The front door to Gull Cottage slammed loudly. For a moment Martha, busy sorting through clanging pots and ancient pans, couldn't tell which way Mrs. Muir was headed. She bustled to the window and was rewarded by the sight of Carolyn flinging a broom at Gull Cottage's front porch. Her aim wasn't half bad, Martha duly noted, wondering where the broom came from. It must have sailed right through the querulous ghost, because Captain Gregg's special brand of caustic ghostly laughter immediately ensued. The broom hit the front door with an ominous whoosh before clattering loudly on the ample porch below.
"Witch, with a B!" Carolyn Muir spat angrily in the Captain's direction as she stomped angrily toward the car parked directly in front of the house.
Martha heard snorts of laughter emanating from the landing. "Rhymes with switch!" she bellowed. She peered around the kitchen door, but the children, like Captain Gregg, had vanished.
Daniel Gregg, however, was not content to let time and distance cast their magical calming spell upon Mrs. Muir's wrath. No sooner had she turned the key in the ignition, the station wagon rumbling resentfully to life in the wintry air, than the ghost materialized in the front seat, arms crossed in his most intentionally overbearing, confrontational manner.
"I've materialized. This instant. In THIS, the moment of MY OWN choosing. I am not to be summonsed like some ordinary spirit! Madame, you may be the most luminous specimen of femininity ever to grace the beaches of Maine but you remain, nonetheless, a mere mortal. I am a spirit. What I say or don't say about Halloween goes for this family!"
The car lurched precipitously forward, down Cliff Road. Carolyn glared sideways at him, brushing her hair behind her ear in one angry gesture. Their eyes clashed. "Are you a ghost or a pouting child?" she inquired brusquely as she shifted the car into second gear. The car lumbered valiantly down the dirt road at 10 miles per hour. Carolyn shot another look at the Captain's posturing form, annoyed that he always looked so solid when he was so close. She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. When she refocused on the road, it was too late. "Madame!" warned the Captain, but even he could not levitate the car at such short notice. With an abrupt thunk, the vehicle 's front right wheel swerved dangerously into a muddy rut that had frozen, overnight into an icy turnpike at the crest of Cliff Road.
Carolyn jammed the metallic brakes with her high-heeled foot. "Roar away, Captain Gregg. Right here in this pothole! Last time I checked, this mere mortal is a very un-mere mother who happens to think you should butt out when it comes to the children's plans for trick-or-treating. I'm perfectly willing to allow you to accompany them, if it's their safety you're concerned about, but I won't allow you –"
She jumped out of the car and slammed her door as hard as she could. "I certainly hope this isn't yet another demonstration of your supernatural superiority, Captain Gregg!"
"Nay, Madame, more like a fine demonstration of your feminine failings!" He shot back, right over port bow of the car. "Just like the entire afternoon!"
For a moment, he fantasized she could see him as he once was, how he'd looked at the helm of one of his flagships at the heighth of a storm, commanding dozens of men, issuing life-or-death orders that protected not only the men under his command but the thousands of dollars in cargo entrusted to his care. She would swoon, Captain Gregg thought angrily. Just like all of the rest of the wenches who'd tried to capture his heart.
She'd simply laughed at him minutes ago, up there in their quarters, blast her, when he advised against Jonathan and Candy being allowed to trick-or-treat in spirit-filled Schooner Bay. "Really, Captain, I think the spookiest thing in Schooner Bay are the thunder squalls you can't quite control when things don't go your way!"
"Nothing's gone my way, m'dear, since you mutinied my crew and turned Gull Cottage into a –"
"Home, Captain Gregg? Home? That's what you're really afraid of, isn't it. Not of ghosts that have never even bothered to materialize themselves to the kids. Not of Halloween, which is just a sugar-laden joke anyway. Not even of my dear, departed husband whose spirit is God-knows-where. For the first time in your life, you really care about somebody and you're obsessing about things that didn't even matter last year. Your orders do not trump mine! We're trick-or-treating, unless you can manifest some seriously scary facts."
"Wait, why don't you go with them!" she continued blithely. "You can be, let's see, is it specter, ghost, apparition, poltergeist –"
"And you, my dear? What will you be this Halloween?" the Captain asked in the velvety suave, impersonal yet menacing tone Claymore knew so well. Without waiting for an answer, he materialized a brand new broom right out of Schooner Bay hardware. With a twitch of his index finger, it danced spritely in front of her, sweeping the floor in loud, noisy strokes. "Captain Gregg, you are so very close to the point-of-no-return with me!" She moved to his beloved telescope and spun it, as hard as she could. He walked right through the spinning object, startling her so that for once she was speechless. Wordlessly, he handed her the broom. The telescope stopped its spinning abruptly, pointing right out of his chest, directly at the irate widow.
"Fly away, Mrs. Muir." He twiddled his fingers magically in the air, as if dismissing her from his presence. She spun on her heels, grabbed her coat and handbag off the desk and headed for the stairs, brandishing the broom as she walked away. The mistress of the haunted mansion was too angry to care what came out of her mouth. "I thought by now, you might try acting like a 145-year-old man instead of Jonathan's idea of a cartoonish Halloween hero!"
Now, on the beach, contemplating the ruined axel and flat tire, Captain Gregg was secretly pleased at this reversal between them in the balance of power. "This, my dear, is how 145-year-old men behave!" As he had their very first night in Gull Cottage, he took invisible command of the steering wheel. At his bidding, the car rumbled out of the ditch and over to within 20 feet of the cliff, where it died. In the ensuing silence, Carolyn pulled her jacket tightly around her. Fine. She would continue the argument here.
Hundreds of feet below, Captain Gregg's former mistress foamed and hissed as it battered the rocky shore, displacing millions of pebbles and filling the air with a damp and freezing salty spray he knew was not healthy for the mortal beside him.
"My dear, perhaps it is best we continue this discussion in the warmth of your heated automobile."
She was shivering, but not hard enough to give in to anything he had to say. "No, Captain Gregg, I'm waiting to see if you can re-muster some of your bluster before I fly away." Genuinely worried about her health, he waved his hand and a huge bonfire ignited just feet away. A bottle of whiskey followed. She was so cold there was nothing to do but back straight into the huge wool blankets he held open for her. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, making sure she kept her face to the warmth of the blaze. "Drink, my dear, don't sip. That's my lass."
Carolyn Muir was so cold she didn't find it odd to discover this magnificent apparition suddenly could not only touch her, but draw her to itself as well.
"Why do we do this to each other?" She turned to him, tears in her eyes. There was no posturing out here in the cold air, where warmth was all that mattered once your body began shaking uncontrollably. She turned, leaned into his chest and cried, wrapping her blanket-draped arms awkwardly around his back. Not knowing what to say, he swayed her gently, side to side. At first it was soothing. Swathed in blankets from head to toe, Carolyn gradually warmed to the point her fingers could find their way around to the buttons of his pea jacket, which she promptly unfastened so she could slide her arms instinctively under the ultimate warmth of his arms. She felt him pull away, hoping she'd missed the first tangible evidence of his desire for her.
"Why didn't you tell me we could touch? Why didn't you tell me a long time ago?"
"Perhaps, lass," he murmured, ignoring that last query, "It's because we'd rather argue than talk about what we've already done, not to, but with each other."
Despite herself, she smiled. "That was just a dream, Daniel. A very lovely, very…haunting dream." She buried her face in his chest so he couldn't see the color in her cheeks or the knowing smile playing across her face. "If I apologize, will you?"
"For what I did in a dream? Nay, Madame! Never! But I will be happy – against my superior judgment -- to guide Jonathan and Candy past the unseen spirits and safely to their friends' front doors, from whence pirate Jonathan will present himself and I will thunder and laugh mellifluously and, I might add, quite invisibly."
"What about my daughter?"
"Alas, my dear, it is as it always is with the beautiful yet stalwart Candace Muir. She wants to be a physician . . . again! She has asked me personally not to embarrass her in front of her friends."
"And you, Daniel? Are you just to be yourself, traipsing around behind a nine-year-old boy?"
Captain Gregg tugged at his ear. "I have, my dear, actually given this matter quite some thought. Presuming, of course, that I acquiesce to your family's wishes to turn a truly sorrowful day into a feast day for candy, then yes! I shall follow the wee lad as the ghost of a 19th-century sea captain. Roguish, charming, and delighting in offending landlubberish sensibilities."
"Oh." Carolyn tried to hide the disappointment in her voice. "I suppose you won't need me. I'll just tag along then, in the car and leave Martha to dole out candy to anyone brave enough to visit Gull Cottage."
"A sound plan, my dear. But, I do have one caveat: In return for my forced generosity in allowing my family out on such an inherently risky evening, I ask that you reserve what remains of Halloween night for me. When Martha and the children are abed, I expect you to accompany me for the remainder of the night."
"Captain," she stammered, unsure of his intentions but hoping they were less-than-noble. "What's the catch? You never compromise lightly."
"Why, Mrs. Muir, you seem worried. I thought a little grown-up trick-or-treating might be just the thing for the lady of the house, who is so insistent about allowing her wee bairns out and about on a not-so hallowed eve. But, if you harbor doubts about a night you encourage your children to embrace, then perhaps we will call it an evening after Jonathan and I scare the wits out of that scoundrel, Mr. Hampton –"
Two nights later, the Captain was as good as his word – especially after Candy decided to skip trick or treating and go directly home with one of her friends, whose parents planned to keep the kids home this freezing Halloween night with a bonfire, hot chocolate, and the exotic promise of an all-night slumber party.
With only Jonathan to trick-or-treat with, Daniel Gregg outdid himself splendidly, making noises of serious flatulence that Carolyn, sitting in an idling car, could neither overhear nor smell. "That's the treat part, lad," he advised his sniggering charge. Tricks varied, depending on how well Jonathan and the Captain liked the families whose houses they visited. Still, the Captain, mindful that anything too out-of-line would draw unwelcome attention to Jonathan's beautiful mother, refrained from making the lad's head disappear or allowing garden snakes to materialize in his outstretched hands. Usually, just the sight and sound of the Captain's horrifying, haunting laughter seemingly pealing from Jonathan Muir's mouth was enough to send Schooner Bay parents scurrying back indoors.
It did not escape Carolyn's notice that lights on houses they'd yet to visit were flipping off in increasing numbers. She sighed to herself. "I was right."
By nine, they were headed back up Cliff Road. Jonathan was sound asleep on the ramp, curled soundly around the huge pillowcase of treats he'd amassed. Carolyn looked over at Daniel, whose features seemed even more rugged and desirable in the green glow of the car's dashboard.
"I will meet you, Madame, on the Widow's Walk at 9:30."
"How shall I dress, Captain?"
"That, my dear –"
"Is entirely up to me." She smiled at him as the car drew to a halt in front of Gull Cottage. Martha ambled wearily out to the car to help. "Not a single trick-or-treater Mrs. Muir. I was asleep on the couch when you pulled up just now."
Daniel Gregg watched pensively as the two women half-carried the small boy up the stairs. He wondered if what he was about to do was the right thing, for her, him or them. Still, she had to know before things went any further between them.
Their dream of two nights ago profoundly disturbed him. He hardly ever slept. Yet that night, he'd nodded off while sitting on the sofa, watching her sleep, torturing himself with the knowledge he could touch her – if he allowed himself. Before he knew what was happening, he was seated with her in the parlor, his lips brushing her collarbone, his hands falling to her barely concealed breasts below. She gasped, audibly, and it was a matter of minutes before their embrace ended on the alcove sofa, where they shuddered finally in each other's arms. Seconds later, they each awakened, respectively, on the bed and sofa in the Captain's cabin.
They stared at each other, confused yet completely sated. A wanton smile gradually spread across Carolyn's face. "Shhh, don't say anything," she whispered. "I don't want to know exactly how that worked. Just come lie next to me, even if you can't touch me." Exhausted, they soon fell asleep, he listening to her steady breathing and she marveling at the sheer physicality of one so incorporeal.
Now, as he paced the Widow's Walk, awaiting her arrival, he was suddenly wary. He'd never dreamt like that before. Was he losing control? Was she somehow complicit in the dream – or, had they both dreamt the same thing at the same time, joining at some unconscious level they could only experience viscerally, in dreams. But why? As she now knew, he could touch her, physically, in any way he pleased. Surprisingly, she didn't even seem angry about his year and one-half-long deception. Well, that wasn't completely true. They'd just managed a huge row between them over the issue of wayward spirits on Halloween.
The problem, he deduced, was that she now thought the fight was really over their newfound relationship. How could he tell her his concerns stemmed largely around the greater reality that touch or no touch, he remained part of a very scary spiritual realm, one he could not control on several levels. He was the only ghost she knew, and despite his amorous intentions, he was largely benign. The spirit world was not. And there was no clearer demonstration of that than the ancient Celtic celebration of The Death of the Year, which later Christians co-opted into "The Feast of All Saints." Today and tomorrow, Nov. 1.
The festival of Samhain was the night affronted or neglected spirits took revenge on family members who'd failed to give them their proper measure of remembrance. Daniel hadn't needed to ask. He had a pretty good idea that Robert Muir, wherever he was, probably felt pretty neglected about now – particularly if he perchance knew his beautiful blonde widow had hooked up with another member of the so-called spectral fraternity.
"The veil between their world and ours doesn't thin, it becomes a blasted one-way trip for spirits with an axe to grind," he ruminated. Captain Gregg also knew the so-called Great Mother of the ancient Celts took particular joy in routing evil spirits on Halloween. The Irish in him recalled uncomfortably early stories he'd heard about her three natures – Virgin, Consort and Hag, or witch.
"Captain?"
It was the Consort.