Free Haunted Shipwreck by S.D. Hintz Page A

burned in the first story windows.
    Jack followed the walk to the oak double doors, which Old Willard had imported a couple of months ago from Paris. They had two windows at the top shaped like pizza slices behind wrought-iron whorls; they were the strangest Jack had ever seen, and rattled at his knock.
    The doors creaked like a rusted sewer grate. A ghost of a smile haunted the sallow face of the swagbellied shopkeeper. He ran his four fingers through his straggly silver-gray hair.
    “Mister Jericho.”
    “Morning, Willard. Anything cool come in today?”
    “Look for yaself. Ya know I keep ‘em aside ‘til ya have a gander.”
    Jack removed his hat as the doors screeched shut. The shop was reminiscent of the attic in The Goonies . It was drab, dusty, and cluttered wall to wall with antiquities. Spidery shadows wavered like windblown webs in the lantern light.
    Jack wove through an aisle of lopsided coat racks and seamers to the back storeroom. Willard was on his heels. He reached over Jack’s shoulder and drew the black velvet curtain.
    “Gotta strange ol’ load in this mornin’.” Willard followed Jack into the stuffy room, which was the size of a walk-in closet. “Looks like it came straight outta the Iron Age.”
    Jack perused the array of rusted objects. “They sure do.”
    It was a strange load indeed. Iron antiques rarely came off the ferry, and when they did, it was one or two items a year, not a shipment of thirty-plus. Jack leaned over the pile. Every item looked as if it belonged to a blacksmith.
    Jack craned his neck. “They all smell so…burnt.”
    “Like charred trout. Ya’d think it all shipped on the collier.”
    “Yeah, I don’t think I’d waste my allowance on any of it.”
    Jack had his back half-turned when a glint snatched his gaze. He pushed aside a pair of andirons and reached into the pile. Willard winced as they clanged on the floor.
    Jack’s eyes widened. A bicycle with a dull bowl bell mounted on the handlebars stood between a small cannon and a potbelly stove. It was the oddest two-wheeler he had ever seen. The front wheel was oversized, while the rear one was undersized. Both lacked rubber, as did the seat, but had short narrow fenders that curled upward an inch beyond the axles. The pedals resembled miniature dumbbells and were positioned on the front wheel. The bike had no chain or gears whatsoever. In Jack’s eyes, it was perfect for his collection, not to mention for a town where bicycles were the primary means of transportation.
    He looked to Willard. “I’ve never seen a bike like this before.”
    Willard fingered his overall straps. “It’s a boneshaker all right.”
    “A boneshaker?”
    “Watch an’ learn.” Willard cleared a path, lifted the bike by the handlebars, and dropped it. It landed with a thud and resonated like an off-key triangle. “No springs. Rock-solid tires. Guaranteed to give ya one helluva jolt.”
    “How old do you think it is?” It was by far the oldest bike in town. Even Mister Milton’s 1952 Columbia had rubber tires.
    Willard scratched his stubble. “Best guess? Just shy of a century. The bell’s a bit odd.”
    Jack rooted around in his trail duster. “How much?”
    “Huh?”
    “For the bike. What’s your appraisal?”
    “Ya kiddin’ me? Ya want that deathtrap?”
    “Hell yeah. It beats the Huffy I ride.”
    “How so? It’s a barebones bike. It ain’t got brakes or reflectors. The seat alone’s bound to bust ya balls.”
    Jack grinned. He knew Willard was right about the bike being dangerous, but that failed to change his mind. He wanted to stand out. He was always looking for new ways to spice up the boring town where little changed besides the weather.
    Jack withdrew his wallet. “I’ll give you thirty for it.”
    “I’ll take twenty. Ya can save ten fer the hospital bill.”
    “Deal.”
    Jack was overjoyed. He would be the talk of the town! In his mind’s eye he saw his friends cheering behind him as he coasted