Legends of the Ghost Pirates Read Free

leans out the window and points
to the sign just below the menu. It says, Do NOT feed the
seagulls. The management will not be responsible. The dad looks
back at the mom with his upturned hands.
    From the parking lot there's screeching and
squawking erupting over the torn lobster parts. The two gulls have
now turned into a dozen, each fighting over every scrap.
    As I'm taking the last bite of my hotdog, Sara sits
down beside me. “Hi, Fisher. How's the hotdog I made for you?”
    “Mmm...good,” I say between chewing. “Just the right
amount of relish. You almost ready to go?”
    Sara turns to watch the family leave, and says,
“Just let me punch out then we can go.” She stands up and while
removing her white apron, quickly walks over to the kitchen's side
screen door.
    Soon we are both riding our bikes down Main Street,
being careful not to run over any of the wondering tourists. We are
headed over to Grandpa Woodridge's old house. He's really not my
grandpa, that's just what everyone in town used to call him. I
never knew his first name was Elliot until last year when he passed
away. Since then his family has taken many of the items he left
behind. But in a few weeks the house is going to be put up for
sale, so the family told everyone in town they could help
themselves to whatever was left. Today, it's sort of a free rummage
sale. I doubt there's anything good left, but Sara and I thought
we'd have a look around just for the heck of it.
    After riding only a few miles, there's a long gravel
driveway which leads to Grandpa Woodridge's house.
    The house, which is not too big but looks like it's
been added on to several times over the years, sits in a heavily
wooded area. Even though it's late in the afternoon and a bright
sunny day, it's shady and dark near the house. Around the house is
a full wrap-around porch with a few green Adirondack chairs and a
two-person swing. On the side of the house is a lot of firewood
neatly stacked that must have taken Grandpa Woodridge all summer to
collect and chop.
    Getting off our bikes we lean them up against the
porch. There's one car and two pickup trucks also parked off to the
side. Sara looks at me and says, “He's been dead now for a full
year. What do you think it's like in there? I'm starting to feel
weird about looking through a dead guy’s house.”
    “Relax,” I say holding her hand. “It's no big deal.
It's not like his ghost will be greeting us at the door.” The two
of us walk up the wooden steps toward the front screen door. When I
open it to let Sara go through first, the old rusted spring makes a
straining noise. Inside, it takes us a moment for our eyes to
adjust, and when they do we can tell the house has been picked over
pretty good by the relatives.
    “Do you think there's anyone here?” Sara asks as she
steps into the living room. Most of the chairs that are still left
behind have heavy white cloth covering them which gives them the
images of ghosts hovering in a room.
    “Hello!” I shout out. We both listen for a moment.
Nothing. “It's kinda weird that the door would be wide open.”
    “There's no reason to lock it because they said
anyone is free to take whatever they want,” Sara says. “Besides,
there's other vehicles parked out front. There must be someone else
in here.”
    I try again. “Hello. Seems to me we've got the place
to ourselves. Let's have a look around.” Inside the living room
there's only three stuffed chairs left that are so worn out no one
would want to put in their home, but I bet they're still pretty
comfortable. “It's too bad my fort washed away in a storm, these
chairs would have been perfect in there.”
    I had built a very cool fort down by the water’s
edge, but the summer I was not here, while I was hiding on Hunter's
Island, Sara had said the fort was washed away one night in a bad
storm. If I ever do that again I'll just have to build it above the
high-tide mark.
    Just behind the front door is a wooden