any event, the downpours are brief and dry up quickly. It’s late July through October you have to be careful of.”

  “How come?” asked Bortnicker.

  “Hurricane season. We’ve had a few howlers over the past five years. Caused a lot of heartaches.”

  “Including your house?”

  “I’ve been lucky. Minimal damage every time. But many have had to rebuild from nothing. The price you pay for living on an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”