Ghosts ⚔️ Blackbeard's Treasure

Chapter 1.

The ocean is a silent beast. On the horizon, a severe storm brews—at any moment in the eerie quiet, a wave could reach out and grab me.

Standing on Boston's Seaport pier, dark clouds loom overhead. Sailboats are bobbing like tethered apples in the bay, their masts disappearing under a veil of white mist. Undoubtedly, shit's about to get real. Pulling out my phone, I speed dial my employer's hotline, 88 GHOST INC. After a minute of theatrical music, a bubbly voice answers. "Chills n' Thrills Ghost Tours. What's your emergency?"

"This is Elizabeth Summers. I'm requesting a cancellation for my nine p.m. Lizzie Borden tour."

"Good evening, Miss Summers. What's the location?"

"The show I'm hosting starts at Elsbeth's Tea Shop on King Street."

"Reason for the cancellation request?"

I gape at the anvil-shaped clouds towering over the horizon. "Severe weather."

I've been put on hold. A few minutes later, an efficient sounding Regional Ghost Tour Specialist comes on. "I understand your concern, Miss Summers, but per company policy we can't cancel a show once half the customers have checked in."

"What do you mean, you can't cancel tonight's ghost tour?" Incredulous, I stare at my phone. "Haven't you seen the storm front? It's ugly—Logan International's canceling flights."

"I assure you, this company prioritizes employee safety in the field. You're in good hands. Now get a hold of yourself and rendezvous with your customers." Overhead, the sky's deepened into an ultraviolet purple.

Get a hold of myself? This is end-of-days.

Safe in her New York corporate high rise, the woman's unpleasant contralto voice grates on my nerves. "Miss Summers, our employment policy is crystal clear. As tonight's official tour guide, you have fifteen minutes to be onsite before tonight's show commences." I hear an exasperated sigh as if she's weary of wrangling fleeing tour workers. "Otherwise, your noncompliance will be grounds for automatic termination."

A severe weather advisory from the National Weather Service pings my phone.

What does this woman specialize in? Bullshit?

"I need to get home —there's a violent storm approaching." I imagine my waterlogged body washed up on the quay, next to The Crab Shack.

The robotic voice turns nasty. "We're aware of the adverse weather pattern, Miss Summers. "Don't worry, we'll keep you advised of any changes in this evening's schedule." I hear staccato fingernails typing on a keyboard.

"Don't worry? My life's in danger—hello?" My phone vibrates.

BZZZZZZZZ ....14:39 —

BZZZZZZZZ ....14:38 —

BZZZZZZZZ ....14:37.....

I gasp as descending red time stamps blow up my screen. The vindictive bitch's started the termination countdown. My phone is a ticking time bomb. It's The Hunger Games and I'm Tribute. Cold and damp, every fiber of my being screams, seek shelter. Instead, I secure my phone and rush back to Elsbeth's Tea Shop.