The Ghosts of Sand Island Lighthouse

By Tim D. Smith

During a summer in the community of Fort Morgan, Alabama, Sam and Dex, along with their newfound friend and soon-to-be crush Mac, begin to realize ghosts inhabit the area, and the spirits are not only frightening, they’re bent on destruction. After finding a cryptic message left by Sam’s now deceased grandfather, the trio realizes they may be the only ones who stand in the way of the ghoulish General’s vile and fiendish plans.

Every other chapter early in the book tells the true story of the untimely demise of some of the future ghosts in the area around Fort Morgan and Dauphin Island. As the ghosts manifest to our characters, Sam realizes that clues and a trinket (that in reality is a talisman) left behind by his grandfather may have been provided to prevent a takeover by the evil spirits.

With little hope battling the evil entities, the General steals Grandma’s dog, McRuff, in the hope of luring our heroes into what he believes will be a gruesome ending, and as a hurricane approaches the trio battles not only the ghosts but mother nature in a fight for not only Fort Morgan and Gulf Shores but also their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TouchPoint Press
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 1956851526

Book preview

Chapter 1

Unfinished business. Energy powered by the soul, or human spirit if you will. Some people think that’s what ghosts are. That’s sort of the story I needed to tell. It’s about the past and the present. It’s about emerging from a very dark place when you shouldn’t have been able. It’s about the love of those around you.

When I got out of the car and walked to the edge of Mobile Bay, watching my fourteen-year-old granddaughter, Samantha, bound out of the back and head straight for the water, I felt myself transported back to that time in 1979. Maybe it was her cowlick of curly hair tumbling from the back of her cap, or her bony knees and elbows and tan skin that reminded me of that fateful summer. And the ghosts that wanted to take our lives. And the hurricane. And, of course, Mac.

Can you tell me the story you mentioned? Samantha asked.

I put my arm around her shoulder, higher than it had been last year, and thought about how much I had grown right before high school started, the year Hurricane Frederic made landfall. I was never the same after that.

Let’s get our stuff moved into the condo, and... I began. Maybe the fort would be the place. Would they still be there? The beach might be better. Had I remembered to bring the bottle?

Samantha looked at me, waiting.

I’ll tell you on the beach, I said. Tonight.

That evening, at low tide, with fishing lines in the surf, I began:

It all started the day my grandfather died. As soon as Mom opened my bedroom door, I knew she had been crying, and her expression said, I need to speak with you, which is obviously a double-edged sword. It might not be too bad, but then again. . . .

And when your mom looks that way, crazy thoughts run through your mind. First, I wondered what I had done and if I was in trouble, really, but I couldn’t think of anything that might have angered her. It was the same look she had given me after the great smoke-bomb incident, as Dex and I liked to call it. Our baseball season had postponed mischief, and my best friend, Dex and I were in my room, dressing for our final game of this pitiful season. Summer had yet to officially begin. We would have time to get into trouble yet, but it hadn’t happened so far. Second, I would feel guilty later for the selfish thought I had in the following split second of angst, but I have to admit that I feared the distinct possibility that my mother’s news would ruin my summer plans. After all, you’re only fourteen once.

Sam, I need to tell you something.

Okay, I said. Dex had finished folding his baseball pants to the perfect spot below his knee, and he looked up at Mom as well.

Ga-ga passed away this morning. I’m sorry. She burst into tears and came to hug me.

Ga-ga was gone. Shock. My head reeled. Ga-ga was my grandfather on my dad’s side, and he is, or was, the most amazing man I’ve ever known. He was the grandparent who called after each of my games. He was the grandparent who seemed to always send the exactly right gift, seemingly out of the blue. I never had the chance to spend much time with him, but an extended visit to his house in southern Alabama was on my must-do list. Mom often called him Ga-ga because one of my small cousins apparently couldn’t say Granddaddy. I never liked Ga-ga. It sounds stupid. My father and I call him Granddaddy Rogers, which seems infinitely more dignified.

I stood and held Mom as a deep ache throbbed in my chest. It was pain for what could have been. Pain of loss. Pain for Mom and Dad. Pain for Grandma.

Where’s Dad? I asked, still holding Mom.

He said he’d see you at the game. He’s still at work, Mom said, pulling away.

Still at work?

Sam, you know how he is.

I know, but—

We all hurt in our own way. She mussed at the hair around her ears and straightened up somewhat. We’ll leave for the game in about ten minutes. She seemed to have recovered.

The door shut, and I sat there, dumbfounded. Dex didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Summer had suddenly changed, but we never could have imagined just how much.

Chapter 2

I thought it was a ghost story, Samantha said as she tried to blow out her marshmallow that was burning on the end of a stick.

I added another log to the fire.

It is, I said. "I’ve done research over the years, so I probably should explain how this place came to be so haunted.

See, Dauphin Island, right over there, I said, pointing west across the Gulf of Mexico, "used to be called Massacre Island. Settlers found all sorts of bones on the beach. What they didn’t know was that a hurricane had unearthed all the corpses and scattered the bones on the beach. They thought a massacre had occurred. Later on, they renamed it Dauphin Island. Maybe those remains had something to do with all the ghosts.

The first ghost apparently originated from that and something that happened in 1711 . . .

I told her the story that went something like this:

After hearing two explosive blasts that they assumed were a distress signal, the settlers ran to the beach and discovered a ship anchored just past the sandbar about 200 yards offshore. The ship flew a French flag, and soon two longboats dropped over the side, were loaded with men, and began to approach the shore, alternately rowing and letting the waves take them.

She’s sick, please! one of the men exclaimed as they neared the ever-growing group of settlers. Though the settlers initially thought the ship to be French, it seemed as though these men had a different accent altogether. Maybe Jamaican.

The settlers looked uneasily at each other before speaking.

Who’s sick? one of the townspeople asked in broken French.

De wife of da Captain!

How do we know we can trust you? another of the better-dressed locals asked. Further down the Gulf in Havana, pirate ships operated with lawless and ruthless abandon and without harassment. The possibility of pirates was real.

You have my word, friend. Please . . .

Two settlers, one a doctor and the other the newly appointed mayor, waded into the water and climbed into one of the boats. The crew immediately rowed back toward the ship. The settlers stood watching. But as the boat neared the larger vessel, the crowd watched in horror as a red flag began to rise on the mast. Pirates. And at the same time, several other small boats loaded with men splashed into the water and began to race toward land.

A pirate in the landing boat that remained at the beach barked, Stay where you are! and watched with wise, stony, black eyes, deadly with intent, a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. He adjusted his gray tricorn hat, a long pigtail flowing down his back onto a creamy, billowing shirt. His loose brown breeches to his ankles made it difficult to judge his build, but his strong chin and sinewy forearms suggested muscles. He had perfect teeth, save for a blank gap where his left canine should have been. His serpentine gold necklace and a large gold ring said this was not his first crime. Stay still or they die!

The crowd stopped and stared as the two pirate crewmen returned and landed on shore, pushing the two townsmen in front of them. The pirates pointed guns and held swords and knives, and even though the pirates smiled, their sinister looks belied their intentions.

March! one ordered the settlers.

Nearing the small village of semi-new homes and buildings, the buccaneers spotted a large, windowless building. Realizing it was probably a warehouse, they pushed the locals into nearby huts and then barricaded the doors.

To de warehouses, the leader said, and make fast work of it. Load de boats!

Inside the cramped homes, some of the settlers began to dig beneath the flooring. They could hear the marauders scurrying through the village.

Outside, the pirates gathered all of the settlers’ work for the past year. They loaded dozens of barrels of flour, raccoon skins, deerskins, weapons, and even sails and naval supplies onto the pirate ship. Even though there was no gold or silver, their booty was a fine haul.

Fast work had been a relative term. Over the next three days, three of the pirates tortured the locals to force them to divulge where they could find more loot. Finally, when they had loaded all the valuables they reckoned they could find, the pirates set fire to the buildings one by one.

No witnesses, said the tricorn-capped buccaneer to his captain.

You really are a bad man, the captain growled, grinning from ear to ear. We have to answer to another power for deeds such as that, though.

But as the men made their way to the longboats and the ship, the evil pirate remained ashore. He had other thoughts.

Wait on me, boys, he said, and with that he began to stroll toward the village once more as the crew rowed the remaining boats past the surf.

Digging in his loose pocket, he found his flint. He’d take what remained: their lives.

As he neared the huts and began the work of starting the fires that would claim the lives of the settlers, he never noticed an explorer who had just arrived on Massacre Island.

Hearing the screams and cries of help, the traveler took out his weapon and, making slow and deliberate movements, leveled the long rifle at the filthy scoundrel starting the fire. His shot struck the pirate in the midsection, sending him staggering backward as he held his belly. His eyes were wide in horror, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened, until he drunkenly plodded and scrambled through the waves toward the last remaining boat. His crew followed the others heaving toward the pirate ship. The settler got off one more shot at the pirates before he raced back and released the villagers.

From the deck of the ship about to set sail, the men dragged their mortally wounded comrade aboard, his creamy shirt now with one large hole and a spreading, crimson tint. The captain’s eyes narrowed to slits as he surveyed the damage. Realizing that rather than an army of combatants, only one man appeared to have fired on his crew, the brutal captain’s intentions changed.

Those bilge-sucking sons of biscuit eaters, he bellowed. I’ll feed the fish and get that bull I left behind.

With that, the captain dispatched all of the long boats to the shore once more, intent on a massacre that would be forever remembered in pirate lore. But as he neared the beach and as his men began to unload, shots rang out amid the blazing, blood-red sunset. The colonists had managed to retrieve their hidden arms. Two more pirates fell and were dragged back onto the boats before the entire crew loaded once more and set sail for Havana.

By the time the crew hoisted anchor and wind filled the sails, the three wounded pirates perished.

Watch out for the big sand island, the captain said. Steer round. Drop the dead there for the crabs and fishees.

Three unceremonious splashes later, the pirates watched from the bow as the corpses slowly sank into the water. The sand island grew smaller and smaller as the pirates bid farewell to their latest nefarious adventure.

So, you saw the ghosts later? Samantha asked.

You’re getting ahead, champ. Let me explain how I got to bring Dex with me in the first place.

Chapter 3

Sissy, Sam’s mom needs to talk to you, Dex said, opening the kitchen door of the house where he lived with his older sister, who was also his guardian.

Hi, can we come in? my mom asked.

Yes, come on in. Making dinner, Sissy said, drying her hands. I’m sorry about your, uh, father-in-law. I don’t know how you guys refer to him.

Ga-ga. It’s been rough. We have to go down to Alabama for the funeral, Mom said. She stopped and looked at me and Dex. Can Sissy and I talk for a minute?

That meant scram. I didn’t know if I could contain myself anyway. Taking Dex with us would do more than take the sting out of the tragedy. Fort Morgan and Gulf Shores had a beach. Water everywhere. Water meant fishing. It was one of the reasons my grandfather had moved there in the first place. I had only been there once before, when I was so young I barely remembered it. The idea of the