Isle Royale by John Hamilton Read Free Book Online

that he’d actually wasted precious moments pondering the ship’s name. Of course he didn’t recognize the name; it was the devil’s handiwork.
    The ship was nearly upon him now. Ollhoff cursed his luck. He couldn’t steer clear, and he sure as hell couldn’t outrun the steamer. Only one thing to do: into the drink and pray he didn’t get caught in the steamer’s paddles as it went over him.
    With a shout Ollhoff leapt overboard, just as the ghostly steamer loomed overhead. He felt the shock of the icy water as he plunged in, then drew in a breath and kicked downward, desperately trying to avoid being struck by the hull as the ship passed overhead. The sidepaddles angrily churned up the water just behind him, the sound roaring in the old fisherman’s ears.
    Ollhoff opened his eyes underwater and looked up. Through a curtain of froth and bubbles he saw his little rowboat smashed into tiny bits as the steamer passed overhead.
    Ollhoff, his lungs nearly bursting, finally surfaced next to the remains of his rowboat. Spitting water and gasping for breath, he hung onto a piece of driftwood and watched as the ghost ship steamed away from him. He squinted and saw several green lights gathering on deck near the stern.
    Ollhoff gasped. The lights were faces! He shuddered as he counted nearly a dozen staring sadly back at him. They were gaunt, tired-looking, with long white beards and haunted, piercing eyes. Ollhoff shut his own eyes tight, saying a silent prayer and looking away. When he glanced back again, the faces were gone. Only the ship remained, its ghostly shape gliding farther and farther up the cove.
    Finally, the steamer disappeared from view. Without hesitating another moment, Ollhoff swam for shore, his arms cutting through the water at a frenzied pace. That’s it, the old fisherman thought. Enough is enough. He would go back by foot through the forest, nevermind the storm and dark of night.
    Rain began falling in sheets, but this made Ollhoff all the more determined. He vowed that if he made it back to the fishing village alive, didn’t die of hypothermia, get trampled by a moose, or fall off a cliff, he would book the first ship back to Norway and quit drinking, in that order. Enough of this wretched country and its terrible, haunted waters.

Chapter Five

    W hen dawn broke the following morning, all traces of the storm had vanished. The air was clear and cool. Gone were the black clouds, replaced instead by a breathtaking blue sky that receded to an infinite horizon. Seagulls soared overhead, borne on a slight breeze that tickled the treetops, caused them to wave ever so gently. The gulls’ shrill cry echoed against the great granite cliffs of Wolf Point, mixing with the sound of surf lapping at the water’s edge. The Lady was fast asleep now, spent from the previous night’s rampage. The lake reflected the sunrise like glass.
    Sally Young stood at the kitchen sink, disinterested, as she slowly dried a stack of dishes. The smell of freshly baked bread permeated the room, emanating from the iron stove in the corner next to the sink. The wood fire underneath crackled and popped. It was a chilly morning, and the heat from the fire felt good on Sally’s legs. Behind her, she heard her grandma clearing the kitchen table and putting away food in the pantry.
    As Sally methodically rubbed the cotton drying cloth over a large white porcelain plate, she gazed out the window over the sink. Across the compound, she saw the lighthouse, perched on the cliff overlooking placid Lake Superior. The lighthouse, like the lake, seemed asleep now, having stood vigil the night before.
    Sally was tall for her sixteen years. She was a pretty girl, with pale blue eyes and raised cheekbones that set off her face. She wore a blue and white frock, with a pair of high-topped brown leather shoes. In her blond hair, which was cut in a short bob, she wore a blue bow, a concession to fashion upon which her grandmother insisted.
    Sally