Ghosts ⚔️ Blackbeard's Treasure

Chapter 18.

Don't panic. I yell internally. The key is not to panic. I vault upright cascading waves of water over the tub's sides. Water drips down my body. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the inky darkness. Every time the tub's faucet drips, I wince. If I hadn't heard a chime, I would attribute the draft to the wind infiltrating a crevice in the building's exterior brick wall. I know better. Something is here. I can sense it. Gripping the tub's porcelain edge, I gingerly step onto the blue and white tiled floor. Shivering, I silently curse my stupidity. My bathrobe is packed away in the unopened moving box in my bedroom. I have nothing to protect myself, except a bamboo-handled loofa, and albeit, an expensive lump of Frankincense epson salt.

Feeling my way in the dark, I shuffle towards the light switch. "Ah!" My foot collides with a hard object. I reach down and retrieve a small metallic lump, draped in slimy seaweed. My forehead wrinkles at the object's sugar cookie shape and its substantial weight. I detangle tendrils of green sea grass, my nose wrinkling at the strong aquarium smell. I gasp when an embossed solid gold coin is unearthed in my palm. Reflexively, my thumb rubs off the rest of the greenish-brown silt to reveal an ancient royal crest. My mouth falls open when I recognize the gold hammered coin as a Spanish doubloon from field trips I've taken to Boston's Museum of Fine Arts.

Moonlight, shining through the windows, illuminates the object in my hand. In the mirrored wall to my left, a shadowy reflection appears. I spin around, taking a step back. Bloody Mary? The ghostly visage disappears. Not daring to breathe, I scan the bathroom. The cloying scent of the sea at low tide grows stronger—as if a large decaying carcass has floated to the surface. Across the hall, I hear an eerie creak, followed by a high pitched whine. My bedroom door swings open to reveal a hovering specter. A Napoleon-like bicorn, worn side-to-side, swivels like a pitch black sail as the silhouette turns towards me. The thing has no face—just blackened holes where the eyes and mouth should be. Below the spirit's chest and shoulders, the body disappears into thin air. After a moment, it advances. I can't move. The pull of the ghost's aura immobilizes me as if I'm stranded in quicksand.

Naked, I flee into the hallway and down the hardwood stairs. The cable railing bites painfully into my hands. My wet feet skid on the polished wood and I stub my toe, nearly tumbling over the handrail's edge. At the bottom of the steps, I hyperventilate, my body trembling. Inch by inch I make my way towards the door, keeping my eyes trained on the top of the stairs and upstairs hallway.

That's when I see the bottle of ghost rum, sitting on the kitchen table. The rum glows eerily in the dark. Decaying fluorescent green radium. Dammit! This cunning ghost has invaded my sanctuary by stowing away in Julia's gift basket. As if it was an alluring, gourmet Trojan horse.

Grabbing the angora throw off the club chair, I yank open the front door and barrel out into the hallway. Soaking wet and barefoot, I feel vulnerable without a stitch of clothes on. Indignant, I drape the wrap over my shoulder and then cross my arms over my chest. I pace the hallway, trying to stay warm. There's nothing else out here to cover my body, not even a rubber floor mat. Hearing voices, I jump behind a potted fig tree and flatten my self against the brick wall. Clutching the gold doubloon, I pull the throw tighter around my body.