Wednesday, October 2, 2019

Carysfort Lighthouse & the Ghost of Captain Johnson

It's that season again, when lighthouse ghosts appear and we tell their stories. Hardly a lighthouse exists that does not have some ghost tale attached to it. I hope you like this one!



A few years ago, I began writing a novel for young readers (tweens, as we call them) about a young girl in the late-1890s, named Libby, who knows much about lighthouses and the sea. Her father was a sea captain and her great uncle is the skipper of the lighthouse tender Arbutus. It sails the southeast coast delivering supplies to lighthouses. Libby's great uncle is taking her to Sanibel Lighthouse to live for a year before she goes to a school for young ladies in New Orleans. On the way, the Arbutus stops at several lighthouses. The following Chapter 2 excerpt details fifteen-year-old Libby's visit to Carysfort Reef Lighthouse in the Florida Strait. There, she and her Scotty dog, Duffy, meet the keepers, dine with them, and spend the night on the huge iron lighthouse. Libby, as you'll read, takes a "shine" to the youngest lightkeeper, a handsome young man named Vincent. And, as you might imagine, things go bump in the night on Carysfort Lighthouse!



Chapter 2

The Ghost of Captain Johnson

Thumping sounds on the deck above wake me.  Duffy is standing by the door whining, no doubt needing to relieve himself.  As a puppy traveling on the Arbutus, he has learned to use a dirt box, much the way a cat does.  Uncle Caleb made the box for him when we came aboard the Arbutus, and it is obvious he is anxious to get to it.
            "Yes, Duffy.  I'll hurry.  Let me pull on my dress and shoes and straighten my hair." 
            I make myself presentable and open the cabin door.  Duffy scurries to the ladder and leaps up three rungs on his own before allowing me to carry him the remainder of the way.  Once topside, he runs toward the stern and disappears around some buoy chains to find his box.
            The morning air is brisk, alive with the shouts of the crew as they prepare to dock at Carysfort Reef Lighthouse.  I step to the starboard rail and see the huge metal lighthouse in the distance.  It resembles a giant birdcage, and for a moment I imagine a monstrous seagull nesting inside it.  Papa always said I have great imagination.
By the excitement and business of the crew, I judge we have dropped anchor and the launch is being readied.  The reef is so shallow the Arbutus cannot steam too close to the lighthouse for fear of grounding.  Supplies, mail, and visitors are transferred to the tower aboard a smaller vessel called a launch.
            Several men are gathered about the scuttlebutt, a barrel of drinking water.  They wave and motion for me to join them.  A ladle of cold water is offered, which I gratefully accept.
            "Goin' aboard the lighthouse, Miss Libby?" asked Mr.Burns, one of the hoistmen.  "The keepers there is a lonely lot.  Do ‘em good to see a young lass like yerself.  And 'ey'll be layin' a fine table too."
            His Scottish accent delights me.  I notice his powerful hands as he gives me the ladle to drink from.  As a hoistman, his job running the windlass requires strength and brains.  He must see that heavy cargo is safely moved from the lighthouse tender to the launch by a derrick equipped with pulleys.
            "Oh, yes, Mr. B.  I wouldn't miss it.  The keepers are wonderful cooks, I'm told.  Uncle Caleb said to eat only a biscuit this morning, as they will want us to have a big late-morning breakfast with them."
            "Aye, and they've hens, too, for eggs.  You can see ‘em cluckin’ about on the deck next to the dwellin’.  May be that Mr. Hodges 'll 'ave puddin’.  Tapioca puddin’. Will ye bring me some?"
            I giggle and point to the pocket of my dress:  "Aye, Mr. B.  I'll sneak you some pudding in my pocket!"
            A hearty laugh passes around the circle of men, but shouts from the helm make them scatter to their appointed places, leaving me alone at the water barrel.  I scoop out a handful and splash it over my face.  It makes me shudder, so cold it is.  I am looking forward to a long, hot bath when I reached Sanibel Island.
            I watch as the crew rigs the derrick and begins moving heavy cargo from the deck of the Arbutus to the launch.  Mr. Burns expertly maneuvers the windlass and hoist, lifting boxes and crates and pallets filled with coal bags and oil drums, sacks of flour and sugar.  I look toward the lighthouse in the distance and squint my eyes, trying to see the hens he mentioned.  There are tiny dots moving about on the lighthouse deck – men, maybe a dog, perhaps the smallest ones hens. 
Doc quietly moves next to me and hands me a biscuit.
            “Might be an hour or two before you sit down to breakfast, Libby. Best have something to keep the walls of your stomach from rubbing together.  Have you packed an overnight bag?  Your uncle plans to stay the night, I’m told.”
            “Oh…yes.  I will, Doc,” I reply, a bit surprised by this news. “Staying on the lighthouse at night should be fun!”
            “Hmmph!” Doc says folding his arms.  “You wouldn’t get me to stay in that metal contraption for all of Captain Kidd’s pirate gold!”
            I smile, remembering the crew talking of the ghost that supposedly haunts the lighthouse.
            The Arbutus seems to take forever to ready the launch.  Though I know enough about ships and navigating to appreciate the delicate maneuvering required to safely move heavy cargo, I am anxious to get to the lighthouse.  It’s a famous one in these waters, the first of a string of tall iron lighthouses built along the treacherous Florida Reef.  In fact, as Doc explains, its foundation is anchored into the reef.
            “Built in the 1840s by a famous engineer named George Meade,” Doc says.  “Bet you know that name, Libby, from your studies of the Civil War.”
             I rub my chin, pretending not to know, then let my eyes brighten like a lightbulb is going on in my head: “Yes!  General George Gorden Meade!  Wasn’t he the Union general who defeated General Robert E. Lee at Gettysburg?”
            “One and the same,” replies Doc.  “Some say it was the turning point of the war, the battle that was the beginning of the end for the Confederacy.  Such a bad time it was, Libby.  I lost a dear friend at Antietam, and my brother came home from the Battle of the Wilderness missing an arm. Lucky for me, I was in the South Pacific at the time working on a whaleship, or I might have been in the thick of it too.”
“Oh, I’m glad you weren’t in the war, Doc. So sorry about your friend and brother,” I say, and quickly change the subject.  “So Meade also built lighthouses?”
“Oh yes.  Many of them, long before the war.  He built the first screwpile lighthouse in the nation, at Brandywine Shoal in the Delaware Bay.  Big hulking iron thing with tube legs anchored into the bay floor.  Folks said it wouldn’t last a month, but it still stands.  Meade did such a fine job on it the government sent him to Florida to build the reef lights.”
Doc motions toward Carysfort Reef Lighthouse.
“I was a young lad when it was first lit in 1852.  Meade devised special screw-shaped feet for each leg.  There are nine legs, called piles, in all.  Each one is screwed down into the coral reef and anchored firmly with a disk, a kind of shoe to hold it in place.  The open metal framework on the lighthouse lets wind and waves pass through easier than if the tower had solid walls.”
It makes sense to me.  This stretch of coast is called Hurricane Alley, and a lighthouse needs to be wind and water resistant.  I had read about the first lighthouse at Sand Key, nine miles off Key West.  Built of stone, it suffered miserably in storms until, in 1846, a powerful hurricane toppled it and killed its keeper and his family.  A screwpile lighthouse, like this one at Carysfort Reef, replaced it in 1853 and has stood strong for nearly fifty years.
            Finally, the launch is loaded and ready.  I race down to my cabin and fetch a tapestry bag for overnight items.  Back on deck, Doc and Santy and Paolo insist on hugging me, as if I’m going away forever. 
“Be careful not to tangle with old Cap’n Johnson, now!” Doc warns. 
“Yes, and leave him on the lighthouse when you come back,” Santy adds.  “We’ve trouble enough on this ship.  No need of a ghost!”
Paolo shrugs and chuckles.  He gives me a second hug and holds my arm firmly as a section of the rail is removed so that I can board the launch. I am tethered in a bos’un’s chair, with Duffy in my lap, and sent down to the launch by means of ropes and pulleys. Were it not for the launch rocking wildly below me, and my dress lifted up by the wind’s curious fingers, I might have enjoyed the unusual ride.
Uncle Caleb, wearing his blue wool uniform with the tender service insignia on the hat and his rank on the lapels of the coat, follows me down into the launch.  Several of the crew who are holding me nimbly hand me into my uncle’s strong arms.  Duffy is shivering either with excitement or fright.  I cannot tell which.  The launch pitches roughly in the waves, then moves toward the lighthouse, powered by the muscled arms of four men at the oars.
            Within minutes we draw near the iron legs of the lighthouse and tie up at the landing.  Three keepers, who peer excitedly at me from the deck, suddenly straighten and salute my uncle, who returns their tribute.  Little is said until I am safely handed up to the keepers and planted firmly on the landing platform, along with Duffy.  I turn and peer into the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, those of the youngest lightkeeper.  Slowly, he releases his hold on my arm and smiles, patting my dog. 
My uncle is soon beside us, sighing with great relief that we’ve arrived safely.  Uncle Caleb brushes off his jacket a bit, smiles broadly, and shakes hands with the keepers.  They wear uniforms, somewhat similar to my uncle’s, but with different insignia.  Uncle Caleb clears his throat and makes introductions:
            “May I present my great-niece, Olivia Spenser, daughter of my sister’s son, Captain Jonathan Spenser. And, of course, her dog, Duffy. He has more sea time than most sailors!  Libby, meet Captain Herman Hodges, principle keeper of Carysfort Reef Lighthouse, and his assistants, Peter Simonson and Vincent Tremont.”
            Captain Hodges carefully offers his right hand – a perfectly normal hand with all fingers intact – tips his hat and gives a polite nod.  He pats Duffy’s head and mutters something about a “salty sea dog.”  The assistants also nod to me politely.  Mr. Tremont – the one with the beautiful eyes – seems hardly older than me, but I know he must be at least eighteen to be in the lighthouse service.
            “I am well-acquainted with your father, Miss Spenser,” Captain Hodges says, smiling warmly.  “We’ve passed many an hour together in port, for I was master of a fishing schooner before the war left me with this infirmity.”
            He slaps his stiff right leg, a wooden leg that gives off a muffled thump.  I notice three fingers missing on his left hand and realize there was a bit of truth to the story Santy told.
            “Ah, this,” he says holding up his maimed hand, with only a thumb and index finger remaining.  “A fishing accident.  Fed three fingers to a shrimp net when I was a hand on the schooner La Petite out of New Orleans.  I was just a boy then.  I’ve learned to operate just as well without them.”
            As proof, he quickly unbuttons and rebuttons his blue wool jacket.  I’m impressed and giggle politely with delight.  Duffy is mistrustful, however, and utters a soft growl.  Captain Hodges makes a scary face, and this sets Duffy barking.
            “Is this any way to treat the crew of Carysfort Reef Light, Sir Pooch?” the captain asks Duffy.  “Why, you’ll change your opinion of us a bit when you see what’s for breakfast!”
            Mr. Tremont heads off to help the crew unload the launch, while Mr. Simonson excuses himself and heads up the ladder into the quarters – a round metal house set within the iron legs of the tower. He goes to work in the kitchen.  Already, the smell of baked ham is wafting outside.  My stomach growls impatiently.  The crew of the launch and Mr. Tremont have begun hauling crates and boxes and drums of kerosene onto the landing.  They sing as they work, making the heavy chore easier to bear. 
The hens now appear from a box-shaped little house on the far-side of the landing and begin clucking in anticipation.
            “Yes, yes, do come out now!  They’ve brought cracked corn for you biddies!” Captain Hodges says, shooing them away. 
Duffy growls again, but I quiet him.  There are five hens, all plump Plymouth White Rocks, and one rooster who struts haughtily.  Captain Hodges introduces each one by name – Maria, Antonia, Isabella, Carmen, and Juanita, plus Ulysses the rooster.  The hens, he says, are named for his Cuban wife and four daughters who live in Key West and are the finest cooks and seamstresses in the entire South.  The rooster takes the name of Union general and post-war president, Ulysses S. Grant, under whom Keeper Hodges long ago proudly served and lost his leg.
            “Such an arrogant sort old Ulysses is,” Captain Hodges says, pointing to the proud fowl.  “Thinks he’s king around here.  Chases Mr. Simonson when he’s got potato rinds to discard and fights with the gulls.  Yet, he’s the first to run for cover when there’s a thunderstorm.  Ha!”
            As we head up the ladder to the quarters for breakfast I begin to sense the loneliness of this place, where hens are named for the head keeper’s much-missed family and even a crotchety old rooster is granted a noble title.
            The quarters are small but sufficient for three men.  The walls are curved and set with broad windows to allow in light and air on two levels.  The kitchen, storerooms, and office are below; sleeping rooms are above.  Spiraling up through the house is the metal stair cylinder leading to the lantern.
Mr. Simonson is all smiles as we sit down at a simple linen-covered table for a late morning breakfast in the kitchen. Plates of steaming baked ham, fried potatoes with onions, boiled okra, fried eggs, freshly-baked brea,d and jars of orange marmalade cause my stomach to roar in expectation.  An apple cobbler sits on the cookstove, keeping warm.  Captain Hodges invites Uncle Caleb and me to choose seats.  Duffy is given a plate of ham and eggs on the floor.  Captain Hodges says grace, being mindful to thank God for his guests and the many provisions they are bringing.  Then Mr. Simonson serves, pouring the men coffee and honey-sweetened tea for me.  He slips an orange into my hand and winks.
            “A treat for you, Miss Spenser.  A gentleman near Miami brings these to us from his orchard. Shall I squeeze the juice into a glass, or would you rather eat the whole fruit?”
            “Whole, please,” I say, relishing the memory of oranges, lemons, tangerines, grapefruits and limes Papa kept aboard the Angela to ward off scurvy and other illnesses at sea.  Mr. Simonson cuts the orange into quarters, and I suck the pulpy goodness from one as the men watch in amusement.
            “And do you know how to make an orange smile, Miss Spenser?” Captain Hodges asks.  “My children always made us laugh doing this at breakfast when they were little.”
            The captain grabs an orange quarter and pops it onto his teeth, then draws his lips over it in a big, orange smile.  I gasp, then burst into peels of laughter.  He looks so funny in his fancy brass-buttoned uniform, with a cloth napkin tucked under his chin and that bright orange smile!
            After breakfast, we have a tour of the lighthouse.  Up the winding staircase we go, Duffy tucked under my arm, up 112-feet above sea.  Uncle Caleb notes the excellent condition of the tower and its illuminating apparatus.  The prism lens is polished to perfection and ready for the coming night.  Captain Hodges says that the new system for collecting rainwater also is working well.  It has solved the problem of dangerous lead particles from the lighthouse’s red paint getting into the drinking water.  I listen with great interest as he explains how during thunderstorms rainwater that falls on the lighthouse roof is directed to pipes that run into a cistern, or collection tank.  Since the rainwater passes over painted parts of the lighthouse, it is allowed to run freely over the tower for about five minutes to clean off any lead particles. Then, cocks are turned to divert the rain into the cistern.
            “We don’t have to scrub the roof as much anymore either,” adds Captain Hodges.  “The flush of that first rain cleans it well before we pipe the water into the cistern. But the seabirds…they’re still a nuisance.  Like to perch up there and make a mess.”
            I look up at the cupola some eighty feet above the dwelling and dizzily wonder who would be brave enough to climb that high and clean away the bird poop.  I suppose it isn’t much different from climbing the mainmast to the crow’s nest on my father’s ship.  I have done that often with Papa.
            “Mr. Tremont is nimble,” says the captain, patting the youngest keeper on the back.  Mr. Tremont is polishing the lens but pauses to look my way.  “We usually send him up to scrub the roof when the first rain falls.”
            I study Mr. Tremont when he isn’t looking at me.  He is, truly, a handsome young man.  His hair falls in jet black curls about his forehead and on the back of his neck, and his eyes are a strange green color flecked with brown, or it gold?  I am entranced by the fine mold of his nose, an aquiline shape than when in profile reminds me of a picture of a Roman gladiator I once saw in a book.  His hands are strong, yet delicate, as if they might hold a baby bird as easily as grasp a heavy drum of oil.  I am disappointed when Captain Hodges offers to help me down the service ladder into the watchroom, leaving Mr. Tremont behind in the lantern.  Studying him was a pleasant reverie, something I’ve never cared to do with any of the crew of Papa’s ship or the men of the Arbutus.  There is, indeed, something different about Mr. Tremont.
            The men spend all day transporting supplies to the lighthouse, while the assistant keepers busy themselves putting away provisions and kerosene.  After the tour, I wander about the house with Duffy, then we go down to the landing and hand-feed the chickens from the barrel of cracked corn and grain that has been unloaded.  Duffy would rather chase the chickens, but old Ulysses proves a formidable foe and guards his feathered harem.  Duffy, nicked by one of Ulysses’ spurs, is sent whining to my side.
Mr. Simonson brings me a fishing pole and some bait and shows me how to fish from the landing.  After a few hours of dangling the hook in the opaline reef water, I’ve caught nothing.  Duffy snores at my side, having decided some time ago he’d rather nap than fish. Mr. Simonson returns, this time with oatmeal cookies and cold tea.  He takes the fishing pole and soon catches a fine red snapper which he says was meant for me to catch and will make an excellent chowder for supper.  Later at supper, a light meal like suppers on the Arbutus, he rants on and on about my fishing talents and praises the fine fish he says I caught.  Mr. Tremont offers his praise as well, and I find myself embarrassed.
            After dinner, Mr. Conroy returns to the Arbutus, but Uncle Caleb, Duffy, and I remain on the lighthouse.  As Doc said, we will stay the night, since Uncle Caleb wants to observe the lighting up of the beacon and check the operation of the lens.  I suspect he also anticipates an enjoyable evening with the lightkeepers.  Except for Mr. Tremont, who is new on the lighthouse, they are all old friends.  They will swap stories, smoke pipes, and play cards.
For the first time, I am given the opportunity to see a lighthouse beacon kindled, and it is truly an amazing thing to behold.  Shortly before dusk, Uncle Caleb, Duffy, and I accompany Captain Hodges and Mr. Tremont up the tight spiral stairs to the watchroom.  The metal stairway is still quite warm from the heat it absorbed from the mid-April day.  In the watchroom, Uncle Caleb checks the logbook and weather journal.  Mr. Tremont points out an entry from March when a flock of migrating birds stormed the tower.  He drew a picture of one that landed on the catwalk above, a very fine sketch.  I tell him he has great talent, and he blushes, abashed to receive a compliment from a lady, even one as young as me.
In the lantern we watch as Captain Hodges checks the lamps and winds the weights for the clockworks that will turn the lens.  Mr. Tremont has each lamp filled and trimmed, ready for the first watch of the night.  Under Captain Hodges direction, he lights up the huge first-order lens, carefully adjusting each wick so that it burns clean and clear.  One by one, the lamps flicker to life and send their light through the prisms of the great crystal lens.  The beams are twisted together, concentrated, and transformed into a piercing ray.  As the lens begins to revolve, from the pull of the clockworks, the rays are shot through the bulleyes into the twilight air in magnificent flashes where they will provide succor to ships miles away from the reef. 
The amazing process by which the light is concentrated and magnified was developed in 1823 by a French physicist named Jean-Augustin Fresnel.  Mr. Tremont tells me Fresnel’s amazing lenses revolutionized lighthouse illumination by making brilliant beams visible far at sea and creating a flash characteristic for each lighthouse.  Before their invention, there were only a few flashing lights, and beams reached only a few miles at sea.
“It’s an amazing system,” says Mr. Tremont, “but it requires much work for us, the keepers. We must polish the crystal prisms and the brass framework each day until they are spotless.  The gears must be oiled and the clockworks mechanism kept clean of dirt. I spend much of my time doing this brightwork, as we call it.  I clean the lantern windows each day as well.”
I glance outside at the narrow catwalk surrounding the lantern.  Mr. Tremont seems to read my mind:
“Would you like to stand on the lantern catwalk, Miss Spenser?  It’s a wonderful view.”
I give Duffy to Uncle Caleb, who is still inspecting the lens with Captain Hodges. Mr. Tremont and I slide through the small access door to the catwalk, the narrow walkway outside the lantern. I suspect even an agile cat might find this high place unnerving.  Wind buffets my face the moment I enter the outside world of the lighthouse top.  My hair begins a wild dance, unloosing the ribbon I tied in the back this morning to add some decoration.  Mr. Tremont catches it just in time, a moment before the mischievous night wind steals it.  He laughs as he hands it back to me, and for a second his fingers touch mine.
“Look there,” he says, pointing northeast.  Fowey Rocks Lighthouse. And there, to the southwest is Alligator Reef Light.”
He proceeds to tell me how a ship, to remain safe in the sealane along the eastern coast of Florida, ought to see a new lighthouse off its bow as an old one disappears off its stern.  Being the child of a sea captain, I know this fact, but I let him proceed with his instruction all the same. He seems to be enjoying my company, and I must admit he’s a pleasant companion.
“These lighthouses of the reef are nicknamed the Iron Giants.  All of them are made of iron and are screwed into the reef.  I served at the big one on Sombrero Key off Marathon before coming here in January.  It’s the tallest of the reef lights – 156-feet high.  If I’m lucky, I’ll go to a land light next and be promoted to first assistant.  Someday I might even be head keeper at a lighthouse.  Then I can get married and have a family.”
He pauses, somewhat embarrassed that he has gushed his personal feelings so easily.  For a moment, I imagine him standing next to a lovely young girl in a bridal gown, reciting vows.  Quickly, I push the thought away and point to a ship traveling north far out from the lighthouse.
“That’s the Gulf Stream out there isn’t it?” I ask, although I already know the answer.  “That ship wants to be in the current to get a push northward.”
“You’re right! And ships headed south try to stay outside the current and the reef so they don’t get pushed backwards.  It’s tricky navigation.  Must have been difficult before these lighthouses were built.”
Yes, I know too well the ordeal of navigating the Florida Strait.  Papa always demanded Duffy and I remain quiet and not interfere with the work on the Angela when we passed along this dangerous part of the coast.  Sometimes he would give me an old sextant and clock to practice star sights with and a journal to record my positions, or I might sit quietly on deck and read a book about the shipwrecks that occurred here or the pirates that once roamed these waters.  Once we were beyond Key West, Papa would relax a bit.  He always said sailing the Gulf side of Florida was far easier than its Atlantic side.
We descend the tower around 9:00 p.m., leaving Mr. Tremont on watch.  Mr. Simonson will take over at midnight, then Captain Hodges near dawn.  After a short mug-up in the kitchen, Mr. Simonson shows Duffy and me to our sleeping quarters, a small room in the upper level of the house with a single bed more comfortable than the straw mattress in my cabin aboard the Arbutus.  Uncle Caleb will sleep in the bunkroom with the lightkeepers.  He comes up to say prayers with me and kiss me good-night.  He tells me not to read too long, for he knows my ways.  Given a book, I am lost for hours.  From the laughter I hear from kitchen after he leaves, I know it will be hours before he sleeps.
            I open the book I’ve chosen from the lighthouse’s oak library cabinet, kept in the office below.  It’s a book of poems, my favorite reading.  They make me lonely for Papa, of course, but soon the warm glow of the oil lamp on the table next to my bed and Duffy’s quiet snoring lull me.  I put out the lamp and roll on my side.  Sleep comes quickly after a busy day in the sea air.  Papa says ocean air is the very best sleep tonic.

            How many hours I have been asleep when the uproar begins, I do not know.  It is indescribable.  I can only say I am suddenly awakened by a horrendous groan and the feeling that my bed is being shaken.  Duffy jerks awake, sits up, and growls.
            “What was that, Duffy?  You heard it, didn’t you?  That awful sound?”
            His ears perk up; still, he huddles close to me.  Minutes later another groan courses the tower, worse than the first.  Vibration wracks the bed and rattles the lamp on the table.  The pitcher in the basin on the nightstand suffers ceramic tremors.  Duffy dives beneath the blanket in fright, only his nose peeking out.  I fumble for the extra blanket beside my bed to wrap myself.  I must find Uncle Caleb and find out what calamity has beset the lighthouse.
            “Urrrrrr…eeeecchh!” it sounds again.
            Duffy is now deep inside the bedcovers.  Carefully, I feel my way toward the door.  The room is utterly dark until a faint glow from the beam of the lighthouse flashes.
            “Stay here, Duffy.  I’m going to find Uncle Caleb.”
            Outside the room I make my way to the stair cylinder.  A thin light seeps up from below, and I hear the men’s voices.  I am about to step into the stairway and call to them when another horrible groan shakes the lighthouse and a dark figure appears in front of me.  A tiny cry escapes from my throat. I begin to fall backwards. The figure approaches and I recognize the silhouette of a man.  A ghost of a man? Captain Johnson? The men on the Arbutus had warned me about him this morning.
I feel an arm circle about my waist.
            “Everything is fine, Miss Spenser. Nothing to fear.”
It’s Mr. Tremont.  His coffee-warm breath touches my cheek. I feel his whiskers, grown out since morning. He smells different than my father and different than Uncle Caleb. Netter, I think. His arm is strong. My hand passes lightly over the soft hair on his hand.
“Guess we forgot to mention that old Captain Johnson still resides in this tower,” Mr. Tremont says. “Some folks believe his ghost haunts the lighthouse.  That’s him you hear groaning.  He does it from time to time at night.  Harmless sort of wraith.  Come.  I’ll take you back to your bed. Where’s your little dog?”
            I find my voice at last: “He’s hiding in my bedcovers, poor thing.  I was just going down to find my uncle. Are you sure Captain Johnson is harmless?  He sounds so…so horrible.”
            Mr. Tremont chuckles and hugs me a bit closer.
            “Your uncle should have told you about the clamor.  I’m surprised he didn’t.  Oh well…you’re fine now, aren’t you?  At least you aren’t shivering. By the way, your uncle was called back to the Arbutus, and he didn’t want to wake you to go with him.  Said he’d come for you in the morning.”
            Mr. Tremont walks me to my room, fluffs my bed pillow a bit, and helps me get under the covers.  Duffy hasn’t budged from his hiding place and digs in deeper when another groan sounds.  Mr. Tremont kneels by the bed and takes my hand reassuringly.
            “It’s a little hard to sleep the first night you hear it, but we’ve grown accustomed to it. Only lasts an hour or so.  I guess none of us really believes it’s a ghost, but we can’t think what else it could be.  They say it’s happened here ever since the tower was built. Might have something to do with the tower’s iron construction. Metal makes funny sounds sometimes as its temperature changes.”
            “Who is this Captain Johnson?” I ask timidly. When I realize how hard I am clutching his hand, I release my grip.
            “Oh…Captain Johnson.  Yes.  He was the first keeper here.  A great sinner he was, too.  Drank and swore and refused to read his Bible.  He died on the lighthouse, and people say his spirit couldn’t get into heaven, so it roams the tower night after night.  That groaning you hear is supposed to be the old captain crying out his regret.”


            I am silent.  Papa always taught me not to believe in superstitions such as ghosts.  There’s a sensible explanation for every peculiar occurrence.  This one seems real enough though.
            “I’ll sit by your bed until you fall asleep if you like, Miss Spenser,” offers Mr. Tremont.  He touches my hand again, ever so lightly.  I am glad he, too, doesn’t believe in ghosts.
            “Thank you. I’d like that. And…and…you can call me Libby if you like….when it’s just the two of us together, I mean.  Libby is short for Olivia.”
            Though the room is almost completely dark, I sense Mr. Tremont is smiling.
            “I’d like that, calling you Libby.  It’s a lovely name…for a lovely lady.  And will you call me Vincent then?  We’ll only use our first names in private.  Captain Hodges wouldn’t approve of me acting so familiar.”
            “Oh, yes.  Of course.  Vincent.  That’s a nice name.  We’ll keep it a secret, just between us.  And thank you…Vincent…for sitting with me.  I feel so much better now.”
            “Urrrrr….eecchh!”





Perhaps you're wondering about Libby's trip to Sanibel Island Lighthouse and what happens with Libby and Vincent. Hang on! The finished novel will be published next year.

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