Spirits of the Pirate House (2 page)

Chapter One

“It was the winter of
their discontent,” said the shaggy-haired boy with a sigh to his
friend as they peered out the frosted bay window to the tumbling
snowflakes.

“You’ve got it wrong. The quote is ‘Now is
the winter of our discontent.’
Richard the Third.
”

“Well excuse
me
, Professor
Shakespeare.”

T.J. frowned, mad at himself for taking out
his frustration on his best friend. Bortnicker could be annoying,
but it wasn’t his fault that it was snowing again. Because it was
always
snowing. The first storm had arrived the day after
Christmas, with blizzard conditions creating ten-foot drifts
against the houses of their hometown of Fairfield, Connecticut.
After that, it seemed they came every four days or so. You’d just
be digging out from the last one and BAM, another foot, causing
traffic snarls and falling trees and something he’d never heard of
before—ice damming, a situation where snow and ice built up on
rooftops, broke off sagging gutters, and leaked water down the
inner walls of living rooms such as his own.

T.J. regarded his distorted reflection in the
window. “A young Paul McCartney” is what he usually got from
adults. “Cute” was the consensus of his female schoolmates, who
considered him non-threatening in a Justin Bieber kind of way.

As far as his buddy, Bortnicker was, well,
different. He took showers and washed his hair and everything but
always seemed unkempt, from the brownish locks that fell across his
Coke-bottle glasses to the always mismatched attire that drew
snickers from the student population of Bridgefield High School,
where the boys were halfway through their freshman year. T.J., who
was fairly social and athletic—he’d just finished his first season
of junior varsity cross country and was considering JV
baseball—more or less looked out for Bortnicker who, try as he
might, was only slightly less inept socially now than he’d been in
middle school.

But though Bortnicker tested his patience
almost daily, T.J. couldn’t turn his back on his longtime friend.
The previous summer the two of them, accompanied by T.J.’s feisty
cousin, LouAnne had shared a life-changing experience which created
an unbreakable bond. T.J. still had trouble fathoming their
encounter with the ghost of a Confederate cavalier on the
battlefield in Gettysburg, PA, where LouAnne lived year round. In
fact, the trio had faced down the homicidal specter in the middle
of the 2010 reenactment as the “battle” swirled around them. Though
it had fallen to LouAnne’s dad, Mike Darcy, to fire the shot that
had blown Major Crosby Hilliard, CSA back into the past, all three
teens, especially Bortnicker, had exhibited extreme bravery under
pressure, and the experience had forever altered T.J.’s perspective
on life and the existence of a hereafter.

Not that there weren’t some rocky patches
down in Pennsylvania. It didn’t help that both boys had more or
less fallen in love with LouAnne, who was T.J.’s cousin by
adoption. It led to a rather uncomfortable competition for her
attention, which had seemed to tip in T.J.’s favor by the end of
the boys’ visit. He could still remember the woozy sensation he got
as she innocently kissed him one night on the roof of her Victorian
house. But Bortnicker, to his credit, hadn’t thrown in the towel,
not by any stretch. In fact, he’d ditched his eccentric allegiance
to the 70s progressive rock band, Steely Dan, to immerse himself in
the music and lore of The Beatles, LouAnne’s listening choice. To
that end, he’d purchased every Beatles CD he could find, as well as
DVDs of the movies
A Hard Day’s Night, Help!, Magical Mystery
Tour, Yellow Submarine, Let it Be,
and
The Beatles
Anthology
boxed set. He’d even taken to, when the inspiration
hit him, affecting a Beatlesque Liverpudlian accent in his
responses to questions, both socially and—to the mortification of
T.J.—in school. Just a couple days ago in Biology class, the
teacher was talking about the likelihood of global warming flooding
the continents and Bortnicker had intoned, “Well isn’t
that
wonderful” in his nasally best John Lennon voice. Of course, most
of Bortnicker’s peers, who thought he was just being stupid, didn’t
get it.

The Beatle thing was only a byproduct of
T.J.’s angst at the moment. Here it was, February Break, also known
as President’s Week, and Fairfield was under siege again. But what
made it worse was that for the second straight vacation, LouAnne
had been forced to cancel a trip north to visit her cousin and his
friend. T.J., who had deflected the advances of a few girls during
the school year, as he carried a torch for his adopted cousin, felt
especially cheated.

Winter sucked.

“Okay,” said Bortnicker, “here’s a good one.
On
The White Album
, who is the song ‘Martha, My Dear’
written about?”

“Martha Washington,” said T.J.
tonelessly.

“Nope.”

“Martha Stewart.”

“Uh-uh.”

“I give up.”

“It was Paul McCartney’s sheepdog! Can you
imagine?”

“No, I can’t,” said T.J. tiredly.

Blessedly, the phone started ringing.

“Aren’t you going to pick up?” said
Bortnicker, while drawing designs on the foggy window.

“It’s ten in the morning on a Wednesday.
Probably a sales call or a business message for my dad.”

“What if it’s LouAnne? I bet she’s at home,
cooped up just like us.”

That was another thing. Bortnicker had been
texting or emailing his cousin all winter with Beatles trivia
questions, which she deftly answered. At last count, he’d stumped
her but twice out of 47 attempts. T.J. had kept in touch with her
also, usually by phone, because her voice always lifted his
spirits. It could get lonely in the huge house he and his dad
inhabited, one that had lacked female warmth after the death of his
mom a few years back. It was even worse when his architect father
was away on one of his periodic business trips, overseeing building
projects all over the world. Thomas Jackson, Sr. provided a cushy
life for both of them, but there was a tradeoff; rarely was T.J.’s
dad around for a cross country meet, and he’d only barely made Open
House Night last fall at Bridgefield High. As a result, T.J. had
become largely self-sufficient, though he cherished time spent with
his dad. Of course, Bortnicker, whose own father had walked out on
him and his mom years ago, was usually on hand to round out the
bachelor trio.

“It might be your dad calling to tell you his
flight’s delayed,” offered Bortnicker. Of course. Dad was on his
way home from Phoenix that night. T.J. sighed and reached for the
phone on its sixth ring.

“Dude, what’s up?” said a gregarious voice on
the other end.

“Wh-who’s this?” questioned T.J.
suspiciously.

“Dude, it’s me! Mike Weinstein! You know,
from
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
?”

T.J. couldn’t help but smile. Mike Weinstein
was the star of The Adventure Channel’s hottest paranormal-themed
show, which was entering its third season. The concept was simple:
Weinstein’s team, which included three 20-something guys and a
girl, would visit paranormal hot spots around the country and try
to make contact with the spirits who reportedly resided there.
Their methods were confrontational and prevocational, which made
for great TV. It didn’t hurt that all of them were buff and wore
skintight
GGC
shirts, either. They were also armed with
every possible gizmo invented to capture spirits on audio or video;
but what set them apart from other shows was the fact that they
served as their own production crew, creating a
Blair Witch
atmosphere that kept audiences tuning in every Wednesday night.

T.J. and LouAnne had met Mike quite by
accident the previous summer when Weinstein, having barely escaped
being murdered by the ghostly Major Hilliard on a midnight
expedition in the battlefield park, overheard the teens discussing
T.J.’s own paranormal encounter with the phantom horseman. Though
Weinstein had played no role in the solving of the Hilliard case,
they made sure to call him and proudly tell their tale, reaffirming
Mike’s already strong belief in the supernatural and keeping them
on his radar. Weinstein could be a bit over the top at times, but
T.J. and Bortnicker loved watching
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
,
secure in the knowledge that it wasn’t all a bunch of baloney after
all.

“Oh, yeah. Hi, Mike. What’s new?”

“Well, as you know, the show’s doing great.
The episode last week at the mental asylum in Alabama was off the
charts in the ratings—”

“Yeah,” said T.J., “that was pretty intense
when Josh thought he was getting possessed by the ghost of the axe
murderer.”

“No doubt. That was a real creepy place.
Anyway, like I said, the ratings are great, and The Adventure
Channel’s making big bucks on us. Have you seen their online store
lately?” Indeed,
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
hats, tee shirts and
other accessories were popping up everywhere—even at school. The
boys found it especially amusing, what with their real-life
adventure in Gettysburg and all.

Bortnicker had now come to the phone, and
T.J. put them on speaker. “So, what can we do for you, Mike?”

There was a pause, surely for dramatic
effect, then Weinstein said, “How much snow is on the ground
there?”

“Eighteen inches, give or take,” said
Bortnicker.

“Kinda makes you wish you could go somewhere
warm and tropical, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said T.J. slowly, raising an eyebrow
at his friend. “But, what’s the point?”

“The point is, dude, that The Adventure
Channel, in its infinite wisdom, is thinking of having some kids
accompany me on a case, which might lead to a spinoff of my
show!”

“You mean, like,
Junior Gonzo Ghost
Chasers
?”

“Something like that.”

“Sounds cool,” said T.J., “but what does that
have to do with me?” Bortnicker quickly cuffed him on the shoulder.
“I mean, us?”

“Well, when the suits pitched the idea to me
for, like, a pilot episode, the first thing I thought of, honest to
God, was the three of you guys. Why go through the trouble of
conducting a nationwide search for serious ghost hunters when I
know three dudes who’ve already done it?”

“Makes sense. But we have this thing called
school—”

“No problem. How does Spring Break in Bermuda
sound?”

Bortnicker was jumping up and down,
feverishly whispering, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” when T.J. shook his head.
“Can’t do it, Mike. First of all, the district superintendent has
already cancelled spring vacation because of all the snow days
we’ve had to take. Second, I’m playing baseball in the spring, and
that’s when the season starts.” At which point Bortnicker collapsed
to the floor, rolling around in agony.

“Hmm,” said Weinstein. “Well, what about the
beginning of June?”

T.J. winked at his friend, who immediately
ceased with the histrionics. “That could happen. I’d have to ask my
dad, of course, and Bortnicker’s mom probably wouldn’t mind. But
what about LouAnne? Is she invited?”

“Invited?
Dude, without her you have
no shot
. Don’t you understand how TV works? You need at
least one girl, and it just so happens your cousin is a teenage
fox. Or haven’t you noticed?”

Bortnicker was now grinning from ear-to-ear,
nodding his head knowingly.

“Yeah, well, I’d have to talk to her and her
folks. That’s near the high season in Gettysburg, and she works in
that inn doing the reenacting thing, remember?”

“Dude, she’ll make a summer’s worth of loot
in a couple weeks, which is how long I figure it’ll take for us to
shoot.”

“Well, I guess it’s worth exploring,” said
T.J., who was cautious by nature. “But why Bermuda?”

Weinstein’s reply got their blood running:
“Pirates.”

“Get out.”

“No joke, dude. And oh, another thing ... are
any of you guys certified SCUBA divers?”

Chapter Two

“
Pirates? You mean
like, ‘Arrgh, matey’? You can’t be serious,” said LouAnne as she
painted her toenails before a crackling fire in
Gettysburg.

“This is the real deal, Cuz,” answered T.J.
as Bortnicker stood by. “According to Mike Weinstein, The Adventure
Channel will put us up in some beachfront apartments for the whole
time we’re there filming. The hotel and airfare are free. We’ll
just need one adult to come along as a chaperone.”

“Well, you can count out my parents. Mom’s
afraid of flying, and Dad’s not going to take time off as a park
ranger during the Battlefield’s high season.”

“We’re going to work on Mr. Jackson,” offered
Bortnicker, “and save my mom as a last resort.”

“I don’t know, guys,” said LouAnne, “you know
how it gets in Gettysburg near Reenactment Week.”

“You’d be back with a couple weeks to spare,”
assured T.J. “Besides, Weinstein said we’re gonna get
paid
for this. Just think—getting paid to go to Bermuda and hunt
ghosts!”

LouAnne chuckled. “Listen, Cuz, I know it
sounds too good to be true, but don’t you think it’ll just be a
cheesy TV thing? Do you really think
anything
like last
summer could happen again?”

“Probably not,” said Bortnicker, “but even if
it’s a wild goose chase, who cares? Look out the window, my dear.
How cold is it in Gettysburg, like 20 below? Can’t you just see
those palm trees swaying in the breeze? And that famous Bermuda
pink sand? The turquoise water—”

“Okay, Bortnicker, I get it. It’s a vacay
opportunity I’d never otherwise have, at least until after college.
And you’re sure you two can’t do this without me?”

“That’s what Weinstein said,” answered T.J.
“And besides,” he added, shooting Bortnicker a wink, “we’re a team.
No way can we function without you.”