Attack of the Jack Page 2

  Celeste hadn’t moved from the round rug in the center of the front room. She was curled up tightly, making soft purring sounds as she slept.

  Had I imagined her talking?

  No. I definitely had heard her speak.

  I sat down across from Uncle Jim. He pushed a tall brown mug across the table to me. “Ye must be thirsty after your journey, Violet,” he said. “Some sailors’ grog will refresh you.”

  I gazed into the mug. “Sailors’ grog?”

  “Actually, it’s Diet Sprite,” he said. “The village store doesn’t carry real grog.”

  Outside the window, I could see part of the lighthouse, solid and gray, throwing its shadow over the house.

  “Have ye heard from your parents?” Jim asked. He rubbed his mustache. “Three weeks in Argentina. That’s a long business trip. Why didn’t they take you with them?”

  “They thought we’d have more fun here,” I said. “And Mom said it was time Shawn and I met our long-lost uncle.”

  Jim took a slow drink. “Yes. Ye’ll have more fun here. And the food is good, too. Mrs. Henry from the village is bringing us crab cakes and slaw tonight.”

  Shawn had his eyes on the sleeping cat in the front room. “Celeste,” he said. “Does she really talk?”

  Jim patted Shawn’s arm. “Yes, she does, my lad,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I’ll tell ye the story. But I warn ye, it’s a sad one.”

  He took another drink from his mug. I don’t think his mug had Diet Sprite. For one thing, it was dark brown.

  “Poor Danny Lubbins,” Uncle Jim said, rubbing his jaw, his expression suddenly serious. “It’s Danny’s story, actually, and as I said, it isn’t a happy one.”

  He sighed. “Lost at sea, Danny was,” he continued. “One of the best and most loyal sailors I ever met. But the Spanish Eagle went down against some rocks. And Danny was lucky to be hurled onto a raft, even though it was only the size of a closet door. And there he was, tossed by the waves, bobbing away from the wreckage of the great old ship.”

  Uncle Jim shut his eyes, as if picturing the shipwreck. He took a sip from his mug. Behind him, the wind rattled the window.

  “Danny huddled with his eyes shut as the rain came down and the waves pitched him this way and that. He knew he didn’t have much of a chance on that tiny raft. After a day of tossing in the storm, the clouds parted and the sun came out. Danny opened his eyes—and what do you know? He saw that he wasn’t alone.”

  Jim pointed a finger at the sleeping cat in the next room. “That cat was riding the waves with him. Somehow the ship’s cat had made it to the raft. And there it was, staring up at poor Danny … poor, superstitious Danny … with a black cat his only company in the vast ocean.”

  Shawn’s eyes were wide. “And the two of them survived? They made it to land?” he asked.

  Uncle Jim frowned. “Don’t get ahead of the story, lad. You see, it’s a very long story—because Danny Lubbins was at sea on that tiny slip of a plank raft … for three hundred days.”

  Shawn and I both gasped. “Nearly a year,” I murmured.

  “Just imagine,” Jim continued, narrowing his eyes at us. “Under the sun and in terrible storms. With nothing to do but catch fish and eat them raw, and stare into the green eyes of a black cat—for three hundred days.”

  He paused for a moment. “Poor Danny thought he’d go stark-raving mad. He needed something to think about. The poor lad needed something to do. So long at sea … so long at sea … He couldn’t stand the uncertainty and the silence. Could you?”

  Uncle Jim didn’t wait for an answer. “So what did Danny do to keep from going mad? He taught the cat to talk.”

  I gasped again. Shawn crinkled up his face. In disbelief, I guess.

  “Danny needed company,” Jim said. “All those hours … All those days and days and days. So he taught the cat to talk.”

  Jim looked from Shawn to me. I think he wanted to see if we believed his story.

  I’d never heard of a cat who could learn to talk. But I had to believe his story. I mean, I heard the cat talk. I couldn’t deny it.

  “And then they made it to shore?” Shawn demanded.

  Uncle Jim shook his head, lowering his eyes. “Poor Danny. After three hundred days, he spotted land. This very place. A rocky shore but with gentle waves. The cat jumped off the raft and swam to safety. But Danny …”

  His voice caught in his throat. He coughed. His eyes still stared down at the floor.

  “Danny didn’t make it. So close he was. So close to a happy ending. But only the cat made it to shore. I found her down the beach from the lighthouse. And I brought her home. But Danny …” His voice trailed off again.

  “Whoa. Wait a minute, Uncle Jim,” I said. “If Danny didn’t make it to shore, how do you know the story? How do you know everything that happened?”

  “Yes,” Shawn agreed instantly. “How do you know all this?”

  Jim’s blue eyes flashed. “The cat told me, of course. Celeste told me the whole story.”

  Shawn and I just stared at him.

  “There’s more,” Uncle Jim said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “There’s a story everyone in the village believes. About Danny.”

  He stopped and gazed around. “Some people, you see, say they saw Danny Lubbins—after he drowned. They say he came to shore as a ghost. They believe we haven’t seen the last of Danny Lubbins. They think …”

  He took a deep breath. “They think Danny is going to return—because he wants his cat back. They think he will come back here, an angry ghost, and take back what is his.”

  Shawn and I didn’t have time to react. Just as Uncle Jim said those words, the back door swung open.

  The door swung open—and there was no one there.

  I screamed. Shawn shoved his chair back, too startled to make a sound.

  The wind rushed into the kitchen, cold and salty. It sent a stack of napkins flying into the air and toppled a water glass into the sink.

  Uncle Jim jumped to his feet, dove to the door, and, lowering his shoulder, shoved it shut. He turned to us, his face redder than before.

  “Got to get the latch on that door fixed,” he said. “Don’t ye know, that happens all the time. A strong wind just sends the door flying open.”

  He squinted at us, then laughed. “Did you think that was Danny’s ghost? The two of ye got as pale as a schooner sail.” That made him laugh even more.

  “It startled us, that’s all,” I said.

  “I’m not sure I believe the tales the villagers tell,” Jim said, returning to the table. “Anyway, if the ghost of Danny Lubbins returns, he wouldn’t use the door—would he?”

  Shawn swallowed. A little color was slowly returning to his face. He opened his mouth to say something but stopped.

  I followed his gaze. Shawn was watching the cat.

  Celeste suddenly raised her head off the rug and sat up. Her black fur stood straight up along her back. She sniffed a few times as her green eyes moved around the room.

  Then she tilted her head to one side and said, “Danny?”

  * * *

  “You’ve heard of Blackbeard the pirate, haven’t ye?” Uncle Jim began a new story. “Maybe the most famous pirate of all time.”

  “I think I’ve heard the name,” I said, trying to remember.

  “We’re not too into pirates,” Shawn confessed. “I saw one of the Johnny Depp pirate movies, but that’s about it.”

  Uncle Jim nodded. “Well, I sailed with one of Blackbeard’s great-great-great-grandsons, who was even more famous for a time. Johnny Feathers. That was his name. Because he always wore two white feathers in his cap.”

  Uncle Jim rubbed his beard. “Johnny said they were valuable ostrich feathers from Madagascar. But they looked like they came off a seagull to me.”

  He snickered. “I was young but I knew not to correct Johnny Feathers. He was a good sailor, but he had a temper. He once threw a cook overboard because his roasted
chicken was sliced too thin. I know that to be true.”

  “Wow.” I shook my head. “That’s tough.”

  “Kept me on my toes,” Jim said. He lifted a cannonball off the floor. He was taking Shawn and me around the house now, showing us some of the many treasures he had collected during all his years at sea.

  “Well, what I’m holding here is the cannonball that killed Johnny Feathers.”

  I stared at it. It was a little smaller than a bowling ball and the same color black. For some reason, I expected to see bloodstains on it. But it was perfectly smooth and clean.

  “His men were testing the cannon,” Uncle Jim said, balancing the heavy cannonball between both hands. “Johnny walked by at the wrong time. Someone yelled, ‘Fire!’

  “The ball sent his head sailing into the ocean. Johnny just stood there on the deck for a while. Like he didn’t believe his head was gone.”

  “Were you there? Did you see it?” Shawn whispered.

  Jim nodded. “They pulled the cannonball out of the ocean. And they got Johnny’s hat back, too, with the feathers still on it.”

  He shook his head. “But they left Johnny’s head at the bottom. The water was so clear that day, we could see Johnny staring up at us from two hundred feet down.”

  I studied Uncle Jim as he lowered the cannonball to the floor. Was he making up these stories? Had they really happened? I couldn’t decide.

  “How did you get the cannonball?” Shawn asked him.

  Jim shrugged. “Just kept it. No one else wanted it. I always was a collector. Never liked to part with anything.” He gestured around the room. “As ye can see, I like a lot of souvenirs.”

  We followed him down a short hall to a back room. The hall had tall bookshelves on both sides. They were filled with books and old-looking toys and games. I saw two model sailing ships in glass bottles. A human skull rested at the top of one shelf.

  “And now I’m going to show you my vast treasure,” Uncle Jim said. He pulled a chain, and a ceiling light flashed on.

  We were in a long, low room without windows. A door with a large, rusted lock on it stood at the back. I gazed in amazement at the clutter of knickknacks and souvenirs. My eyes stopped at two big wooden trunks standing side by side in the center.

  “Are those pirate treasure chests?” I asked.

  Jim laughed. “They’re just treasure chests. I wasn’t a pirate, ye know. Sometimes I liked to imagine it, though. Dreamed about being a pirate. But I was just a sailing man. The real pirate days were long before I was born.”

  He grabbed the lid of one of the chests with both hands and started to push it open. Shawn and I stepped up close. The lid swung up—and we both gasped.

  “Gold coins!” I cried. “And jewels! Diamonds! It’s filled to the top!”

  The contents of the chest sparkled under the ceiling light.

  “It really is a pirate treasure chest!” Shawn exclaimed.

  Jim held on to the lid. He had a big grin under his white mustache. I think our excitement pleased him.

  “I uncovered this chest while leading a voyage to the Fiji Islands,” he said. “Can you imagine what I felt when I stumbled upon it buried behind a thick tangle of coconut trees? I thought I was dreaming. I stood there for I-don’t-know-how-long. Just staring at what I had found.”

  I couldn’t resist. I dug both hands into the chest and let the gold coins and shimmering jewels run through my fingers.

  “This … must be worth a million dollars!” Shawn stammered. He watched me run my hands through the treasure, his eyes wide in amazement.

  “A million dollars?” Uncle Jim said. “Is that your guess, too, Violet?”

  “No way,” I said. “It has to be worth at least ten million!”

  Jim chuckled. “Actually, it’s all worthless.”

  I dropped a handful of coins and stepped back. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s all fake,” Uncle Jim said. “It’s counterfeit. Not worth a penny.”

  “But … all this treasure—” I protested.

  “The chest was left behind on the island by a movie company,” he explained. “They must have been making a pirate film. They didn’t even bother to take the chest with them when they finished. The jewels aren’t real and neither are the coins.”

  He sighed as he lowered the lid. “But it’s nice to pretend,” he said. “All of these treasures I’ve collected help me remember the wonderful adventures I had on the sea.”

  He started toward the door. “There’s lots for ye to explore here,” he said. “I hope ye’ll have fun. Feel free to open the chests and explore the shelves and all the closets.”

  I heard a loud pounding. It seemed to be coming from the back of the house.

  “That’s Mrs. Henry with our crab cake dinner,” Jim said. “I’ll go answer the door.”

  He stopped in the hall and turned around. “Oh. One more thing.” He pointed to the door with the big lock on it. “That room back there. That’s the only forbidden room. The house is all yours. And you can explore the lighthouse, too. But don’t try to go in that room. It’s the only room ye must never enter.”

  He turned and hurried to greet Mrs. Henry.

  Shawn and I stayed, gazing around at the awesome collection of souvenirs and treasures and total junk.

  My eyes landed on the locked door. What could possibly be in that room? Why would Uncle Jim warn us to keep out?

  What was he hiding in that forbidden room?

  Shawn and I looked at each other. We didn’t say a word. But we were both thinking the same thing.

  We knew we couldn’t resist. We knew that, as soon as Uncle Jim was out of sight, we would be opening that door.

  Do you have the feeling this story is about to turn scary?

  I suddenly have a creepy-crawly feeling at the back of my neck. Or is that just termites? Hahaha.

  Shawn and Violet had better get plenty of sleep. The ocean holds many surprises.

  Once I held a seashell up to my ear and—guess what? I didn’t hear the roar of the ocean. I heard a voice saying, “Slappy, you’re the best. Slappy, you’re AWESOME.”

  I was so surprised. It took me a few seconds to realize the voice was ME. I was talking to myself! Hahaha.

  Okay, guys—on with the story …

  I had trouble getting to sleep that night.

  I think it was partly because of all the excitement of the day. But it was also because of the howl and whistle of the ocean winds right outside my window.

  The sound rose and fell like music. Lying on my back with my eyes shut and the covers pulled up to my chin, I thought I heard high voices singing. And once, when I had almost drifted off to sleep, I thought I heard someone saying my name. “Violet … Violet …” Whispered on the wind.

  I sat straight up and listened. Silence now. And then in another howl of wind against my window, I thought I heard laughter. Shrill, cold laughter.

  I shuddered, suddenly chilled from head to foot. I sat there, half-awake with the covers gripped in both hands, squeezing them as if they were some kind of life raft, keeping me afloat. Keeping me afloat like Danny Lubbins.

  Why was I thinking of him now?

  Was it the soft, chilling voice I heard on the next breath of wind? “Violet … Violet … swimmmmm with meeeeeee.”

  “No!” I choked out in a trembling whisper.

  I slid onto my back and pulled the blanket over my head. I pushed my head deep into the pillow. I had to drown out the voices. I had to shut out the laughing wail of the wind.

  When I awoke, the red morning sun was a big ball outside my window, and the wind had calmed. Seagulls cawed loudly outside the window.

  I started to lower my feet to the floor—and saw Celeste curled up at the foot of my bed.

  She raised her head, blinked her green eyes, and said in her scratchy cat voice, “Good morning. Did you have a nightmare?”

  I blinked myself fully awake. I squinted at the cat, at her pale green eyes gazing into mine.


  I still couldn’t get used to the idea of a cat talking. Her words sent a shiver to the back of my neck. But I said good morning back.

  I pulled on a pair of red shorts and an oversized white T-shirt, brushed out my hair, and hurried down the narrow, rickety staircase to the kitchen. Shawn was already at the table, and Uncle Jim was serving him a big omelet.

  “Good morning, Violet,” Jim said, motioning with his head for me to take my place at the table. His long white hair was unbrushed and fell in tangles at the sides of his red face. He had a gray sweatshirt pulled down over baggy white pants.

  “Lobster omelet on the menu this morning,” he said in his booming, deep voice. “And sourdough toast. Aren’t we the fancy ones? Bet ye don’t get this at home.”

  “We usually have Froot Loops,” Shawn said.

  Jim chuckled. “Did ye sleep well, Violet?” he asked, scooping some of the eggs onto my plate.

  “Not really,” I confessed. “The wind … I kept hearing all these voices in the wind. It kind of creeped me out.”

  He scooped the remaining eggs onto his plate and set the pan down. “There are voices in the wind,” he said. “The voices of all the poor sailors who never made it to shore. They’re still alive, Violet. Their bodies are at the bottom of the sea. But their voices live on, carried by the wind.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “I’m surprised you heard them on your first night here. Maybe you have a gift. Maybe you have a talent for hearing things most people can’t hear.”

  I shuddered. “Stop it, Uncle Jim. You’re scaring me.”

  Shawn had a speck of egg on his chin. I wiped it off for him. “I looked outside this morning,” he said. “The waves are really high.”

  “I plan to take you sailing,” Jim said. “But today is not the day. The ocean is growling today. That’s an old sailor saying. My little boat was nearly tossed out of the water this morning.”

  I swallowed a chunk of lobster. We never had lobster back home in Ohio. It was chewy and delicious.

  Celeste came striding into the kitchen with her tail straight up.