Haunted Shipwreck

by S. D. Hintz

  He approached the double doors, opened them wide, and entered. A thick scent reminiscent of smoked salmon pricked his nostrils.

  “Reed! Where are you, you old bastard?”

  Hoyer scanned the shadowy shop, half-expecting to spot the geezer hunkered beside a hunk of junk with a feather duster in hand. But such was not the case. There was only clutter and grime.

  He heard clanking. Maybe the old man was fixing all of the broken crap in his shop.

  “Reed, goddamn it! Where the hell are you?”

  “Mister Milton.”

  Hoyer jumped and dropped his snack bag. He whirled and then winced as the pork rinds crunched beneath his weight.

  “Jesus, Reed! You always sneak up on your customers like that?”

  “Who’s sneakin’?” Willard raised his right hand. “I can almost count the years on one hand since ya last left pork rinds in ya wake.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that. I’ll have Mack come round later and sweep ‘em up.”

  “Don’t bother, Mister Milton.” Willard swept back a strand of hair. “What brings ya by?”

  “Oh hell, Reed, my damn roaster went kaput.”

  “I’m a vegan. What do I care?”

  “Cause I have a shop to run, you codger! Do you have something that’ll get me by a day or two? I’ll take anything. A charcoal grill if I have to. My retailer’s in Portage. I’m not trying to pick my nose for three hours on the ferry while my customers line up.”

  Willard blinked hard, and then nodded. “I’ve got just the thing.”

  Willard brushed past Hoyer and headed toward the rear of the shop. Hoyer turned, paused, and took a deep breath. He drooled at the hint of rotisserie in the air. Man, he missed his roaster.

  “Comin’, Mister Milton?” Willard drew aside the curtain. “My antiques won’t walk to ya. They’ll just sit there and collect dust.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming, old man.”

  The pork rinds crunched as Hoyer followed in Willard’s footsteps. Claustrophobia nagged at him. The aisles were narrow and cluttered; Hoyer was wide and clumsy. He sucked in his gut, but to no avail as a copper stein clunked on the floor. By the time he was halfway down the aisle, ten antiques had toppled over. He scowled, certain the blue-hair was standing there with a grin on his face. But there was only the velvet swaying as if there was a breeze.

  And the odd clanking, which had grown louder and more furious.

  Hoyer forged ahead and crashed his way to the back room. The aisle behind him was nonlinear in his wake. He barged though the curtain.

  Inside the room, Willard stood with the bellows, waving it at the ironworks pile.

  Hoyer furrowed his unibrow. “This ain’t some kind of freaky peepshow, is it? That might explain why the Jericho boy’s over here every day.”

  Hoyer’s sight focused on the junk pile. He grimaced as if he had eaten overdone sirloin. He had never encountered a worse smelling pile of crap in his life. Everything was black as burnt toast and reeked like a skillet after a grease fire.

  Hoyer felt as if he might puke up his pork rinds any second. “What the hell’s this?”

  Willard whirled and stumbled past Hoyer, holding the bellows high. The entire sleek mass shifted and advanced, clanging like loose pipes.

  A potbelly stove with an eighteen-inch tall stovepipe led the army. It was as round as Hoyer’s ex-wife and probably blew more smoke. He shook his head.

  “What’s this, Reed? What are you trying to pull?”

  The potbelly stove rumbled and its bolts rattled loose. The stovepipe coughed a burgundy plume of smoke that blanketed the ceiling. The grate flung open and blue flames lashed out tongues. Hoyer stumbled back and hacked up a lung.

  “Reed, goddamn it! Who do you think you’re messing with?”

  Walter’s eyes rolled into his head. His lips parted and blood streamed down his chin. “Skin ‘em in the riptide…”

  The smoke cascaded down the walls. Hoyer spun, searching for the door. Then the haze parted and the iron army attacked. At that moment, Hoyer wished he had his meat cleaver, or his electric knife, anything for self-defense. Though nothing would have fared against the devilish onslaught.

  Hoyer’s last thought dwelled on the irony. He had been barbecued and skewered like the lamb chops that hung in his butcher shop window.

  *****

  When the hour arrived, Jack snuck out his bedroom window as usual and hauled off to Halberd Park. He was grateful his mom’s cleverness only kicked in on occasion. She may have jailed the boneshaker, but she had yet to relocate his room to the attic. He grinned as he wondered what she was thinking by trusting a teenager.

  He glanced down Skean Street. The mist clung to the blacktop, thick as the humidity, burying Bodkin Bend. He considered following the curb to Rivulet Road, and then reminded himself that he was on a time crunch. Whether he wanted to or not, he had to take the shortcut.

  Geez, Jack, stop being a candy-ass!

  His gaze glued to Skelt’s bedroom window. The broken glass and shutters rattled in the wind. His brain burned for confirmation of the Skeleton Man’s presence, but there was no revelation. He would have to wait until midnight.

  He paused at the dirt path. Though reluctant, it was the quickest way to Blue’s house. He took a deep breath, chided himself once more, and entered the dark, foggy forest. He immediately stepped up his pace to a jog. The trees rustled, whispering urgently, aware of his return.

  His jog became a sprint. He strained to focus on the path, gauging the terrain, trying to determine if he was nearing the street. He tried his hardest to ignore his periphery.

  Then the ghost song split the darkness, breaking his concentration, a dead squid stench on its heels.

  “Blow ye winds at midnight, blow ye winds hi ho!”

  Jack’s pace faltered and his eyes roved, blinking with his heartbeat. The woods whipped and whistled. The path hissed and suddenly swirled with mist.

  “Skin ‘em in the riptide, blow boys blow!”

  Again the rasping. But the forest was deserted. The voices were coming from the canopy.

  “Blow ye winds at midnight, blow ye winds hi ho!”

  Jack looked up, and then quickly decided he did not want to see what lurked in the branches. He envisioned dead sailors dangling from anchors, and that thought had his shoes kicking up dust.

  Ahead, he spotted the soft glow of a streetlight. He was almost out of the woods.

  The moment his heart leapt, the ground collapsed.

  And he was falling. Down a deep hole, dirt and leaves caving around him. He landed on his feet, but his legs gave out and his body sprawled.

  “Kill ‘em, spill thar insides, blow boys blow!”

  Jack pushed himself up and knelt, catching his breath. The large hole looked like a cavern. The floor was ankle-deep mud.

  A circle of lanterns ignited, lining the lip of the hole. Jack slowly stood, his legs sopping, as he stared at the walls. They were not rock or dirt as they should have been, but rather faded wood grain with rusted portholes. On the right side, a giant anchor protruded from the mud; water and seaweed dripped from the stock while the frayed rope slithered into a broken window.

  Jack approached the anchor, his shoes squelching, the mud feeling like quicksand. No, his eyes had failed him. Blood dripped down the red-orange shank, not water. And the seaweed - intestines, translucent and veiny.

  Jack vomited. I have to get the hell out of here! Climb up the side! Something!

  “Begad!”

  Jack wiped his mouth and rubbed his eyes. His jaw hung, driveling, too stunned to shut. A tall, crimson specter, cellophane transparent, towered over him. It was a bearded man - a pirate! - in tattered button-down garb and a skullcap. Both eyes were covered with skull patches.

  His voice was a gurgling rasp, his pockmarked cheeks trembling with every spoken syllable. “Yo-ho-ho! I say, a lad fancied me shanty!”

  Jack’s feet were cemented, feeling even more so due to the mud. He sp
uttered, knees wobbling. “Please. I’ve got to…go. I’m late. Late.”

  The pirate approached and stopped a few feet away. His stench slammed into Jack. Seared tuna. The ghost jabbed a mangled finger. “No quarter! I?ll have yer lights and liver!”

  Jack had no idea what that meant and was afraid to find out. He wrenched his right leg from the mud.

  The pirate seized Jack’s throat, his spectral hand quite tangible, and raised him like an anchor. His clutch was defiant and dug into Jack’s vocal chords. “Me hearties will have ye dancin’ with Jack Ketch! Now gangway!”

  Jack was thrown aside. He landed on his back, sinking, squelching. He gazed at the portholes. Bloody, screaming faces were pressed against the cobwebbed glass.

  Jack groaned and sat up. He thought of Blue, knowing that his friend would soon be wondering where he was at. He doubted he could tell him. That is, if he escaped with his life.

  The pirate advanced. His eye patches slapped up against his forehead. Within his sockets, octopus suckers opened and closed, slurped and sucked. His tarnished buttons popped off and his coat flapped back. Beneath the garb he was bones, blood red and glowing. His rib cage was a membranous tank, bustling with monkfish.

  “There?s a black spot from the Gold Road to Passing Bell, a scourge of the seven seas! Me bellows! The Bloody Cutlass keelhauls every lubber on the fore ‘til I reclaim it!”

  Jack managed to stand, and then backpedaled, but the mud had him stumbling against the portside.

  Something sloshed his ankles. He looked down and saw that water gushed from all sides of the hole. It was chest-deep in seconds.

  The pirate cackled. The portholes shattered, unleashing screams.

  Jack’s head swam. What the heck? This can’t be happening. I’m in the middle of the forest!

  He did a scissors kick and paddled for the lip. He heard a wave crash behind him.

  It was then he realized that he was treading dirt. He lay on the dark path, squinting at the intersecting swath of the distant streetlight. The water had vanished, as had the hole and Pirates of the Caribbean ride. The lanterns were nothing more than the moonlit trees.

  Jack stood and ran for his life. Huffing and puffing, he eked in a sigh when he reached the lamp on Rivulet Road.

  Jesus! What the heck was that?

  He checked his clothes, certain he was soaked to the bone, but rather he was bone-dry. Now he was convinced. The woods were haunted. And the urban legends were self-help stories.

  No more shortcuts. No more.

  *****

  “Ow!”

  Jack clutched his arm. Bobby rounded a bush, chuckling, rifle in hand.

  “Lay chilly or you’re Kool-Aid, soldier.”

  “Blue, goddamn it. C’mon, let’s get this over with.”

  “Get it over with? You take your daily-daily? This is Operation: Skeleton Man. So man up!”

  Jack bit his lip. “Fine. But we’re not taking the shortcut.”

  “What? This’ll be a skate, and you’re gonna make it a tour? I’m about to call in the turtles.”

  “Call in the Ninja Turtles, I don’t care. I’m not taking the shortcut.”

  Bobby stepped into the faint light cast by Teddy Shay’s house. He was clad in black and blue camouflage. A green steel pot shadowed his eyes. He slung the rifle over his shoulder. “What has you spooked?”

  “Nothing. Just more craziness in the woods.”

  “Again? Meaning what?”

  “Meaning those stories are true. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “I almost believed you last time. Almost. You’re just overstressed. You know how you get about those antiques, and that warden you call Mom. Tomorrow we sting those woods. C’mon now, let’s move out.”

  “Down Bodkin. I’m not taking that shortcut.”

  “I know, I know. You’re dinky dau, Jericho, but we’ll hump the redball.”

  “I’m not humping anything.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Whispers drifted through Teddy Shay’s room, stirring him from a restless slumber. He sat up and reached beneath his pillow. He then unwrapped a Whatchamacallit bar and sidled out of bed. He smiled at the thought of the Tooth Fairy finding milk chocolate instead of a molar.

  He leaned forward and peered between the curtains. Jack and Bobby passed his bikeway. Judging by the rifle on Bobby’s back, they were determined to scope out Skelt.

  “Crathy bathtardth.”

  A scraping startled him, like a trowel being dragged across the hardwood floor. He turned. The candy bar slipped through his fingers. He backed against the windowpane.

  The boneshaker blocked the doorway. Teddy had never seen a bike quite like it, and could not figure out how it got into the house. A blue-green bar of electricity traveled the frame, sparking, an EKG line searching for a heartbeat. The front fender wrenched upwards, shrieking as it leveled straight as a shotgun. The wheels and pedals spun in place, whizzing and crackling. The handlebars imitated the fenders, pointed at the ceiling in a vee, resembling antennae.

  Teddy trembled, plastered against the sill. What the hell?

  His brainwaves ebbed and flowed, good idea, bad idea. Should he run around it and make for the door? What if he grabbed the Hershey Kiss lamp and threw it at the monstrosity? Or he could crawl back in bed, pull the covers over his head, and pray for dancing sugarplums.

  He whirled and reached through the curtains, fumbling for the lock. He spotted Jack and Blue by the neighbor’s yard. They were still close enough. If he yelled they might hear him. Then again, his mom might come barging in first. Either way, he was hollering like a damsel in distress.

  The boneshaker’s EKG flashed to reddish-orange and inched up the handlebars. Electric fire streamed between the antennae. The wire spokes surged as the wheels burned skid marks into the hardwood.

  Teddy flipped the lock and clutched the window crank.

  The bowl bell gonged. Teddy snatched a glance; the bedroom withered in the sound wave’s wake. A quake seized the furniture, knocking collectible candy jars to the floor. Then everything charred in a blink. His beloved Butterfinger bedspread blackened. The nightstand, the desk, and his bookcase ignited and collapsed to ashes. The walls yellowed, painted by the cancerous breath.

  Teddy pulled the window crank. It refused to budge. In his haste, he had turned it the wrong way.

  “Jack! Blue! Ma!”

  Jack and Blue escaped the street lamp’s glow, disappearing into the night. Teddy opened the window.

  The boneshaker’s EKG sizzled to the front fender and turned it into a blowtorch. A flaming tongue lashed out and licked Teddy’s spine like a Dum Dum. His cries choked in his throat, unheard, stifled in the makeshift crematorium.

  *****

  “So, how are we going to break the lock without waking the neighbors?”

  “You’ll see, soldier. We won’t need the Big Boys for this one.”

  “Says you. My mom probably has it under surveillance.”

  Jack and Bobby were out of breath once they reached the top of Bodkin Bend. Jack eyed the Skelt house. The windows were dark, as they should have been.

  Bobby lit his camouflage watch. “Less than ten minutes ‘til midnight. Should’ve brought the jungle boots.”

  “You should’ve brought the claymores. That lock is die cast.”

  Jack and Bobby crept into enemy territory. The Jericho house was dead. Jack took a deep breath. If they woke his parents, he would be grounded for months. He still could not believe he let Bobby talk him into Operation: Skeleton Man.

  Bobby looked both ways, as if crossing the street. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Coast is clear. Hump to the pos.”

  “The “pos”?”

  “The shed.”

  Jack shook his head and then bolted with Bobby across the backyard.

  The shed was nestled in a cluster of brambles. The metal roof glinted in the moonlight. They ducked under the poplar and rounded the overgrown bushes. They stopped in their tr
acks and gaped.

  The doors were wide open, scraping against thorns. Bobby withdrew a small flashlight from his pocket and shined it. The silhouettes were many, garden tools, lawn mowers, bags of fertilizer.

  But no sign of the boneshaker, which was impossible to miss.

  Bobby looked to Jack, roving his searchlight. “See it anywhere?”

  A chill passed over Jack. His voice quavered, shaking off the whisper. “It’s not here.”

  His mind raced. Had his mom removed the bike and forgot to lock the shed? Or had the dead pirate beat him to the punch? The gurgling rasp haunted him.

  A scourge of the seven seas!

  Bobby switched off the light, paranoid of drawing attention. “This is fugazi.”

  “Why isn’t it here, Blue?”

  “Maybe she has it holed up in the barracks.”

  “No way. She wouldn’t go to that much trouble.”

  “I don’t know, soldier. It’s AWOL.” Bobby checked his watch. “It’s five to twenty-four hundred hours. We need to move out. The bike is a POW.”

  Jack shook his head and shut the doors. He was unconvinced that his mom had moved the boneshaker. Something else was going on. Something far more devious. He yearned to tell Bobby about the pirate, but he knew it would sound ridiculous, regardless of how rooted the military was in supernatural cover-ups.

  Bobby ducked and dashed through the backyard, zigzagging from imaginary crossfire. Jack was at his heels. His mind continued to grind on the boneshaker. The bell, the burnt smell, the electric vibration. The bike was surging with evil, the gears greased with Hell’s WD-40. But what the heck did it have to do with the dead pirate? Maybe he was losing his mind. Or he was ‘overstressed’, as Bobby so put it. His friend had a point. He had grown awfully attached to an antique that he’d possessed for less than an hour. His mom’s argument pestered him.

  This addiction of yours stops here.

  Jack shrugged off the nagging and bolted with Bobby beyond Skean Street. They lingered near the lone diseased elm at the edge of the Skelt property. It shivered and shed dead leaves, as if sensing Jack’s dread.

  “I don’t know, Blue. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. If my folks wake up and see us…”