Hook Island

by Russ Crossley

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Hook Island

  About the Author

  Other titles from 53rd Street Publishing you may enjoy

  Also available from 53rd Street Publishing

  Hook Island

  An Amanda Dark paranormal mystery

  Russ Crossley

  Published by 53rd Street Publishing

  Copyright 2015 Russ Crossley

  All rights reserved

  Cover art © Tasosk | Dreamstime.com

  Cover designed by R. Edgewood

  Cover design and layout copyright 2015 by 53rd Street Publishing

  53rd Street Publishing

  Head office: Gibsons B.C. Canada

  www.53rdstreetpublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

  Hook Island

  An Amanda Dark Paranormal Mystery

  Amanda held out the flashlight, but the muddy beam of light barely penetrated the inky, thick darkness more than a few feet ahead. Her heart beat loudly in her ears as she carefully stepped forward on the rickety, wooden dock. She glanced over her left shoulder to see Pierre in the launch he'd used to bring her to this isolated island off the coast of South Carolina. She swallowed hard and for the hundredth time doubted she'd made the right decision.

  "Pierre!" she called. "Which way?"

  Squinting into the nearly impenetrable darkness, Amanda could just barely make out Pierre’s shape, bathed in the glow from the instruments in the dash of the boat. Pierre had been at first understandably reluctant, but once she flashed a hundred dollar bill, he had readily agreed to transport her to Hook Island. The transplanted Cajun, originally from New Orleans until Hurricane Katrina, was amiable and friendly during the ride from Isle of Palms. She sensed he thought she had a screw loose, but if anyone had told her she would make such a trip in the dead of night, she might have agreed with them.

  "Straight ahead!" She heard his voice echo over the sound of the rhythmic waves ahead of her in the darkness.

  Amanda swiveled her head back and forth, still unable to see her way along the dock. Her night vision was terrible—a definite problem for a paranormal investigator who often worked at night. Her breathing was rapid and her mouth and nose were filled with the smell of wet sand, salt air, and the acidic odor of rotting seaweed. "Too bad I can't lose my sense of smell on command," she mused under her breath.

  She carefully moved one foot ahead; the boards creaked. If she didn't walk off the edge of the old dock, no doubt it would collapse beneath her.

  She should have come in the daytime, but the letter had said it was a matter of life and death. She had seen enough ghosts to know death intimately, so she had dropped everything back home in Boston and caught the first plane to Charleston. Of course, the certified check for five thousand dollars certainly added to her motivation to come quickly.

  Such a large deposit surprised her until she did some research on the plane using her iPad. According to the websites she surfed, her mysterious benefactor, Phillip Swann, was a descendant of the notorious pirate, Captain Henry "Blackblood" Swann, who sailed these waters in the mid-eighteenth century. Captain Swann pillaged French, British, and Spanish ships for gold, silver, slaves, coffee, and anything else of value. There were suggestions that once he captured a vessel, he set the crew adrift in lifeboats before setting fire to their ships. This last part of the legend was unconfirmed, but if true, then Swann wasn't as despicable as many of his contemporaries.

  Her problem right now wasn't proving the truth behind the musty legend, it was surviving the trip from the dock to the Swann family house, somewhere on this speck of sand and rock. She'd survived worse, but not being able to see where she was going in pitch blackness had always been her greatest fear.

  The light from her flashlight flickered twice, then went out. Just great, she thought. Now what I am gonna do?

  She stuck the tip of her tongue out one side of her mouth and concentrated on her footing. She then took one step and heard a crack as her foot dropped through a hole in the boards. Oh, oh. Not good.

  Trying to extract her foot, she lost her balance and stumbled forward. She lost her grip on the small suitcase in her right hand, and it flew away from her to be lost somewhere in the darkness. A twinge of relief came over her when she heard it land on sand. At least her extra blue jeans, shorts, and tops would be dry. And her iPad and cell phone would still function. Saltwater destroyed electronic gear thoroughly and quickly. Without her equipment, her trip to Hook Island would have been pointless. If there were a ghost, she would need photographic evidence. No photos, no future book; no future book, no food on table. Girls gotta eat.

  Knowing she was about to fall off the dock, she held out her hands, closed her eyes, and got ready to break the inevitable as best she could. Hopefully she wouldn't break anything important. She fell forward and found herself sprawled facedown on sand. Her mouth had filled with the stuff and she spat out the sticky grains as best she could, but the annoying grit was stubborn and wasn't going without a fight. She'd never liked the beach. There was too much sand, too much wind, and too much saltwater for her liking.

  When she tried to lift her head, overwhelming dizziness gripped her, accompanied by a wave of nausea. She set her head back on the sand. The feeling passed, but she realized there was a half-buried stone in the sand sticking up. She must have struck her forehead against it. A growing warmth pooled around her forehead, confirming her theory that she was bleeding. The unmistakable odor of blood flooded her nostrils. Oh, crap. So not good.

  She suppressed the urge to cry. I'm going to die on a desert island, in the dark, alone. She investigated the paranormal. She didn't want to be part of it, at least not yet. I'm too young to die.

  The panic gripping her faded, replaced by rationality. I need to stop wallowing in self-pity, she scolded herself. Just because Paul left with the cat doesn't mean I have to fall to pieces during every tiny crisis. Oh, oh...

  As if a window closed, Amanda's world abruptly disappeared.

  ***

  Amanda's eyes fluttered open, and through fuzzy vision came streaks of filtered sunlight across a wooden ceiling. Her vision cleared and she shifted her head to her left. There was a window, framed by shredded curtains. The glass in the window was missing, so a breeze made the curtains billow like torn rags in the wind.

  Shifting her legs, she realized she lay on her back, her head resting on a severely squashed pillow. The air reeked of dust and mildew. Her mouth was devoid of moisture. She ran her tongue over her dry lips, then gradually rose up on her elbows until she sat up. She blinked and her dry eyeballs clicked.

  Her head throbbed. Instinctively she placed one hand on the side of her head, and her fingers brushed a bandage wrapped around her wounded noggin. Now she recalled the fall off the dock. It must have been a while ago since it wasn’t night anymore—as evidenced by the sunlight creating a spotlight effect on the dirty wood floor.

  She froze when, from a corner of her left eye, she saw movement. Looking down she saw a black cat with a white-tipped tail padding across the room. Unable to look away, Amanda watched the cat until it vanished into the wall.

  Her heart beat a little harder and she sucked in a breath. The cat hadn't been real, at least not anymore. It was a ghost.

  Amanda had seen strange things, but never an actual ghost. Most of the paranormal activity she'd witnessed was minor stuff: objects moving by themselves, sudden fluctuations in room temperature, mysterious breezes on a calm night, and things that go bump in the night. She'd never seen a real, live ghost. Uhhhh...correction, a real dead ghost.

  Amanda let her head sink back to the pillow and closed her eyes. I must be s
eeing things...

  "Hello, Miss Dark?"

  Amanda's eyes popped open. Standing at the side of the bed was a square jawed man, his chin and cheeks covered in dark stubble. His jet black, curly hair was cut short and his eyes were as blue as a Caribbean sea. His lips formed a wry smile and his eyes twinkled.

  "Uhhh...yeah...I'm Amanda Dark." Her brow wrinkled as she eyed the man. "Are you Phillip Swann?"

  He nodded. "You really didn't have to come out here in the middle of the night."

  She cringed inside. He was correct, of course, but for some reason she had sensed that he needed her as soon as possible. She had no idea where the sense of urgency had come from, just that it had. "You're right, of course, Mr. Swann."

  He chuckled. "Mr. Swann was my father. Please call me Phillip."

  His smile disappeared and he arched one eyebrow, sending a shiver of longing through her. She hadn’t had a steady boyfriend since high school, when, immediately after the grad party, Dave Allister had announced he was going back east to college and broke up with her. He had broken her heart. That was, of course, after they'd had sex.

  Since then she'd dated occasionally, but nothing stuck. Of course, after college she'd become a paranormal investigator. Men didn't seem to like women who chased dead things. When Paul, her only serious boyfriend after Dave left, he had made that much clear.

  "Hello, Phillip." She held out her right hand, which he grasped lightly in his as they shook hands. His warm, gentle touch sent shock waves of desire through her, unlike anything she'd ever experienced; not even with Dave in the back seat of his father’s Durango back in her high school days.

  "I thought I'd better come as quickly as possible," she explained. "Your letter said it was a matter of life and death."

  Phillip's cheeks glowed crimson, his eyes averted; instead of looking at her, he looked in the direction of the window. He moved toward it and gazed out at the rolling surf of the ocean beyond the few trees that stuck up from the tan-colored sand in front of them.

  Amanda rose to a seated position and then swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her head throbbed but she ignored the pain. She came up behind him and detected a sense of sadness emanating from Phillip. For most of her life, she'd had the gift of empathy. She couldn't read thoughts but had a strong sense of feelings.

  It certainly made her life interesting at times, and not always for the good. Back in high school, she'd managed to avoid the bullies when she detected their feelings toward her. Of course, it didn't hurt when your best friend, Mary Olson, was captain of the lacrosse team. Mary was as tough as any boy and had been known to flatten a few.

  Amanda placed a hand on Phillip's shoulder. He jerked his shoulder away from her touch as if her skin were on fire. "Sorry," she whispered, dropping her arm to her side. She waited.

  He turned to face her. He forced a thin smile on his lips. "I'm sorry; it's just my wife..." His voice trailed off and his next words caught in his throat.

  "I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were married." She sensed his sadness. "Did something happen to her?"

  Phillip’s watery gaze locked with hers. "No. Not really. She lives in Alaska. With my ex-partner."

  Amanda wondered if maybe she'd trod on forbidden ground. "Sorry. It's none of my business. I—"

  "It's okay, Miss Dark. You're empathy is a gift. Yes, I know about your ability to sense feelings. I wondered if it were true when I hired you. I can see it is, maybe a little too true."

  Amanda raised both eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

  "My wife left me ten years ago. We were high school sweethearts, but after our marriage it became clear our lives were on different paths. I still care about Julie, but we've both moved on."

  Testing of her abilities was expected so Amanda wasn't insulted or annoyed. Honestly, if she were in a client's shoes, she would doubt as well. When you say it out aloud, a woman who chases ghosts for a living sounds like rubber room time. "Are you married now?" She winced. "Sorry, that's really none of my business."

  Phillip laughed. "No worries. I'm just glad you're here." He arched an eyebrow. "And no, I'm not married. Divorced."

  Time to change the subject. "Did you see a cat?"

  The sexy smile disappeared from Phillip's features. He frowned. "Cat? Was it black, with a white-tipped tale?" Amanda nodded. "And did it disappear out this window?" He pointed to the window. "Or through a wall?"

  Amanda's eyes widened. "How did you know?"

  Phillip nodded. "Come with me into the old library."

  Amanda followed him out of the bedroom into a wide, musty hallway. They walked side by side to the end of the hall, where there were double doors. The original brass handles were now black with age and lay on the floor where they had fallen as the doors rotted away.

  Phillip pushed the doors open and they went in. The old library walls were covered in shelves of rotting books. The odor of decay was heavy in the air. At one end of room sat a large, grandly carved oak desk. On the desk was a hand-carved wooden box, about the size of a modern briefcase. Only it clearly wasn't modern. The carvings depicted slaves harvesting tobacco leaves and a sailing vessel with its sails bulging from the wind. There was also a grinning skull over crossed swords, a classic motif for flags of the pirate age.

  Amanda concluded that the box had once been the property of one Captain Blackblood Swann, Phillip's ancestor. Her eyes flitted to Phillip, then back to the box. Phillip certainly didn't look like a bloodthirsty pirate, or like any of the ugly pirates in those Disney movies. Actually, he looked more like the pirates adorning the covers of steamy romance novels. A sun-warmed face turned nut brown, dark curls, and muscular arms clearly visible beneath his denim shirt, the top two buttons of which were undone to reveal a wisp of dark hair. His looks alone stirred her more than any man had in a long time.

  Phillip moved to the desk and flipped open the lid of the box to reveal a well-worn, leather-bound book inside. A strong smell of leather filled the room. He gingerly lifted the book from the box and set in flat on the desk. Carefully, as if handling the Dead Sea Scrolls, he turned the yellowed pages to the middle of the thick volume.

  Amanda stepped closer to study the odd writing. The words were written in the style of calligraphy, the words ornate and flowing. "What is it?" she asked.

  "The diary of Captain Henry Swann."

  Amanda's eyes widened. "Really? "

  He nodded. "The pages are brittle with age, so after we find the treasure, I plan to donate the book to the Smithsonian."

  Treasure? A frown creased Amanda's brow. I nearly kill myself, and the life-and-death mission I'm on is to help him find gold and silver? Amanda wasn't rich, in fact she was on the low side of the middle class, but she wasn't a treasure hunter. To her, contact with paranormal phenomena wasn't about seeking lost objects or obscene wealth, it was to help the dead achieve their just reward, or at least be released from earth to go on their way. Sometimes they didn't appreciate her intervention, but the living relatives often did.

  "What's this about treasure?" she said straining to keep the anger in her gut from her tone.

  Phillip swiveled to face her. He offered her a lopsided grin. "Sorry. I'm not a treasure hunter, if that's what you're thinking. No, I'm after something much more personal."

  Amanda eyed him quizzically with one eyebrow cocked. Did he have her ability to sense emotions too? "What does his diary say?"

  Phillip's shifted back to gaze down at the pages of the open book. "Captain Swann's diary says he had a cat. A black cat with a white-tipped tail. Its name was Scars."

  Amanda's eyes went wide and she stepped to his side, her eyes on the pages. "Really? I saw a cat like that in my room..." Her cheeks grew warm. "Uhhh, I mean your room...uhhh...I mean the bedroom." Oh, crap he's gonna think I'm an idiot. All she wanted to do right now was crawl into a dark corner and die of embarrassment.

  Phillip, however, didn't seem to notice her sudden discomfort. His eyes were on the pages of the book. "Yes, I e
xpect you saw the ghost of his cat."

  Amanda shivered as a sudden coldness enveloped her, accompanied by a feeling of dread. She'd experienced feelings like these before, during investigations in haunted houses, but never with this intensity. Her heart beat hard and time seemed to slow down.

  A sharp movement at the edge of her left eye made her turn her head slightly in that direction. What she saw made her freeze and draw in a ragged breath. Her heart beat rapidly. A man—dressed in pirate garb, with a long saber dangling from his belt, his dark eyes scowling at her, his white, frilly shirt stained with dirt—stood eyeing her with one hand resting on the hilt of the sword. His free arm cradled the cat she'd seen earlier, its white-tipped tail flicking to and fro. Could it be a hallucination caused by the blow to the head?

  "Uhhh, Phillip, do you see him?"

  Phillip looked at her, his eyes quizzical. "Who?"

  Amanda pointed to where the pirate, with his three-cornered, wide-brimmed hat sporting a black feather, stood silently watching them. Phillip scanned the spot she was pointing to and shook his head.

  "I don't see anything..." His words trailed off and his face became the color of ash. "A ghost," he whispered. His hands were trembling. "You see a ghost, don't you?"

  "Yes. At least I think I do."

  "You mean you've never seen one before?"

  Amanda swallowed hard as she placed one hand on his arm. She needed to steady herself before she collapsed. Any second her knees would buckle and she'd drop to the floor. "As strange as it sounds, no, I've never seen a live one...uhhh, I mean a dead one..." Her mouth clamped shut to stop herself before she shoved both feet into it.

  "What's he look like?"

  Amanda shifted her gaze to the pirate, who eyed her curiously. He carried the cat to a chair across the room and sat down, now petting the cat with his other hand. The cat curled its tail lazily around its body and looked very content. Its unblinking, mustard yellow eyes watched her.

  "Well, he's a pirate and he has a cat. He's sitting on the chair—"

  "Sorry to interrupt, Amanda, but there aren't any chairs in here. Haven't been in about two hundred years."