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And then Phil, surprising Brian, got up and went and sat down near them all as well. “Ollie, I’m really sorry,” he said.
“Thanks, guys,” said Ollie, in a small voice. She didn’t, Brian noticed, look at her watch. Which was weird in itself. When Ollie was in trouble, she always looked at her watch. She looked from her dad to the lake, brows drawn together.
They sat still for a few moments, watching the lake, watching the fire. No one said anything. Phil started experimenting with roasting a granola bar. The air around their campfire started to smell vaguely like toast.
Coco said, “Oh, look—I forgot about this.” She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the black book from the cabin. She turned it gently, over and over, in her hands. It was a weather-stained, leather-bound old book, cracked around the edges.
“But what is it?” asked Phil.
Coco passed the book to Brian. Brian loved books. He touched the cover reverently and then opened it. The others peered over his shoulder. “I think—it looks like a ship’s log,” he said.
Capt. Wm. Sheehan, said the log, of the Goblin out of Burlington. Thomas Ross, first mate.
Sheehan, thought Brian. That rings a bell. And Goblin. Mr. Adler said something about a goblin . . .
Frowning, he tried to remember where he’d heard the name Sheehan.
Oh. Hauntings and Horrors in the Green Mountain State. Sheehan had been a smuggler, right? And a ship called the Goblin. But they’d foundered. Lost with all hands. Hadn’t they?
There was a faint crack of thunder. Lines of cold foam marked the lake. It was cold, even with the fire and the emergency blankets. Even pressed close together, they were all shiv
ering.
Brian picked up the flashlight and turned it onto the pages of the log. He squinted. The writing was spidery and faded. The first entries were, apparently, about the weather and the cargo the ship was carrying. Then . . .
Thursday, 10 November 1808
Hole found below the waterline at eight bells. Cause unknown. Mr. Jim Bartlett, sailor, lost overboard in the night. Winds out of the north, cold after sunset, moderate squall, wind to the SSE. Cargo half full, setting course to return to port for repairs.
Friday, 11 November 1808
Sighted an unknown island off the larboard bow in thick fog. Did not know there was an uncharted island of such size anywhere in this part of the lake. The men are unsettled, say the island is cursed. Many unhappy over the death of Bartlett, who was much liked. But I’ve given orders to close with the land. At good anchor, in shallow water, we might come at the leak without returning to port. We shan’t get very many more hauls before the lake freezes.
Anchored. Heaved down the ship to come at the leak, only to find that it had gained against all expectations, that the hold was awash.
Mr. Will Scott, sailor, lost in the hold under mysterious circumstances. We pumped at the water and heaved down the Goblin to come at the leak. Named the land Deadman’s Island, for Bartlett and Scott, added it to our charts.
Monday, 14 November 1808
Patched the leak and made sail for Otter Creek to pick up cargo. Revenue cutter was warned. We fled, and cutter Fly pursued.
Shaped return course for Deadman’s Isle, with the wind fair, thinking to lose cutter in the awkward shoals and hide the ship inshore. Thick fog on the water.
Came up in the shallows in full dark, run aground (as we thought) with the ship leaking. Immediately the Goblin began to settle. With no chance of saving her, gave the orders to abandon ship; we put out the lifeboats and made for shore.
Here, the precise, spidery writing grew hasty and scribbled, and there were spatters of ink on the page, as though the writer had lost control of the pen, in their hurry to write.
Were nearly on the beach when monstrous sight met my eyes.
Brian and Coco glanced at each other. Phil, reading over their shoulders, shivered.
A vast head, like the head of an asp. A beast like a snake, like a fish, like both, and like neither. The fog had cleared, and the beast was mirror-silver in the moonlight, with water dripping from its jaws.
It plunged, tore the Goblin to pieces, like a terrier with a rat, writhing so that the water was beaten to white foam.
Pulled the boat up above the high-water mark. Stared and stared at the water until the shining silver line of the monster was quite gone and all that was left was scattered wreckage from the poor, stricken Goblin. Of the crew only twelve of us came ashore.
There was a page that simply contained a drawing of the lake monster plunging down into the hold of the Goblin. It was faded and water-stained but still unmistakable.
