Haunted Island (5 page)

“He’s dead,” I said, and shivered. I didn’t want to talk about Shadow’s grave and the howling in the night. I just wanted to get away from this island as fast as I could.

There were five men, and they divided up into two groups to go looking for Joshua. Two men went along the riverbank, and two went toward the woods. One man stayed with the boat. I went with Mr. Owens and Mr. Taylor, who headed across the pasture and into the woods. In the distance I could hear the other men calling Joshua’s name. We called, too, but he didn’t answer.

So many trees had fallen that it was hard to make our way through the piney woods. We had to watch out for soft places and spots where the ground had dropped.

“I had a horse once who broke a leg stepping through the top of one of these old limestone caves.” Mr. Owens grumbled and puffed as he skirted a deep hole and climbed over a fallen tree.

“Why doesn’t Joshua answer us?” Mr. Taylor asked. He stopped and took a couple of deep breaths. “Do you suppose he’s got himself hurt and is lying somewhere, needing help?”

I had to say it. “I think we might find him near Shadow’s grave.”

I led them toward the top edge of the woods, where the pines met the meadow, and where Joshua had buried Shadow. Sure enough, there he was, standing still and looking out over the river. Joshua could see the boat. He must have heard the shouting of his name. He had to know we were looking for him.

Mr. Owens, who was out of breath, was impatient. “Joshua,” he said, “didn’t you hear all the ruckus we were making, trying to find you?”

Joshua didn’t speak. He just slowly turned and stared at Mr. Owens. In the late sunlight Joshua’s eyes were wide and red and angry.

Mr. Owens took a step backward. He looked a little scared of Joshua, but he said, “We’ve been spending a lot of time searching for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Joshua said.

Mr. Taylor tried to smooth things over. “We came to help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Joshua, your house is damaged. You’re cut off from the town. You’ll need—”

Joshua thundered at him, “I don’t need anything from the town or from you! Get off my property!”

Mr. Taylor didn’t want to give up. “Won’t you please come with us, Joshua?”

“No! Get out of here! This land belongs to me, and I’m never going to leave it!”

Mr. Owens tugged at Mr. Taylor’s coat sleeve. “Come on, Jim,” he said.

“But he can’t stay here by himself.”

“He’s in no mood to come with us now. We can try again later.”

Joshua raised his fists, waving them in the air, and groaned so loudly that his body shuddered. Mr. Taylor, Mr. Owens, and I scurried across the pasture back to the beach as fast as we could go. The other search party had returned, so Mr. Taylor explained everything to them. We all climbed into the boat and rowed to the town.

It was a terrifying time. Just as repair work was well underway, another series of earthquakes hit. They began toward the end of January, and when people thought the worst was over, the quakes came again, toward the end of the first week of February. From that horrible moment on December 12, until the February quakes were over, hundreds of earthquakes took place. No one could believe what was happening. It wasn’t real. It was like a nightmare that wouldn’t end.

Everyone in town worked night and day trying to make repairs and to take care of each other. There was so much to do and think about that we all forgot about Joshua Hanover, until one day in late February, Mr. Taylor got together some men to row to the island to see if Joshua needed or wanted help.

I didn’t go. I didn’t want to see him again. But I was curious enough to be waiting at the dock when the men returned.

Joshua wasn’t with them.

“He wouldn’t come?” I was astonished.

“He
couldn’t
come,” Mr. Taylor said. “Joshua Hanover is dead. We found his body lying across the grave he had made for his dog. The place you showed us, Amos. We buried him there.”

Amos Corley was silent for a few moments.

Then he said, “No one returned to the island for many years, until—”

He paused again, and Chris asked, “Until what?”

“Until some of us began talking about what happened during that quake and about Amelia and—” His voice drifted off.

“And what?”

“I was older,” Amos said. “By this time I was a young man. I’d made a place for myself in town and was working for Mr. Owens in his store. Maybe I was a bit foolish, but one night, when I was with some friends, I began to tell everything that had happened on the island, things I had kept to myself, which I had never mentioned before.”

Harvey Owens, son of the man who had hired me, leaned forward eagerly. “Amos,” he said. “You’re telling us that Joshua Hanover really did keep his money in a canvas sack.”

“That’s what I said. I saw it. I held it.”

“And you handed it to his wife and saw her run toward the woods with it.”

“That’s right.”

“I remember the river that night of the earthquake,” he said. “It was wild. For a while the river even ran backward. She couldn’t have taken that sack of money into a small rowboat and survived.”

“I don’t think she did. I think the wall of water tore the boat away when it destroyed the pier.”

“The bag of money was heavy. Right?” Harvey asked.

“Yes.”

“So if Amelia Hanover wanted to escape, whether she took the boat or not, she probably didn’t try to carry that heavy canvas bag with her.”

“I suppose not,” I said. It made sense.

“So the bag of money must be somewhere on the island.”

“We searched and searched. We couldn’t find Amelia or the money.”

“You didn’t look in the right places. You searched where Joshua searched.”

“What are you getting at?” I asked Harvey.

Harvey sat back and grinned. “A treasure hunt. Somewhere on that island is a bag of money! Let’s find it!”

Everybody got excited about it—except me. The idea of setting foot on that island again terrified me, but I didn’t want my friends to know it, so I agreed.

We planned it for the next day, because it was Saturday, but we all had jobs to do, so it was late in the afternoon before we climbed into a boat and rowed to the island.

The day was quiet and warm, and the afternoon sun laid a soft glow over Joshua Hanover’s meadow. The grasses were overgrown and ragged, and a deathly silence covered the island like a blanket. There wasn’t even a bird to be heard. I could tell that the others felt almost as nervous as I did.

“Shush!” someone whispered. “Listen.”

But there was nothing to hear.

Harvey spoke up bravely. “There’s no point in standing around here. Tell us, Amos. In which direction did Amelia Hanover run?”

I pointed up the meadow, toward the woods. Harvey started out, and the rest of us followed. With each step I felt worse about what we were doing, and I began to have that strange sensation again that something was watching me.

We were almost at the edge of the woods when we heard a cry that frightened us into statues. None of us could move. We could only stare ahead at the edge of the woods as a maddened black dog raced forth. Behind him rose the ghost of a tall, gaunt man whose eyes blazed with fire. He raised his fists high into the air, glared at us, and shouted, “Vengeance!”

“I
S THAT REALLY TRUE?”
Amy huddled into the rocker and wrapped her arms around herself, as though the ghosts were on this porch.

“Of course it’s true,” Amos said.

“What did you do when you saw the ghosts?”

“We turned and ran as fast as we could down to the boat. A few years later someone else tried to hunt for the treasure on the island, but came back frightened and trembling and reported seeing the ghosts of Joshua Hanover and Shadow. No one ever set foot on the island again.”

Chris spoke up. “I don’t believe anyone saw a ghost. I think people heard the stories and were scared and imagined what they saw.”

“Believe what you will,” Amos said.

Chris thought a moment. “Do you really think the sack of coins is there?”

“It’s not up to me to say.”

“I’d like to go to the island,” Chris said.

“No!” Amy said.

“Yes!” Chris turned to Amy. “Don’t you see? This is our chance to prove the stories are just old superstitions. We can look around the island and get some ideas for Aunt Jennie, so she can make it into a picnic area. When we come back and report that the island is a great place to visit—without a ghost in sight—people won’t be afraid to visit the island. Aunt Jennie could carry out her plans for the inn.”

“Well, maybe,” Amy said.

“Besides,” Chris said. “What if we find the sack of money? That would help Aunt Jennie pay her bills.”

“I think you should, go,” Amos told them. His eyes shone with eagerness. “It’s time for the ghosts to be laid to rest.”

Their mother called from inside the house, “Chris! Amy! It’s getting late!”

“I’ll take you to the island if you like,” Amos said.

Chris got to his feet. “Yes!” he said. “When?”

“Be at the dock in town tomorrow morning before five o’clock.”

“That’s awfully early,” Amy said.

“We’ll be there,” Chris said. “Before five. And thanks. Thanks for telling us the story.”

“Hey, you two, where are you?” their mother called. “It’s too dark to be out there.”

“Coming!” Amy called. She and Chris hurried into the house.

Their mother and Aunt Jennie were in the downstairs bathroom, struggling with a strip of wallpaper. “This is a small room,” Aunt Jennie said. “We haven’t got enough space to maneuver. We need the two of you to get in here and put this strip of paper in that tiny alcove behind the door.”

As they squeezed around each other, changing places, Chris said, “We were on the porch, talking to Amos Corley.”

“Who’s Amos Corley?” Aunt Jennie asked.

“Doesn’t he work for you?”

“I don’t think so. Of course, I don’t know the names of all the workmen who’ve been here. But what is he doing on the back porch so late in the evening?” She immediately walked to the back door, opened it, and looked out. “No one’s on the porch,” she said.

“He probably left when we came inside,” Chris said.

“He told us about the big earthquake,” Amy said. “You know, the one when the river split and made your island.”

“That was a terrible quake,” Aunt Jennie said. “I’ve read about it. It went on and on for three months. It was the worst quake ever to take place in the United States.”

“I remember reading about that earthquake, too,” their mother said. “In fact, I think you gave me the magazine article.” She turned to Amy and Chris. “That first earthquake was so violent that the shock waves were felt as far away as Boston!”

“Wow!” Chris said. “Amos told us how awful it felt to be in it.” He ran the brush over the strip of wallpaper, checking to see that it was perfectly straight.

“He must have read about it, too,” Aunt Jennie said.

“No. He was there,” Chris said. He squeezed out of the bathroom and wiped the paste from his hands to his jeans. “He was living on the island—before it became an island—when the quakes took place.”

“He couldn’t have been,” their mother said. She began picking up the bucket and tools they’d been using.

“Why not?” Chris asked.

“Because the quakes took place during December of 1811 and the first two months of 1812, that’s why.”

“The room looks great, kids. Thanks for your help,” Aunt Jennie said. She and Liz went toward the kitchen to clean up.

“I don’t understand this,” Amy said to Chris. “If Amos was thirteen in 1811, that would make him practically two hundred years old! He couldn’t be that old!”

Chris shrugged. “He was telling a good story, and just put himself into it. He didn’t think we’d ask anyone about the date of the earthquake.”

“You mean he was just trying to scare us?” Amy stood up straighter. “Well, we’ll show him we don’t believe in his crazy old ghosts.”

Chris chuckled. “We’ll go with him tomorrow to the island. It will give us a chance to prove that the island isn’t haunted. But don’t let on to him that we know the truth.” He poked Amy on the shoulder. “And don’t tell anyone that we’re going. We’ll have a great surprise for Aunt Jennie!”

Amy giggled. “This is going to be fun.”

But the next morning, so early there was a gray mist over the river, it didn’t seem to be fun. Chris and Amy got up early and sneaked out of the house to find the ground still soggy from the week of heavy rain. The summer air wasn’t as hot and sticky as it would be later in the day, so Amy wore a sweater over her T-shirt and jeans. Chris was also wearing a cotton shirt with his jeans, and both of them wore sneakers.

Amos was waiting for them, so Chris and Amy greeted him and climbed into Amos’s old battered rowboat.

Amos wasn’t as talkative as he had been the night before, which was all right with Chris. It was too early and quiet to talk. Amy sat huddled against Chris, her sweater wrapped tightly around her. Now and then she’d shiver. Their feet were wet, and the water in the bottom of the boat seemed to be growing deeper.

“The boat’s leaking,” Chris told Amos.

Amos handed Chris a large, rusty tin can. “It’s an old boat. Won’t last much longer. Better bail out some of that water.”

“Is it far?” Chris asked. He worked hard, but it didn’t help. The boat was sinking fast.

Chris tried to peer ahead through the fog. They were slowly and steadily getting close to the island. He could hear wavelets slapping the beach, and now and then he could see the dark outlines of the tops of the pines.

Suddenly Amos lifted the oars, resting them on the sides of the boat in their locks. “We’re almost on the island,” he said. “Just a few more feet, and you can beach the boat.”

“Thank goodness!” Amy whispered.

“This is as far as I can go with you,” Amos said.

“What do you mean?” Chris asked.

But Amos answered, “You have a job to do. You must put the ghosts to rest.”

Before Amy or Chris could move or speak, Amos began to slowly dissolve. Chris reached out a hand to clutch him, to hold him, but Amos was no longer there. For an instant only his eyes remained, two bright spots staring through the mist.