by Mark Walker
As if in answer to this thought, it now became apparent the storm was within an hour or two at the most from arriving, the wind now buffeting the little plane, beginning to blow ferociously from the sea. Just as they circled over the edge of the cliff and Howling Dog Rock, it seemed again as though a giant hand closed over the afternoon, dark indigo clouds coming in from the horizon. Directly, Riggs turned the plane back to Eel’s Cove where they had a rough landing due to the wind. But in short order, he and Bellows had secured the plane in the little hanger. They could already smell the change in the air, and the rain that was coming.
Just as they were leaving, a blessed flash of inspiration came to Kelly Riggs, and he said without knowing why, but with complete assurance, “Let’s take the PUFF Packs back with us.” They pulled the packs out of the Dunwoodie’s storage compartment and managed to stow them one of them on the rack of the motorcycle’s sidecar.
“Looks like I’ll have to hold one,” grumbled Bellows as he settled his vast bulk into the sidecar’s seat. Riggs handed the PUFF Pack to him assuring him, “You’ll be fine, old boy—we’ll be back in a flash!”
Indeed, they were. He put full gas to the BSA, and in no time they had arrived back at the storage hut on the edge of the cliff. Riggs noted the other motorcycle was gone. They parked the bike, closed the door on the hut, and made their way with the PUFF Packs down the zigzag path. Then it began to rain.
3
LONG SPIDERY FINGERS of lightning crackled across the darkening clouds as the first fat drops of cold rain smacked against them. The lights on the little bridge were winking, due to the high winds, as violent white breakers erupted and churned below. Riggs and Bellows scrambled across the bridge, already slick with moisture, tumbling exhaustedly into the warmth of the inn. They heard a distant roar that came ever closer. Shayne ffellows followed close upon the detective’s heels, arriving on the other motorcycle—a new Triumph 350 hp. He was already dank and spotted with rain as he pulled the bike inside the inn for protection, parking it by the front window, whose double shutters were already closed. Their return had been greatly anticipated, the former particularly by the children, and the latter by Delia Potter. Otherwise it was a grateful crew that greeted them, all but the pirates that is. Kendra Danes chided Riggs that he might have asked her along so as not to miss any of the excitement. Kelly Riggs, though attentive, was noncommittal in his answers to her myriad questions. The children were quick to pull him aside by the front coat rack for a whispered conference insisted upon by Mandy, who confided in a low voice, “Miss Danes tried awfully hard to get us to tell what was going on with the case. But Inspector, we promise we didn’t tell her anything.”
“Hmmm…and you didn’t let even a tiny tidbit slip? inquired Riggs, giving little Jen the eye.
“We have told no one! Not-a-soul!” she squeaked in his ear, at which Riggs gave her a pat on the head and a whispered, “that’s a good lass, now let’s keep it that way!”
She answered with a “shush,” holding her finger to her lips conspiratorially, and doing the same to her siblings before her final warning: “Tell no one!”
Tom Melville was puffing on his Meerschaum, ensconced at his usual place, listening attentively to the wireless and the Doom and Gloom Report and the crackling, breathless voice of Peter Van Dimple of the BBC: “Due to the coming storm and the Ant-Gravity activities, which are predicted to be the worst ever, the government has temporarily grounded all flights over the British Isles. All sea traffic is advised to prepare for the most adverse of conditions, from Wales to all south and southeast of England. In a live feed, we have our intrepid reporter Crowley Caruthers reporting from near the brunt of the storm in St. Ives, Cornwall. Crowley, what’s going on out there?” The wireless static increased, and electronic radio waves sluiced into an impromptu melody and the high-pitched familiar tenor came through, (beginning rather unnecessarily) “This is Crowley Caruthers, reporting for the BBC, live from St. Ives, where the storm has been gaining in strength with every minute. A sea fog created by the Ant-Gravity forces combined with the storm is forming at the present time and we are getting very heavy rain. It actually seems as though the sea is boiling…” Behind his voice was a continuous roar, as his voice grew tinnier and thinner, “It’s boiling and now… now the wind is so strong… it’s—so—strong—it’s about to—to knock me over and—” A roar of wind and static, sounding like a waterfall, completely drowned out the reporter for several seconds, going to complete silence, and then the electronic blips took them back to Peter Van Dimple in London who reintroduced himself, continuing, “Well, we seem to have lost Crowley Caruthers in the storm. Let’s hope not permanently, ah and in other news…”
In disgust, Tom Melville snorted and altered the wavelength, bringing in the Met. Report with the grave, sonorous voice of the weatherman: “…gale warnings of eight to ten have been posted up and down the coast for the next several hours…”
“So, this is it then!” said Tom emphatically, switching off the set. Almost as he said it, the low, moaning wail that they all recognized welled up from outside the inn, and the Lowling Howl engulfed them, like a clarion call at the End of Days. Dinky Potter came down the stairs and announced, “Well, I’ve gotten all the hatches battened down, and more’s the sooner it appears. Doris should have some sort of meal on soon; we thought we’d eat early tonight just in case. And speaking of eating, Blackie, uh, er Inspector, you and the Sergeant must be starving!”
Riggs and Bellows acknowledged each other with a mutual wink, and Riggs replied, “Oh, it’s quite all right, the Sergeant and I had a lovely breakfast and lunch at a little delicatessen we discovered.”
This drew some sideways glances form the pirates, who despite their limited mental resources, were catching a glimmer of the answer to the vexing problem they’d noticed late that afternoon on a final inspection of tunnel: that being a recently discovered shortage in the food stores in the tunnel, and, a disturbance of the treasure, which each one blamed upon the other. Their looks did not go unnoticed by Kelly Riggs, who monitored them from the corners of his dark grey eyes. Then Doris Potter announced dinner would be served, apologizing to Cutty Shark, that he was to have the last of the Johnny Cakes for they were out of cornmeal until the following week.
“Dat’s ho-kay, Mahm, ah eats it like it’s mah very last meal!” replied Mr. Shark enthusiastically, grinning his great golden smile. He tucked in heartily. The rest made do with tinned tomato soup, bubble and squeak, cold cuts, toast with butter, and to almost everyone’s relief—no mushy peas. Everyone sensed the need for haste, and little was said until the last crumb was gone, and Doris and Delia began to clear the table. Then it seemed everyone burst into a flurry of activity, beginning with the Phipps sisters, who were the first to rise. Despite her age, Flora Phipps fingered her crystal pendant and cooed like a schoolgirl, “Oh, I’m getting the vibrations, sister!” she cooed, eyes wide behind her spectacles, her voice low and thrilled.
“Ooo—as am I, dear!” twittered Fauna, eyes glimmering with excitement, emphasizing her pixie features. And even as the sisters spoke, so did the Lowling Howl, now becoming an almost constant drone.
The great wall of slashing sleet and rain had reached Black Rock Island.
Dinky Potter took charge, saying it was important to keep the fire going, enlisting Tom Melville to assist him in bring up some more firewood from the cellar, and Riggs and Bellows volunteered to help. Kendra Danes ushered the children up in their rooms and into warmer clothes, whilst below everyone was busy helping with the storm preparations. Even the pirates left off their grumbling long enough to double check the Great Room shutters, Maynard Gee opening one of the small portholes and peering out, noting rather unnecessarily that it was “raining up a right storm” before catching a mouthful of rain and sea spray and slamming it shut. For indeed the sound of rain hammering the inn reached them even through the thick heavy walls, and when the thunder cracked it was almost deafening.
; That was when they noticed a slight tremor, and the frame holding the flag of the Sea Ghost started to tremble. The building and the timbers began to groan, and a banging began to sound against the back door and the shutters to the big window.
Captain Smuggleguts stopped dead in his tracks, a terrified look on his usually scowling mug. He stuttered, “It’s the Sea Ghost—an’ he’s a tryin’ to get in!”
“Naw, ‘taint no ghost—” corrected Tom Melville over the roar, “it’s the flyin’ fish gettin’ throwed up upon the rock and against the inn.”
Again, as if in answer, the inn seemed to give another mighty groan, and it seemed as if nothing, not even the Roundhouse could stand up to such an onslaught. Dinky Potter, finished with the fire, called “Doris, you and Delia bring some candles and lamps from the kitchen.” Then turned to the others, “let’s all of us repair to the cellar, just in case, you know. We’ve an extra blanket or two and a throw rug down there. Well, looks like we’ll be in another hole together, Blackie!”
“At least it isn’t muddy down there,” replied Riggs wryly.
The cellar of the Roundhouse was surely the safest and surest part of the structure, and as they entire group filed down the stairs, Michael sniffed, “Something smells fishy!”
“It should,” said Tom Melville, “I had quite a haul today. Some of them will keep better down here until I can take care of all of them, but for now they’re kept in the lined ice chests over there, on rock salt.”
They began to get sorted, finding various benches, barrels, and crates to perch, and sit on—Delia clinging close to a nervous Shayne ffellows, who had even brought his sketchbook. The Phipps sisters had brought their knitting, and Kendra her almost ever-present violin case. Already the children were growing restless. Michael wanted to read, but hadn’t brought anything to facilitate the process, so Inspector Riggs regaled the children with a couple of Jock MacPooter fart stories, that left the children snorting with giggles, and making rude noises. Then the lights began to flicker—it was the wind tearing at the single power line that lead from the small hut on the cliff top down to the island. At any moment it could sever, plunging the inn into darkness. They lit lanterns and candles, providing enough light to complete the storm preparations. Then as if on cue, the electricity went off completely. The emergency generator, though located in the cellar, was not connected to it, an oversight, so it was useless trying to start it.
The lanterns and candles lent a ghostly air to the musty, fishy cellar, the light flickering and dancing across the faces of those gathered there. The voices from the darkness where the pirates were, became louder. Grumblings and rumblings indicated they were continuing to argue, and Riggs was amused to see them huddled toward the rear of the cellar, their backs against the last keg, that must house the secret entrance to the treasure trove. Despite the intensity of the sound of the gale outside it was clear another violent quarrel had erupted amongst them. And though he couldn’t hear them, Riggs would not have been surprised that their chief concern was the interruption of their activities in the tunnel just behind them.
Fauna Phipps reached for her knitting bag, and discovered her needles missing, much to her consternation, and both sisters seemed distracted. The reason soon became apparent by their eccentric behavior.
“Oh, I’m feeling the vibrations now!” cried Flora Phipps clutching her crystal.
“Stronger than ever, Sister!” replied Fauna.
“We must use this storm to contact the spirits!”
“All about us they are. Yes, dear, a séance is definitely in order!”
“But what’s that? What’s a séance?” squeaked Jen.
“Why, it’s where we try to contact the other side, dear,” answered Flora, eyes wide.
“But the other side of what?”
“The dead you know!” added Fauna.
“We try to talk to the dead.”
“But how can you talk to them if they’re dead?” asked Jen, who continued to pepper them with questions, until Mandy shushed her with, “Just wait and see. Now be quiet!”
4
THE PREPARATIONS WERE SOON READY (the pirates abstaining) and the rest of the group were gathered in a circle in the cellar as the storm raged outside.
A single large candle was placed on a central small barrel, the group ranged around it on small crates, barrels and a couple of benches. “Now,” said Flora, “Perhaps some music would be just right. Oh, Miss Danes, my dear, would you be so good as to play a little something?” Kendra acquiesced and took up her case. As she pulled out her instrument she exclaimed, “I’m missing my extra strings and rosin!” Riggs pulled out his torch, but after a quick search for them they gave up, and she placed the violin under her chin. She tuned it, plucking the strings.
“I think this should be appropriate,” she mused, and began the first strains of The Danse Macabre.
Kendra played the mysterious melody against the backdrop of the violent storm, whose sounds reached deep into the cellar in the heart of Black Rock Island. In the candlelight, the Phipps sisters became enthralled, swooning and cooing with delight. Then she began move about the cellar and played an abbreviated but striking version of A Night on Bald Mountain. When she had finished, there was a brief smattering of applause that was quickly shushed by the Phipps’ and Kendra bowed deeply and retook her seat.
“Now, we must have silence so as to focus our minds!” cried Flora Phipps, in a strange faraway voice. She placed her hands to her temples swaying quietly, then opened her eyes and spoke in a monotone, “All of us must join hands, and remember not to break the circle, or the spell could be broken.” Riggs took Kendra Danes’ hand and that of Sergeant Bellows on his other side. Delia was pleased to be next to her beau, who was not pleased to be there at all, as he took Doris Potter’s hand, the proprietress taking her husband’s hand, and he that of Michael. Next came Jen and Mandy. Tom Melville completed the circle by linking up with the Phipps sisters. The children were completely enraptured, beginning to fall under the spell of the old ladies.
“We must have absolute silence for the spirits to be able to speak.”
Even the pirates took a momentary break from their quarreling, and the cellar grew still. Yet outside, it sounded as though a throng were beating and battering the shutters with sticks and bats sending a thundering cacophony down the stairs into the cellar. And behind it all, the Lowling Howl howled its continuous lonely moan. Little Jen began to shiver but was immediately comforted by Mandy with a hot squeeze of her hand. Then, with a low wailing moan that mirrored the Lowling Howl itself, sending shivers all round Flora Phipps began to speak, slowly and strangely:
“I call upon ye of the spirits! All ye who hear me! There is one of you, one of you who hears me clearly, more clearly than the rest! It is ye to whom I speak. Make yourself known; make your presence felt. Your faithful servant am I, here to receive you. Speak through me, take me, and possess me, even now, oh—!”
She stopped suddenly, her eyes tight shut behind her spectacles, all other eyes upon her. Now Fauna Phipps was mouthing something unintelligible, murmuring and nodding, burbling and blubbering and cooing, as her sister began to sway and undulate in her place.
Flora continued in her strange voice, “There’s another spirit about—it’s a muddle—no, no, no, it can’t be! It’s a competing spirit! Oh! It’s slipped away… but now… ” And she began to shake and tremble, the hands clasped in hers seeming to be the only things holding her up. A sudden charge like electricity ran through everyone’s linked hands. Then as suddenly as she had ceased, she began to speak again, but this time in very different voice from her own.
The voice was deep, guttural, and throaty, the syllables long and drawn out.
“Arrrrr,” she growled completely out of character, “Arrrrr, me mateys! I’m back. I’m back, don’t ye know. I’m back, and I see! I see what you’re about here in me place, see an’ hear all that yer doin’. I see what ye’ve been about! I sees who takes, an’ w
ho takes what! I see what yer takin’!” Then somewhat mournfully: “Ohhhhhhh… All those bones, those bones (here the children looked anxiously at each other and at the two detectives and Miss Danes) those sleeping bones are not to be stirred! The sleeping bones won’t stir! I’ll not have it, ye see. I’ll not, I’ll not, I’ll not…” And now the body of Flora Phipps began to tremble violently, almost as if with ague, and the next words were almost shrieked, causing everyone, none more so than the pirates, to squirm with discomfort:
“Those that stir the bones shall not leave this place alive!” Her voice reached a crescendo that matched the roaring storm above them, “By Davy Jones! Not alive! Not alive! None left alive! None left alive! Aliv—”
Suddenly a rumble seemed to come up all around them, and even under them, engulfing them, as though a freight train was roaring into the cellar, and then the fourth and last keg burst open in a frothy cascade of water, spilling the pirates off their stools and onto the floor. The sea had risen and flooded the tunnel!
A blast of wind blew out many of the candles save for those in the lanterns protected by their hurricane globes. Immediately the séance broke up, as the group scattered. The torrent of water from the cask was brief and quickly receded, making a huge sucking sound as the pirates scrambled as far away as they could get from it. An instant decision was made to evacuate the cellar. They all made their way up the stairs and into the Great Room, now lit only by the fire and sparks swirling in the fireplace. The pirates immediately huddled there in an effort to warm themselves and trembled as they contemplated the words last uttered by Flora Phipps: “None left alive!” The rest of the group gathered at the big communal table. But no sooner had they gotten their bearings in the Great Room than the Lowling Howl sprang up again, and above the howl and the roar of the gale there came a tremendous splintering crash from the landward side. Dinky Potter rushed to the front door and opened the small smuggler’s portal and peered out cautiously. “It’s out!” he called, “the bridge is out!” He turned to them, white-faced. “We’re trapped, we’re trapped on Black Rock Island!