Ghost Maven

by Tony Lee Moral

  After the last bell, I headed back to Cannery Row. The sun slowly set over the bay, and the fishing boats started returning to the harbor, groaning with the weight of the day’s catch.

  “Hey, Alice!” shouted a voice, followed by the sound of screeching brakes.

  I turned and saw Connor, from the surf shop. He straddled his bike, smiling as usual, and his tan face seemed even more freckled.

  “How did you get on out in the boat the other day?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Fine,” I said. “I ended up sailing with someone experienced, and he helped me.”

  “You had a sailing buddy?” Connor asked in surprise. “I thought you wanted to go solo.”

  I looked at Connor and frowned. “Yeah. You didn’t see him? I waved to you from the bow of the boat, and my friend stood at the helm. Don’t you remember?”

  “Gee, Alice, I can’t say I do.”

  I stared at Connor for a moment, wondering if he was going a little crazy. “But I-I was with a guy,” I said, punctuating my every word. “You saw us—right?”

  Connor looked at me, puzzled, and shook his head. “Okay, if you say so. Anyway, good seeing you. Let me know if you want to go out sailing.” Then he waved and pedaled off.

  I continued down Cannery Row, snaking alongside the old canneries and past Doc Ricketts’s house. I hadn’t been back to 800 since the night of the dance, and I wanted to see what I’d find inside.

  The corridor was dark and musty. I fumbled for the light switch but found none. I creeped to the end of the entranceway, but this time, no music greeted me from the other side of the door. The second door creaked as I pushed it open. No dancers, no costume ball—only silence, and the entire place appeared deserted.

  I looked around the room for clues, searching among the pile of boxes. I stared at the floor, covered in dust. I found it all quite strange. I’d only been at the dance a couple weeks ago, quite the extravagant affair, yet now the place looked like it hadn’t been touched for many years.

  “Can I help you, Miss?” a voice echoed out of the darkness.

  “Ah!” I screamed, almost jumping out of my skin. I turned around and looked into the eyes of an old man. “Wh-who are you?” I stuttered.

  “Perhaps I should ask you the same question. I’m Elias Jones, the caretaker. And who might you be, and why are you in this cannery, Miss?”

  “My name’s Alice, and I’m looking for someone,” I said, my heartbeat slowly returning to normal. I felt I had aged about ten years, and wondered if my hair had gone gray with fright. “I was here the other night, and there was a dance. I’m looking for someone I saw there.”

  The old man frowned. “A dance? There have been no dances here for a very long time. It’s nothing but canned storage now.”

  “But there was a dance,” I said, looking around the old warehouse for vindication. “Over there sat a piano.” I pointed toward the far wall and started to move in that direction. “And here a harp. . .and right over there—about twenty or thirty dancers doing a slow waltz.”

  “A slow waltz, eh?” said the old man who started to chuckle. “Looks like I missed a good party. Well, as I said, there hasn’t been a dance here for over a hundred years.”

  “A hundred years?” I repeated.

  The man nodded. “At least. They used to hold charity dances here every Saturday night, but those stopped a long time ago. It’s been nothin’ but an old cannery since.”

  I rubbed my head with my right palm. I knew I hadn’t dreamt up the dance. It was all real. I really did see Henry, and I can still remember the smell of him—and the perfumed dancers.

  “Are you sure you didn’t just—imagine things?” said the old caretaker. “There have been some strange sights in the cannery, light tricks, makin’ people see things.”

  I started to move, albeit in somewhat of a daze. None of this is really happening. It can’t be, I thought, shaking my head and asking for the first time—Is it just me? Am I losing my mind?

  “You all right, Missy?”

  “Yes. It’s just been a rough couple of months.” I thought again of my mom.

  “If you want to find out more about those dances, I can tell you where to look.”

  “Where?” I shouted, almost startling the old fellow.

  “In the Monterey Maritime Museum, down by the plaza.”

  The museum had once been known as the Monterey Maritime and History Museum and stood in Custom House Plaza, near the town center. I hadn’t had the chance to visit since my arrival, but it had been on my radar. After all, I did love history and reading so I wanted to find out more about the coastline. Exhibitions featured the colonization of the Spanish and the development of the squid and fishing industries. It also housed a huge selection of material on the nautical history of the city. I wondered if there was any record of that elusive little vessel, Evening Tide.

  The maritime section of the museum was in a curved and dimly lit hall. The exhibit began in the 1600s, with the Esselen Indians. I gazed at the lithographs and photographs of the Native Americans, with their long limbs and painted faces. I thought of White Dove, the poor love-struck girl who had drowned in the bay, and I studied the designs of the teepee houses.

  One painting displayed Indians standing on a cliff face in Monterey with the cypress trees bent over in the wind while a terrible storm raged at sea. In the middle of the waves, the figure of a drowning victim. I shuddered at the wide, helpless eyes, the eyes of a person who knew they were going to die, to be swallowed by the bay.

  As I walked past the Native American section, the exhibition led to the arrival of the Spanish. There were drawings of Franciscan priests and US soldiers in their navy-blue uniforms. I wondered if I would find a portrait of Charles Drake, the man who had dared to fall in love with an Indian chief’s daughter.

  The first black-and-white photographs appeared when the exhibition moved on to the early nineteenth century. Pictures of old Monterey, horses and carts, some fishing boats, and the canneries. I marveled at the images and how small the town used to be, so unlike the bustling port I lived in now.

  By the start of the twentieth century, big boats moored in the harbor and the first cars were on the streets. This led to a section in the exhibit reserved for famous shipwrecks such as fishing vessels, cargo ships, and even a small liner—all lost at sea.

  My heart skipped a beat when I arrived at the next display, headlined Evening Tide. The fishing boat had apparently docked in San Francisco and sank in the bay in 1915. I quickly scanned through the pictures from The Monterey Herald and read a caption underneath one of them:

  Evening Tide, a fishing vessel hailing from San

  Francisco, wrecked and sank during the violent

  storms off Monterey Bay last night. All aboard

  have been lost at sea.

  As I read on, I discovered the crew came from San Francisco, and presumed drowned. Thirteen sailors lost at sea, but no bodies were ever found. The boat had been fishing in the bay to take advantage of the large glut of squid in the area but were caught in the storm.

  A black-and-white photograph, taken in San Francisco Bay sat as a memento of the crew catching a record shark only a month before. I studied the young faces, smiling and proud as they clustered around the big animal. Scanning each one of them closely, I recognized a face at the back and I froze.

  There, in an old black-and-white photograph, stood Henry. No mistaking it, with his wavy hair, perfect features, straight nose, and inquisitive smile. And he didn’t look a day younger or older than the last time I’d seen him. But how could it be possible? How could his picture be in the archives of the museum, in a newspaper that was a century old?

  I almost cried out and lifted a palm to my mouth to prevent myself from gagging. A heart that does not beat, I said to myself, remembering Sam’s words.

  I continued reading the rest of the article. It stated that a memorial plaque in memory of the sailors was to be erected in Pacific Grove Cemetery.r />
  “Miss, we’re closing in five minutes,” called the museum curator.

  “Thank you. I found what I needed to,” I mumbled as I rushed past the startled curator and made my way toward the exit.

  Pacific Grove Cemetery was situated behind Our Lady of the Cross. I arrived early in the evening, and the fading sunlight cast long shadows on the grass. It was a tidy, well-kept cemetery, with fresh-cut flowers at each gravestone. Trees obscured much of the view, but in the distance, a glimpse of the bay in the twilight.

  Slowly, I walked through the graveyard, kicking up the red and brown fall leaves underfoot. I had only visited my mother’s grave the day of her funeral and hadn’t stepped foot in a cemetery since. Dad and Sophie had gone back to place flowers, but I told them I preferred to remember Mom as she was, like some smiling angel in heaven. Dad said he respected me for that, and he wouldn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do.

  I walked carefully among the granite headstones, examining the names on each—names of past husbands, wives, children, and lovers. The dates spanned 150 years. I must have spent the next twenty minutes searching for the headstone I sought.

  When I saw it, a black plaque engraved with thirteen sailors’ names, I read them out loud: “Saul Baslow, George Billings, O’Reilly Bradford, Henry Fuchs, Joshua Harvey, Robert Jones, Neil Kent, Lincoln Matthews, Jamie Monroe, Henry Raphael. . .” I paused for a moment—then took a deep breath before reading on, “Jackson Rawlings, Andrew Salt, and Blake Woodrow.”

  Henry Raphael. I saw his name etched in stone—forever captured in hard granite, as permanent as death itself. I stared at the headstone in disbelief, certain that I was caught in some waking nightmare, a dark world of my own imagination. My feet sank into the ground, and for a moment, my world felt like it would crumble and I would lose my balance—just topple over. How could it be possible that there is a hundred-year-old headstone for a young man named Henry Raphael behind a church in Pacific Grove?

  The picture and the headstone were undeniable proof that Henry was indeed dead. . .Still, I’d spoken to him and seen him walking around Pacific Grove as real and alive as the other people in this town. Most of all—I felt his lips on mine and that was real. How is this possible? If he has a heart that isn’t beating how will he ever be able to—love me?

  Chapter Eight: Swept Away

  All that week in school, the black-and-white photograph of Henry haunted me. Is he a ghost or some kind of spirit? Just a figment of my imagination? But I knew it all actually happened. He rescued me from drowning and without him, I would have been at the bottom of the sea.

  I started to wonder about my own mental health. For all I knew, Mom’s death had taken more of a toll than I had realized. Am I losing it? After all, it had been a tough six months, with a lot of necessary changes and adjustments, all entrenched in grief and loss. Maybe the cracks are beginning to show. I wonder if I should see a shrink again. For sure, the photo was real, as was the gravestone. But how could the lady in the coffee shop and Connor the Surfer claim they didn’t see him when they saw me. I knew he existed—even in century-old form.

  “What’s eating you?” Emily asked as we sat in trigonometry. “You’ve been acting strange all week, like you’re sleepwalking or something.”

  “Um, nothing.”

  Emily stared at me for a moment, not entirely convinced. “You know you can tell me anything, don’t you, Alice?” she asked, her green eyes wide. “I mean, I know we haven’t known each other long, but I am your friend.”

  I nodded. I trusted Emily, but I wasn’t ready to confide in her yet, not until I had some answers for myself.

  On Saturday, I went about my chores: groceries in the morning, picking up mail that had been rerouted from our address in Chicago, and general housework. Then I settled in and did some biology homework, but my attention continually veered in another direction. I dreaded seeing Henry the next day for my sailing lesson. I thought about skipping out on it altogether, but I didn’t want him to wonder about me. But how can I face him? What can I even say to him? Do I tell him what I know? That I read about his—death?

  His gaze seemed to penetrate my very soul, and even if I didn’t want to tell him the truth, I was sure he could draw it out of me without so much as a word.

  Sunday morning came quickly. I had spent most of the night awake, consumed by the thought of the picture and the tombstone, tangible evidence Henry was truly dead—it was literally written in stone. If not, there was no way he would still look the same after a hundred years of decay and deterioration.

  Eight o’clock, and I still hid in my bed. Dad and Sophie sang loudly downstairs, but all I wanted to do was bury my head under the covers, afraid to face Henry. In an absurd way, I felt I had betrayed him.

  There came a knock at my door.

  “Hey, sleepyhead, are you gonna get up anytime soon?” my dad said. “Alice?” When I did not answer, he slowly turned the handle and poked his head inside my room. “Honey, are you all right?”

  I managed to lift my head from under the covers and nodded meekly.

  “You’re not sick, are you?”

  “No. I’m…just a little tired,” I said groggily. “I didn’t sleep very well.”

  “Well, Sophie and I are getting ready for church. Wanna come?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’ve got a tennis lesson,” I lied, throwing off the covers. “I’m getting up now.”

  “After church, how about lunch at Poppodors?”

  Poppodors was a Mexican café down the street, and they served the most amazing chili and nachos. It had quickly become a family favorite.

  “Okay,” I said, not really caring one way or another, even though I loved their salsa and the warm tortilla chips they put on the tables as an appetizer.

  Ten minutes later, I heard the front door slam. The engine revved, and the car disappeared down the drive. Finally alone in the house, I managed to pull on some clothes and look at myself in the mirror. Dark circles had formed under my eyes, and I looked like the living dead myself.

  I walked along the winding coastal path to the marina, dragging my feet as though encumbered by heavy weights. The gray clouds, thick and ominous, hovered above the sea in a blanket of gloom. In the far distance, I could see a thunderstorm brewing.

  Henry waited down at the jetty. He looked even more handsome with the sun shining on his tan arms, eyes sparkling like the Hope diamond; well he is one fine-looking guy for a hundred-year-old corpse, to be sure.

  He turned and smiled when he saw me. When I didn’t return his smile, he instantly knew something bothered me. “What is the matter, Alice?” he asked.

  I tried to avert my gaze, afraid that if he looked into my eyes, he would read my thoughts which would lead into my soul. “Nothing,” I lied. “I just didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  He looked at me steadily. “Is it the water again? Are your phobias troubling you?”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s not that.”

  “Do you still want to go sailing?”

  “I don’t know. I am feeling kind of . . .,” I trailed off without finishing—in an instant I was overcome with everything so I covered my face with my hands and started heading back.

  “What is the problem? Tell me.” He ran over and in front of me, grabbed my shoulders and kissed me.

  Drowning in the touch of his kiss, everything melted away. I ran my hands over his neck and down to his chest. With my right hand, I searched then finally laid my palm to rest on his heart. “I can’t feel it,” I said, just loud enough for Henry to hear. “I can’t feel it!” I repeated, my voice rising in urgency.

  “Feel what, Alice?”

  “Your heartbeat. I can’t feel your heartbeat,” I said, starting to panic. I pressed my palm more firmly, noticing how muscular he was, but then I jerked away from Henry and stared at him in horror. “Oh my God! It’s true! You’re…dead!”

  “Alice, calm down,” Henry said, raising his palms in the air.r />
  “No! Don’t try to deny it. I know all about you, about the ancient curse, about it all! I know about the shipwreck and the twelve other sailors who died.” My words tumbled out like a furious torrent of water.

  Henry looked as though I’d struck him for a moment then bowed his head in shame when he realized he couldn’t deny it. He breathed deeply then looked straight into my eyes. “How did you find out?” he asked quietly.

  “A picture of you at the museum—in an old newspaper article dated 1915. Explain that to me. I mean, it is you, isn’t it?”

  Slowly, he nodded. For a moment, he almost did look a century old as if all the troubled years escalated to that point. Now, his face resigned to confession. “Yes, it is true,” he said finally.

  “Oh my God!” I exclaimed, cupping my hands over my mouth. I thought I would keel over or faint right in front of him. It felt like I swallowed a barrel of salty seawater and had the wind knocked out of me. “But how? How is it possible?” I asked, gazing at his perfect, angular features and youthful skin. One-hundred-seventeen years and he looked only seventeen.

  “I have been cursed, I am stuck in Monterey Bay, Alice. I have been here for the last century.”

  “So you’re dead?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, not exactly? I saw your picture in the newspaper. Are you a ghost?”

  “No.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “I’m neither alive nor dead. I am…undead.”

  Undead!? I couldn’t believe my ears. It was like a scene out of some horrific movie, but clearly not a Hollywood script because Henry still stood there in the flesh, right in front of me.

  “Undead?” I said. “And what is that? Some state of existence that Webster hasn’t bothered to define yet?” I asked.