THE STORY SO FAR: It is February 1942. With her mother gone and her father off to war, 11 -year-old Delia Parrish has left her Virginia home and is on her way to Ocracoke Island, N.C., to live with relatives. While the boat makes its way over rough water under stormy skies, the captain tells Delia about the ghost of Blackbeard the pirate. But, he adds, "It's not the dead you should be scared of. It's the livin.' " His words chill Delia to the bone.

Whatever Capt. Haskell was talking about, he changed his mind about telling her.

"We'll be comin' in soon," he said, changing the subject. "It's been a long three hours for ya, hasn't it? You look a bit quamish."

Delia said, "A bit what?"

"Quamish. You know, queasy. You're white as a ghost."

Delia did feel queasy, but it was her nerves, not her stomach, that bothered her now.

A few minutes later, Capt. Haskell said, "We're almost there. Here's the Ditch now." He pointed to the narrow passage that led to the little harbor. The boat chugged in.

Through the rain, Delia saw the white lighthouse, like a fat candle shining its light out to sea. As Capt. Haskell moved the mail boat through the harbor, Delia looked around at all the wooden boat houses and buildings clustered there. Everything was gray in Ocracoke village, the wood weathered from wind and sun and rain. Delia noticed a cluster of cedar trees, twisted and bent from years of hard weather.

As the "Pelican" neared the small post office, Delia saw a few people gathered at the dock.

"There's somebody waitin' for ya," said Capt. Haskell. And there, standing in the rain under a dark blue umbrella, was Aunt Hetty. She waved. Delia stood up and waved back.

When the boat reached the dock, a dark-skinned boy not much older than Delia stepped up to catch the rope and wrap it around a piling. He put out a hand for Delia and she took it, then he pulled her up on the dock.

"Thank you," Delia said. The boy nodded.

Capt. Haskell said to him, "Thank ya, Ben," and handed him Delia's suitcase. Ben set it carefully on the dock by her feet.

Aunt Hetty stepped forward. "Delia, you made it," she said, wrapping her in her arms. "Let's get you out of this rain."

From the dock they crossed the main road to a sandy lane called Howard Street. There were no cars or lights or sidewalks on this narrow path, made of soft, deep sand and scattered with pearl-white oyster shells that gleamed in the shadows. The trees on both sides of the street were thick and dark, like a woods. The February wind made them rustle, and tossed dead leaves into the air.

Some of the houses along the lane were enclosed by worn picket fences.

Aunt Hetty stopped at the familiar big white house, which did not have a fence. "Here we are," she said, and led the way up the steps. Once inside, she took Delia's hat, coat, gloves, and shoes and draped them on a chair by the big black stove in the kitchen.

Delia looked around the old, quiet, wood-smelling house. "Where's Grandpa?" she asked.

"He was fishing," Aunt Hetty said, glancing out the window at the sky. "He should be back soon. This weather looks bad." She paused. "Delia, I should tell you ... Your grandfather is having a hard time."

Delia waited for her to explain.

"He was very close to your mother," she said. "And after losing Grandma last year, well, it's just very hard for him."

She knelt and took Delia's cold hands. "I know it's been hard for you, too, honey," she said. "Having you here will be very good for us, though." She hugged her again.

"Now. Let's warm you up," she said brightly. "Would you like hot milk or yaupon tea? We grow the tea ourselves, right outside the door. It's good for cold bones."

"I'll try some tea," Delia said, feeling very grown up. Her mother had often told her about drinking homegrown yaupon tea, just like the Indians, because regular tea was hard to get.

Aunt Hetty took the kettle to the sink and used the big pump to pour water into it.

While Delia waited for the water to boil, she slipped out into the light rain to use the outhouse. It was the only thing she didn't like about the old house, not having a regular bathroom inside. She hurried back in moments later, shivering.

At last, sitting by the hot stove, she began to feel warm again. She and Aunt Hetty sipped their tea, and Delia thought that milk would have tasted better. The tea was slightly bitter, even with sugar in it. She had not used much sugar because there was hardly any left in the bowl that Aunt Hetty had placed before her.

"Don't know when we'll get some more," Aunt Hetty said. "Sugar's getting scarce, too, just like tea and coffee and ice and everything else." She sighed.

Before long, it was dark. Grandpa came home, and when he opened the front door, Delia heard the wild wind howling behind him. He clomped into the kitchen and gave Delia a quick, awkward hug.

"Hello, girl," he said. "You just beat the storm."

Delia told him about Capt. Haskell and his stories. Grandpa nodded. "He sure can say a word," he said.

For supper, they had some of Grandpa's fish, fried in a pan until it was crisp, along with potatoes and biscuits with fig preserves, made from the fig tree in the yard. Delia knew Grandpa had planted it for his little daughters many years ago.

"I hope you like our food," Aunt Hetty said. "Most everything we eat comes from our own hands. Caught or grown."

Delia found that she was truly hungry and ate every bite. To her surprise, even the fish tasted good. It was tender and sweet.

Aunt Hetty talked about the Ocracoke school, where she was a teacher, and the friends Delia would meet there. Afterward, Grandpa silently rose and went to sit by the fire in the living room. Delia heard him turn on the radio, which had a distant, scratchy sound.

"You've had a long day," Aunt Hetty said when Delia yawned. "Why don't you get some sleep?"

Just then, a crack of thunder sounded and the lights went out. Delia jumped. Her heart raced as she sat in the dark, listening to the whistling wind. The radio was silent.

"Don't worry, honey, it happens all the time," Aunt Hetty said. She lit a candle. Then she lit an oil lamp and gave it to Delia. "This house has seen many a storm and survived. So have we."

She kissed Delia on the cheek. "I'm glad you're here," she said.

"Me, too," Delia replied, although she didn't mean it completely.

She said good night to Grandpa. Then, by the light of the lamp, with shadows dancing around her, she climbed the squeaky stairs to the bedroom that had once been her mother's. A cedar tree scratched the windowpane with its bristly fingers.

The house creaked like a ship in the wind. Delia's mother had once told her that this house, like many others on the island, was made of timber salvaged from shipwrecks. She also told her that she thought the wood had ghosts in it.

Delia thought about her father and her mother, both so far away, and she felt like the loneliest person in the world.

The thin lace curtains moved and the room became lighter, like the color of a pearl.

Suddenly, a pale figure stood by the window. It was watching her.

NEXT WEEK: Chapter 3: A Strange Message