Читать книгу The Unsolved Oak Island Mystery 3-Book Bundle - Lionel and Patricia Fanthorpe - Страница 8

According to Dad’s contract with Chappell, once the treasure was recovered, and after the government received its 5 percent, Chappell and Dad would split the rest fifty-fifty. Dad was confident that he could wrap up the work on the island in short order. To finance the recovery operation, he had $8,000 in equipment and cash, and an investor waiting in the wings.

Fred Sparham and Dad had known each other for years. Not only were they both in the plumbing and heating trade, they were also good friends. They talked shop together and helped each other out.

In December 1959, Chappell had extended Dad’s contract for all of 1960. On January 19, 1960, Dad and Fred signed a contract in which Fred agreed to provide Dad with $6,000 in exchange for 25 percent of Dad’s share of the treasure. This seemed completely reasonable to both men. Dad thought he could intercept the sea water tunnel, bring up the treasure, and be on his way in a matter of months. He believed he could manage it easily with his own investment and Fred’s $6,000. That was a lot of money in 1960, and Fred was not a wealthy man. He was a successful, conservative businessman of modest means. It’s a testament to his belief in the existence of a treasure on Oak Island and to his faith in Dad that he would risk so much.

Aside from this initial investment, over time Fred helped the recovery operation in many ways. Dad was accustomed to working in Hamilton, which, with its steel mills and related secondary industries, was a cornucopia of mechanical and electrical parts and equipment. My father did not have time to learn where to find specific equipment or parts down east, nor did he have time to drive the sixty miles to Halifax to pick them up. Consequently, there were many distress calls to Fred. He would locate whatever was needed, and his son, Eddie, would pack and ship it.

As the search stretched into years, it became necessary to bring in other investors to finance the operation. But there were many times when absolutely no fresh capital came in, and it was Fred who sent along $50 or $100 to keep food on the Restall table. Whenever operating funds were low, Fred would gather together a group of people who had a bit of money and Dad would make a quick trip to Ontario, give a little talk, and show slides of his work on the island in hopes of generating investment capital.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. In January 1960, Fred came in. And he and Dad both thought that Fred would be the only investor ever needed.

In the spring of 1960 Dad had the opportunity to purchase the big pump that previous searchers had used to pump out the Money Pit. In a letter dated April 9, he tells Fred that he has bought the pump for $1,000. It was capable of pumping the sea water out as fast as it came into the Money Pit area. In the following letter he related the difficulties of getting the pump to the island.

June 5th, 1960

Dear Fred:

Received your letter with cheque on Thursday, June 2nd, and it just arrived right. Had arranged to get the big pump, a load of planks and four barrels of gas over on Saturday (4th), which we did. Had to load the boat and unload in the pouring rain.

The fellow who brought the load to the Island had to go to the mainland near the Island to pick up the casing for the pump. We had trucked it down the week before. It took us so long getting the first load loaded, over and unloaded that the tide was falling fast when we went to get the casing. It is a shallow spot and with the load on we had a devil of a job getting the boat off the bottom. Anyway, when he pulled into his own dock he had no reverse and almost tore the dock away.

We now have all of the big pump on the Island and have the bridge over the shaft almost complete. This week we have to cart the equal of three boat loads up the hill and across the Island. We will then be able to set up the pump and try it out. It sure is a big piece of equipment. The whole thing is coated with grease which was thick fish oil when put on. It will take some time to clean up properly.

Am pleased to hear that you are coming down with your wife, and if you can bring Mildred and Ricky as well, that would be fine. It appears that you will be coming down just at the time Mildred can get Ricky out of school. Things generally don’t work out like that.

Very pleased that you have got a fridge and stove as the weather turned so that nothing will keep except canned goods without a fridge.

We want to start putting the pump together about Thursday if we can. The copper gaskets haven’t shown up. Will you phone them and if they haven’t been sent, get them to send them right away. We can’t afford to take the pump apart again to put these gaskets in, and using cotton or string isn’t satisfactory as this casing is the drive shaft casing and mounts all the shaft bearings, and seals the oiling system from the sea water being pumped out.

Drop me a line re the gaskets and when the fridge and stove are shipped. Send them by Smiths to R.E. Restall c/o Gerald Stevens, Back Harbour, Chester Nova Scotia, VIA HALIFAX.

We had the mosquitoes very bad a week ago but by oiling about 18 shafts and ponds we got rid of them overnight.

We have lots of black ants here and right now they are flying. Another week, I am told, and their flying season is over. The natives say they bite off all their wings. I sure hope they are right as the darned things are an inch and a quarter long. They claim these big black ants killed all the Oak trees. How can that be? Give my regards to all. Will be seeing you soon.

Bob

During the third week in June, Mom arrived back on the island with Rick to find Dad and Bobby busy assembling the pump. Business commitments kept Fred in Hamilton.

Here is the rest of that first piece Mom wrote about her introduction to Oak Island:

The Reluctant Treasure Hunter: Part Two by Mildred Restall

When school closed for the summer holidays, I took Ricky, then nine years old, down to Nova Scotia. He thoroughly enjoyed the train trip to Halifax and was quite excited at the prospect of living on an island for the summer. As for myself, I wasn’t as enthusiastic. “Anyway, it’s only for a couple of months,” I told myself.

My husband met us in Halifax, and the three of us drove down to the island.

What a difference. The island was a riot of colour. The magnificent firs a rich green. The grass a thick carpet. And up in a clear blue sky, the sun shone bright and golden. Sailboats were gliding over a sparkling sea and small craft skimmed around the bay. The air was fragrant with the perfume of wild roses that grew in abundance all over the island. Standing on the beach and looking out over Mahone Bay, with emerald islands dotted here and there, I thought that never, anywhere, had I seen a place more beautiful.

Ricky and I quickly settled down to island living. For Ricky, it was a long summer of swimming, boating, exploring, and all the fascinating things a 9-year-old boy can find to do on an island of his own. As for myself, I soon settled into routine. Forgotten were the miseries of the fall before.

During the winter months the men had built another shack down near the beach. It was 8 feet by 12 feet, big enough to hold two or three barrels of gas as well as the tools. We emptied the shack and constructed two bunks for the boys. This gave us more room in the shack on the hill and some privacy.

They had also made a cradle for the boat. It was a plywood platform, slightly V-shaped, long enough and wide enough to hold a sixteen-foot boat. It rested on two axles with wheels, and a tongue at the front allowed for easy steering in and out of the water, as needed. The old car that Bobby had driven down to Nova Scotia was used to pull the float, as we called it, out of the water and up the slope of the beach. It was quite easy to wheel the float down into the water using only manpower.

While I was away the car had been towed behind our boat to the island on a raft made of planks and gas barrels. A compressor was brought over in this manner too. Bob told me that they nearly lost the whole works when they were loading them at the mainland. The car came in very handy on the Island for transporting barrels of gas, groceries, lumber, etc. from the beach up the hill to the Pit area.

Across the big pit, on an angle, a forty-foot span had been erected. This was to hold a huge pump and motor. The pump was on the island ready to be fitted together and put into place. Along the side of the span, against the end of the shaft, was a mining hoist on tracks. This was to be used to send tools or anything that was needed down the shaft when the men were working there. Right now it was an ideal place to keep our foodstuff. A motor operated the hoist up or down “The Hole,” as we called this particular pit [the Money Pit], and we found that our food stayed nice and cool down at the thirty-foot level.

With July came the tourists. They came from all over both Canada and the U.S.A. The Bounty was being built in Lunenburg about 15 miles further down the coast. This attracted many tourists and of course a lot of them journeyed on to see Oak Island.

The boatmen who brought the tourists to the island also acted as their guides. They would bring them up to see the pits, tell them the history of the place, show them around, and then take them back to the mainland. Some of the tales these guides told their customers were out of this world. One man in particular told of the hair-raising, narrow escapes he had experienced while working with the treasure hunters … cave-ins, water rushing in, timbers cracking. It was enough to scare anybody to death. I know it did me, there inside the shack listening, even though I knew he had only been employed to ferry supplies to the island.

All our laundry had to be done by hand. I didn’t have a washing machine and the nearest laundry was several miles away. It was too much trouble to cart things over in the boat and then on by car, and anyway, the men could’t spare the time for a special trip to take me ashore. So nearly every day I stood outside scrubbing the clothes in a big tin tub. At first I used to feel rather silly if any of the visitors caught me doing my washing, for they seemed to delight in snapping my picture at such times.

Often the visitors would chat with me. The men were like kids at a picnic … looking around with shining eyes as they eagerly asked questions, listened intently to the answers. Some then would stand silently, looking far off. Perhaps they were seeing themselves at the head of a gallant crew who bravely went down into the pits, and against all odds finally emerged, triumphantly bringing up the treasure.

The wives were a little more practical. They were interested in knowing what it was like to live on an island. These were split into two groups, “For” and “Against.” With both, the dialogue was somewhat the same; only the tone inflection was different.

“All alone on the island?”

“No electricity?”

“No telephone?”

“No TV?”

And with each confirming nod or shake, the faces of the ‘For’s” beamed brighter and brighter. Talking, looking around at the beautiful scenery, then eyeing me in my shorts, bare feet, looking something like Al Capp’s Dogpatchers, it was plain to see that they were utterly fascinated by the whole idea. Inhaling deeply of the sweet scented air, they would turn to go, saying, “My, how I envy you.”

Those “Against” would run through the same routine but by the time they reached the “No TV?” bit, often their voices had sunk to an incredulous whisper. Then, looking at me pityingly, they would say, “My dear, you have so much courage.” That was my cue to straighten up and put on my bravest, martyr-like air. But frankly, I could not have cared less.

The weather was ideal. Even in summer the nights were always cool enough to need warm covering, and lying in bed, snuggled under the blankets, once in awhile, when atmospheric conditions were just right, you could faintly hear the mainland noises coming in through the open window. A soft hum of sounds blended together — traffic, voices calling to one another, a dog’s bark, and occasionally the deep rumble of a transport truck. Nearer, the call of the night birds, a gentle rustling of the leaves in the trees. It was like a lullaby. I had no trouble getting to sleep now. It was wonderful to wake up every morning refreshed after a good night’s sleep and feel eager to face the new day. For the days were long and sunny, with fresh westerly winds that prevented the awful sticky heat that is so usual in cities during the summer months.

It was almost, but not quite, perfect. True, the nights were sweet, and the days heavenly … but evenings were hell.

Every evening, not long after the sun had set, the mosquitoes arrived. They came in swarms from out of the woods and from off the swamp. Heaven help anyone who was foolish enough to be out then. It seemed useless to put on repellant for they still found some place to bite, and could they bite, even through thick clothing. I had never encountered such monsters before, or so many of them.

Sometimes, sitting in the cabin waiting for the lantern to be lit, I could hear angry buzzing outside the screened windows, like a swarm of bees. Once the door was shut tight and the light on, we never ventured outside. Even then we were not entirely free, for they would fold up their wings and crawl in at the crack by the door. There was always at least one zooming around, followed by four pairs of eyes, until someone managed to swat it. I tried stuffing the crack with tissues, but still they got in. I soaked the tissues with rubbing alcohol; even that didn’t stop some of them, but these were a lot easier to get, probably because they were half gassed from the alcohol fumes. Then around 10:30 with the chill of the night settling in, their ranks would thin, and suddenly they were gone. Then, and only then, did the boys take off down the hill to their cabin.

Just before I left home, arrangements had been made to ship a gas refrigerator to the island. The “Hole” was fine to keep water, fruit, or juices, but a lot of food spoiled when kept down in that damp shaft. What excitement when the refrigerator came! It was quickly unloaded off the boat and placed on a dolly to be brought up the hill. It was towed behind the car, slowly, up, over the rough, uneven path, but then, with only another 300 feet or so to go, the ropes slipped. Before anyone could do anything, the fridge leaned over and gently rested against a tree.

The men straightened it up and were pleased to see that there was scarcely a mark on it. But inside a tube had been broken. We all stood around silently and sadly, watching the ammonia slowly drip out.

We tried to get it repaired but found out that it would have to go back to Ontario to be charged with gas … Well, back to the hole … the largest cooler in the land.

“Aren’t you ever lonely?” the tourists sometimes asked. Not much chance of that. During the week we had the tourists who came, saw, and left with their guides or were brought to the Island and left for a time, perhaps to picnic, and were picked up later by their boatman. And the weekends brought the “natives.” They came anywhere from Halifax to Lunenburg in their own boats to visit Oak Island. All types of sea craft lay anchored in the coves on either side of the island. Schooners, sloops, cabin cruisers, some quite modern, and a few leaky old tubs.

Although we had put up a corral-type fence in the pit area, this didn’t mean a thing to some of these people. They climbed over or crawled under to march up to the shack, peer in through the window, thump on the door, and demand to know what we were doing. Down at the beach kids were shoveling sand, trying to fill in the excavations that the men had spent all week digging out. Grownups were dropping big stones down the pits and climbing all over the equipment, both at the beach and on the hill. It was bedlam. They milled and stampeded around like a herd of elephants. There hadn’t been so much activity on Oak Island for over twenty years.

We found ourselves very busy those weekends, running back and forth between the beach and the top of the hill, trying to keep an eye on things. Often we were waylaid by groups who would want to know all about the history of the place. One Sunday, crossing the clearing on my way to prepare a meal, I was stopped by a group who asked me a series of questions about the place. I gave them all the information I could; they thanked me and left. Before I had chance to move on, another group stepped up with more questions. I answered them also, and what I didn’t know, I made up. They left and more people stepped forward. I looked around while talking to this group and then it dawned on me that people were “lined up” to the right in large and small groups … All waiting to ask questions, as if I were a tourist guide from some information bureau.

We had left an area around the pits open so that people could come up close to look. Sitting inside the shack, we often had no alternative but to hear their comments.

Some said that the treasure was at the other end of the island. A few swore that the treasure was gone, because it had been brought up over fifty years ago by a poor family on the mainland who had suddenly become wealthy. And some were positive that we were searching on the wrong island.

I was tidying up the boys’ cabin early one Saturday morning, when I heard a boat come in to the dock. Presently three men came and stood under the apple tree outside the cabin. I heard them discussing the story of Oak Island, and particularly the number of shafts that had been dug in an attempt to locate the treasure.

“Now I ask you,” said one, “what stupid *—* would dig a hole 100 feet deep to bury his treasure?”

Thoughtful pause, then, “Yeah, but what about these other stupid *—*s that keep digging to find it?”

Another pause, then, “Well, come on, let’s go and look at them.”

I wasn’t quite sure whether they were referring to the pits or to us.

To “get away from it all” and to spend some time with people his own age, Bob Jr. went ashore every Friday and Saturday night. Because of the shoals and huge boulders around the island, and the late hour he would be coming home, he didn’t use the motorboat. Instead, he walked the length of the island to where we kept a skiff, then rowed across the narrow gap to the mainland. This gap is about 300 feet across at low tide. After dragging the skiff up above the high tide line, he had close to a half-mile walk to where we kept the car. Coming home was the same procedure in reverse. It took him about forty minutes to make the trip either way. When coming home during the summer, if the weather was calm and clear, he often rowed around the island, bringing the skiff to our cove. Ricky then had the use of it until the next weekend.

Bob taught Ricky how to handle the skiff and it was the boy’s pride and joy to be able to take the skiff out and row it around in the cove. Sometimes he took one of us along to show off his seamanship.

Opposite Smith’s Cove, roughly half a mile away, is an island known as Frog Island. Ricky and I sometimes rowed over to pick the wild raspberries that grew in profusion on this island. On the way we stopped every now and then to look down into the clear water. It seemed that there was always something fascinating to see. Different kinds of fish of all different sizes swam below. Once we saw dozens of jellyfish, from the size of golf balls to dinner plates. Delicate looking things in all the varying shades of pink or mauve. With their long tentacles hanging down like streamers, they looked like so many tiny, gaily coloured umbrellas. We watched them pump themselves along, shooting in all directions.

One late afternoon, when all was peaceful and quiet around the island, Rick and his Dad decided to row over to Frog Island. They took turns at the oars, pausing occasionally to look down into the water. About halfway across and during a resting spell, they saw a dark brown shape surface not much more than a hundred feet off. It looked right at them, then, without a ripple, slid from view. It was a seal.

We often saw porpoise sporting on the surface of the water, either on their way in from or out to the Atlantic. It wasn’t unusual to see cranes resting on our shore, standing still and stiff on one leg, looking more like a piece of stone sculpture than a live bird. We saw them in flight, their long necks doubled back close to the body, legs out straight, and their huge wings slowly beating up and down.

This living close to nature was a never-ending source of fascination for Ricky and me. The song birds along the Atlantic coast are many and varied. We were able to study them with the aid of the coloured picture cards given away with the tea we used. Wild fowl, too, made their home on Oak Island, grouse, pheasant, partridge, and on the nearby swamp, black ducks nested.

A pair of beaver had built a lodge at the edge of the swamp, and often in the early evening we would see them cruising around, swimming up and down the waterways among the reeds. Near the bank where we stood to watch was quite an expanse of deep water, possibly eight hundred feet long and ranging, in a sawtooth pattern, from twenty-five to one hundred feet in width. Beyond this, the reeds and rushes grew thickly. The beaver house was at one end of the open water and back, near the reeds.

We saw them diving and swimming, towing newly cut branches to add to their house, and watched as they clambered up the banks to nibble at the new shoots of the bushes that grew at the water’s edge. We were always very quiet and still as we stood there, and as the days went by, the beaver seemed to pay less and less attention to us, often coming quite close to the bank where we were.

It became a pastime for us to pay a visit to the Beaver Pond, as we now called the marsh. One evening we watched as one of the beaver went into the lodge, to our surprise we heard a faint whimpering noise, it sounded like the whining of newly born pups, then almost at once it stopped. We kept close watch after that, and sure enough, a couple of weeks later we saw two baby beaver out in the pond with the big ones.

They were learning to swim. One was a natural. It would swim along for ten or twelve feet, paddle around in a tight circle to face the way it had come, dive down, surface, and repeat the whole procedure six or seven times; then home. The other one, however, didn’t want to swim. It went through the same routine except that it only swam a couple of feet, bobbed, instead of diving, did this two or three times, and then went in.

The mother must have noticed this, for one evening she followed the lazy one in and hauled it out again. We heard a soft whimper, a loud splash, then up popped Jr. swimming like mad with Mama right behind. For the next few nights Mama went along with her reluctant swimmer. She would allow it to climb upon her back, swim with it a few feet, then slowly sink down, rolling over at the same time, leaving Jr. frantically paddling around looking for Mama, who would surface a few feet away. The little one would head in her direction to start the whole business all over again. In no time at all, he was swimming the way a young beaver should.

We noticed that all the time the young ones were out, the other adult slowly patrolled back and forth between the swimmers and the bank. Sometimes he would wind things up by giving the water a resounding slap with his huge tail. In a flash, they would all be gone.

My household duties were practically negligible. Not having the proper cooking facilities, meals were very simple and easy to prepare. I kept dishwashing down to a minimum to save water. Not that water was scarce, but hauling it was hard work, and having to launder every day gave me more exercise than I cared for. I also had to have plenty of boiled water on hand for the boys to make lemonade and such. The water for dishes and laundry was kept outside in a large milk can. The drinking water was carefully strained (in case there were any wigglers) then boiled and lowered down the hole to cool. Having small living quarters gave me very little housework to do and although house-keeping was awkward, I must admit I’d never had it so easy.

I had one little problem, though, and that was garbage disposal. Everything burnable was burnt, but the tin cans, bottles, and jars were not so easily disposed of. I finally solved the problem with cans by washing and flattening them, then every few days I took them into the woods, dug a little hole, and buried them, carefully covering them over with the dirt I had dug up.

Someone went ashore a couple of times a week for mail and supplies. Not having a fridge this meant that we only had fresh meat twice each week. Cooked meats and bacon were bought vacuum packed, being the only kind we could rely on to keep. If anything was forgotten we had to manage without until the next trip. No running down to the corner store here.

Early in the spring, four young steer had been brought to the island, to grow and fatten up for the market. They were quite a nuisance. Apparently Mr. Chappell often allowed locals to use the other end of the Island for logging, hunting, or grazing. Of course, animals know no boundaries. They wandered all over the Island, but mostly they were where we were. They meandered in and around the workings and, much to the disgust of my sons, left a messy trail wherever they went. They were particularly determined to share our water pond, and we were just as determined that they would not. We put up fences, they knocked them down. Whenever Ricky and I saw them we chased them away. By fall they were chasing us.

Once, Rick and I were going for a swim. We were almost halfway down the hill, when the cows came lumbering around the corner at the bottom, and charged towards us. We went into our yelling and hooting routine to frighten them off, but on they came. Rick and I turned and scooted up the hill. Behind us came the thundering herd. We shot across the clearing, hollering at the top of our voices for help. We made a grand dash for the shack with me in the lead. I’ve never run so fast in my life. We locked the door, then peeked out the window.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing … except some tourists by the pits, looking this way and that and then at one another in bewilderment.

The summer wore on, hot and dry. Wells were drying up all along the shore, but our supply of water seemed inexhaustible. The mosquitoes were thinning out and before the end of August were nearly gone. We spent evenings on the beach by a big fire, toasting marshmallows, or just talking. This was when we liked the island best, when we had it all to ourselves.

Our friend, the teller-of-tall-tales guide, sometimes came out to the island of an evening just to pay a social call. We would listen as he spun yarn after yarn about the different legends of Lunenburg County, and there were many … among them, he swore that he had seen the lights of the Teazer.

The Teazer was an American privateer ship that made daring raids along the coast of Nova Scotia in the early 1800s. One day the Teazer was trapped by the British at the mouth of Mahone Bay, and while the officers aboard her were arguing whether to fight or surrender, a young lieutenant, a British deserter, threw a burning coal into the powder magazine, and suddenly the ship exploded. All but eight men died.

To this day people tell that on certain nights you can see a bright light moving across Mahone Bay. As the light comes nearer, you can see a sailing ship and hear the creak of oars. Suddenly it vanishes in a great burst of light at the exact spot where the Teazer blew up.

Our friend told us of another island where no one dared to spend the night, for it was haunted, and shook and shuddered the whole night through. Invariably our storyteller managed to bring in something about Oak Island. He told of the strange fires that were seen on the island on foggy nights. How people who rowed out to investigate were never seen again. He related the sounds of fighting, gunfire, cutlasses clashing, heard by fishermen passing near the Island on their way home; and the ghost of Captain Kidd walking the island, that had been seen several times in the past few years. As for himself, he wouldn’t spend a night on Oak Island, no sir. Looking around fearfully in the gathering gloom he would start up his outboard motor and yell a last parting shot, “I wouldn’t like to be youse guys sleeping on this here island,” as he took off. We were always amused at this display of concern.

There was a black horse on the island, put out for summer pasture. It joined the ranks of the cows. The five of them roamed the island together. The horse was quite adept at nosing up the bar of the gate and letting the cows into our enclosure where, I suppose, the grass was greener.

At the back of the shack, behind the hillocks, a steep bank leads down to a meadow which in turn slopes gently to the beach. This was the way the animals came to get to our clearing, taking their time, munching grass on the way. As soon as we spotted them in the meadow, Ricky and I would hoot and holler, at the same time banging stones together or tossing small stones at them. This was very effective; the animals would stay away for days after that. Eventually they stopped coming — during the day that is. Instead, they came at night.

Several times they had roused me from a sound sleep, clumping around and chomping at the grass nearby, so I always kept a supply of stones at the door ready for use. One could always see at night, even if there wasn’t a moon. There seemed to be a grayness to the sky that reflected its own light. Objects like trees, machinery and animals too, were black smudges that could be identified. Lying in bed you could look through the window and see the tops of the spruce trees, their edges feathered with silver, standing solid and clear against a lighter sky.

One night I woke up and could hear the horse nudging at the bar on the gate, which kept slipping back into the slots, making quite a racket. I knew it wouldn’t be long before they would all be inside the fence. I got up, fumbled my way to the door, opened it, picked up a couple of stones, clattered them together, peered out through half open eyes, and saw the animals amble away. I closed the door and managed to make it back into bed without actually becoming fully awake.

I don’t know how long I slept, but suddenly I woke up with a start to the most awful din. The shack trembled and shook, and the front of the building creaked and groaned. It was as if the whole place were about to collapse. I clung to Bob, terrified, wild thoughts running through my head. There must have been a cave-in down the pits, and we, along with the building, were sliding in. Then there was silence. Suddenly it started again … clump, clatter, thud, thud, at the front of the shack. Then, before our startled eyes, a huge pair of horns sailed by the window. At once we knew what the ruckus was. The cows were walking across the 24” wide platform that ran in front of the shack, spanning the deep ditch. And as they lumbered across the narrow walk, their wide bodies, swaying from side to side, thumped repeatedly against the front of the cabin with a force that threatened to break it down.

With indignation taking the place of fear, I sat up in bed. “You know,” I said to the room, “this is ridiculous,” then stopped, for the noise was starting again. “Here comes another one,” I warned Bob, expecting him to do something, but he just lay there laughing. That was the final straw.

Jumping out of bed, I ran out of the shack, stopping only long enough to grab some stones at the door, then I took off after them. I chased them around the shack and down the hill, throwing stones for all I was worth. By the time I got to the bottom, they were disappearing into the bushes along the side of the meadow. I stood there panting and hopping mad. They won’t be back in a hurry, I told myself, and turned to retrace my steps.

Carefully, I picked my way up the stony bank, for I hadn’t stopped to put on shoes and now I could feel the sharp stones under my bare feet. Behind me, a low hanging moon showed the way. It also showed me my own shadow, queerly misshapen, bobbing ahead. Quick glances here and there revealed other strange-looking shadows from the bushes, the rocks and nearby trees. For instance, those two boulders halfway up the hill, one a little larger than the other and side by side … In this indistinct light their edges softened and they blended together looking almost like … Something was crouched there. Abruptly I switched my eyes elsewhere. I mustn’t think of such things. I fastened my eyes on a little shrub on top of the hill, no harm in that. I knew what a scrawny, scraggily thing it was, and that it was only waist high. But from down here it looked thick and bushy, and man high. Maybe thick enough and high enough for someone or something to hide behind. Again, I pushed these ideas away. But no matter how I tried, frightening thoughts kept sliding into my mind. I thought of calling Bob but how could I call out when every time I tried to swallow, my throat stuck together. Walking carefully and trying to think nice thoughts, I studied the apple tree over to my left. How lovely it must have looked this spring when in full blossom. Now, its foliage was thick and it hung heavy with growing fruit. But it was an old tree in spite of its abundant growth; it was stunted and gnarled and the fruit was wormy. And rising straight up from the middle were stark bare limbs … grotesque arms, menacing me. My heart began to pound. Suddenly I felt a sharp, icy breath on the back of my neck and my hair lifted. A soft moan went through the trees and across the island, then dead silence. I knew it was only a predawn breeze, but it left me trembling and wishing I’d had enough sense to stay in bed. By the time I reached the top of the hill I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find Captain Kidd himself, waiting there.

I walked along to the shack as nonchalantly as I could, but with the feeling that something was behind me. I was too scared to look back, knowing that if anything was there I’d be frozen with fear, unable to escape.

Finally I reached the door, and grabbed the handle. I pushed, but the door wouldn’t open. I leaned against it and pushed harder, still it wouldn’t open. By now the spiders really were crawling up and down the back of my neck. I pushed again, “Oh, God, why won’t the door open?” Then I remembered. The door opened outward.

Once inside I let out a big sobbing sigh, then crept into bed, shaking and trembling, damning cows, treasure hunting, deserted island, but most all, damning that fool boatman.