It wouldn’t take much, he knew. The woman was spooked, but in a way, so was he. He had to think. Memories like faded old pictures were intruding, making him uncomfortable, shaky, and insecure. This was no way to captain a ship. “Get your stuff together, old boy,” he thought. “Concentrate on what you know.” He summoned his logical side. It wasn’t that he had anything against the female, but he reasoned that everyone knew women on board brought bad joss—bad luck. He stood and began pacing back and forth over the phantom deck, feeling the salty spray splash his cheeks. His sea-crusted lashes scanned the dark horizon while he pondered his situation. The former inhabitant had recently died, leaving the house empty. They had shared the space for years, more than a half a century. Eli had a good relationship with the old man. Eli didn’t bother him, and good old Pat Redmond happily returned the favor. Pat was an artist whose marine paintings were prized among collectors. He was a loner—some said a little off, a bit strange—with only one nephew who visited at Christmastime.
