Ghost Walk (3 page)

Which
was why the Riveras had always been a stone in their sensible shoes.

For
generations, Grace’s relatives had been the fortunetellers in town.  Their
small shop had been housing tarot card readings and mixing potions since before
the Revolution.  Way longer than the cutesy antique dealers had been in town.

Regardless
of their authentic provenance, though, the rest of Harrisonburg was embarrassed
to have their storefront anywhere near their white picket fences.  They wanted
to forget all the messy aspects of the past and focus on have fife-and-drum
parades every day at three o’clock.  The Riveras had never fit into that
gentrified ideal.  From the day her parents died and she moved in with her
aunt, until the day she went off to college, Grace had felt out of place.  Which
is why she’d left this stifling town and never looked back.

Well,
until her breakdown had driven her from Richmond and she had nowhere else to go.

Harrisonburg
hadn’t changed much since Grace left, just like it hadn’t changed much in the
two-and-a-half centuries before.  It was the most complete Colonial town in
America, filled with eighteenth century brick houses and cobblestone streets.  For
generations, it had been forgotten and passed by as America grew-up around it. 
In the 1940s, the Harrisonburg Preservation Association had successfully
lobbied to have the entire town set aside as a landmark.  Instantly, ruined
buildings turned into “historic” buildings and property values doubled.  The
small town now existed out of time.  Entering Harrisonburg was like stepping back
to days of John Handcock.

In
a completely sanitized way.

The
whole place was part history lesson, part Disney World.  Unsavory things like
slavery, dirt, and James Riordan had no place in their pretty reimaging of
history.  Friendly actors showed tourists how to make paper or weave blankets
in quaint shops.  Horses clumped up and down the streets.  Musicians serenaded
diners with high-spirited fiddle music.  …But there were still three Starbucks
within walking distance.

Harrisonburg’s
modern restaurants and shops fed off happy tourist dollars.  It gave the place
a sense of artificiality that Grace hated.  Harrisonburg should be teaching
people what
really
happened, not just what was appealing to the
customers.  The Founding Fathers had walked these streets and slept in these
buildings.  Redcoats attacked Patriots not three miles away.  The United States
had been conceived in the backrooms of these taverns. 
That
was what
Harrisonburg was really about. 
That
was what they should be focused on,
even if meant that the shops on Main Street didn’t make a fortune every summer,
selling six dollar popcorn in plastic powder horns.

No
one else saw things her way, though.  Most of the people who actually lived there
were retired college professors, small business owners, and paid-by-the-hour
employees.  All of them liked Harrisonburg just the way it was.  They didn’t
care about historical accuracy.  They just wanted to stay the seventh most
popular tourist destination in Virginia, even if that meant adding air-conditioning
to the historic mansions so no one got too hot while experiencing the
“authentic” lifestyle of Colonial America.

Since
triple homicides and lynchings didn’t exactly blend with the cafes, garden
tours, and the annual fireworks display, all the remaining evidence of the
murders was locked up in the basement of the Harrisonburg Historical Museum, on
permeant non-display.  No one would be happy about Grace reminding guests that
the town was also the site of America’s first serial killing.

Too
bad.

She
needed the tips.

“Lucinda’s
family immediately suspected that James Riordan was behind her disappearance.  The
two of them had been seen around town, in the weeks before the murder.  There
were whispers and speculation.  Her sister Eugenia nearly fainted whenever she
saw him.  Men muttered that something should be done.  …But there was no
proof.”

“Bloody
right there wasn’t.”

“People
grew even more suspicious when Anabel Maxwell and Clara Vance went missing in
the following days.  Like Lucinda, they were never seen again.  Anabel
disappeared out of the governor’s hedge maze at a party and Clara vanished at
the 4
^th
of July celebration in town square.  All that was ever found
of her was a lace shawl, splattered with blood.”

The
heckler paced around, glowering at her.

Grace
almost didn’t blame him this time.  Even two and a half centuries after the
girls’ deaths, it seemed tacky to twist the crimes into some macabre form of
entertainment.  Her rent money was at stake, though, so she kept going.  “Since
these were the three women who’d rejected Captain Jamie’s lecherous advances at
the Summer Ball, Harrisonburg grew more convinced of his guilt.  The good
citizens of the town decided to act.”

The
tour began to buzz amongst themselves, liking this tale.

Most
of them, anyway.

“Oh
bullocks!  That isn’t true, a’tall!”  The loudmouth stalked closer to the
lantern, looking even more pissed off.  …And even more stunning in the stronger
light.  “Whoever told you this was out of his skull.”  His face was a study in masculine
perfection, his auburn hair tied back in the kind of ponytail favored by guys
who not-so-secretly longed to be Wesley in
The Princess Bride
.

Who
was
he?  He looked familiar.  Maybe he was an actor, who starred in some
pirate TV show that she was too smart to watch.

…Or
maybe he worked in Harrisonburg.

Yeah,
that actually made sense.  Obviously he was a local, since he said he took a
Ghost Tour every night.  She was surprised none of the other guides had
mentioned him.  Grace looked him up and down, trying to recall if he worked in
one of the local shops.  If he did, she was totally going to get his ass fired.

In
the light, she noticed that he was dressed in Revolutionary-era style clothes,
which backed up her new theory.  Many employees wore period costumes, to keep
Harrisonburg “authentic,” but this guy actually made the leggings and brightly
patterned waistcoat seem
not
stupid.  That annoyed her nearly as much as
his running commentary.

Grace
herself was wearing a wide skirt and bonnet that weighed about six thousand
pounds.  Unlike her unwanted customer, she knew she looked wilted and silly.

Ignoring
that depressing fact and the stifling summer heat, she reached the grand finale
of her gory tale.  “The same night that poor Clara vanished, the angry
townspeople vowed not to let Jamie Riordan strike again.  They dragged him from
his cabin on his ship, the
Sea Serpent
, and carried him down this very
street, burning torches and chanting for justice.”

“Bloody
cowards.”

“Then,
they strung a rope from a tree that stood right there,” she pointed to the
stump of a giant oak, which had been struck by lightning sometime during the
Civil War, “and tied the other end around Captain Riordan’s neck.  They say he
begged forgiveness for his crimes, but Harrisonburg wasn’t in a charitable mood. 
They hanged him, while he pleaded for mercy.”

“
That’s
a fucking lie.”
  Long John Idiot bellowed.  “You donea know what you’re
talking about!”  His accent was thicker than ever, so it actually took her a
beat to translate the snarled “donea” into “do not.”  “How did you even get
this job, woman?”

Grace
had had enough.  “Would you just shut-up?”  She whirled around to face him,
jabbing a finger at his chest.  “It
is
what happened.  James Riordan’s
crimes are straight from the history books. 
Horror in Harrisonburg
,
written by Anabel Maxwell’s own brother Gregory, outlined the whole story.  Feel
free to look it up yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

Several
members of the tour jumped back as if she’d surprised them.  As if her yelling
had come out of nowhere and wasn’t
completely
justified given all the
crap she’d endured from this jackass.  As if
she
was the one acting
crazy.

The
jackass in question gaped at her like she’d just hit him in the face with a
fish.  His jaw literally dropped, his mouth opening and closing with no sound
coming out.  It was almost funny to see someone so cartoon-character
astonished.

“Are
you talking to
me?
”  He blurted out, his patriot blue eyes as wide as
Frisbees.  “
Holy fuck
, are ya really talking to me?”

“Who
else would I be talking to?”  Grace retorted.  “And would you please watch your
language?  This is a family program.”  Unlike most of the Riveras, she wasn’t
an avid supporter of casually swearing.

The
man gave a crazed sounding laugh.

Grace
didn’t appreciate his attitude.  Confrontations made her feel lightheaded and
sweaty.  Stressful or not, now that she’d started this, she wasn’t backing down,
though.  “I’m serious.  You’ve been harassing me all night and I’ve had it.  If
you don’t like the tour,
don’t take the tour
.  I’ll give you a refund.  But
I’m not going to have you yelling at me and calling me a liar, alright?”

“
Who’s
she talking to?”  The frat guy asked in confusion, looking around.

Grace
flashed him frown.  Was he drunk?  “I’m talking to
him
, of course.”  She
waved a hand at the costumed idiot who’d been tormenting her for the past forty
minutes.  “The man in the hat.”  That should be perfectly obvious to everyone.

Except
everyone exchanged sideways glances, like they’d missed something.

Captain
Kidd stepped closer to her, his slightly-hysterical laughter fading.  His head
tilted like he still didn’t believe this was actually happening.  “Can you see me,
woman?”  He asked in an intense tone.  “Really
see
me?”

Wasn’t
that
a typical question?  “Yes, I really see you.”  She rolled her eyes
at his conceit.  “You’re very handsome, alright?  Maybe that works with some
girls, but not with me.  You’re being a jerk and I won’t tolerate it, I don’t
care what you look like.”  She crossed her arms over her chest.  “And stop
calling me ‘woman’ or ‘lass’ or anything aside from my name.  It’s Grace Rivera.”

He
let out a shaky breath, bending forward to brace his hands on his knees.  “She
can see me.”  He wheezed out.  “Holy Mother of God, someone can finally see
me.  Thank you.  Thank you. 
Thank you
.”  He actually crossed himself in
prayer.  “I’ll never be doubting again.”

What
in the world…?  Grace’s eyebrows compressed at his theatrics, looking over at
the rest of the group for guidance.  She could tell from their baffled
reactions that she was missing something, but she had no idea what.  “What’s
going on here?”  She demanded.

“I
don’t get it.  Is this --like-- part of the tour?”  The teenager asked.

“What?”

“Yeah,
that’s it.”  Bermuda Shorts smiled at the girl, ignoring Grace’s confusion. 
“Don’t you see?  She acts like some invisible guy in a hat has been with us
this whole time and we all get freaked out thinking a ghost is following us. 
It’s a nice touch. 
Finally
, this damn tour is picking up.”

Everyone
else was nodding, like they understood, but Grace was totally lost.  Was this
some kind of practical joke?  If it was, she didn’t understand the punchline. 
“Invisible?  The man in the hat is right
there.
”

Everyone
smiled humoring and nodded at her.  A few of them snapped pictures of some
random spot to her left, even though the guy was clearly standing on her
right
.

“They
can’t see me.  No one’s been able to see me for nearly two-hundred and fifty years. 
Except you, Grace Rivera.”  The guy sounded manically happy, now his words
coming out way too fast.  “It’s a miracle. 
You’re
a miracle.  I thought
the Good Lord had forsaken me, but here you are!  You have no idea how much
I’ve missed having someone to talk to, lass.  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I can’t
believe this is really happening.”

Neither
could she.

“What?” 
Grace asked again, fainter this time.  No one else was even
looking
at
the guy.  Wasn’t it human nature to look at someone when they were talking? 
The stress she wasn’t supposed to feel began to redline.  This wasn’t right. 
This wasn’t…

Then,
from out of nowhere, she suddenly remembered where she’d seen this man before.

He
wasn’t on a pirate TV show.  His obscenely handsome face was straight off the
pages of
Horror in Harrisonburg
.  Aunt Serenity owned the large tome on
Virginia history and Grace had loved it as a girl.  The portrait of Captain
James Riordan, painted the year before he died, had always stuck in her mind,
because of his eyes.  The color of the minutemen’s blue coats, they’d sparkled
with secrets and mischief.  Like he knew some wonderful joke and he was just
dying to let you in on the fun.

As
a bookish fifteen year old, she’d spent countless hours daydreaming about James
Riordan.  Knife-wielding lunatic or not, he’d fascinated her.  It helped that
Jamie didn’t look like a murderer.  He looked like the kind of guy who sailed
through life on his extraordinary charm and staggeringly good looks.  A
scoundrel, who, after two drinks at a bar, could somehow convince a nice woman
to quit her steady job and travel around the world with him.  A pirate, who
evaded capture by being just a little bit more daring than all the stodgy
people he robbed.  A free spirit, who stood at the helm of his ship, the wind
in his amazing hair, and just
loved
being Jamie Riordan.