Haunted Shipwreck Read Online Free Page A

and…”
    “Maybe Old Man Reed was stalking you on his way to the beach. I bet he has a liking for you. Or it was the dead pirate! You believe all those horror stories now?”
    “I’m telling you, Blue…I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. Before I bought the bike nothing ever happened in those woods.”
    “But you walked here.”
    “I know! I can’t explain it.”
    “I have to see it to believe it, soldier.” Bobby donned the shades and tilted his beret. “This calls for a change of plans. Meet me at the gazebo at twenty-three hundred hours. From there we’ll rendezvous at the barracks where we’ll break the bike out of the brig. Then we’ll haul it through the bush and saddle up for Operation: Skeleton Man at midnight. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?”
    “On one condition: you bring that rifle with…and something to bust a padlock.”
    “I’ll be armed and dangerous. Dismissed, soldier!”

CHAPTER 3
    Willard Reed poured a healthy dose of Southern Bell as he gazed out his bedroom window at the choppy ocean. Beside him, on the nightstand, sat the Devil’s bellows. He still could not believe he had found it amidst the ironworks. It was undoubtedly the tool mentioned in the legends. The pentagram was a giveaway. He recalled one seafarer tale in particular that chronicled how the bellows drove an entire crew mad. But it was just a tale, and one he thought preposterous until now. The longer he stared, though, the more he wondered if it was a replica.
    Christ, look at me. Hands tremblin’, knots in my gut. It’s just a damn bellows!
    The tumbler shuddered as he raised it to his lips. The ice cubes clinked like hail on a headstone. Willard sucked the drink dry and set the glass on the sill.
    He picked up the bellows. The handles conformed to his hands.
    Here goes nothin’.
    He snapped the bellows open, and then slammed it shut. The air was still. Nothing happened.
    Willard thought for a moment. The ancient folklore told of a catalyst. There was only one thing the bellows worked its magic on. But what was it? Gold? Silver? No.
    Willard dwelled on the morning’s shipment.
    Iron!
    He rushed downstairs to the shop. He threw the curtain aside and took aim. The pentagram flashed crimson. An adrenaline burst flooded his veins and made his head swirl. His eyes burned and smoke curled from his nostrils.
    The bellows drew a breath and exhaled, fogging the room in burgundy.
    *****

Hoyer Milton parked his cherry red 1952 Columbia at the curb and paused to catch his breath. Rivulets of sweat dripped from his double chin onto his off-white tank top, where a T-bone-shaped stain formed above his drooping belly. He reached into the pocket of his maroon and gold Zubaz pants and withdrew a bag of pork rinds. He stuffed five in his mouth, smacked his lips, and then belched into the mist.
    “Mmmm. Finger lickin’ good.”
    He approached the double doors, opened them wide, and entered. A thick scent reminiscent of smoked salmon pricked his nostrils.
    “Reed! Where are you, you old bastard?”
    Hoyer scanned the shadowy shop, half-expecting to spot the geezer hunkered beside a hunk of junk with a feather duster in hand. But such was not the case. There was only clutter and grime.
    He heard clanking. Maybe the old man was fixing all of the broken crap in his shop.
    “Reed, goddamn it! Where the hell are you?”
    “Mister Milton.”
    Hoyer jumped and dropped his snack bag. He whirled and then winced as the pork rinds crunched beneath his weight.
    “Jesus, Reed! You always sneak up on your customers like that?”
    “Who’s sneakin’?” Willard raised his right hand. “I can almost count the years on one hand since ya last left pork rinds in ya wake.”
    “Yeah. Sorry about that. I’ll have Mack come round later and sweep ‘em up.”
    “Don’t bother, Mister Milton.” Willard swept back a strand of hair. “What brings ya by?”
    “Oh hell, Reed, my damn roaster went kaput.”
    “I’m a vegan. What