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thunderclap. Ollhoff took a deep breath. The scent of pine wafted over the water from the stands of evergreens on either shore.
    After several minutes, the water became downright placid. Ollhoff shuddered. It just wasn’t right. Too quiet, too tranquil for a stormy night like this. With a growing feeling of dread, he wondered if, perhaps, he hadn’t stumbled into McCargoe Cove. He shuddered again involuntarily. Local legend said McCargoe Cove was haunted. Ollhoff didn’t pay much heed to ghost stories, but a night like this, while alone and lost with lightning crackling overhead, could make a believer out of anyone. Ollhoff rowed onward, deeper and deeper into the cove, as if drawn in by some unseen force.
    Suddenly, an unearthly bellowing came from the trees to his right, about thirty yards away. Ollhoff froze; he felt his heart pounding against his ribs. Something crashed through the trees and stopped at the waterline. It was big, whatever it was, and stood there at the shore, staring at the fisherman. Ollhoff squinted, trying to see in the murky light.
    A smile broke out on his face. A moose. It was only a moose, dipping its head to drink from the lake. The old fisherman breathed a sigh of relief.
    On any other night he wouldn’t have been so startled. Moose by the hundreds roamed all over Isle Royale. It hadn’t always been so. Ollhoff knew a fisherman who’d seen a herd swimming across the channel years ago. With no natural predators on the island, the moose population had exploded, nearly to the point where the herds had used up their food supply.
    Ollhoff smiled grimly. Nature, he knew, always finds a way to even things out. Just last winter, he’d heard tell that the lake had frozen so hard it nearly created an ice bridge to the Minnesota shoreline. Packs of wolves were seen prowling the ice, sniffing the air, howling, frustrated at the maddeningly narrow stretch of water separating them from the fat herds of moose on the island. Sooner or later, Ollhoff knew, a deep freeze would hit, bridging the gap. Then, the wolves would feast like kings.
    A smaller shape appeared near the moose as it took its drink. It was a calf, nudging up next to its mother. Ollhoff steered his boat out, closer to the middle of the cove. Best not to disturb a cow moose and her young.
    After rowing a bit farther up the cove, Ollhoff began to relax when, just up ahead, he saw what looked like tiny green lights dancing in the air on the far shore. Now what? He squinted hard, trying to focus his aged eyes.
    A sound blasted across the water, a noise so loud and horrible that Ollhoff dropped his oars and covered his ears. It was a hollow, metallic thundering, like someone opening the gates of hell itself.
    A great churning followed the noise, as something enormously big began moving away from shore. Ollhoff’s eyes first perceived it as a dark shadow sliding onto the lake, with little green lights dashing around on top. Then he noticed that the shadow had an outline, an eerie phosphorescent glow that sent shivers down his spine. It was a ship, some kind of sidewheel paddle steamer, its running lights off, heading straight toward him. Ollhoff picked up the oars and dug in, trying to steer away from the oncoming phantom.
    The fisherman trembled as his little rowboat skidded across the water. It was true! McCargoe Cove was haunted!
    As he rowed, Ollhoff saw the ship bearing down on him fast. Its paddles stroked the water furiously, propelling the craft faster and faster through the water. No matter where Ollhoff steered, the steamer seemed to change course, like it was deliberately trying to run him down. In no time at all, the rowboat would be plowed under the huge hull of the ghost ship. As it sailed ever closer, Ollhoff could make out the ship’s name, painted in glowing green. The Chippewa . Strange, he thought. He couldn’t remember a paddle steamer by that name plying the waters around Isle Royale. And then Ollhoff was even more amazed