Ghost Stories

by Franklin W. Dixon

  The boys could hear the mournful bass voice of a foghorn. A heavy mist had gathered far out at sea and was moving slowly toward the shore. A red-and-white-striped lighthouse stood on a long, slender finger of land that jutted into the ocean north of the hotel.

  Frank broke their reverie at the window. “Come on, we’d better unpack. I want to take a shower before dinner.”

  Just then there was a knock on the door. The older Hardy went to open up and admitted a woman who announced that she was the maid.

  Joe stared at her, barely suppressing a chuckle. She looks like the Good Witch of the East, he thought to himself. She even carries the right kind of broom.

  The woman had a tooth missing on top, and her white hair stuck out like straw from the sides of her old-fashioned cap. Even her voice sounded like a raggedy cackle.

  “My name is Elizabeth,” she said. “I’ll be cleaning your room, and I just wanted to know if you needed any extra towels or anything else?”

  “No, we’ll be just fine, thank you,” Frank said.

  The woman nodded and turned to leave. Then she stopped and looked back. “I guess you’ll be all right here,” she said. “Will you be all right here?”

  “Sure,” Frank said. By this time he began to feel strange, too. “Sure we will.”

  Elizabeth nodded and slowly walked out the door.

  “I wonder why there is so much concern about us,” Joe said when she had closed the door behind her.

  “It is odd,” Frank agreed. “Maybe we’ll find out at dinner.”

  Shortly before seven they went down the hall and knocked on the door to their parents’ room, and a few moments later all four Hardys entered the dining room. Josiah Butler had specific seats assigned to everyone, and they found themselves at his table, together with another family with two teenage daughters.

  The girls were Amy and Susan Sheridan, and soon a lively conversation ensued while the guests ate a delicious meal of oyster stew and salad.

  “Have you met the maid yet?” Joe asked Susan in a low voice.

  The girl giggled. “I thought she’d ride off through the window on her broom! She scared Amy half to death.”

  “But she was really nice,” Joe had to admit.

  Susan nodded. “I know. It’s just that she looks so weird. And she’s not the only one!”

  “I found a book with ghost stories in our room,” Amy spoke up.

  “Aye,” Josiah Butler said. “Strange things happened around here.”

  “You mean they’re true?”

  “I don’t know about all of them, but I sure know about some!”

  “Oh, tell us!” Joe begged.

  Josiah seemed pleased at that. With a crooked stem pipe that he couldn’t keep lighted clenched between his teeth, he said, “I’ll tell you one that I can prove, if you’d like!”

  “Great!” Frank said, wondering how their eccentric host would prove his tale.

  “This house,” Josiah began, “was once owned by a wealthy sea captain. He had been a cabin boy at fifteen on a four-master that had gone all the way to Shanghai, China, where the young man picked up a mysterious camphor-wood trunk. The trunk now sits in the upstairs hall; you may have seen it.”

  “I have,” Joe said. “But where’s the mystery?”

  “Patience, my boy, patience.” Josiah held up his hand as he continued. “There’s more to come. In the year 1885 on a raging, howling February night, the captain, who by now sailed a windjammer named Louisa K, came back from a voyage to Africa. The ship appeared through the rain-drenched mists trying to make safe harbor with one broken mast and a crew ill with malaria.”

  “How awful!” Susan cried out.

  “It was,” Josiah confirmed. “Everything had gone badly for the captain. The malaria contracted on the West African coast had weakened him and most of his crew. A series of accidents, including the loss of a man overboard, and the shipping of water that had rotted much of the cargo, had the men muttering that the captain was a jinx.”

  “The poor man,” Amy said. “Did he ever make it home?”

  The innkeeper shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid not,” he replied. “You see, this night his young wife went out on the widow’s walk to watch the foundering Louisa K.”

  “What’s a widow’s walk?” Susan asked.

  “It’s a little balcony on top of the house,” Josiah explained. “The sailors’ wives would stand there to see out into the ocean as far as they could and watch their husbands come in.”

  “I suppose many of the men didn’t make it, and that’s how the widow’s walk got its name,” Joe suggested.

  “That’s right,” Josiah Butler said. “Anyway, there was the poor woman, seeing that her husband’s ship was doomed. The wind at gale force broke the Louisa K up, taking with it the couple’s chance for happiness.”

  “Did anyone survive at all?” Amy asked, her face sad.

  “Some did,” Josiah replied. “They told that the vessel was finally driven onto the rocks where the lighthouse now stands. At that point, the captain gave the order to abandon ship. He stayed on board to the last, helping injured and sick men to tie themselves to pieces of wood that would give them a chance of drifting ashore alive. And then, with all hands gone but himself, he retired to his cabin to await the end, playing his beloved flute. The sailors who heard it said they had never listened to such sweet music. Even people on shore, nearly a quarter of a mile away, swore they heard it loud and clear, the sound borne in by the wind.”

  Josiah Butler paused a moment, then continued. “Even the captain’s wife heard it, walking her lonely parapet. She clenched her fists and wept, for she knew then that her man would never come home again.”

  “This story gives me the goose pimples,” Amy said, shivering.

  “And you haven’t heard the eeriest part yet,” Josiah went on. “Ever since that fateful day, in times of terrible storms, when men were in danger offshore here, there are many who swear they heard the flute again. They listened to the music of the dead captain, playing his ghostly melody from the bottom of the sea!”

  “How scary!” Susan exclaimed.

  Josiah nodded. “And there are those who looked at the inn’s widow’s walk on such nights and saw a figure, all in black, staring out to sea in perpetual longing for the love she would never see again.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Frank asked, “But what does this have to do with the camphor-wood trunk on the upstairs landing?”

  “Ah, the trunk,” Josiah said. “Ever since the captain’s death, they say, the trunk gives off the smell of camphor, even though it’s very old. You open it and see.”

  Frank and Joe were curious, and after the dinner party broke up, they stopped at the landing to investigate the trunk. It was a plain, light-colored box with precisely notched corners and metal hinges in the shape of dragon claws. Cushions had been put on top of it so that it could serve as a seat.

  When the boys opened it, a strong scent of camphor met their nostrils.

  “After a hundred years this is impossible,” Frank declared. “Maybe old Josiah keeps something in it that smells like camphor?”

  Joe pulled his pencil flashlight out of his pocket and shone it into the old trunk. There was nothing inside.

  The boy shrugged. “Maybe Josiah sprays some perfume in here just before he tells his story to a new batch of guests,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s quite effective.”

  The boys closed the trunk and walked to their room. Frank was tired and went to sleep the moment his head hit the pillow; but Joe, for some reason, couldn’t relax. He kept thinking of the sea captain and his wife. He lay on one elbow and stared out the window. The strong beam of the lighthouse swept in the direction of the inn every so often, and the foghorn issued a series of mournful warnings. Joe noticed that the fog was hanging over the coastline like a big blanket.

  Finally the boy fell asleep. However, he woke up soon afterward to what sounded like the sobs of a child.


  Joe sat up in his bed. The child let out a high-pitched wail, then caught its breath as it gulped for air. Then it continued crying.

  That’s funny, Joe thought. I don’t remember any families with small children in this place. Seems to me the youngest person around is Amy Sheridan, and she’s at least sixteen!

  The child continued to cry, and finally Joe leaned over and shook his brother.

  “Wh-whatssa matter?” Frank mumbled as he tried to remember where he was.

  Just then the crying stopped.

  “Ah, I heard this little kid crying,” Joe explained. “Yet I can’t remember seeing any small children in the hotel. Do you know of any?”

  “No,” Frank grumbled. “And I don’t hear a sound. What’d you wake me up for?”

  Joe sighed. “I was worried, that’s all.”

  “You were dreaming. Now get back to sleep, will you?” Frank turned around and pulled his blanket over his ears.

  But Joe lay awake for a long time, waiting to hear the sound again. Eventually he drifted off, but as soon as he did he woke up again with a start. This time there was no sound. He just had the vague feeling of a presence in the room, someone besides his brother.

  Joe opened his eyes slowly to get used to the gloomy light that filtered into the room from the lamps that the hotel kept on all night outside. Then, suddenly, he saw the bathroom door opening slowly.

  His skin began to crawl. He remembered that the door had squeaked before. Now there was no sound.

  Horrified, Joe lay in his bed, watching the door swing wider and wider. Someone must have gotten into Mom and Dad’s room, stolen their things, and is now coming in here by way of the connecting bathroom, he thought. No, probably worse than that. The ghost of the sea captain is coming to visit his wife!

  Finally, the door touched the wall without the slightest noise. But no one was there! Maybe the ghost is invisible, Joe thought. He’s probably standing above my bed right now, wondering who I am. Maybe he figures I did something to his lady and he’ll strangle me!

  With that, Joe shook himself out of his fantasy and, with a yell, turned on his bedroom lamp. Frank jumped out from under the covers and hit the floor in a defensive karate stance, his sleep-drugged mind convinced that they were under attack.

  When his blurry vision cleared and he saw nothing but ins brother, he sat down on the edge of his bed.

  “What was all that about?” he demanded.

  “The bathroom door opened silently by itself,” Joe replied.

  Frank groaned. “You were dreaming again!”

  “No, I wasn’t. Look!”

  “We probably left it open before we went to bed,” Frank said.

  “No, we didn’t. I remember closing it.”

  “So the wind blew it open. Will you cut it out, Joe? I’m trying to get some sleep!”

  “Frank, I’m not kidding. Besides, the door normally squeaks. Here, I’ll show you.”

  Joe got up to close the door. It squeaked loudly. He took the heaviest chair in the room and dragged it across the floor. Then he wedged it underneath the doorknob. “Maybe this’ll help,” he mumbled.

  Frank was back under the covers. “If you wake me up one more time, I’ll gag you!” he threatened.

  “That’s if the ghost doesn’t get me first,” Joe muttered and closed his eyes.

  When he woke up the next time, he was treated to a ghostly doubleheader. He heard the soft sobbing of the child again. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere.

  Then he looked at the bathroom door. It had swung all the way open, and the chair had been pushed back against the wall!

  Joe jumped out of bed and walked over to touch the door and the chair to confirm he was not dreaming. Then he shook his head. “I’m probably dreaming this, too,” he said aloud, but not loud enough to wake Frank.

  Discouraged, he went back to bed. He brooded over the strange happenings until the sun came up. Then he fell asleep and didn’t wake up until he heard his brother doing exercises in front of the open window* The chair still stood against the wall and the bathroom door was open.

  “Did you move that chair?” he asked Frank.

  “No. I figured you did. The door was open when I got up.”

  When they went down to have breakfast, Joe was wondering whether he had dreamed the whole thing. He asked his parents quietly whether they had opened the door. Both laughed. “No, of course not,” Mr. Hardy said. “I broke your mother of the habit of checking on you boys when you were about five or six years old!”

  “Joe’s imagination was running wild last night,” Frank said. “He woke me up three times because he thought he saw ghosts.”

  “Twice,” Joe corrected meekly.

  The family spent a pleasant day swimming in the heated pool, playing tennis with the Sheridans, and just lounging around, relaxing. But Joe did not really have a good time, because his thoughts kept drifting back to what had happened the night before. He had asked his brother not to say anything to the Sheridan girls, and Frank had agreed. “I won’t embarrass you, don’t worry,” he said. And he kept his promise.

  At dinner that evening, Joe was even more distracted, anticipating the eerie night ahead of him.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Amy prodded. “Don’t you feel well?”

  “Uh, I have a headache,” Joe said. A little white lie was better than telling the truth and being made fun of, he thought.

  When they finally went to their room, Joe was almost eager to get to bed.

  “Now listen, little brother,” Frank declared as he took off his clothes, “I don’t care what you do with your ghost, but leave me out of it, all right?”

  “Don’t worry,” Joe said. “I won’t call you even if I’m in mortal danger!”

  “Good. Pleasant dreams!”

  Joe lay with the light out, listening to the foghorn’s low notes seeping in from a distance. He waited and waited, but nothing happened. His visitor refused to come while he was awake. Finally Joe fell asleep. He woke up with a start when he saw the child standing in front of his bed.

  It was a little boy, perhaps four or five years old. He was dressed in Victorian clothes, the kind people wore around the year 1890—a dark red velvet suit with a big bow tie around his neck, knee pants, stockings, and black shoes with buckles. He had a small birthmark on his right cheek. Tears were streaming down his face.

  Joe got up on one elbow and started to get out of bed. The child was so real that he was convinced his family must be staying at the inn. But why was he dressed in such strange clothes?

  Determined, Joe put his feet on the floor. For a moment he looked down for his slippers, and when he glanced up again, the little boy was gone! Vanished, as if he had never been there.

  Joe sighed in despair and crawled back into his bed. I must be seeing things, he said to himself. Frank’s right. I’m going crazy!

  He buried his head in his pillow and went back to sleep. Suddenly he dreamt he was flying through space down the beam of the light flashing from the lighthouse. He looked to his right, where Elizabeth, the maid, was riding her broom and cackling. They were both swept around in great circles through the sky and then swooped low over the inn right past the grief-drenched wife of the captain on her widow’s walk.

  Then the witch was gone and Joe was back in the hotel. Jacob, the bellboy, was walking toward him. The little boy in the red velvet suit clung to his hand and was crying. As Jacob passed Joe, he stopped for a moment and said, “Will you be all right in this room?”

  As Joe nodded, the sound of a flute filled his ears. It became so loud that the young detective woke up with a start!

  The next morning at breakfast Mr. Hardy asked the boys if they wanted to go for a ride on the lake.

  “I’ve rented a motorboat from the marina down the shore,” he said.

  “I’d love to!” Frank exclaimed.

  Joe, who was tired from his ordeal during the past two nights, shook his head. “I think I’ll ju
st lounge around,” he said. “I don’t feel that great.”

  Frank shot his brother a sidelong glance, but he said nothing. Alter everyone had gotten up from the table, he pulled Joe aside. “Did you have another run-in with the ghost last night?” he questioned.

  “No, just crazy dreams,” Joe replied.

  By three o’clock that afternoon, it started to rain. A storm began to build and an hour later was in full swing. Mr. Hardy and Frank had not returned yet. Joe and his mother were worried, and Joe tried to call the marina from the hotel lobby. He found that the telephone lines were down.

  “Why don’t you go into town and call the Coast Guard,” the manager suggested. “That’s probably faster than driving there. They’re about twelve miles away.”

  “Right!” Joe hurried outside and started off. He found a working telephone in a restaurant and called the Coast Guard, alerting them to the fact that there might be a disabled motorboat on the lake and the the phones at the inn were not working.

  The firm voice on the other end of the line sounded reassuring. “We’ll start looking right away. Don’t worry, we’ll find it. We’ll let you know by shortwave radio as soon as we do.”

  When Joe returned to the inn, he found his mother in the Sheridans’ suite. Everyone was nervously waiting for news. But none came, and the afternoon got darker and darker. Joe was feeling cold with fear. He listened to the foghorn, the crashing of the surf, and the howling of the wind. Any moment he expected to hear the sound of a flute amid the din.

  Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Josiah stood outside, his Yankee face smiling broadly. “I just got a message from the Coast Guard,” he said. “They found Frank and Mr. Hardy. Both are safe and sound at the station.”

  “Thank God!” Mrs. Hardy cried out, and Joe hugged his mother in relief.

  “Their rudder had broken,” Josiah went on. “A Coast Guard copter that managed to brave the storm picked them up. Anyway, because of the terrible weather they’ve decided to spend the night at the station and return in the morning.”

  Everyone cheered his words, and at dinnertime all the guests at the inn held a celebration in honor of the rescued sailors. Then the Sheridans, Mrs. Hardy, Joe, and some other people sat down for a game of cards.