Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  “To tell you the truth,” said Bortnicker, dividing his stack of money into separate piles, “I don’t know if I could eat much right now anyway. I’m really nervous about tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” said T.J., looking out over the cliffs of Astwood Park to the ocean and horizon beyond. “Tell you what, I’ve got the same feeling like the first time the three of us went on the battlefield last year to find Hilliard. It’s as if he was drawn to us like a magnet.”

  “I remember. And, big as that house is, it’s a lot smaller than the Battlefield Park. If Tarver’s there, he’ll come calling.”

  “I guess Mike’ll let you and Ronnie buddy up,” said T.J. “I’m sure she’ll be able to work the handheld movie cam while you explore.”

  “Yeah, just me ‘n her, and a lot of dark spaces,” Bortnicker said, trying to be funny.

  “Stop clowning around,” shot back T.J. “We’ve got a job to do, and besides, she’s so mad at this guy she’s gonna be all business.”

  “You’re right,” relented Bortnicker. “This should be really interesting.” He paused and crinkled his eyes. “Maybe I do have room for a snack after all. Let’s go.”

  * * * *

  Constance Tilbury watched Nigel Chapford’s black minivan with the Gonzo Ghost Chasers vinyl decal turn into the driveway of Hibiscus House from the front entrance doorway, her lips pressed together so tightly they were bloodless. Her day so far had been disastrous, to say the least. First, she had been roused from her sleep by an inspector of the Bermuda Police to inform her of the discovery of Willie B.’s body. Then had come a terrible row with the members of the Bermuda Heritage Trust over whether to let the TV people go through with their scheduled investigation that evening. Of course, she had been outvoted again, the rationale of her colleagues being that the Junior Gonzo Ghost Chasers had only a few days left on the island and had been promised a couple visits by the authorities. Why should the accidental death of a thief dash their plans to jumpstart island tourism with worldwide exposure of Hibiscus House that a prime time show on The Adventure Channel would provide? When one of the younger upstarts on the committee had volunteered to take up the reins for her as the “go to” person for the remainder of the project, she had firmly declined, assuring them that she could handle it despite her misgivings. To acquiesce to their suggestions that she step aside would be an admission of her ineffectiveness as chairperson. And so she waited, standing proud and tall, as Nigel Chapford and Mike Weinstein began unloading the various black trunks and suitcases with Gonzo Ghost Chasers stenciled on the sides.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” she managed. “Do you need any help with those?”

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Tilbury,” replied Chappy affably. “No worries ... we can bring these in easily enough.”

  Weinstein, sporting one of those ghastly GGC tee shirts, shook her hand gently. “If you don’t mind, ma’am,” he said politely, “we’ll set them down in the foyer for a bit, along with a couple card tables and folding chairs we’ve brought along. If you could just show me where the closest outlets are, I can start hooking up the computer screens and such.”

  Tilbury suppressed a grimace as Chapford lugged a wind-up reel of extension cord into the house, then turned back to Weinstein. “Would you like a quick tour?”

  “That would be much appreciated.”

  “All right then,” she said primly, “come along.”

  He followed her around, taking notes in a small loose-leaf pad, as she went through the house’s history, from its construction in the early 1700s to the dates of its various renovations and additions. Of course, he was given the sanitized version; no mention was made of slave ships or plantation cruelty.

  When they entered Tarver’s library, Weinstein was immediately struck by the size of the Captain’s portrait, which hung above the fireplace. “He cut quite a dashing figure,” said Mike tactfully, probing for information.

  “That he did,” was her clipped response.

  “Uh, where is he buried?” inquired Weinstein, casting about for any nuggets. “Is there a family burial plot on the property?”

  “No. Both the Captain and Mrs. Tarver are interred in the family crypt in the cemetery of St. Anne’s Church in Southampton Parish, which dates back to the early 1700s.”

  “Really,” said Mike, making a notation in his writing pad. “Is the crypt above ground, like a walk- in? Maybe we could—”

  “Mr. Weinstein,” she scolded irritably, “you apparently have neglected to research Bermudian burial customs. Here is the way it works: each family has a plot. A trench is dug for the first of the deceased, and the casket is lowered to the bottom. Then, a layer of palm fronds is put over the casket. This is done with each succeeding casket, until they reach the top of the crypt, which is covered with a slab of stone and perhaps a monument.

  “When the hole is filled, it’s everybody out. The coffins, or what’s left of them, are discarded, as are the rotting clothes or whatever else is in there. The skeletons are removed and placed at the bottom of the hole, again covered with palm leaves, and the process begins again.

  “Upon completion of the second ‘stack’, if you will, the original first layer of skeletons is pulverized and covered with the second layer. And then we repeat the alternating of coffins and palm leaves. Thus, you can have multiple generations piled upon each other.” She gave a self-satisfied half smile as Weinstein wrote furiously.

  “But ... I thought the Tarver’s were childless.”

  “They were, unfortunately. Since there were no offspring, the only people in the Tarver crypt are the captain and the missus, who survived him by a good many years, at which time the estate was abandoned and then fell into a state of disrepair until it was rescued by the Bermuda Heritage Trust, restored, and established as a museum.”

  “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Tilbury,” said Mike, closing the writing pad. “One last question. If you had to describe William Tarver in one sentence, what would it be?”

  She gave him an icy look. “Sir William Tarver was a patriot and a cornerstone of our island’s history. This house is a testament to his legacy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to be off. What time do you estimate as the conclusion of your activities tonight?”

  Mike blew out his cheeks and looked around. “Well,” he said, “we have a lot of rooms to cover, but I can’t see it going past 2:00 a.m.”

  “That late?”

  “Believe me, Mrs. Tilbury, we’ve had sessions that have gone longer, sometimes till sunrise. But I’m factoring in the possibility of a second investigation, as per our original agreement.”

  “Oh, that,” she sniffed. “Well, I don’t have to tell you that I think you’re on a fool’s errand. My prediction is that you’ll find absolutely nothing tonight that would warrant further activities. All this is, is a beautiful house.”

  “That may be, ma’am,” he said as politely as possible, “but remember, you called us.”

  She breathed out slowly, holding her anger in check. “That we did. I’d only ask that you try to leave everything exactly as you found it, and tell your team that you will be held accountable for any broken or damaged furnishings. And please don’t leave any windows or doorways open. We’re expecting some rain tonight. Good day.”

  With that, Constance Tilbury marched out of Hibiscus House with a quick nod to Chappy, who offered a brief bow of respect as she blew by him.

  “Wow,” said Mike as Tilbury gunned her Mini and took off down the long drive. “She’s not a happy camper. Any reason for her to be so defensive?”

  “Mrs. Tilbury’s set in her ways, Mr. Weinstein,” said Chappy coolly, unfolding a card table. “She just wants this to be over, I’m afraid.” He felt badly about not leveling with Mike at this point, but figured it was for the best.

  “Well, whatever. Just help me get the tables set up here and you can take off. Bring the kids back around six and we’ll get the show on the road.”

  “Will do.”


  Weinstein shot the driver a sideways look. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “The thing is, I’m confused here. When our producers get contacted by the places who want us to investigate them, they’re thrilled to be selected for the show. Then, when our team shows up on site they practically fall all over themselves making us feel comfortable, showing us around, and putting us in touch with people who have supposedly had experiences at the site so we can interview them.”

  “That’s understandable,” said Chappy.

  “Of course it is, because once the show airs, whether the place is a fort or a prison or a hotel, the visitor rate increases by like 75 percent.

  “Which is why, on an island that seems to pride itself on hospitality, this has to be the least amount of cooperation we’ve ever gotten. It’s like they want us gone, and in a hurry.”

  Chappy snapped open a folding chair, searching for the right words. “I think you’re doing a bit of generalizing,” he said calmly. “Even on her best day, Constance Tilbury can be maddeningly disagreeable. Unfortunately, she’s the point person for the Bermuda Heritage Trust when it comes to the various buildings. I apologize for her brusqueness.”

  Mike waved him off. “It’s not your fault, Chappy,” he said, uncoiling an extension cable. “I just get the feeling there’s stuff going on we don’t know about but should.”

  “In all fairness,” countered Chappy, “your group, of which I am a part by association, is withholding information itself, or have you forgotten about the discovery of the Steadfast and its cargo?”

  “You got me there,” admitted Mike. “Oh well, we’ll just make the best of it. I think the kids are gonna do a great job.”

  “I would agree,” said Chappy. “I’ll have them back here by six, as promised.”

  “Thanks, Chappy,” said Mike, extending his hand. “I can’t tell you how much of a help you’ve been, man.”

  “No worries,” he said reassuringly, hoping the nervous sweat that was now running down his back wouldn’t be visible on the way out of Hibiscus House.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The teens, attired in their black Gonzo Ghost Chasers tee shirts and shorts, were waiting when Chappy pulled into the Jobson’s Cove Apartments lot. “T.J., your father phoned to say he’ll be meeting us at Hibiscus House,” said the driver as they piled in. “He was having a late lunch with Ms. Cosgrove.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Bortnicker devilishly as he popped Yellow Submarine into the console. “Hey, Chappy, your band was amazing last night. Thanks for inviting us.”

  “Yeah,” agreed T.J., “it was a great time.”

  “You know it had to be great if these two would actually get on the dance floor,” joked LouAnne.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Miss LouAnne,” said Chappy wryly, “I believe the young gentlemen comported themselves quite admirably. There was a sense of romance in the air, I think.” He gave Bortnicker, who turned beet red, a conspiratorial wink.

  “Do you think it’s gonna rain, Chappy?” said T.J., tactfully changing the subject.

  “I think you can count on it before the night’s out,” said the driver. “Hopefully it will blow through quickly.”

  “Think Sir William’s going to show up?” asked LouAnne as she watched the swishing palm trees fly by.

  “I couldn’t say. I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round.”

  “Hey, that’s from a John Lennon song!” remarked Bortnicker proudly.

  “And where do you think he got the phrase?” smiled Chapford.

  * * * *

  “Wow,” said Bortnicker as the minivan began its climb up the driveway. “Looks like the captain was living large.”

  “It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen,” marveled LouAnne. “Like a fairy tale.”

  “Yeah,” cautioned T.J., “but remember, we’re looking for what’s inside, and it might not be too pleasant.”

  As they pulled up to the ornate, hand-carved teak door, Mike came outside, his body exuding nervousness and excitement. “Welcome to Hibiscus House,” he said with a grand sweep of his arm, “home to Bermuda’s very own slave-driving pirate, William Tarver.”

  As the kids got out, Weinstein jogged around the car to the driver’s side window. “What’s your plan, Chappy?” he said.

  “I think I’ll just park off to the side and wait it out,” he said calmly. “No sense in going all the way back home. I brought a book, and I might just take a nap as well.” What he didn’t say was that he wanted to be right there if someone was injured or the police had to be summoned quickly.

  “Fine with me,” answered Weinstein.

  As if on cue, Tom Sr. cruised into the estate entrance, followed by Jasper Goodwin’s vintage Toyota, from which Ronnie alighted. Jasper parked near Chappy and approached Tom Sr., who was removing his helmet. “So good to see you again, Tom,” he said. “Seems like a lot has changed since our merry feast a few nights ago after we found the bell.”

  “Yes,” said Tom Sr., shaking his hand in greeting. “The kids told me all about the slave find. Sorry it came out that way.”

  “What’s done is done. I’m just concerned about my daughter’s well-being now. Will you be sure to keep an eye on her tonight? She’s been rather agitated since that last dive.”

  “We’ll all keep our eyes open tonight, don’t you worry. And I’ll make sure she gets home safely.”

  “Thank you.” The Divemaster looked skyward at the gathering storm clouds. “Even so, Veronique has my cell number, if I can be of any assistance.”

  “I’m sure it’ll go just fine,” Tom Sr. said. “Mike’s an old pro at conducting these investigations.”

  “You’re probably right,” sighed Goodwin. “It’s just that ... there’s something wrong with this house. I just can’t say quite what.” With that he returned to the car and eased off down the driveway.

  “Glad you made it,” said Bortnicker to Ronnie, who was dressed in a black tee shirt and shorts.

  She gave him a quick hug. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Okay, dudes,” said Mike, calling the teens together on the front entrance landing. “Time for us to film our intros. I’m going to do the greeting, which will play before the dive sequences when we put the show together. Then, each of you give a good sound bite of what you’ll be looking for tonight in our first investigation. Got it?”

  “Got it,” they said in unison.

  “Okay, then,” he said, handing LouAnne the camcorder. “If you’ll do the honors, I’ll get things started.”

  She took the camera and counted in from three, then gave a quick thumbs-up.

  “Behind me is Hibiscus House, the palatial mansion built by Sir William Tarver on the idyllic island of Bermuda in the 1700s. For many years it has been one of the most visited spots on the island, but it has been vacant for the past six months.

  “Hibiscus House has always been active in the paranormal sense, but apparently things have ratcheted up to the point where nobody wants to work here.

  “Is Hibiscus House cursed? Is the ghost of William Tarver haunting these grounds, and what secrets are there to discover about Bermuda’s most famous pirate?

  “We’re here to find out. I have assembled a team of talented teenaged ghost chasers who will try to get to the bottom of this mystery—”

  A rumble of thunder briefly interrupted Weinstein, who then added, “A perfect evening for a haunting, wouldn’t you agree? Welcome to Junior Gonzo Ghost Chasers, Bermuda.”

  “Great job, Mike,” said LouAnne, clicking off.

  “Yeah,” agreed Bortnicker, “and the background thunder was cool!”

  Weinstein took the camcorder from LouAnne. “Okay,” he said, “you’re up first, babe. Smile big and tell us what you’re looking for tonight.”

  “During tonight’s investigation I want to contribute a little more than I have been,” she said confidently. “Since I wasn’t a participant on o
ur two dives, I hope to find out more about Sir William by actually recording him.”

  Bortnicker shot a wink to Ronnie, who stood behind Mike, and said, “We’ve found out some pretty nasty stuff about William Tarver on our dives, like the fact that he owned slaves. I want him to show up so I can confront him on this and find out how he felt living like a king while others suffered.”

  T.J. offered, “William Tarver seems to be a man of contradictions who’s always been looked at as a Bermudian hero. I want to find out his true colors and set history straight.”

  “Outstanding, dudes!” cried Mike. “If this is any indication, tonight’s gonna be awesome. Let’s go inside and I’ll show you the layout.”

  The entourage, save for Chappy, who lowered the seatback of the minivan for a snooze, ventured inside as the first soft rain of the storm proceeded to fall. They began on the second floor and toured the various bedrooms and suites, gradually making their way back down the grand staircase where, unbeknownst to them, Willie B. had met his demise the previous night. Then it was on to the sumptuous bedroom of William Tarver, which looked out on the rear gallery and provided sweeping views of the fields where his slaves toiled in the Bermuda sun. They finished in the library under the glowering eyes of Tarver’s portrait.

  The house itself was immaculate; not one piece of furniture or the Irish lace doilies that protected them was out of place. The entire mansion smelled of old wood and polish.

  “Get your bearings now,” reminded Mike, “and try to remember where everything is, because when we go ‘lights out’ for the investigation it’s going to be pretty weird, at least at first.” He led them back down the long ground floor hallway to the entrance foyer, where he’d set up a bank of computer terminals that would monitor virtually every passageway and room in the house. With Tom Sr. looking on he pointed out the locations of static night vision cameras he’d set up that afternoon. “They’ll constantly be recording, so we’ll pick up any anomalies that surface. If Tom or I see something on the DVR’s, say, in one of the upstairs rooms, we’ll direct one of you teams to get right on it.”