Read Online The Language of Sand by Ellen Block - Free Book Online Page B

door ajar.
    Nudging it open, she said, “Hello? Is anybody here?”
    The door led into a kitchen littered with tackle boxes, fishing supplies, and Styrofoam coolers. Abigail could see straight through the bungalow to the front door she’d been knocking on.
    “Hello?” she called.
    Suddenly a giant man in a navy shirt-coat appeared from around a corner. Abigail jumped, letting out a yelp.
    “Cardiac arrest, here we come,” the equally startled man said, fanning off the fright. He had an immense build and was practically eye to eye with the crown molding, dwarfing everything in the room. “You trying to kill me, lady?” he asked, running a massive palm over his wispy gray hair to collect himself.
    “I scared you ?”
    “Pardon me for not expecting some woman to be sneaking around the kitchen at too-damn-early o’clock in the morning.”
    “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I knocked on the front door. There was no answer, and this door was open, so…”
    “You figured you’d give an elderly man a heart attack.”
    “You don’t look elderly to me.”
    “Now you’re just trying to butter me up.”
    “Is it working?”
    “A little,” he admitted. “Store’s not open yet, but you’re welcome to come on in if you can hack a path through this junk.”
    The kitchen was a shrine to fishing. Rods were propped in every corner, and cans of dried bait were stacked on the floor beneath dozens of colorful lures that hung from specially crafted shelves. Photos of prized catches were affixed to the wall wherever there was space.
    “Listen, I apologize for barging in. I’m Abigail Harker. The new caretaker at the lighthouse.”
    “Should’ve guessed it,” he said, warming to her. “I’m MerleBraithwaite. Proprietor of Island Hardware, fishing aficionado, and Chapel Isle’s ‘Tallest Man Contest’ winner for over fifty years running, at your service.”
    She put out her hand and Merle shook it gently, wary of his own strength, as if it was not entirely under his control.
    “Lottie told me you might be stopping by. I’d say have a seat…”
    Each of the chairs was piled high with issues of fishing magazines, topped with spools of line.
    “That’s all right. I can’t stay. Too much to do. I just came by to ask a few questions about the caretaker’s cottage.”
    “Shoot.”
    “Well, the light in the bathroom keeps switching on and off. I’m concerned there might be a problem with the wiring. If you could recommend an electrician—”
    “Wiring’s fine. Checked it myself last week.”
    “Maybe you should check it again, because—”
    “Wouldn’t do a bit of difference if I rewired the whole house,” Merle said, towering over Abigail. “He always messes with that light.”
    “ He who?”
    “The caretaker.”
    “I thought I was the caretaker.”
    “You are. Now.”
    “Then who’s he ?”
    “Name’s Wesley Jasper.”
    “Lottie didn’t mention another caretaker.”
    “Naw, I bet she didn’t.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because Mr. Jasper isn’t exactly the caretaker anymore.”
    “I don’t follow.”
    Merle leaned heavily against the refrigerator, clearly annoyed that he had to deliver this news. “Ma’am, to put a fine point on it, the lighthouse is haunted.”
    “What?” Abigail was convinced she’d misheard him.
    “Haunted.”
    “Come again.”
    “Haunted,” he said, enunciating. “It ain’t that highfalutin a word.”
    “I understand what haunted means. But you’re kidding, right?”
    “Gotta give it to Lottie. That woman could sell lizard skin boots to a T. rex. Not a shock she didn’t mention the ghost before you signed on the dotted line.”
    Abigail couldn’t believe her ears. “Look, Mr. Braithwaite—”
    “Call me Merle. Nobody calls me Mister anything anymore.”
    “Fine, Merle , if this is some sort of initiation for nonislanders, let’s get it over with. I had an arduous drive, no sleep, and I burned my tongue on my first cup of coffee today, so I’m in