The Strange Story of Maria Hallett

The Strange Story of Maria Hallett

by

Richard Zapf

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

World Castle Publishing, LLC

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright © 2025 Richard Zapf

Paperback ISBN: 9798891264441

eBook ISBN: 9798891264458

First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, August 5, 2025

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

Licensing Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems.

Cover: Cover Designs by Karen

Editor: Karen Fuller

Chapter One

I’m not crazy. At least, I don’t think I am. Some would even say I’m too level-headed and a bit boring. How could I be anything but after managing my hardware store for thirty years? Being an old Cape Codder going back generations, I pay my taxes, keep up with my mortgage, love my wife and kids, and vote Independent. A few weeks ago, I came across a book in the Chatham Library. I read it, and then it was gone, and my wife and kids think I’m bonkers. I was in the mystery section of the library at the end of October, stocking up on reading material for the winter. There’s very little happening on Cape Cod at that time of year unless you go down to the local pub and have a pint or two. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m vulnerable to such outings, but I much prefer sitting in my chair by the fire with a good book while sipping a tumbler of single malt.

Among the books in the stacks with colorful bindings and flashy titles like The G-String Murders or The Skeleton Valley Mystery was a book that didn’t seem to belong. It had an old leather binding with no title. Out of curiosity, I took it off the shelf, brought it to a table, and leafed through the thick parchment pages. It was a journal of sorts, written in an old eighteenth-century script. Making my way through the arcane language and unfamiliar script was a task too much for me, so I put it back on the shelf and went to the other side of the stack. When I came back with an armful of Robert B. Parker novels, it was on the table again. Strange, I thought, so I went to the front desk to inquire about this curious book.

The woman at the desk agreed to come back and take a look, stating, Books that old are usually available only upon request, and only history scholars seem interested in them. If you want to view such material, you have to make an appointment. I’ll be happy to take custody of the wayward book that seems to have escaped from the restricted stacks.

However, when we got to the table, I could find no sign of the book. I checked the stack, and it wasn’t there. I panicked and looked up and down the stack with no result.

Are you sure you saw the book? she said.

Yes, I can’t imagine where it’s gone. It was right here. I tapped the table where the book had been.

Well, I’ve got to get back, she said in a bit of a huff. Just bring it to the desk if you come across it.

I was never so embarrassed, and I was sure she thought I was nuts. Ha, I thought, the one place I didn’t look was the floor. Down on my hands and knees, I scanned the floor and didn’t find anything but dust bunnies. When I surfaced and looked on the table, there it was, open to the first page. I’ve got you now, you little bastard, I thought. I grabbed the book and decided to take it to the desk, but as soon as I picked it up, the pages became brittle and started to fall apart. The last thing I needed was to damage a valuable book, so I slammed the book shut and decided to leave the damn thing on the table. Let somebody else deal with this demon book. Then I packed to go and glanced back at the book, and couldn’t believe my eyes. The damage had been repaired, and it was opened to the first page again!

This seemed more than a little strange. I broke out in a sweat while the saliva started to dry in my mouth. But how dangerous could a book be? The eighteenth-century script danced before my eyes, and it was hard going at first. No author was credited with the writing. It simply started with these words: There have been many stories about the wreck of the Whydah and the love story between the pirate Black Sam Bellamy and Maria Hallett. This is the only true account of their love and how the Whydah came to be wrecked.

Chapter Two

The story of the Whydah is well known on the Cape. In the 1980s, the wreck was discovered by Barry Clifford and his salvage team, and now there are two museums, one on the Cape and one in Salem, Massachusetts, chock full of artifacts from the wreck. I was hooked and wanted to read more. At that moment, the lights dimmed, indicating closing time, so I went to scoop up the book, but it began to disintegrate again, so I dropped it on the table. I couldn’t believe I was about to talk to a book, but I did. Okay, buster, I’ll be back. I assume you’ll be at your usual location, I said, and I walked out.

After leaving the library, I threw my armful of books in my car and headed across the street to the Irish pub. I liked the darkened room with its low ceiling. Irish memorabilia were packed in every corner, including travel posters and old mugs. It was a comfortable place to have a drink, and I figured I’d need at least three to collect myself and clear my mind so I could think rationally. Before I entered, I couldn’t help noticing a 1960s vintage Chevelle Super Sport (SS) parked in front. It was all black, sporting Cragar Mags with Goodyear Wide Tread G/T tires mounted on them. Being a gearhead and owning a classic MG-TD myself, I couldn’t resist taking a closer look. A peek under the rear end revealed there was a stainless-steel dual exhaust and traction bars to control the rear axle under hard acceleration. Inside were bucket seats and a Hurst shifter. In the back window, five Over the Hundred Mile an Hour Club decals from a drag strip that I didn’t recognize were displayed. I guessed the driver must be inside the pub, and I hoped I’d have a chance to talk with him.

When I entered the pub, I