Read Spirits of the Pirate House Online
Authors: Paul Ferrante
Tags: #history, #paranormal, #pirates, #buccaneer, #reality tv, #ghost hunters, #bermuda, #tv show, #paul ferrante, #investivation, #pirate ghosts, #teen ghost hunters, #tj jackson mystery
Spirits of the Pirate House
A T. J. Jackson Mystery
by Paul
Ferrante
Published by
Fire and Ice
A Young Adult Imprint of Melange
Books, LLC
White Bear Lake, MN 55110
Spirits of the Pirate House,
Copyright 2013 by Paul Ferrante
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ISBN: 978-1-61235-714-0
Names, characters, and incidents
depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of
this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States of
America.
Cover Design by Stephanie
Flint
SPIRITS OF THE PIRATE
HOUSE
PAUL FERRANTE
Even Paradise
has a Dark Side...
During their first adventure in Gettysburg,
T.J., LouAnne and Bortnicker established themselves as talented
ghost hunters. So when The Adventure Channel gives them an
opportunity to visit the island of Bermuda to film the pilot
episode of Junior Gonzo Ghost Chasers, they can't resist. What
could be better than scuba diving, sightseeing, and ghost hunting
for pirates in a romantic tropical oasis? But the teens soon
realize that their target, legendary Bermudian buccaneer Sir
William Tarver, has a back-story that never made it into the
history books. The problem is, even if T.J.'s team is able to make
contact, will their investigation raise more questions than it
answers? And will the proud people of Bermuda be able to deal with
the truth?
To my teammates and coaches of the
Iona College Gaels Football Team.
“We few, we happy few, we band of
brothers.”
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Caroline Ferrante for her
excellent typing skills and proofreading, Sarah Martin for her
information on Bermudian burial customs, Deb Perry for the Bermuda
map, and my editor Denise Meinstad for her continued patience and
guidance.
Table of Contents
Prologue
“
Thanks so much
for your patience and attention. This concludes our tour of
Hibiscus House. Enjoy the rest of your stay in Bermuda.” Winnie
Pemburton flashed her most dazzling smile as she shook hands with
the small group of tourists who had come to visit the estate of Sir
William Tarver. All were retirees from the States, taking advantage
of the lower air fares and hotel rates in the off season. Indeed,
there was a chill in the late afternoon November air, and a light
jacket or sweater was most welcome.
Winnie accompanied the group through the
front door and down the steps to where a minivan taxi awaited.
After helping them into the vehicle and gratefully accepting a few
tips, she waved them off as the taxi coasted down the crushed shell
and coral path to the imposing wrought iron fence 100 yards away.
She stood there a moment in the oncoming twilight, drinking in the
magnificence of her surroundings.
Though the vast majority of Bermuda’s
historic houses were privately owned, Hibiscus House was a National
Trust site. The grounds, which featured hundreds of varieties of
flowers, most prominently its namesake, the hibiscus, were
meticulously maintained. A host of guava, palmetto and royal
Poinciana trees provided areas of shade for strategically situated
benches and a nesting place for tropical birds.
Since its acquisition by the government in
the early 1900s, some of the acreage had been sold off and
subdivided; other sections of the former plantation were now
overgrown jungle. But the immediate lawns of freshly mown Bermuda
grass, framed by flower beds and punctuated with fountains, gave
the effect of a tropical palace.
The house itself, built in the early 1700s by
Sir William, was modeled after the West Indian plantation homes of
the era, with wraparound two-story verandahs that provided sweeping
views of the countryside, and the numerous windows at each level
allowed ocean breezes to pleasantly pass through, precluding the
need for air conditioning even in the hotter summer months.
Once inside, Winnie shut the heavy front
door, with its anchor-styled knocker, and turned toward the
imposing cedar staircase that led to the second floor. All the
rooms of Hibiscus House were trimmed in cedar, and the walls were
adorned with paintings of clipper ships and the English
countryside. The furniture, dusted twice weekly by a cleaning crew,
was almost exclusively of the finest period mahogany, and the
dining room table was perpetually set with elegant Chinese
porcelain and English silver. Most of the fixtures had been
reacquired by the government after having been sold off in the
mid-1700s by Sir William’s wife after his death. The house had then
stood vacant for nearly a century and had fallen into a state of
disrepair, compounded by the ravages of the occasional hurricane
that hit the island between July and November. But now it was the
jewel of Southhampton Parish, and it was all hers.
Well, kind of. Winnie was a working class
girl from the “back of town” in Hamilton. Her parents, descendants
of free West India blacks who had migrated to Bermuda in the 1700s,
had done fairly well for themselves. Harry Pemburton was a barman
at the Southampton Princess Hotel and Resort nearby, and Allison
Pemburton taught grade school in Hamilton, Bermuda’s capital. It
was from her mother that Winnie had developed a love of history; it
was understandable, then, that after knocking about in a few dreary
office jobs in town, she was overjoyed to hear that a position as
tour guide was opening at Hibiscus House, which she would gaze at
wistfully from her pink public transportation bus on the way into
Hamilton each morning.
She had sweated through the interview with
the National Trust representatives who were quick to point out that
a person in her position would have to epitomize Bermudian manners
and charm. Although Winnie doubted that her color would affect
their decision—blacks formed the majority of Bermuda’s population
and maintained a fairly harmonious relationship with whites
primarily of British descent—she wondered whether they felt she
measured up to their standards. She was
also surprised to learn that the position had
a high turnover rate,
especially within the past year. Had the
previous tour guides fallen short of expectations, or had they
simply become bored with the same humdrum routine, day after
day?
It was no matter. Winnie assured her
interviewers that this would be a dream job for her, and after a
surprisingly quick consultation amongst themselves, she was
hired.
And now, a month or so into her tenure, she’d
fallen into a pleasant routine, opening the house for the first
tour at 10:15 a.m. and locking up at 5:00 p.m. Winnie loved to
imagine herself as mistress of the mansion, gliding through the
many rooms with her tour groups in tow, relating local Bermudian
folklore and discussing the somewhat mysterious background of her
benefactor, Sir William Tarver, who was rumored to have made his
fortune through piracy. She heard some disconcerting odd noises now
and then, but attributed them to the ocean breezes wafting through
the upstairs rooms or the odd animal making its way into a
crawlspace or the attic. Nothing could disrupt her fantasy
world.
As always, she closed off the top floor
first, then ventured to her favorite place, the elegant drawing
room, which was dominated by a Waterford crystal chandelier and
ornately carved mantel that represented the height of Bermudian
artisanship. Above it hung a large William and Mary molded mirror,
into which Winnie would cast a last look before exiting the
building and strolling around back to the gardener’s shed where her
Vespa scooter was discreetly parked.
While she was arranging a vase of cut flowers
on the mantel, something in the mirror’s reflection caught Winnie’s
eye. She blinked—hard—then looked again. Over her right shoulder,
sitting in a corner wing chair, was a man. His shoulder-length,
dark brown hair was pulled back and fastened into the short
ponytail style of the 1700s, though nothing like the foppish,
effeminate powdered wig look Winnie associated with those times. A
full dark beard and mustache framed his tanned face and accentuated
cold blue eyes that seemed to bore into her back. The man appeared
to be wearing some kind of blue velour waistcoat with a ruffled
white shirt underneath. Cream-colored breeches were tucked into
high, black riding boots. Overall, he looked like the cover of one
of the Harlequin romance novels Winnie so enjoyed on her trips to
the beach at Astwood Park.
She closed her eyes again and fought to slow
her breathing. “All
right, then,” she said to herself quietly.
“I’ll open my eyes and turn ‘round, and he’ll be gone.” She counted
to three, then cautiously wheeled and cracked open one eye.
He was still there, one leg casually crossed
over the other, a flintlock pistol stuck into his wide leather
belt. Winnie froze in fear. How did this man get in here? And why
was he dressed in period clothes? As she stood trembling, an odor
came to her, a strange mix of burning tobacco and something else.
The man’s eyes grew more intense, even hypnotic. When he finally
said, “Come forward, girl dear,” something in her broke loose. She
bolted out of the room, through the front door, and into the
gathering twilight, her screams mixing with the pleasant sounds of
the evening tree frogs.