“Good luck, boy,” Blake whispered. “I hope you find them waiting for you.”
The evening breeze stirred bits of charred grass and caught ashes in eddies, then scattered them. No one would believe me, Blake thought, then added ruefully, I don’t believe it myself.
By the time he met his frantically searching uncle, he could give only a confused account of managing to run away and elude his pursuers. He knew there would be many more questions. But the real story would always be—had to be—untold.
The Haunted Mansion
Early one morning in summer, Eric Webster was strolling the shore on Findings Island, one of North Carolina’s wonderful warm-water beaches, so different from the cold, pounding surf of his and his father’s northern California home. These barrier islands protect the Carolina coast. To reach Findings, he and his father had driven south along State Highway 12, which linked the islands, a ferry filling in where the road failed at Hatteras Inlet. They’d passed Kitty Hawk (the base from which the Wright Brothers flew the first heavier-than-air machine), Nags Head (pirates had prowled the waters), then scenic Ocracoke and Portsmouth islands—all part of the Outer Banks.
Eric was in North Carolina so his father, Brad, who had grown up in the area, could go surf fishing. They were staying at the Comer’s and Goer’s Inn, “comers and goers” being the local name for tourists. (The locals called themselves “bankers.”) The place overlooked Winnard Beach, a long, lonely stretch of sand facing the Atlantic. On the other side of the lean island was Lee’urd Beach, fronting the gentler, warmer waters of thirty-mile-wide Pamlico Sound, beyond which lay the Carolina mainland. Inland was a swamp forest of virgin cypress called Tsikilili Pond and Creek.
The inn, two stories of weathered wood, was owned and operated by Denice—Neesy—Cinders and her sister, Aunt Rilla. Neesy’s son, Tyler, who was Eric’s age (ten), helped out at the inn a lot. The food alone made it a paradise in Eric’s mind: Spaghetti New Orleans, with lots of fresh shrimp; chicken pie; layered potato salad; pumpkin muffins; shortcake biscuits with sweetened berries and lemon ice cream. These were just some of the goodies that found their way to the dining table.
Eric and Tyler had bonded instantly and spent as much time as they could together. Tyler’s mother was black, but his father (who had died some years before) was a full-blood Cherokee; Tyler felt equally proud of both bloodlines. And the boy had an inexhaustible supply of tales from his ancestral traditions. Tyler was a store house of island lore. He swore his cousin Hattie had seen a fearsome whangdoodle. “That thing has big balls of green fire for eyes. It’s long as a goat, high as a cow, and has ears like a mule. It’s all gray and woolly, and it goes, ‘Ye-e-e-ow-ow-ow!’” Tyler screamed the last into Eric’s ear, making him jump. Then the two laughed like a pair of lunatics.
Tyler knew about the Cherokee woman monster Utlunta, who killed people with a sharp, stony forefinger on her right hand. “You come too close,” Tyler said, “and, man, she’ll stab you and rip out your liver and eat it.”
“That’s so gross,” said Eric, making a face.
There were endless accounts by Tyler of beings like the Gray Man of Hatteras, who roams the shores and warns people to find safe ground when a storm is coming. The Sea Hag of Portsmouth was a powerful witch who didn’t ride a broom. Instead she rode the long steering oar of a whaling ship she had caused to sink, using the oar blade like a rudder when she flew through the air.
But best, as far as Eric was concerned, were the stories of pirates who prowled the outer banks: “Calico Jack” Rackham, Blackbeard, Anne Bonny, and Mad Daniel Durand, who plagued the Caribbe an and Outer Banks, and was rumored to have hidden his treasure on Findings and several nearby islands.
One afternoon, the boys sat side by side on a driftwood log. Eric was staring out over the wave-capped water, under a nearly cloudless expanse of blue skies; Tyler was sketching in the sand with the end of a sharp stick. They munched hot peppered pecans Tyler had brought along in a little paper sack.
Suddenly Tyler tossed the stick away, sending it spinning to scatter a flock of gulls who rose protesting into the air.
“We’re friends, right?” he asked Eric.
“Sure,” Eric insisted.
“Good enough friends so that I can trust you with a secret?”
“I can keep a secret.”
“You remember those stories I told about that pirate, Mad Daniel Durand?”
“Sure. Didn’t you say he used Findings Island here as his home base? At least, that’s the story you told me.”
“It’s more than a story. I got proof.”
“What kind of proof?”
“A house, over to Lee’urd Beach, where Durand used to visit his girlfriend who lived there.”
Suspicious, Eric asked, “How come I haven’t heard of the place before?”
“Bankers keep it secret. It’s haunted, folks say. And too much messin’ with the ghosts will bring bad luck—maybe a storm, maybe worse.”
“Prove it,” Eric challenged.
“I’ll show you, but you got to be cool.”
“I can be cool,” replied Eric, skepticism and excitement filling him equally. “Let’s go.”
Tyler stuff ed what was left of the spiced pecans into his pocket. Then he led them by a torturous path along the creek and around the south end of Tsikilili Pond. They had to go carefully. There were sinkholes; twice Eric saw snakes that Tyler warned were poisonous; clouds of gnats plagued them.
“I see why most people stay away from here,” Eric grumbled.
“Wanna turn back?”
“No way.”
They trudged along, and by the time they reached the decaying house that was rumored to be haunted, Tyler had filled Eric in on the most important details.
The place had been built back in colonial times by a rich merchant named Ezra Summerton. The man had made his fortune on the mainland in Beaufort, but he decided to retire to Findings Island for reasons of his own. He was a widower, with one daughter, Emily. According to Tyler, the massive brick mansion was said to be haunted by the ghost of Emily Summerton, who had lived in the house with her aged father and stayed on with a few servants after the old man’s death. The shuttered windows of the house, which was smothered in vines and brush, brooded over the remains of what must have once been a fancy garden. Beyond the house, the boys could clearly see the rippling blue waters of Pamlico Sound.
While they stood looking at the scene, Tyler commented, “For a couple of hundred years, folks hereabouts have said they see a ghost ship sailing out there.” He waved toward the sound. “Most people think it’s the long-lost Sea Devil, the ship that belonged to Mad Daniel Durand. Only folks call him Headless Dan now, ’cause he died by having his head cut off. Folks say the ship mostly drifts in circles, because Dan can’t see to steer a proper course.”
“I hadn’t heard that part,” said Eric eagerly. “How’d it happen?”
“Story is, Mad Dan was in love with Emily Summerton, but her father hated the pirates who were robbing folks and messing with ships and business and stuff. They say that Mad Dan and Emily would meet secretly. Supposedly one of her maids would carry messages back and forth between them. They even say that Emily helped him hide a lot of his treasure in the house, right under her father’s nose. She helped Dan to spite the old man, I guess. She and her father didn’t get along. The old man could be cruel and tight as all get-out with his money.
“Gal kind of went nuts when she found her father and some other rich folks had hired two ships to go after Dan. She tried to warn him, but her father found out. The message was never delivered. There was a big old battle, and one of Summerton’s ships was sunk, but so was the Sea Devil. Supposedly Dan, who was badly wounded, escaped in a rowboat to Findings Island. Somehow, he made his way to Summerton’s house, looking for Emily, hoping for her help, because he was pretty messed up. He was probably hoping to get back some of his gold, too. But Emily’s father spotted him, ambushed the wounded pirate
, and cut off his head and then hid it.”
Tyler lowered his voice dramatically as he continued. “Ezra had an old slave woman from Africa, who knew some heavy witch-doctor-type magic. She put a spell on the head so that Dan would never be whole again or rest until living hands ‘brought what was hidden to light.’ At least, that’s what I heard. The rest of the story is that the old man sealed up Dan’s body in a chest with some of his treasure, but he put the pirate’s head in a secret place. No one will ever find it, I guess. The old man died without telling anyone where any gold or the head was hidden. They say Ezra was found dead in his bed one morning. Had a look on his face made folks think he was scared to death.”
Grinning, Tyler said, “You ask me, Mad Dan wasn’t the only crazy around. From that time on, you can sometimes hear his ghost howling. That means a storm’s coming. He yells because he’s still mad about his missing head.”
“You said he can’t see without his head. How can he yell if he’s missing it?” Eric challenged him.
“I don’t know,” Tyler answered impatiently. “It’s just something I heard. How should I know how ghosts go about their business?”
“What happened to Emily?”
Tyler shrugged. “They say she just pined away for Dan. She had herself buried in some kind of ‘crystal’ ball gown the pirate gave her. Her grave is supposed to be right around here. They say the ghosts of Emily and, sometimes, Dan still wander the house.”
The ghosts interested Eric, but he was more intrigued by the part of the story about Headless Dan’s hiding a fortune somewhere in the house.
“Hasn’t anyone tried to find the treasure?” asked Eric.
“Sure. Plenty of times. Most give up. Some have been scared away by ghosts. Some just disappear: No one knows what happened to ’em. And there’s another problem: Old Rufus. He’s a squatter who lives in the house part of the time. At other times he goes off no one knows where. When he’s around, he feels he has to protect the place, so he runs people off.”
“Is he there now?”
“Dunno.”
“Let’s take a closer look,” Eric suggested.
Tyler hesitated, but came along when Eric teased, “If you’re scared, I’ll go by myself.” But then, Eric whispered, “Don’t worry—we’ll be careful.”
Using commando tactics, the boys, crouching low, ducked and darted from tree to shrub across the overgrown garden at the front of the house. They regrouped behind a big palmetto tree a short distance from the warped and sun-bleached front porch. The shutters upstairs and down were fastened tight, but Tyler nudged his friend and pointed to a lower-floor window at the left corner of the house where one of the matching shutters had nearly fallen off and was tilted to one side. The dark triangle it revealed promised a peek inside. Signaling for his buddy to follow quietly, Eric made a last dash for the porch. He was up the steps and almost to his goal before Tyler followed.
Eric bent to look through the window; an instant later, he felt Tyler’s head touching his as they both peered through the gap. There wasn’t much to see. In the gloom they could just make out a big, high-ceilinged room, and hulking shapes—furniture, Eric supposed—were scattered around. A few pale shapes startled him, until he realized that some of the furniture was covered with white sheets.
“I don’t think there’s anyone here,” he whispered.
Whatever Tyler started to say in reply was drowned out by a bellow. An old black man with a white beard and fringe of hair, spindly arms and legs jutting out from dirty and patched overalls, yanked open the front door. The screech of rusted hinges added to the drama.
He advanced on the boys, limping but still at a good clip. He was waving a club—it might have been the leg of a small table—over his head. All the time he kept shouting, “You thievin’ boys! Come to lift what you can! You snotteries!” Eric couldn’t understand half of what he heard, but the anger was unmistakable. “I’ll bus’ your heads.”
The boys weren’t about to wait and see if he meant what he threatened. They took off running while the old man lumbered down the short flight of front steps after them, still bellowing and slashing the air with his club. Even when they could no longer hear him, the boys kept running until they reached the edge of Tsikilili Pond. There, Eric slipped in the weedy mud, and Tyler, who had been looking behind for a sign of Rufus, crashed over him. The two wound up slipping and sliding in the swampy ooze. When they were sure the old man wasn’t following them, they climbed out, scraped off as much mud and slime as they could, then set out toward the Comer’s and Goer’s Inn.
“My mom and auntie aren’t gonna like this,” said Tyler, brushing off some of the residue that was drying into smelly clumps.
“Say we were messing around and had an accident,” Eric advised him. “All kids get messy sometimes. Just don’t say anything about the house or Rufus.”
“Don’t worry. I’m never supposed to go near that place. Aunt Rilla says it’s got bad juju. My mom doesn’t believe that, but she’s afraid I’d get hurt there.”
“Well, yeah,” said Eric, “getting your head bus’ would probably hurt.” At this, the two began to laugh, letting go the last of their fear in a burst of giggles. When they’d calmed down, Eric, suddenly serious, said, “I still want to get into that house and look for pirate treasure. Is Rufus always there?”
“No. I told you: Sometimes he just goes . . . away. But no one knows when.” Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Friday is the big fish fry in town. If Rufus is around, he never misses the chance to get free food and drinks. He usually passes out on the beach. If it rains, Reverend Leach lets him sleep in the Baptist church basement.”
“Yeah,” Eric said. “When everyone’s asleep, we can meet and check out Summerton House.”
“At night?”
“You are some kind of a wuss. This is a great chance. We might find that treasure. We’ll be rich and famous.” Then he lowered his voice and said, “We might see Emily’s ghost. Or even Dan without his head.” He made ghostly sounds. When Tyler didn’t respond, he started making hen clucks. “Chick-chick-chicken. Chick—”
“All right, I’ll go. Just shut up.”
Eric was secretly relieved; he really had been afraid that he wouldn’t dare go on the midnight adventure alone, for all his pretended courage.
Fortunately, neither Eric’s dad nor Tyler’s mom and aunt made too much of the boys’ muddy accident. Warnings to clean up and be more careful were as bad as it got.
The fish fry, held in the community hall, was a mix of music and dancing and laughter and tons of good food. Eric gladly pigged out on fried shrimp, flounder, catfish, oysters smothered in Neesy Cinders’s homemade tartar sauce and accompanied by coleslaw, french fries, and Aunt Rilla’s legendary hush puppies. There was plenty of sweet tea for the locals and unsweetened for most visitors. There were beer and other drinks, but the most popular choice was what Tyler laughingly called “gigglesoup—you know, moonshine.” As they ate, the boys watched Rufus and stayed out of his way. But Tyler was pretty sure the old man wouldn’t recognize them. He pointed out that Rufus was rarely without a mason jar of gigglesoup. “He’s gonna sleep till the cows come home tomorrow,” Tyler said. “That’s fine for us.”
Eric was having such fun, he’d half forgotten their plan to sneak out to the deserted Summerton place. Enjoying the good time, he was sorry that he’d pushed Tyler to join him. He thought about canceling, but he didn’t want to face the razzing that Tyler would give him if he “chickened out.”
That night, when he was sure that his father and the rest of the guests and staff at the inn were asleep, Eric mounded his pillows and one blanket on the bed to make it look like he was there. Then, slipping out the door of the room the father and son shared, he made his way slowly to the ground floor, taking care to avoid those spots on the stairway where he’d noticed squeaks earlier in the week.
Tyler was waiting for him just outside the front door. They hurried a short distance from the hou
se and then stopped to be sure they had everything they needed. Tyler had brought a hammer, crowbar, screwdriver, two cans of cola, a big flashlight, and a few other things. Eric had his father’s battery-powered lantern, a coil of rope, two Power-Bars, and a canvas bag he hoped to use to carry off jewels and gold doubloons. As they went along, the boys poked fun at each other’s fears and pretended they were feeling none of their own.
The moon was high; the night was mild. Eric still found it amazing how many stars he could see when he was away from the city glow of San Jose in California. But as they trekked along, dark clouds began scudding across the sky, forcing the moon and stars to play what Tyler called “all-hid.” The wind, though still fairly warm, was rising. In short order, the night sky had grown much darker. They had to use their flashlights to find their path and avoid getting too close to Tsikilili Pond.
Lightning flashed. A lukewarm rain began to fall halfheartedly. Eric was glad to see, when they topped a rise, the bulky shadow of Summerton House ahead of them.
Sure that Rufus was sound asleep in some corner of the church basement, they ran directly to the house. It took only a few minutes, working with Tyler’s crowbar, for them to pry the loose shutter back far enough and then jimmy the window beyond so they could climb through, one after the other. On impulse, Eric closed the window when they were inside.
Around them, the house seemed to stir and mutter as the storm outside grew.
“Where should we start looking for the treasure?” asked Tyler, his voice a whisper, even though there was no one around to hear except Eric. Tyler was using his flashlight. Eric was keeping his lantern to use later.
“The basement,” said Eric, who’d been giving the matter a lot of thought. “There must be one. And pirates always buried their treasures. It would make sense for a pirate to stick to his old way of doing things.” He glanced at his watch. A few minutes before midnight. They’d have a couple of hours to search before heading back.
Haunted Houses Page 17