Seven Dead Pirates Read Free

until he had to.

T he Dearborns drove to Shornoway ahead of the moving van. As they crunched down the gravel driveway, Lewis leaned forward to catch a first glimpse.
    It was a house to feel sorry for, he thought, like an old beggar lady who used to be beautiful. It stood tall against the bright summer sky, but the white paint was peeling badly, and gray wood showed beneath. Two windows were boarded over, while others gaped blindly between sagging shutters. Thistles choked the knee-high grass.
    The car stopped. Lewis looked up. There! The tower room, where his ship in a bottle would be. The room faced the sea, so Lewis could see only the back of itfrom here. But he’d gazed up so often from the beach that he knew exactly what it looked like—round, with three tall windows and a pointed roof. Like a castle tower! As for the inside … well, he’d never actually
been
inside the tower. The top floor of Shornoway, too expensive to heat, had been shut off for years.
    The front door banged open. Out burst Mrs. Binchy, red-faced and clutching a broom.
    “Here already? Just let me get a few of these cobwebs.” She whacked her broom enthusiastically into a dusty corner. “There now! Come in. Sorry for my appearance, Mrs. Dearborn. I meant to change. Where does the time go?”
    The housekeeper brushed at a sagging skirt that might have been blue once, but was now a dishwater gray. Her T-shirt read PROPERTY OF ALCATRAZ, and her oversized slippers had been inherited, Lewis knew, from her dead husband, Fred.
    “I do my best,” she said, leading the way into the parlor, “but this place has seen better days …”
    Of course, the Dearborns had been to Shornoway many times before, but always as visitors. It was a shock, Lewis realized, to come here to
live
, especially for someone as particular as his mother. Mrs. Dearborn limped slowly across the cracked linoleum, leaningon the cane she needed for her knee problem. Glancing around at the wallpaper—pink tulips, stained with yellow-brown streaks—she let out a derisive snort. Her gaze fixed on Great-Granddad’s favorite chair, an oversized monstrosity the color of crusted gravy. Stuffing sprouted like toadstools through a dozen holes. Slowly, her eyes closed.
    “Perhaps a few flowers?” said Mrs. Binchy.
    “Mrs. Binchy, thank you,” said Lewis’s father. “We’ll … er, manage.”
    “I’ll see what I can do about that oven then. It’s on the fritz again.”
    Lewis followed her to the kitchen. “Mrs. Binchy? Great-Granddad left me something in his will. He—”
    “The ship!” said Mrs. Binchy. “Yes, dear, I heard. You’ll want the key to the tower room. Now where did it get to?”
    She shifted a dripping jam pot on the counter. “Ah. Here!”
    Lewis stared. The key was like a key in a fairy tale—long and thin with interesting, complicated bits at the end.
    “Straight up the back staircase,” said Mrs. Binchy. “You know where that is?”
    Lewis nodded. “But isn’t it closed off?” For as long as he could remember, a rough plywood wall, coveredwith pink insulation, had blocked the back stairs.
    “Not anymore. I had a fellow come yesterday to bash it open. Up the stairs, turn right, all the way to the last door.”
    Lewis hesitated, wanting to ask more, but the housekeeper’s head was already in the oven. Banging noises emerged.
    The old staircase creaked as he climbed the steep, narrow steps. His nose tickled in the dry, fusty air, and he fought back a sneeze. Reaching the next floor, he tiptoed down a hall, where he passed several doors. One was open, exposing a rusty bed frame.
    The end of the hall was dark. Lewis fumbled with the key, trying not to breathe the stale air. At last, the lock clicked. The door swung open into the tower.
    A gust of fresh sea breeze hit him like a blow, ruffling his hair and ballooning his T-shirt away from his body. He stepped forward, surprised, and squinted in the bright sunlight. Eight high walls formed an