Yvette's ~*
Yvette's has a Passion for Fashion !! ~*
Bridal Gowns Florida Yvette's !! ~*
Bridal Gowns Florida Yvette's !! ~*
Bridal Gowns Florida Yvette's !! ~*
Follow the Pink Links to Yvette's !! ~*
*~ Scribbner's Ghost ~*

*~ written and illustrated by Sean Terrence Best ~*

*~ introduction ~*

Many's the tale that has been told about the legendary
true story which I am now, among the pages of this
book you hold in your hands, going to relate to you.  
Many's the yarn that has been spun both far and wide
with versions as varied as their tellers.  Aye, though
many are the tides which have ebbed and flowed
between the times of these wild, adventurous voyages
and the present moment, I shall, with due propriety, lay
the bare facts before you just as they actually occurred.
 In beginning my narrative, let me first make note of the
importance of sketching a proper history of the players
in our swashbuckling sea drama.  For if I appear from
time to time to steer off course, it is only for the
necessary netting of the substantial profiles of those
salty characters who bring our sea story to life.  I am
thankful to the reader for keeping me company.  
However shrouded in the mists of the Ages its origins
may be, a good painting must always be brushed with
a revealing background in order to fully portray it's
significance in time and place.  So have a sip of your
herbal tea from the far flung Spice Islands of the Seven
Seas and, without further ado, let us now begin. ~*

Chapter One ~*
A Longing for the Sea ~*

In the Northwest region of the peninsula of Florida in an area
sometimes referred to as the Panhandle, you will find the
picturesque seaside town of Panama City.  It is a scenic place of
natural beauty populated with friendly folk who welcome all visitors
as family.    Stately, old, expansive Southern Plantation mansions
greet you along palm and oak lined avenues.  Widespread oaks of
immense size and antiquity, their branches drooping nigh to earth
and gently waving a courteous hello in the warm sea breeze.  Leafy
limp limbs adorned with silvery, curly strands of Spanish moss like
Christmas trees decorated with tinsel or Southern Belles beckoning
you with their lace handkerchiefs to stop in for a mint julep or a tall,
cool glass of lemonade.  Rows of green Azalea hedges bloom pink
in the Spring and the soft blend of Gulf air with flower scent
perfumes these charming byways with an intoxicating aroma that
sooths away the ills of a weary traveler's soul.  Gulls mewing and
calling at the surf where the salty waves gently lap at white, sugar
sands.  Sand dollars and horseshoe crabs, rainbows and sunsets
paint a pristine picture of nature at her finest in this lea of littoral
delight.  A sportfisherman's paradise some call it, for this entire
coastal habitat is veined with bays, bayous, coves, inlets, creeks
and branches of tiny, secluded watercourses.  It is certainly a
veritable nature lover's paradise.  The brackish waters provide a
diverse marine estuary which serves as a fundamental element in the
food chain and thus, the ebb and flow of life.  Aye, the great old
mansions can be seen as you tour along lazy avenues like the one
called Beach Drive which follows the genial, inviting coastline of
Saint Andrew Bay.  This is the modern day Panama City.  However,
during the time in which our story takes place, only one or two of
those big, square, comfortable looking homes peered out over the
Bay.  You can spy the originals even today, for though they have
been refurbished and maintained through succeeding generations,
these archaic estates do show clues to their rustic old age.  Panama
City wasn't much more than a quaint country community sprouting
on a sparkling shore during the era of our nautical chronicle.  A few
homesteaders working government land grants.  Just to the East of
this nostalgic maritime settlement, the land is densely wooded with
long leaf pines on high sandy bluffs dropping off into twisted
thickets of low growing branches and thorny vines in the mucky
swamp bottoms and cypress heads.  Within these marshy
backwaters creep every buzzing, crawling, biting vermin to ever
plague mortals on earth.  Tarantula~like, gargantuan spiders with
florescent yellow fur covering their long, searching legs spin
cast~net sized webs which, when viewed in profile, glow with the
same eerie bright yellow color.  Venomous moccasins prowl the
decomposing organic ground, silently slithering among fermenting
brown twigs and leaves which are endlessly drifting out of the tight
canopy downward to the uneven surface of the wetland floor.  These
thick, chunky serpents with their short, blunt tails are perfectly
camouflaged to lie unseen among the rotting foliage.  Only when
spooked do they draw the eye of any intrepid explorer.  Intrepid,
indeed, is our explorer for naught but insatiable curiosity or the lust
for buried treasure could force a person to hazard into this
otherwise unseen otherworldly realm of shadow, dampness and
danger.  The water moccasins alone are enough to steer most folks
clear of places like Sea~Hag Bog.  Silent and invisible such
creatures are until, when nearly stepped on, these slithery denizens
of the morass and quagmire quickly dart for the water's edge,
disappearing without a sound into the murky pools and winding
sloughs to again disguise themselves among the same twigs and
leaves which also litter the muddy channels.  The pungent marsh
odor bubbles up, fumigating the branch and bramble atmosphere
with byproduct gases of twig, leaf and other recyclables which lie
water~logged, slowly decaying neath the surface of the deceptive
tributaries which guard and hide the secret of their depths under a
shimmering and cloudy veil of swirling sediment.  The eye of our
adventurer follows the hypnotic sway of a winding wig of Spanish
moss down from the sagging limb of a water~oak, opening lids wide
as it comes to rest upon a fat, heavy, fallen cypress tree.  An old,
gray, algae covered log large enough to carve into a dugout canoe.  
Wait a minute.  Logs don't have eyes !!  That's no log !! It's an
Alligator !!  Back up slowly now.  One step at the time.  Don't take
your eyes off of the hideous thing.  Can it sense fear ??  Aye, the
swamps and backwaters of the Florida Panhandle are numerously
inhabited by these leather~skinned leviathans.  Dinosaurs with
giant, tooth filled jaws which can bite a boat in half !!  The
Intracoastal Waterway cuts right through the bowels of this
inhospitable region and in a certain spot along the Intracoastal
Canal, close to the mouth of Wetappo Creek and about a mile
Southeast of Ringjaw Camp within sight of Lookout Point, there's a
treacherous bend known as Devil's Elbow.  It is here that a
remarkable fortune in Spanish Gold Bullion lies hidden, buried in a
secret location by a Confederate Pirate, or Privateer as he preferred
to be called, during the waning days of the Civil War.  Hubert
Scribbner by name, but everyone called him Scribb for short.  He
was short, too.  Measuring in at only 5 feet 5 and a half inches, there
were many womenfolk who were taller than he.  Before the War
broke out, Scribb worked for a cattle rancher named Courtney at the
meager pay~rate of only a dollar a day and his lunch.  It is recorded
in some histories that Courtney Point on Saint Andrew Bay, which
can be spotted on various nautical charts of the area, is named in
honor of Ranch Boss Courtney.  Back in those days, Panhandle
cattle ranchers were called Florida Crackers on account of the
bullwhips they cracked in herding their beef cattle from pasture to
pasture among the pines and palmettos.  When fattened, oft as
many as ten thousand head, the cattle were then cracked on off to
the regional livestock market at the Port of Apalachicola, mostly to
show to foreign buyers and fetch top dollar.  Scribb used to hear
talk amongst the Florida Cattle Ranchers of how the Sloops, Brigs
and Cutters which sailed up the Gulf Coast from Cuba bringing
purchasing agents to the auctions were laden with Spanish Gold.  
Heavy bars of shiny gold; ingots of convenient size and shape, each
one a Pirate's bounty.  Enough to establish a man in respectable
society for life.  Nearly 100 percent pure and neatly stacked in iron
clad wooden chests which had shapely, curved lids, likewise, of
such heavy weight themselves that one must be careful with one's
fingers when raising or lowering the massive chest lids.  Oh, how
Scribb's heart used to lurch in his chest every time he saw those
fancy dressed Cuban purchasing agents in their silk shirts, suede
boots and broad brimmed Cavalier hats trimmed with fluffy ostrich
plumes !!  He entertained many's the fantasy about what he would
do if he could but lay his hands on just one of those Spanish Gold
Bullion Bars !!  No more saddle sores for him.  He didn't mind so
much being called a Cracker, after all it was a worthy title for a
young man.  It brought with it a certain air of command and respect,
but he didn't like the back breaking labor of wrangling a living out of
punchin' cows in the heat and humidity of the Florida Gulf Coast.  
He had always dreamed of a life at sea.  He fantasized and waxed
romantic about the adventures of sea voyages to far off exotic
places like the Mediterranean, India and the islands of the South
Pacific.  Scribb was generally not very well liked as it was
considered by all who knew anything of him that he had a
persecution complex due to his lack of manly height and this, it was
rumored, accounted for his defensive personality and quickness of
temper.  Scribb's tawny, scraggly hair flipped and flopped over his
piercing green eyes.  Being constantly at rigorous manual labor,
Scribb maintained a trim, fit figure.  In fact, he was rather robust and
stalwart; solid as a bulkhead.  His round, cropped head and his sun
weathered face swept from side to side in perpetual glances in all
directions as if he morbidly feared a sneak attack upon his person
from any direction at any moment.  His North European blood could
not be concealed in his brawny veins, for he had the carriage and
dress of a scrying Dutchman.  Scribb gripped grog in watering holes
up and down the coast but he never got tanked in taverns lest he
bear the brunt of some rowdy reveler's joke.  Scribb paid attention
to all the idle gab and burly talk, keenly on his awares for any
information which might be useful to him in his nefarious plots and
plans to escape the clutches of poverty and hard work.  It was, in
fact, these very routine rural ramblings which made him hate being
tied to the land day and night.  He was determined to wrench
himself free from his monotonous existence as a cattle hand and
find his away aboard an outbound ship to make real his heart's
desire of life on the Briny.  Scribb had a profound longing for the
sea. He desperately yearned for the exciting discovery and riches
which he just knew awaited him among the uncharted waters of the
high seas.  He didn't want to be a land~lubber for the rest of his life
and he had a chip on his shoulder about it which was the real
reason Scribb didn't much associate himself with others.  Being
land~lubbin' scallywags themselves meant that they were beneath
him in breed and character and therefore not worthy of his daring
comradery.  "I can navigate the Gulf of Mexico!" Scribb would say to
himself of an evening.

And so it was that, in the summer of the memorable year 1867 from
the back of his bay steed as he cracked the lumbering, browsing
Herefords on to the next green pasture, Scribb peered out across the
wide vista of Saint Andrew Bay at the old, abandoned Beacon Beach
Lighthouse.  The old lighthouse stood atop a massive sand dune on
what is now Shell Island.  During Scribb's era Shell Island wasn't an
island at all, but a spur of the mainland. This slim strip of sand,
sea~oats and scrub thickets of various indigenous species
narrowed into a point at the Gulf's edge where a natural harbor
entrance gave access to the Bay.  The constantly shifting sandbar
shoals made it shallow and dangerous for large vessels to navigate
and hence its name, Shipwreck Narrows.  It is still there today.  With
the construction of a jetty~lined deep water passage into the Bay
some small distance to the west, this strip of white, sandy beach
became cut off from the mainland thus forming an island which was,
during the middle part of the 20th century, named Shell Island.  The
East Pass at Land's End, as the locals now call it, is seldom used by
any but the smallest vessels.  Shipwreck Narrows was then, as it is
now, treacherous sailing and has claimed its toll of seaman and sea
going craft alike.  To the eastward of Shipwreck Narrows lie the
brackish, sun drenched marshes of Crooked Island Sound.  In
Scribb's day, the old Beacon Beach Lighthouse perched atop its
massive sand dune sat proudly overlooking the emerald green,
sapphire blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico.  It was accessed by a
wagon trail which circumnavigated the Bay.  Widow's Walk wagon
trail, as it was then known, was dotted with little wooden bridges
over the numerous creeks, bogs and tiny branches of bayous which
crossed its path.  Sturdy little hand crafted wooden crossings, any
one of which provided a haven and source of inspiration for the
poet, the painter and the storyteller alike.  No one knew exactly how
long the old Beacon Beach Lighthouse had shone its beam of light
far out on to the Gulf guiding many a wayward seafarer to the safety
of Saint Andrew Bay.  All anyone knew for sure is that it was
constructed by Spanish Colonists sometime during the late 18th
century at the behest of their Spanish Ministry.  The Spaniards used
Haitian slaves as labor.  At night these Caribbean slaves would light
bonfires using driftwood.  One account of this Creole activity is
found in a letter from a missionary named Turnbull to the governor
general of Pensacola dated 27 May 1789.  Turnbull relates that the
Spaniards watched from the safety of their Galleons at night as the
slaves danced around huge fires to their native drum beats, much
excited, running in and out of the Gulf surf, chanting incantations
and performing mysterious ceremonies and rituals.  This letter,
combined with other sources, gave the old lighthouse a reputation
for being haunted by exotic spirits as there can be little doubt that
the strange rites performed by the slaves were of the religious
practice known today as Voodoo and Santeria.  Aye, the old Beacon
Beach Lighthouse was reputed to be haunted and in time, as was
prophesied by many who gossiped and rumored about the old
lighthouse, this haunting manifested itself in grotesque and very
real form.  During the first years of the 1800's, two brothers named
Malachiah and Jebediah Yorkson, Quakers from Salem,
Massachusetts, came to operate and maintain the lighthouse for the
Saint Andrew Bay settlement which immediately preceded the
founding of Panama City.  As the disquieting old legend recounts, a
mighty and frightful hurricane, which had moved from the Caribbean
into the Gulf late in the August of 1807, began to approach the
northwest Florida Gulf Coast.  The first signs appeared when the
blue sky of the waning summer gained an unidentifiable and
uncertain cast.  High, streaked, elongated clouds with a clear
metallic sheen began to assume the counter~clockwise motion
familiar to hurricanes even when they are still some far distance out
in the Gulf.  By the second day, there were few, if any, places above
head where even the smallest patch of opaque, milky sky could be
seen.  The scene above the lighthouse grew more ominous as
morning passed into evening.  Gigantic, dark storm clouds swollen
with tropical rains hanging heavy in their low sagging bellies
spiraled in faster~moving, tightening squall bands just over the top
of the old lighthouse.  Winds increased beyond gale force by
nightfall and the swells following the rising storm surge were
breaking with ever greater destructive power closer and closer to the
high sand~dune which, along with a limestone foundation, formed
the base of the old lighthouse.  The two brothers had been warned
by their fellow Bay villagers to abandon the old lighthouse for
higher ground further inland, but being stubborn as the proverbial
mule, they ignored the warnings of those more experienced with the
Gulf weather and stayed with the old lighthouse.  The brothers lived
there.  All they had in the world was in that old lighthouse.  It was
the only home and property which either of them had ever known
outside of the orphanage in which they were raised.  Sentimentally
attached they were to the old lighthouse in spite of its reputation for
being haunted by Voodoo spirits, but as the lightening ripped open
the angry dome of dark clouds pressing down on their heads with
the weight and full fury of the hurricane while thunder boomed in
their very ears like the cannons of war, one can well imagine that the
brothers were regretting their brash decision.  By this late hour, it
was too late to run.  The storm surge, made higher still by the ill
timed arrival of high tide, had completely surrounded the base of the
lighthouse with crashing waves and fierce, swirling undertow.  
Death surrounded Malachiah and Jebediah on all sides, this it is
well understood by all.  No one, however, could have predicted the
tragic, gruesome outcome resulting from this midnight, maritime
storm of storms.  For when this devastating Gulf cyclone made
landfall on Saint Andrew Bay, its wrath, and perhaps the Voodoo
which possessed the lighthouse with its taboo omen, set in motion
a horrific chain of events which in all probability shall never be
known to anyone save Malachiah and Jebediah Yorkson.  By the
next day, the tremendous tempest had rapidly moved inland several
miles to the northeast, but the wretched sky still lay upon the Bay
like a dark foreboding lid of oppression and the gale force winds
were still tearing in off the Gulf with enough strength to knock a
man down.  It could be seen though, that amazingly enough, the old
lighthouse was still there!  It required another whole day and night
for the winds to still and the sky to clear enough for anyone to
safely traipse through the scattered seaweed, palm fronds, barrel
staves, dead fish and other pulverized debris out to the old
lighthouse to find out if Malachiah and Jebediah had survived the
violent storm.  A small company of male inhabitants from the all but
totally leveled Saint Andrew Bay settlement approached the old
lighthouse.  On their way out, the rescuers couldn't help but notice
a swirling funnel~shaped battery of gulls circling above the old
Beacon Beach Lighthouse.  As they made their way closer, they
spotted vultures, turkey buzzards, a sure sign of death, morbidly
hunched atop the old lighthouse.  Crows, too, flapped and shuffled
for position in the immediate vicinity.  The entrance door was on the
Gulf side and it wasn't until they reached this far side of the old
lighthouse that they discovered the cause of the mass gathering of
scavenger fowl.  Nothing in their simple fishing farming lives could
have prepared this humble little group of kind coastal folk for the
macabre scene which met their unbelieving eyes.  Seldom is such
horror reflected upon the human countenance as was borne by the
faces of each and every member of this small reconnaissance party
on this day.  The hurricane had left in its aftermath a most
loathsome and ghastly sight.  There, dangling in the sea~breeze,
hanging high from the wrought iron banister of the old Beacon
Beach Lighthouse, was the rigid lifeless body of Jebediah Yorkson.  
Tight around his abnormally elongated neck was jerked a
hangman's noose of frayed hemp rope.  Teddy Womack, the
youngest of the search group, immediately fell into a convulsion of
profuse vomiting and most of the others began to gag as if Teddy
had set in motion a chain reaction of vile, putrid, involuntary bodily
response.  Everyone was speechless in the presence of this freakish
death.  Not a single word was said.  There was no way that Jebediah
could have been identified had he not been known as wearing the
same red long~sleeve shirt all the time, for his face was bloated,
distorted, discolored; his eyes both swollen shut.  His hands too,
protruding from his shirt cuffs, were swelled and of a most repulsive
dark, bluish gray shade.  The old lighthouse, though still standing,
had sunk a foot or more into its foundation shifting so that it now
leaned out toward the Gulf at such an angle as to cause one to
wonder that it still balanced upright.  It seemed to groan and grunt
under its own weight promulgating the fear of it toppling over with
convincing vehemence amid the perception of all.  Wallace Grimsby,
the self appointed leader of the troop, stepped up to the door with
his eyes glancing up and down the tower ready to jump sidewise
out of harm's way if it suddenly began to collapse.  The macabre
scene inside the old lighthouse which met his eyes as he shoved
open the twisted, jammed door was as revolting and unspeakable as
the repugnant spectacle outside.  At the base of the stair~well with
the blackened wooden steps spiraling above it was a small round
table fashioned of local long leaf pine.  Rough hewn and primitive in
appearance, it served as both reading and dining table for the
brothers.  An oil lamp lay overturned in a puddle of foamy sea~water
on the floor beside the simple table.  Sprawled across the top of the
table itself lay the ungainly corpse of Jebediah's brother Malachiah.  
His head was horribly injured.  Chunks of skull, scalp and what
appeared to be dried blood and brains were spattered upon the wall
opposite the right side of his body.  He was lying face down on the
table as if he had been sitting for supper and simply dropped his
upper body forward.  His left hand lay flat open on the far side of the
table from his face and loosely propped in his right was a flintlock
English dueling pistol.  Seeing Malachiah laying there devoid of life,
all Wallace Grimsby could think about was the blue shirt which it
was Malachiah's habit to wear and which he had on even in the
stench of death.  Without realizing what had come over him, Wallace
entered unconsciously into a reverie about the strange custom the
brother's had of Jebediah always in a red shirt and Malachiah
always in a blue one.  "Why had they done that?", he wondered.  
"What did it mean?"  Just at that moment the old lighthouse let out
a low, grinding sound, the vibration of which Wallace felt
reverberating in his chest, and shifted further upon its base.  
Wallace snapped out of his trance, turned and ran from the
threshold of the door while everyone else quickly took several steps
back until they were well out of danger.  Teddy managed on his
hands and knees, still heaving bile from his intestines.  Set rocking
by the sudden movement of the tower, Jebediah's dead body swung
round in wide circles and the foul odor of reeking, rotting flesh
wafted over the group.  That disgusting smell, the dreadful tragedy
mixed with the heat, humidity and rancor of the silty surf caused by
the upheaval of the rampaging hurricane was simply too much.  The
ragtag brigade just could not cope with it.  Helping Teddy to his
feet, they all walked off back to the rubble of their wrecked
settlement.  It was decided, sacrilegious as it seemed, that due to
the instability of the old lighthouse the Yorkson brothers would be
left where they were without attempting to retrieve them for proper
burial.  No sense losing other lives by trying for the interment of
ones which were beyond saving.

~*~*~*~*~* Personal Log Entry ~*~*~*~*~*

Many of the noble citizens of our good settlement had their minds
adversely affected to such a degree by the corpse of Jebediah
Yorkson hanging and rotting in the sea~breeze at Beacon Beach
Lighthouse that they were obliged to pull up stakes and relocate
elsewhere.  A good number of said being so malevolently sickened
and disturbed that never again were they able to live upon any
Wallace J. Grimsby
Saint Andrew Bay Township
13 September 1807

Scribb didn't give a hoot about any odd history which the old
lighthouse may have possessed.  He didn't care if it was haunted or
if a nightmarish, unspeakable atrocity had occurred there.  He wasn't
afraid of what may have happened in the past, his only concern was
for the future.  His future.  Dark nights full of foul weather were the
moments when Scribb felt most alive.  He was energized by the
mystery and the unknown passion of the elements.  On a black and
stormy night Scribb would make his way out to the old lighthouse
by himself.  No other could see what he could see, feel what he
could feel nor fathom what he knew.  In solitude he would push
back the ramshackle door at the foot of the tilted old lighthouse and
enter into its foreboding shadows.  Flashes of lightening streaked
through the musty gloom as he fumbled for the dark lantern which
he kept hanging on a wooden peg just inside the door.  Lighting the
lantern and adjusting the shudder so that only a thin beam of whale
oil light shown out in front of him, Scribb began his precarious
ascent up the creaking wooden steps which wound around the inner
wall in a clockwise fashion all the way to the top of the old
lighthouse.  As he climbed, he continuously darted cautious
glances to his right as the safety railing had, over the aging years,
fallen away in several places.  The smell of heated metal joined with
the stimulus of the stormy night to give him a sudden surge of
excitement.  The sea tempest howled away outside beating its way
through the limestone walls of the old lighthouse with a muffled
hum sounding like the wailing of a sick sea~calf.  The pounding of
the nearby surf rubbed tremors into the floor which resonated like a
subterranean Voodoo drum in the hollow chamber of the old
lighthouse.  Adorned in a rain poncho, Scribb looked like a strange
caricature of Jekyll & Hyde rising like a phantom from the old
lighthouse floor.  The hemp rope strung corpse of Jebediah had
long since vanished from outside and though the collapsed
remnants of the old pine table lay in a heap on the floor, where was
Malachiah's skeleton?  There should have been a pile of rags and
bones lying there with the broken down table.  They didn't just get
up and walk away by themselves.  Or did they?  As he slowly crept
up the aged staircase he watched as long shadows stretched out
ahead of him in anthropomorphic shapes shifting and flickering
with the dim lantern light.  "No one else will come near this crone's
lair!",  Scribb whispered to himself.  "They probably think I'm crazy.  
Simple minded landlubbers!"  He was snorting and chuckling with
sinister delight.  He marveled at the red bricks which lined the inner
walls of the old lighthouse.  Scribb knew these had been added by
the Yorkson brothers and he wondered if the ghosts of Malachiah
and Jebediah were watching him.  He listened for the echo of their
unfortunate souls and tried to imagine how a stormy night like this
would have been with seawater washing in around the foundation.  
A creaking riser suddenly snapped with a loud pop and gave way
under his right foot.  In the blink of an eye Scribb's leg had shot
through the rotting step up to his knee.  With his left hand he
instinctively grasped for a place to hold on to, scraping his knuckles
against the coarse red bricks.  Letting out an angry curse, he paused
momentarily reflecting on how close he had just come to his own
death.  A fall from this height would break his neck for certain.  
Groping in the dark to pull himself back into a standing position,
Scribb noticed that the brothers hadn't finished laying the red bricks
all the way to the top.  An exposed layer of rough, lumpy, hardened
mortar on the last bed joint about two thirds of the way up the
inside of the leaning tower showed where their work had stopped.  
Scribb had turned his hand at masonry, too; didn't like it at all.  A
life at sea was the only life for him.  Reaching the top, he completely
closed the shudder of his dark lantern, which he had somehow
managed to hold onto during his accident, and placed it on the deck
of the lamp room beside the cracked, tarnished fresnel lens.  
Carelessly shoving open the jagged, broken glass door at the
glorious crest of the old Beacon Beach Lighthouse, Scribb stepped
out onto the balcony.  The full rapture of the thrashing winds in the
midnight gale leaped upon him causing his skin to instantly rumple
into gooseflesh.  His weight and the swirling squall seemed to make
the old lighthouse tremble and he jerked on the handrail and threw
his head back as if daring the antique edifice to crumble over and
bury him under stone, brick and rubble, crushing the very life out of
him the way he would squash a palmetto bug with his boot.  The
middle of the night, the bewitching hour had arrived and the
tempestuous energy of the wide open surging Gulf was at its fullest.
 Scribb had a powerful longing for the sea, true enough.  It was his
fate to plunder the wealth of the Gulf.  It was his destiny to sail away
from the uneventful world of the landsman and seek his fortune
among the waves.  Shaking his fists wildly high above the earth in
the salty air with his face spattered in rain and squinting his passion
filled, zealous green eyes straight into the angry gale Scribb
shouted at the pitch of his lungs, "I am Neptune!  I am Poseidon!  I
am Davy Jones!"  It was at that moment that Scribb felt something
which made him instantly shut his hollering mouth and stand rigid
as a plank tightly gripping the banister railing.  Someone, or some
thing, had laid a hand on his shoulder.  The hand had a heavy, firm
grip but felt brutally hard, thin and sharp with spikes for finger nails
which mercilessly dug into Scribb's flesh even through his poncho,
vest and shirt.  Slowly and with fear striking lines of horror in all his
features, Scribb turned to face his assailant.  Upon turning his head
full round, Scribb's heart fell in his chest and his eyes widened in
genuine fear for his immortal soul as he beheld the ghastly sight
behind him.  Flash after flash of bright yellow lightening illuminated
the frenzied night with a beastly glow and there, staring Scribb right
in his face, was the evil, spectral skeleton of Jebediah Yorkson !!   
Behind Jebediah, his brother Malachiah.  Their red and blue shirts
showing pale, bony rib cages through torn tatters.  Their bare teeth
menacing Scribb in an maniacal grin.

Chapter Two:
Scribb's friend Jake ~*

Aye, Scribb wasn't interested in mixing with the local lot.  That
being what it was, about the only friend Scribb ever had was fellow
ranch~hand named Tobber.  Tobber had, as only the boss and a few
others were aware, been convicted a number of years previous at
Fort Walton of armed robbery involving a local merchant and his
stash of rare Colonial Manuscripts made up of ledgers from
pre~Revolutionary War tea~import accounts.  These antique
instruments of commerce, bearing origins mostly of Boston, Salem
and Nantucket Island, were said to be of high value to and much
desired by certain museums in England and on the European
Continent.  In those days, the city of Fort Walton was known as
Camp Walton and Camp Walton wasn't officially formed and named
until the start of the Civil War in 1861, but we shall get to that.  The
reason ranch boss Courtney had hired Jake Tobber, for that was his
name, after his release from penal servitude is because he(Courtney)
knew Jake's Aunt Louise.  Being good friends with Aunt Louise
naturally meant that Courtney believed the story she told of her
nephew's innocence.  According to Aunt Louise, the wealthy
merchant was in love with a certain local debutante, Maria by name,
whose innocent beauty remained unrivaled throughout the entirety
of the Gulf Coast.  The wealthy merchant's then employee and store
manager, Jake, was the only thing, or so the merchant felt, that
stood in his way of winning the lovely debutante's hand in marriage,
as Jake and this hometown beauty had entered into friendly
acquaintance with one another.  The merchant, being not only
wealthy but one of the founding fathers of the town which grew up
around Camp Walton, surely had the advantage of reputation,
integrity and believability in his favor.  Whereas, Jake himself was a
young man of no capital means as well as a new comer to the area; a
stranger from outside.  Jake's mother had died during childbirth and
his father, being a military man stationed out West where there were
still sporadic outbreaks of Indian attacks, felt that it would be a
safer, healthier environment for his son, with more opportunities for
a peaceable life, if he went to live with his Aunt Louise on the balmy
Gulf Coast of Florida.  
this Yvette's page has been visited                        times !! ~*
Volume 3 !! ~*~*~*
Pier 8 Yvette's !! ~*
Gulf Legends !! ~*
please click here !! ~*~*~*
Pier 8 Yvette's Gulf Legends !! ~*
Yo~Ho blow the man down !! ~*
put away yer scrim~shaw, me hearties, now
be time for
Pier 8 Yvette's Gulf Legends
Salty Sea Lore !! ~*
Harrrrrrrr !! *~V8~*
Yvette's ~*
Thank You for visiting
Yvette's treasures the opportunity to serve you ~*
She Lives in Olde Ages !! ~*
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please click here for page two of
Scribbner's Ghost !! ~*~*~*
Psychological Thriller creaking Gate !! ~* please click here !! ~*
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