southern ghost hunters 01 - southern spirits (11 page)

I picked up the urn. "You're going to want to hear this," I told him, rubbing at it, as if that would get his attention. Maybe I should give it a little flick. That seemed rude, but darn it, we needed to plan, to strategize. To see if we could pull off what I'd promised to do.

"I'm not the genie in the lamp," his voice echoed behind me. 

I spun around, but saw no one. 

"Over here." His voice floated from across the yard, and then I saw him, sprawled out under the apple tree, waving.

I left his urn on the swing and hurried down the back steps and out into the yard. "Nice trick," I could have sworn he was behind me. "I suppose you can do all kinds of things now that you're dead."

He leaned his head back against the thick tree and scratched at the bark with his fingernail. "You have no idea." He straightened as I neared and wrapped his arms around his knees. "By the way, while we're having a heart to heart, I don't like that word.
Dead
," he said, as if there were something rotten in the air. "It's a terrible reminder of my accident. Call it something else."

Hmm… What would that be? The gangster formerly known as 'alive'?

I hesitated only a moment before I went ahead and sat right next to him. He scooted down a bit for me, but I stayed where I was. "Did you see who came by? The police officer from last night."

Frankie tensed. "Deny everything."

"He's going to pay me what I need to keep the house," I said. Frankie grew still. It's as if he knew there was a catch. In this case, he was right. "In exchange, he wants me—us," I corrected, "he wants us to neutralize some 'formerly living' souls who are vandalizing an old distillery he bought."

Frankie drew his shoulders back. "Let me guess. You said, 'yes' without even asking me."

Okay, maybe I'd overstepped a little. "I couldn't exactly ask you in front of Ellis."

Frankie rubbed the back of his neck. "I was in the ether anyway."

I wrapped my arms around my knees. "I don't know what that means."

"Kind of like being asleep," he said, leaning back against the tree. "Lending you that power really did a number on me."

"Sorry. You look a lot better now than you did last night, though." He even had his knee back.

Frankie stared up at the sky. "Bridging the planes is probably against some natural laws, too."

"That's why we'll only do it once more," I told him. 

He slanted a look my way. "I ain't no do-gooder, honey. Don't ask me to drain out my essential life force so that you can run around solving other people's problems."

Fair enough. "You got a better way for me to keep my house?"

He rubbed at his chin "Did your cop friend say what was inside the place?"

"Some stainless steel kitchen equipment was broken," I said, watching him wince. 

"Not that," he interrupted. "I mean the spooks."

"No. But I'm sure it's nothing we can't handle." 

He grew as serious as I'd ever seen him. "It takes a whole lot of energy to move an object. Dark, negative force is easier to use—and better for smashing things. This ain't some weepy broad tossing jewelry out the window." 

I didn't like the sound of that. 

But it didn't change things. "We can't go back on the deal, not until we at least try to make it work." I ignored the stark unease trickling down my spine. "You need to show me what's going on tonight at the Wilson's Creek property." I couldn't do it without him.

He frowned at that. "You ever stop to think maybe I got my own life on the other side?" 

"You know some of the ghosts there," I said, surprised. I could see it in his face.

Frankie shifted uncomfortably. "I might." He picked a piece of imaginary lint off his pants leg. "Damn sure he don't wanna see me."

"Just this once," I said. "Please," I added. "You know it's our best shot."

He stared me down. "You think everything's a jake in this."

I had no idea what he meant. "No," I said, feeling it was the safest answer. "This is the last time I'll ask." I hoped.

"Fine," he said, taking off his hat, crumpling it in his hands. "We'll go. I'll let you see again, but just this once."

"Thanks," I said, fighting down a smile.

"Eh, go chase yourself," he muttered as he shimmered away. "You ain't gonna be smiling come tonight."

***

The sun hung low, throwing out a burst of reds and yellows across the evening sky. We'd left more than an hour early, so we could get the lay of the land before dark. And so I had time to talk Frankie into following through on his promise in case he gave me trouble.

I'd cancelled on my sister. I told her I had taken on a new freelance job and asked her to stop in and see Lucy if she got the chance. Melody had been all too happy to oblige and said she hoped it would pay off. 

That made two of us.

The Wilson's Creek property stood in a wooded area toward the west side of town. Gorgeous sugar maple trees, bursting with fall color, joined oaks and sassafras. They stretched over the road to form a canopy prettier than any postcard.

I wondered what kind of ghost Frankie knew on the property, and why he seemed to think he wouldn't be welcome there.

"This would be a funky cool location for a restaurant," I said, making conversation.

Frankie slouched in his seat, less than impressed. "Turn off the radio. Please. I don't know how you listen to this rap stuff."

I snarfed. "It's Michael Jackson. I thought Thriller might lighten the mood."

The gangster looked at me as if I'd sprouted wings. "We do good tonight, I'll show you some real music. Introduce you to Benny Goodman." 

I wondered if he meant for real, or just his records. 

We had the windows down and the wind tousled my long blond hair. Frankie's didn't move an inch. Naturally.

Another twist on the country road led to a smattering of orchards, roadside fruit stands, and antique shops. 

Whitewashed fencing gave way to a battered limestone wall. Moss clung to the uneven top. Clumps of grass and weeds sprouted from gaps in the mortar and the GPS system on my phone told me we were getting close. 

Frankie cringed every time the overly pleasant woman's voice chimed in with directions.

I shot him a glance. "You've been hanging around for how many years and you never heard this before?"

He shifted in his seat. "I know what's going on," he said, focusing on a gathering of black crows on the fence up ahead. "Only I usually tune you people out."

Poor ghost. After we solved the issue with the house, we'd have to figure out how to send him on his way.

I'd packed some light snacks in the bag with Frankie's urn, along with a brand new flashlight in case the mini-flashlight on my keychain ran low. The light cost more than a week's worth of Ramen, but tonight had me more worried than I was letting on, and I refused to go in unprepared. I'd also managed to scrounge up a few half-burned Christmas candles, along with some matches. Backups for my backup.

The rock wall rose higher on both sides of an open iron gate. A large stone marker read: Wilson's Creek. 

Frankie straightened and peered out the front window, as if he was searching for something in particular.

"Tell me about this place," I said. "It sounds like you have some history here."

"It was a long time ago," he said, his attention diverted. 

"I'll drive slow," I told him. "The more I know, the easier this will be." 

He huffed. "Not now."

We turned into the drive, a narrow dirt road. A large brick building stood at the end, with wide wooden carriage doors at the front. Tall green-painted windows lined the first and second floors, sheltered under red brick arches. I spied what appeared to be an aged, wood turret off the back. Faded letters, hand-painted in white on the brick, read: Southern Spirits since 1908.

To the left, on a small rise, I spotted a large Victorian that had probably been quite grand at one time. A wide sitting porch gave way to three stories, complete with a slate roof. The tiles had cracked in places and the bronze embellishments bled green.

"It's nice," I said as we bumped over the unfinished road. "Once you spruce it up and mow the lawn and—"

"Get rid of the ghosts," Frankie finished.

"Only the troublemakers," I said. Then I realized that's exactly who he would be friends with. "We're not going to hurt anybody," I told him. Not unless we were forced to defend ourselves. And even then, I didn't know what I could do to hurt a ghost. 

It bothered me all the same, although I had no idea what to do about it. And as we drew closer to the carriage house, I realized Ellis had beaten us here. 

He walked around the side of the building and held up a hand in greeting. A peace offering, perhaps. Although I couldn't imagine how I'd get that lucky.

I didn't see Ellis's car, so I went ahead and made a spot for myself out front on a patch of crumbling pavement that could very well have been a parking lot at one time. 

The sun had begun to sink lower onto the horizon, casting blinding rays of light between the shadows of the century-old buildings. 

"It's gorgeous," I called out to him. And I meant it.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and appeared almost pleased. "There's a lot of work to do," he said as I walked up to him. 

True. It wasn't only landscaping. The brickwork crumbed at the edges and spider webs clung to the window corners. Overgrown bushes flanked the entry doors and even the matching iron carriage lights had seen better days. 

Ellis glanced out over the property. "There are nine buildings total, including the carriage house." He reached down for the door handle. "This one is the most convenient to the road, and needs the least amount of work, so we're starting here. He caught himself and corrected. "I'm starting here."

That's right. He'd lost his business partner. I could see his uncle attacking this place head-on. Ellis, too. Although it had to be harder to do it alone. I hesitated. "I don't want to insult you, but it looks a little…forlorn."

He gave a small smile. "The inside is almost done. Speaking of work, you're an hour early."

"I wanted to see the property before dark," I told him. "Have you been here long?" He didn't look like he'd run into any angry spirits.

"I had to unload some pavers out back," he said. "The rear porch is starting to sink." Ellis stood by the entrance doors, looking remarkably casual about hanging out in front of a haunted building. "Hey, Harry, come on over and meet someone," Ellis called as a bearded man emerged from the side of the carriage house. He wore blue jeans and a sleeveless work shirt, and he scowled when he saw us.

Ellis didn't appear to notice. "This is Harry," he said to me, "he's been helping me out." Then, quietly, he added, "Don't tell him your last name or what you're doing for me."

What a sweetheart.

But I didn't have to worry about spilling the beans to the handyman, because Harry hunched his shoulders, kept his head down, and pretended he didn't even notice us.

"He's not great with people," Ellis said, not at all bothered. "Maybe you can meet him later when he's feeling more sociable."

And maybe I'd get the job done tonight and never come back.

Ellis opened the carriage house door for me. "Come on in."

I made my way past the skeleton of a rusted-out brewery wagon and climbed the stairs, glancing back for Frankie as I did. He'd disappeared somewhere between the car and the carriage house. I knew he had to be close. Still, I jumped when I heard his voice in my ear. "Don't go inside."

He had to be kidding. That's why we were here. I stiffened. "What do you see?" I murmured. "Show me."

Ellis eyed me. "I don't see anything." 

"Great," I said, pasting on a smile. 

Frankie, on the other hand, remained mum. The jerk.

I looked from the darkened windows to the man in front of the age-old doors. 

Was it me, or did the air seem chillier as I drew closer?

Inside was pitch black. A slight breeze ruffled the hair at my shoulders, stirring up the dry leaves on the trees in the woods beyond. My stomach twisted.

Good sense screamed at me to heed Frankie's warning, but I couldn't stand out on the front porch forever. The ghost hadn't said another word. I didn't even know where he'd gone. And I was just as blind as Ellis without him.

"What's the matter?" Ellis at least had the grace to look concerned. "Are you picking up on something already?"

I put on a brave act. "No. Let's go in." I couldn't find out what haunted this place if I didn't venture inside. Still, I half expected a lecture from Frankie as I passed the flickering carriage lights and entered the musty smelling relic.

Modern lantern-style light fixtures flickered to life overhead. They hung from the newly constructed, exposed rafters above. The smell of fresh lumber mixed with century-old brick and woodwork.

I blew out a breath. It all appeared so…normal. For now, at least. I wondered what exactly I didn't see. It could be anything. Ghostly furniture, scraggly black creatures slinking in the corners…or worse. I wanted to stay within a quick dash of the exit, so I waved Ellis over to the carved wooden bar near the doors. It had to be at least a hundred years old, definitely worth a closer look.

"Is this original?" I asked. 

Ellis ran a hand over its polished surface. "The South Town gang installed it in the days they used to run liquor from this place."

"That's bold," I said.

Ellis shrugged. "So were they."

I wondered how many of them were still around. And just where Frankie had gone.

Far above, gray light filtered in from the tall second story windows. 

"We took out the second floor. The boards rotted too much to be safe." His voice sounded hollow as we moved farther back into the dim space. The windows back here, boarded from the outside, glowed with light around the edges. "After automobiles took over, the family opened a distillery in the carriage house building. There's a water wheel out back, from when they mashed grain for whiskey, so I'm going to call this place The Rumor Mill. The bar here is more of a waiting area. It'll have a restaurant in the main part."