eck-house I could see the ray of light from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he stood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had looked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a man whistling. It was "Nancy Lee," and I could have sworn that the man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I knew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and could have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp enough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the same time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather rigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's peanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it should be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and stiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the flannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had dropped a lump of ice down my back.
I said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if the other wasn
This is the only book of F. Marion Crawford that I've read but I liked it. It's a good horror story. Well-written. It kinda has an M.R. James feel to it.
Very good!! Memorable story.
very good, creepy fast read
Good nautical horror story.