Ghost Writer: a captivating tale of history, mystery, and family secrets.

When author Kelsey Critchett discovers her pirate ancestor Captain Flora Critchett’s journal hidden within the walls of her ancestral home, she unearths a treasure trove of high-seas adventures. Using Flora’s detailed accounts as inspiration, Kelsey crafts bestselling novels that bring the daring exploits of the “Bonny Ann” to life. But as Kelsey digs deeper into her ancestor’s past, the line between history and imagination begins to blur. Could Flora’s legacy be more alive than Kelsey ever expected? Perfect for readers who love gothic charm, pirate lore, and unexpected twists.

Captain Flora Critchett is the inspiration behind Great Lakes Pirate Coldwater Belle who may or may not haunt Unlikely to this day... Meet Coldwater Belle in An Unlikely Drama, Book #3 of The Unlikely Murder Club, available October 16, just in time for Halloween.

Ghost Writer is available as an audiobook. (8-minute listen) Click here:

https://static.wixstatic.com/mp3/d7cb65_bc66a97b5b384a85957908e00dc090c4.mp3

NOTE: This narration was created using AI. The story itself was written by me. 

Ghost Writer

“On nights when the moon be full, and the waters calm, if ye gaze out o’er the bay, ya might see, there in the distance, the spectral outline of the Bonny Ann glowin’ bright against the night sky. The sails be a’billow and the skull and crossbones flag a’snapping in the ghostly breeze. And if yer eyes be good, ya might see the phantasm of Captain Flora Critchett striding the decks, planning her next pirate campaign.”

Kelsey Critchett closes the book, smiling at her audience. “To find out what happens to our swashbuckling heroine next, you’ll have to wait for my next book, ‘Taken by the Seas’.”

The audience claps enthusiastically. Nearly thirty people crowd the small bookstore. What a thrill to read to such an appreciative audience. Early in her career, only two or three people might come out. But here in her hometown, she could always count on friends and neighbors for their support.

As the applause dies away, Kelsey announces. “Thank you. And thank you to Beatrix Kemp of Kemp’s Books, for hosting this reading. And thanks also to Carl’s Café for providing coffee and cookies. I’m sure Captain Flora would have loved the chocolate chips.”

She pauses for a smattering of laughter.

“Now, for those of you interested, Beatrix has signed copies of my books in hardcover and paperback for sale. I’ve left space above my signature if you’d like me to personalize the dedication.”

She pauses again, as a few people rush to the book display.

“In the meantime, I’ll be taking questions. Anyone?Anyone? Ah, yes. The man in the navy jacket.”

The man in the navy jacket is actually Red Dover, a friend of Beatrix’s. Kelsey has no idea if he’s read her books, but the way to get a lively discussion going is to have someone start it off.

“Where do you get your inspiration?” Red asks, exactly as scripted.

Kelsey’s answer, equally scripted, is informative and entertaining. And mostly true. “As many of you know, nearly a decade ago, I inherited the old Critchett manor down by the Bay. It’s been in my family nearly three-hundred years. I couldn’t bear to sell it. I love the gothic architecture, the hand-carved details, and most especially, the wrought iron widow’s walk overlooking our magnificent bay. At the time, though, I was too broke to hire professionals, so I watched YouTube videos and learned to DIY as much as I could.”

She notices a few of the remaining audience looking bored, so she moves a little faster.

“Shout out to Ray Capaldi, of Capaldi’s Restorations. Hi, Ray.” She gives a little wave to the gray-haired man at the back. Then to the audience, she adds, “Ray’s fixed some major structural issues for me, but at the beginning, I did everything myself. Including undoing some of the fabulous 1970s décor decisions. And by ‘fabulous,’ I mean ‘truly awful’.”

She pauses again for laughter. A couple to one side whispers furiously. The man, it seems, is bored and wants to leave, while the woman insists on staying. “Hang on folks, I’m almost done.” She smiles at the man. He glances in Kelsey’s direction, his expression falling just short of rude.

Kelsey sighs. Not everyone’s a fan, she thinks, before carrying on with her answer to Red’s question. “So one day, I’m knocking out a fake wall covering one of the original fireplaces, and I find a model sailing ship. It’s perfect in every detail. Beautifully preserved. I take it to our local historical society and am informed it’s a scale model of the Bonny Ann. I started researching, only to discover the Bonny Ann was captained by my ancestor, Flora Critchett, lady pirate extraordinaire.”

“So all your stories are true, then?” The woman with the bored partner asks.

“They’re grounded in historical fact. I also found journals of Flora’s exploits hidden in the walls. She’d filled them with entries such as, ‘Today we boarded the Constance Rose out of Gloucester’, followed by a detailed list of her ill-gotten gains, whether gold doubloons or barrels of dried fish. I then researched the Constance Rose and crafted an entire novel around that one diary entry.”

“’Seafarer Fair’!” the woman shouts, correctly naming that particular novel, as Kelsey had hoped someone would.

“Exactly,” Kelsey responds, reaching for a pen to personalize the first of the purchased copies as a lineup forms to her left. She spends the next 20 minutes or so chatting and signing and encouraging people to register for her newsletter.

As the last customer disappears, Beatrix Kemp leaves off cleaning up the coffee rings and cookie crumbs, catching Kelsey as she’s pulling on her coat.

“Thank you so much for everything, Kelsey. It’s always a pleasure to host a reading for you. I hope you’ll come back with your next new release.”

“We entrepreneurs gotta stick together,” Kelsey says, patting the bookstore owner’s arm. “You were there for me when I was just starting out.”

A customer hovers, obviously wanting to ask Beatrix a question about a book, so Kelsey heads for the door. It’s chilly outside, and she hurries to her SUV for the short drive home.

Parking near the house, she climbs down from her vehicle. Of course, she can’t help but notice all the projects she hasn’t yet gotten to. The cracks in the front steps need filling, and one of the porch pillars looks off-kilter. She can’t afford a castle like some authors, but she can afford local workmen to help her with those things she can’t DIY.

It’s only mid-afternoon, but the sun sits low in the sky. She heads straight for her bedroom—once the boudoir of Captain Flora herself, and grabs a nap. She’ll be up half the night working on her next book.

By 11:55, she’s at her desk in Flora’s old study. She’s installed an antique spyglass, as Flora once had, to view ships out on the bay, although at this hour, it’s just a few twinkling lights on a canvas of black water. Using a tiny remote, Kelsey flicks on a dozen candles. They’re LED, made in China and ordered off Amazon, but they flicker, and help create the spooky atmosphere she needs to get words on the page. Without being a fire hazard in this house constructed of old, dried wood.

When her antique Seth Thomas clock strikes midnight, she’s ready. The wind outside picks up, rattling the wavy old glass in the window frames.

The ancient rocker in the corner begins to rock, the wide oak floorboards creaking ominously. A hazy outline forms, hinting at a wickedly beautiful woman in the prime of her life.

“Good evening, Captain,” Kelsey says. Once she would have trembled, but she’s grown used to her nightly visitor.

The ghost of Flora Critchett smiles, a gold tooth glinting in the faux candlelight. “Evenin’ to you, too, daughter’s daughter.”

Kelsey had once tried to convey just how many daughters had come and gone since Flora had strode the decks, but the apparition had waved away her explanations, saying, “The dead don’t care about the living,” and faded from sight. Kelsey hadn’t tried to update Flora since then.

Tonight, Flora seems chipper. In her unearthly contralto, she says, “It be a fine evenin’ for a tale, daughter’s daughter. Grab a mug o’ grog and sit back. Did I e’er tell you o’ the time I did battle against Ingela Gathenhielm, the Swedish pirate?”

A meerschaum pipe appears in Flora’s hand, spectral smoke billowing around the apparition’s head like an eerie halo.

“There be a terrible storm sending us off course…” she begins.

Kelsey’s fingers fly across the keyboard as the tale unfolds. It’ll be another bestseller. She can feel it.

The End

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Copyright © 2024 by Gina M. Grant