Legends of the Ghost Pirates Read Free Page A

wall-mounted
hat rack with a mirror in the center. On the rack are still two
hats; one a red checked flannel job with ear-flaps, and the other
is sort of a fedora, like they probably wore in the twenties, with
a short feather sticking out the side. It’s funny to think people
used to put feathers in their hats and think they looked cool.
    I carefully grasp the fedora and blow some of the
dust off. Inspecting it closely I then place it on my head and have
a peek in the mirror. I’m not sure my haircut matches the style of
the hat; longer hair just above my shoulders, that’s closer to
blond than brown from the strong summer sun. I usually try and comb
it back Eric Clapton style. Removing the hat, I keep studying
myself staring back. I’m certainly taller than I was last year, and
even slightly taller than most of my friends. My skinny-ish body
doesn’t look too strong, but I know from hauling lobster traps last
summer I’m stronger than most guys my age. I do a quick
‘double-barrel’ pose with both arms curled in the air then puff out
my chest. My gray T-shirt is too loose to show off my bulging
muscles if I had any, and my Levi’s are a little long with frayed
bottoms to look like a proper strong-man pose.
    “Fisher! Quit goofing around. Over here.” Sara’s
standing by a two-way swinging door. “This must go to the kitchen.”
She pushes through and when the door swings back I follow her
in.
    In the far corner by the cabinets in the dim light
looks like another piece of furniture covered with a heavy white
cloth. Suddenly it moves like it's trying to grab us! “AAH!” rips
out of my mouth. Both Sara and I jump back.
    “Well, hello there,” says a woman in a white house
dress who was bent over looking through a cabinet. “I didn't hear
you two come in.” She squints at us with a tilt to her head and an
odd smile. I guess she doesn't get it that we thought she was a
ghost. She's an older woman, probably older than my mom, who kinda
looks like a large pear if a pear had arms and legs and short white
hair. “I'm Martha, Elliot's cousin from Connecticut.
    Sara and I look at each other. It sounds funny to
hear him called Elliot.
    “I think everyone around here knows him as Grandpa
Woodridge. We were cousins. He was much older than me.”
    “Right. Grandpa Woodridge,” I say.
    “There's not much left; the two guys with the trucks
picked over the last of the good stuff. But if you find anything
nifty they missed, it's yours,” she says.
    “Thank you, ma’am,” Sara says.
    I open a kitchen cabinet and take a look inside.
There's only a dented pot with a broken handle; I'm certain I don't
need that.
    After a quick look around the kitchen we move into
the living room. The only thing left is a bad painting of a bird on
the wall.
    “There's not much here,” I say. “Let's get out of
here and go hang out in town.”
    Sara scrunches her face. “I don't want to go back to
town. We just came from there and it was too crowded with
tourists.”
    “You're right,” I say.
    Sara pushes open another door just off to the side.
“Let's just have a look in one more room.”
    Why not. We've got nothing better to do, so I follow
her into the next room.
    It's a little darker in here because the walls are
stained wood paneling. Along two of the walls are bookcases filled
with many old books that look like they haven't been pulled off the
shelves in twenty years. But I do like books; comic books, that is.
“I doubt there's anything good to read.”
    “Only one way to find out,” Sara says.
    I start looking on one end of the shelves while Sara
begins looking through some of the others. Suddenly I sneeze. The
dust is thick. I carefully brush some of the books, trying not to
breathe in any more dust, so I can read the titles. After a few, I
stop. There doesn't seem to be anything interesting. It all seems
old and boring. I notice Sara's carefully pulled out a single book.
It's brown and seems to be larger than the rest,