Three months after she moved in to Gull Cottage, Carolyn Muir answered a call from Mid-Maine High School Principal Nathan Dean. The crusty administrator practically begged her to accept a short-term assignment as an emergency substitute teacher for 11th and 12th-grade English. It would be at least a month before Miss Finlayson's belly began to noticeably swell, but the school board was anxious for the imminent scandal to remove herself immediately to somewhere else down the coast, perhaps Boston? Mrs. Muir, he'd been told, was a Philadelphia Brahmin with impeccable credentials and, a writer to boot. His instincts were confirmed by her studied, gentle composure over the telephone.
"Yes, of course I can help you out, I'd be delighted, honored, in fact," Carolyn readily agreed, encouraged by the sudden furrow in Captain Gregg's brow. "No, Principal Dean. Next Monday's not too early. I'm just finishing up an assignment from the Boston Globe."
The extra income would be nice although modest. Mrs. Muir immediately envisioned herself at the chalkboard, entrancing high school juniors with Shakespeare and Thoreau and imbuing them with her love of the English language and its deliciously complicated syntax. She imagined her fashionable wardrobe, Philadelphia composure and status as a single working mother might even inspire a few local girls to go to college instead of marrying into the lobster industry.
The Captain hovered closely, too brazen to even pretend he wasn't eavesdropping. Blushing furiously, she hung up and turned away from the local boy she'd fallen for but could never marry. It would be good to escape Gull Cottage for several weeks, she thought pragmatically. A rigid yet hectic academic environment would give her distance and perspective, ending the silly fantasies and indulgent daydreams gradually overtaking her working days in the Captain's former bedroom. A busy classroom would leave her tired and distracted, dampening unfamiliar urges and desires she'd never before experienced or could fully satiate furtively at night, when the sound of measured footsteps on the widow's walk above guaranteed her privacy below.
As he ended the call, Principal Dean was relieved he'd found a temporary solution amenable to the school board. They'd violated state law the night before by convening behind closed doors to discuss Mrs. Muir's suitability as a substitute teacher. Certainly the published author sounded like an outstanding woman, and Schooner Bay Elementary Principal Hampton appeared solely to vouch for her character and professionalism. Still, Mrs. Muir's habitation in a house with a reputation even more tattered than Miss Finlayson's was of serious concern. Until she arrived, kids, dog and an impressively pricey housekeeper in tow, no one had spent a "full night" in Gull Cottage since Halloween, 1948, when returning airman Benny Rogers purportedly passed out from fear and beer. On the front porch, not even really inside. So why did Mrs. Muir stay? Everyone on the school board concurred Schooner Bay's founding father was once undeniably handsome, even if he had turned into a complete nuisance after death. Did the gorgeous Mrs. Muir's well-known insistence on needing solitude as a writer, and her disturbing habit of talking to herself hint at an unholy dalliance with the presumably lecherous spirit? Could a ghost cast a spell on a mortal woman, or was there possibly witchcraft at work on the cliff face that dominated Schooner Bay's geography?
"This speculation is ridiculous and ill-advised, precisely why there will be no record of this discussion," Mr. Grover at last warned his fellow board members, who were too afraid of being overheard by a ghost who didn't exist to even say his name aloud. "We've all watched too many episodes of Dark Shadows. With our grandchildren, I mean. Maine is not Collinsport. Even my wife would be hard-pressed to make anything at all of this. Mrs. Muir is undeniably of solid moral values and nobody has ever proven, beyond a doubt, that Gull Cottage is haunted. Certainly, ghosts cannot touch humans, err, I meant there aren't many eligible women with college degrees in Schooner Bay. Mrs. Muir seems guileless and is completely overqualified for the position. She will simply have to do until Miss Moran arrives to replace Miss Finlayson in early November."
Which could make Halloween night all the more entertaining, mused American history teacher Eleanor Tempe, who overheard it all through the library door. Miss Tempe might be an old maid who wore a wig that moved up and down when she scratched her head, but she was young once, and remembered the stories her grandmother had told of the ill-fated, dashing Capt. Gregg and his avowed quest for a romantic soulmate. She'd seen the elegant Carolyn Muir shopping in town and idly thought the young widow the perfect counterpoint to the alleged spirit of the dashing Daniel Gregg. After all, an artist's working sketch of Daniel Gregg's portrait resided in the historical society's archives. Who wouldn't want to? Even staring at his commanding portrait every day would titillate most women. Yet today, few dared to drive up Gregg Road, even on Independence Day. Why Mrs. Muir indeed?
The school board's decision to hire Mrs. Muir could change everything. Carolyn Muir's seeming normality might overcome high schooler's somewhat justifiable terror of Gull Cottage. Through Mrs. Muir's reassuring presence, the veil between life and death on Gregg Road might be forever thinned, making Gull Cottage a perennial Halloween favorite. Miss Tempe made a mental note to keep an eye out for Carolyn Muir and, to secretly advise Mrs. Grover of the board's insensitivity to the younger woman's situation at this particularly delicate time of year. Really. It was as if the old men were using Capt. Gregg as a surrogate for their own fantasies about sleeping with the young widow. She'd show the board what real old witches could do. Spells indeed.
Five days later, Carolyn nervously fingered her pearls, watching apprehensively from her classroom window as students spilled into waiting buses, their backpacks full of notes, journals, and a most-disturbing homework assignment. Last week, her juniors staggered home under the weight of Herman Melville, his whale, and a crazed sea captain. This week … Carolyn's face whitened. "Write a 300-word essay entitled 'Happy Halloween! The Historical Significance of Schooner Bay's Haunted House." What was Miss Finlayson thinking? Carolyn hadn't bothered to review Miss Finlayson's meticulously detailed notes or, remember that most teachers made assignments well in advance, to remove any excuses for tardy papers.
Behind her, the air stirred. "This wasn't Miss Finlayson's idea, Madame. The district makes this amazing assignment to all juniors each year, in tacit recognition of my many contributions to Schooner Bay's viability and vigor." Furious, Carolyn turned to argue, not caring who might see or overhear a conversation with the Captain, but it was Mrs. Grover, she of teapot fame, who stood at the entrance to her classroom.
"This wasn't Miss FInlayson's idea, Mrs. Muir. The school board tries to incorporate local history into all aspects of its curriculum and to thread together important social and economic elements in a timely manner that adds interest to students. In this instance, I think it's their tacit recognition of Gull Cottage's undeserved reputation as a haunted house and to Schooner Bay's importance as a shipping harbor in Maine's early development. Your Capt. Gregg played a huge role in attracting ocean-going commerce to our town." Mrs. Grover peered solicitously in the young teacher's direction. "Dear, even I could not have predicted you might be a party to this otherwise mundane annual assignment. Miss Finlayson's departure was, well, quite unanticipated. Men. I mean the school board. Mr. Grover has some very interesting questions to answer tonight. You are very lovely and very young and it's inexcusable they overlooked, well, certain things."
"I'm not naive!" Carolyn stammered finally, so flustered that she missed the suave smile spreading deliberately across Capt. Gregg's face. "Mrs. Grover, why wasn't I warned about this? How can I deal with fifty sniggering faces while trying to teach English composition? It's as if they are invading my home life…"
"The essays are to focus on the house, not your tenancy there," Mrs. Grover rejoined smoothly. "Dear, you mustn't appear to be so defensive. Much could be inferred from your alarm. Now, our historical society possesses first-hand accounts and meticulous ledgers kept by all of the captains of schooners and commerce who plied our waters in the days before steamers. I'm sure, that by the time your students finish researching the historical significance of Schooner Bay's allegedly haunted house, they will be far too bored to trick-or-treat up Gregg Road. When you are finished, the mere mention of Gull Cottage will elicit yawns and ideas of teepeeing Claymore Gregg's storefront...again."
"How prescient is this marvelous lady," Capt. Gregg nodded in Mrs. Grover's direction. "Why, I'll open my sea trunks, find architectural blueprints, produce ship's records, and do everything I can to send youth of today to Claymore, who is busy selling their beachfront legacy to every rich financier from New York."
Aware that Mrs. Grover was reading too much into every flicker that crossed her face, Carolyn straightened herself and uncrossed her arms. The look on the woman's face was not unkind, although the mirth in her eyes was unmistakable. Carolyn sighed. Of course everyone in town knew about the historical Daniel Gregg. Of course his antics continued to make Gull Cottage the source of gossip, innuendo and unending speculation. She'd simply been in denial, as Dr. McNally would suggest. For all she knew, the Captain's boasts of women in every port included several great-grandmothers of many of her students' mothers, those who were very much alive when the cavalier captain ruled the waves. What did this old woman know that she didn't?
"I hope you're as prescient wise as you are kind," she smiled at Mrs. Grover finally. "In that case this will turn out to be the least-scary Halloween ever. Maybe I'll even host a Halloween Party for students too old to be out trick-or-treating anyway. Everyone will see there's absolutely nothing to fear about Gull Cottage. Silly rumors."
Sleeping with the Captain, Carolyn thought to herself. They think I'm consorting with a spirit.