by Ron Ripley
Hawkins shook his head. “Far too many questions, my lad. Far too many. I don’t think we’ll ever have any answers.”
The first mate looked as though he might say more, but the sharp, high note of a squeeze-box cut him off.
Hawkins looked at Ewan, and together they got to their feet.
Ewan looked down on the island, walking around the interior of the lighthouse before coming to a stop. In the open area behind the keeper’s house were six men. One of them played a squeeze-box quite well. The others moved in a slow, somber dance around him.
And Ewan could see through each of them. They were thin, almost faint sketches as if they weren’t truly men at all.
“Sir,” Ewan whispered.
Hawkins came and stood beside him. He sighed deeply and said, “Step away, lad. Let’s sit down a bit more, shall we?”
Ewan let himself be turned away from the sight. Hawkins sat him down, and then joined him.
“Were they real?” Ewan asked shortly.
Hawkins nodded.
“Dead?”
“Aye, lad,” Hawkins replied.
Ewan remembered all the tales of ghosts he had heard in Galway. The stories the men had told at night on the stoops in Nashua.
Stories, Ewan thought. Nothing more. The old man who liked little boys on the first floor, he was real. And the woman butchered by her brother. She too was real. But ghosts? Never ghosts. Who had to worry about them when there was no food to eat, or when they told you father was dead?
Ewan looked at Mr. Hawkins. “Are they real, sir?”
“They are,” Mr. Hawkins replied. “You don’t believe your eyes?”
Ewan shook his head.
The first mate smiled bitterly. “They’re often a shock, the first time you see them.”
“You’ve seen ghosts before?” Ewan asked, surprised.
“Aye,” Hawkins said, nodding. “Down off the coast of Georgia, during the rebellion. We’d run down a rebel ship, right to ground. The men came streaming out of her though as soon as we came within range to pour in shot. They took to the jolly boats and rowed for us as though the hounds of Hell were after them.”
“Were they?” Ewan asked softly.
The first mate shook his head. “No. But it seems they ran aground at an old cemetery. Time and water had ripped at the land, left the graveyard open. I saw a few of the dead. They stood by their headstones and their markers. Whether they meant any harm to Johnny Reb, I know not, but they scared all of us. Hamilton and I pulled a fair few of the southerners out of the water, and then, once we had all we could see, the captain beat to quarters and off we went.”
“Did you ever go back?” Ewan asked.
“Would you?”
Ewan shook his head.
Hawkins smiled, got to his feet, and looked out towards The Thin Man. The smile faded.
“Looks like the captain’s going to try his hand,” the man said softly.
Ewan scrambled to his feet and looked out toward the ship.
All of the jolly boats had been lowered away, and in the bow of each, a man held a boat hook at the ready. Those at the oars pulled carefully, the boats moving abreast of each other and keeping a fair course for the pier.
Webb stood in one boat, and when a hidden force tried to pull an oar from a man’s hand, Webb lashed out with the boat hook. The oar was freed instantly, and the act emboldened the men. The pace of the boats increased, the oars rising and falling faster. Soon the rescuers had reached the pier and lines were made fast.
“Quick, lad,” Hawkins said excitedly, “down the stairs and out the door.”
“No,” a voice said, and a form materialized. A whisper of a shape against the glass of the lighthouse’s lantern. Whatever it was took hold of Mr. Hawkins, and smashed him against the window.
Horrified, Ewan watched as the first mate was lifted off the floor and thrown down. Then the man was picked up and hurled against another window, which cracked beneath the force of the blow.
Hawkins’ eyes rolled crazily in their sockets and a tooth hung by a strand of red flesh from his gum. The first mate struggled to get to his feet, but he let out a shriek and collapsed onto his stomach. Blood exploded out of his mouth, and Ewan screamed. A high, piercing sound which broke his voice, leaving him croaking in the lighthouse.
All signs of life fled Mr. Hawkins’ eyes, and so too did Ewan flee the top of the lighthouse. His feet started down the stairs, and he tripped, stumbled, and fell towards the stone floor.
Bonus Scene Chapter 5: On Squirrel Island
Captain Michel Steiner was the first onto the pier, a boathook in his hand. He was tense, expecting a cold grip or a sudden blow at any time. His oarsmen came up quickly, equally nervous. After them, came Webb and Julius, Webb speaking rapidly to Julius.
“He sees nothing, Captain,” Julius said in a low voice. “He knows they are still here, but they are hiding from him. They know he can see them.”
“Well and good, Julius,” Michel said, scanning the island with his one good eye. “I am concerned only with Hawkins and the boy. You said they went into the lighthouse, yes?”
“Aye, sir,” Julius said.
“Then you and Webb with me, get a boathook for yourself,” Michel said. “Let us make short work of this.”
Before Julius could reply the sound of a window being broken filled the air. A scream followed, and it was quickly silenced.
Michel ran for the lighthouse. Webb and Julius were with him, as were the others. Their feet thundered on the pier and shook it on its pilings. Michel reached the door first, ripped it open, and stopped short.
The men came up behind him, breathing hard.
“Oh Lord and the man Jesus,” Julius whispered.
The boy was dead.
He lay on his back, arms spread wide and legs akimbo. A thin, almost delicate line of blood ran from the corner of the boy’s small mouth, along the rise of his pale cheek to drip onto the stone floor. Ewan’s soft gray eyes held nothing in them, staring up and seeing a world Michel could not. The boy’s briar pipe, the bowl black with use, lay a short distance from the body. Michel stepped into the lighthouse, and a strong hand gripped his arm.
Michel looked back and saw it was Webb who held him. The man spoke softly, and Julius translated.
“Webb says the boy is here,” Julius said softly, looking fearfully into the lighthouse.
“His spirit?” Michel asked.
Julius nodded. “He says to leave the body. Take nothing with us from this place.”
The thought pained Michel, but he nodded. I cannot bring the boy’s body back with me. Nor anyone’s from this place. The crew would never stand for it. Best to report it.
“Aye, Julius,” Michel agreed. “We will take nothing from this place. But I will make sure the boy has his pipe. He loved it over much, but he shall have it still.”
Julius translated for Webb, and Webb nodded vigorously. He let go of Michel’s arm, and Michel walked into the building. A few steps brought him to Ewan’s side, and he crouched down by the boy. Sadly, Michel picked up the pipe and laid it on the child’s small chest. With a gentle hand, he went to close Ewan’s eyes and sighed thankfully when the lids moved.
So often they do not, Michel thought. He straightened up, turned sharply on his heel, and left the lighthouse.
“Back to the ship, lads,” Michel said without looking at his crew. “We’re to the dock tonight. I’ll report this ere we sail another mile toward New Brunswick.”
In silence, Michel led his crew back to The Thin Man.
Behind him, in the top of the lighthouse, Captain Michel Steiner felt the ghost of Ewan McGuire watch them go.
* * *
The Town of Griswold
Berkley Series Book 3
Chapter 1: Looking for a Place to ‘Shine
John and Jimmy Quill drove along Route 111. They had ‘Irish-ed’ up their coffee with a good dose of bad whiskey, and they were feeling fine as the sun rose. John stee
red with one hand, held his travel mug with the other, and kept watch on his side of the road. Jimmy, younger by two years, examined everything which passed by on the passenger side.
“John,” Jimmy said, breaking the silence.
“What’s up?”
“On the right, about two hundred feet, slow down,” Jimmy said, rolling down his window to get a better look.
John pulled off onto the shoulder, came to a stop. A narrow road, the pavement cracked and in desperate need of repair, turned off and into the shadows. “What’s this?”
“Don’t know,” Jimmy answered.
John watched as his brother pulled out his phone, punched in their position, and waited to see what results showed up. With a flick of his wrist, John put on the hazard lights and kept an eye on the mirrors, making sure no cops showed up to ask what he and Jimmy were up to.
After several minutes, when John was finally feeling a buzz from the whiskey, Jimmy said, “Here it is, bro. Place called Griswold. Used to be a lumber town. Shut down sometime in the thirties.”
“What’s there?” John asked, peering down the tree-lined road which led into darkness.
“Couple of buildings, maybe. Cellar holes. An old church,” Jimmy replied. Holding the phone out, he said, “Here, take a look.”
John took it and looked at the crisp, black-and-white image on the screen. A clapboard church, a good-sized building, was the dominant feature in a town.
“That church,” John said, grinning at his brother, “that church looks perfect.”
Jimmy nodded, smiling. “Yeah, it sure as hell does.”
John took his foot off the brake, made sure no one was coming up on them and pulled wide into the street before he cut hard to the right.
The street leading into Griswold was a mess. Every few feet John’s old, restored Dodge pickup bounced along. John winced with every bump and thud.
Damn, he thought, I sure as hell better not break a damned spring.
Tree limbs slapped at the sides and the windows, but John continued to push on. The world consisted of nothing more than broken asphalt and the crowded road.
Then the forest opened up around them, and the town of Griswold appeared. Two buildings stood tall: the church, and a long but low structure with a faded sign that proclaimed it to be the Griswold Country Store. The remains of a few other buildings stood on either side of the narrow street, and empty plots stood close by. Hints of other roads branched off through the forest, which had encroached on the town. Young trees, no more than twenty or thirty years old by their size, were along both sides near the back.
“We could do it here,” Jimmy said, looking around.
John nodded his agreement. “For a while at least. Eventually, they’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said, sighing. “They always do. But it might take a little longer here.”
“Will you be able to get the Chinaski brothers to help?” John asked. “They’ve got access to the college’s trucks, right?”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “Both of them still owe me for the bet they lost on the last Red Sox game. I’ll tell them I’ll get rid of the bet and the interest.”
“Sounds good,” John said. “We’ll have to come back and check it out before we set up, though. Make sure nobody’s squatting here.”
Jimmy nodded his agreement as John started to turn the truck around. It took a few tries in the tight confines of the overgrown street, but he managed. As he pointed the truck back the way they had come, he looked in the rearview and almost hit the brakes.
For a second John thought he had seen a young woman by the church.
Probably a deer, he told himself, shaking his head. John pushed the thought out of his mind and guided the truck back towards Route 111.
Just a deer.
Chapter 2: At Berkley Street
The doorbell rang, and Shane stepped out into the hallway. He looked around and said, “I’m serious. Best behavior.” When no response was forthcoming, he walked to the main door and opened it.
Courtney DeSantis stood on the front step. She was stunning in a pair of jeans and a light gray sweatshirt, well-traveled hiking boots on her feet and a pack slung over her right shoulder. She brushed a strand of dark purple, almost black hair out of her eyes and smiled at Shane.
Shane grinned back at her, stepping aside and saying, “Come on in.”
She did so, eyes darting from left to right. “Wow. This is a big place.”
Shane nodded as he closed the door. “You like it?”
“I do,” Courtney said, turning around and kissing him swiftly on the cheek. “I like you, too.”
Shane felt his face heat up and thought, What the hell, it’s like I’m fourteen all over again.
She saw his expression and laughed. “You’re too damned cute, Shane.”
Shane chuckled. “I’ve been called a lot of things, doll, but never cute.”
“Good,” she said happily. Courtney shivered slightly and said, “Are there a lot of ghosts here?”
“A few,” Shane said.
“Want to give me the tour later on, once we get back?” she asked.
“I’d love to,” Shane said. “You sure you’re okay with that?”
She raised an eyebrow. “After Squirrel Island? Yeah, I’m okay with your house.”
“Good,” Shane said.
“You need to pack or anything?” Courtney asked.
“No,” Shane said, shaking his head. He gestured to the corner by the main door. His old backpack was on the floor, filled with the few items necessary for a day trip up into the North Country. “Already took care of the packing this morning.”
“Nice,” she said, smiling. “So, want to know where we’re headed?”
“Yes,” Shane said, grinning. “I thought it might be nice to know.”
She punched him playfully in the arm. “Place called Griswold. Ever heard of it?”
“No,” Shane said, grabbing his backpack. “Small town?”
“Small and unoccupied,” Courtney said. “It’s a New England ghost town.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a ghost town before.”
“Then it’s an adventure,” she said, winking. “So, ready to go?”
“Yup,” Shane said, nodding.
“Great!” she yelled, stepping forward and kissing him again. “Let’s go!”
Shane grinned foolishly, shook his head, and opened the door.
Chapter 3: Waiting on Jimmy
Three days after John and Jimmy had decided the ghost town was the place to set up their distillery, John was in front of the abandoned general store. He sat on the lowered tailgate of the pickup, some of his camping gear scattered about the bed and his rifle across his legs. The weapon was broken down, and he had taken a short break from cleaning it. He glanced at his watch, saw Jimmy was twenty minutes late, and shook his head angrily.
John picked up his phone and called his brother.
Jimmy answered on the fourth ring. “What’s up?” he asked.
“What the hell do you mean, ‘what’s up?’” John snapped. “Seriously, Jimmy? What the hell? You’re supposed to be here with me.”
Jimmy yawned loudly and asked, “Where?”
“Griswold,” John said, biting off the word.
“Oh,” Jimmy said. Then repeated, “Oh! I didn’t think it was today. I thought we were doing it Thursday.”
“It is Thursday, moron,” John said, his anger rushing out of him. “Jimmy, what did you do?”
“Me and Erica scored a couple of nail-heads yesterday, well, Tuesday,” his brother replied.
“You told me you weren’t going to do any more heroin,” John said.
“It was right there, Johnny, bro,” Jimmy said, chuckling. “Listen, Clint came over with them, he gave us friend prices and we were off and chasing the dragon. We got a little lost. I’m good now, though.”
“Why, you mainline it all?” John asked, disgusted.
“No, no needles this time,” Jimmy said. “Told you I wasn’t doing that anymore.”
“You also said you were going to stay away from heroin completely, James,” John said, the anger returning.
“Christ, John,” Jimmy said, his voice low and apologetic. “It was just once.”
“I’m not watching you get another shot of Narcan because you OD’d, Jimmy,” John said. “Anyway, when can you get your nasty self over here?”
“Um,” Jimmy grunted, “give me half an hour. So, yeah, nine?”
“Okay,” John said. “See you then.”
He ended the call and put the phone back on the truck bed.
Why is he so stupid? John wondered, sighing. He reassembled the weapon, checking the action on the bolt. When it was whole again, he set it down beside the phone and looked around the small town.
Not even a bar, he thought. Where the hell did they drink? How could you even live in a place like this without alcohol?
John shook the questions away, got off the tailgate, and stretched. He walked over to the old church and looked through the broken windows. A few pews remained inside, cockeyed and covered with the filth of years. Scurrying sounds told him there were rodents within, and that they could see him.
Have to get a cat or two, John told himself, wandering away from the building. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and followed the barest hint of a path which led around the back. The young trees were widely placed, and John moved through them easily. There was deer scat, and the bark was stripped from some of the lower branches.
Damn, he grinned, might be able to get some fresh venison out of season.
The path moved around cellar holes, the remnants of chimneys on the ground around them. Grass grew up among the red bricks and crumbled mortar. Soon, he found himself at the general store. He walked closer for a better look.
