Southern Haunts (22 page)

“You almost done down there?”

Max took one last picture before returning upstairs. “Sorry if I was taking too long.”

Ms. Williamson opened the front door. “Not trying to be rude, but I have a trip ahead of me. I need to finish packing, if I’m going to catch my flight. If you want to come by next week, I’d be happy to let you take your time and really get a good look around. I’ll even fish out the key to the shed.”

“That would be wonderful.”

As he walked down the stone stairs toward his car, Max could feel her eyes on his back — every bit as dark and penetrating as those he felt upon him from the Darian house. He had to drive a full block before he could shake the feeling and think clearly.

He needed that tunnel for the plan to work — no other safe way into the house with Wayne guarding it — and he had already set the Sandwich Boys on their task. The plan was in motion. He had to check himself — was it only his desire, his need, for the tunnel to be there that made him think it was there? No. It had to be there. His gut knew it. Besides, for Sandra and him, the only way ever was through.

As he pulled out of the neighborhood and drove toward the highway, he crossed his fingers. Never before had he relied on his gut with so much riding on that decision. But Drummond believed in such intuitions, and though he would never let the ghost hear it, he had come to respect his partner on such matters.

“Then my gut it is. We’ll find that tunnel.”

Chapter 26

Max delved into his big, chopped sandwich,
closed his eyes, and let his tongue enjoy the delicate flavor of the vinegar-based barbecue sauce as it blended with coleslaw and pulled pork to form an exquisite bite. Sandra and Drummond sat next to him. On the opposite side of the table, Libby, Carl, and Jack poked at their lunch.

Little Richard’s was busy, as usual, but Max’s group managed to push together a few tables and run them parallel to the windows. They left enough room for the waitresses and the other customers to get by, but not by much. The 1950s décor and the constant bustle warmed Max like a comforter in the winter. This place was a good place, and he needed that at the moment.

Max indulged in another mouthful. He knew everybody waited to hear why he had brought them together, but his plan would be dangerous — possibly life-threatening. If he was going to die before another day arrived, he wanted his last meal to be his favorite. As he savored each bite, Sandra explained that Shawnee had left that morning.

“We couldn’t keep her,” Sandra told Max. “She seemed fine for a few hours, but shortly after sunrise, she said that she had to go back. She had to try to convince Wayne to leave the house with her.”

Libby offered vigorous agreement. “Don’t think we were going to let her go by herself. We insisted that we tag along to protect her, and she said that would be fine. But then she went into the bathroom, and while we waited, she slipped out the window. We were going to follow her — we assume she went back to the house — but Sandra said we’d only make the situation worse. Wayne doesn’t like us very much.”

Carl wiped ketchup off his mouth. “It’s a good thing you didn’t go after her. You ladies would have gotten yourselves killed.”

Sandra turned a cold eye upon him. “I think I’ve faced far worse things than you’ve ever peed your pants about.”

Like a casino dealer ending bets at roulette, Jack waved his hands over the table. “Hey, guys, can we just chill? Stop all this arguing.”

“Oh, there’s a voice of authority,” Drummond said with a snort.

Max cleaned his fingers on a paper napkin and sipped his soda. He sighed with the mixed pleasure and disappointment of swallowing the final bite. “It’s okay, everybody. First, we know where Shawnee went. We’ll get her back.”

Libby snapped her fingers at him. “You don’t know that.”

“I do. I think I know everything about this case now.”

“Well, are you going to enlighten us or would you rather order more food and keep packing it away like there’s no tomorrow?”

“That is my fear.”

Libby clamped her mouth shut as her ears digested his words.

Max hoped they heard a voice as tough and confident as he tried to sound. Despite his bravado, he found the last bits of his barbecue sandwich binding up in his stomach. He winked at Sandra. In a flash, he saw that she knew the truth. Her hand went onto his knee with a slight squeeze, and her eyes glistened even as she forced on a brave face.

“How bad is this?” she asked.

“At the moment, I’m having fond memories of Dr. Connor.”

“That bad?”

Libby blurted in, “Will someone tell us what’s going on?”

Drummond said, “Yeah, if you’re going to make me sit here and look at all this wonderful food that I can’t eat, you better have something to show for it.”

Max slid aside his basket of fries before lacing his fingers on the table. He knew how he must have looked, but he wasn’t trying to be overly dramatic. Nor was he trying to keep them out of the loop. Rather, he knew once he spoke, once he told them the whole story, everything would move fast. The longer he took to speak, the longer he could cling to this simple, pleasurable moment of having lunch with his wife, his partner, and some fine people who simply wanted to help others. But even as he thought about it, he knew the moment had gone.

“In the late 1800s, Jeremiah Unger opened up a general store here in Winston-Salem. It was on Trade, north of 12th Street, not far from our office. An all-wood building that serviced the entire community in that area. The northern section of the city was not flush with money. In fact, the majority of the populace there were former slaves or the first generation of former slaves struggling to survive in a new world that did not welcome them. But Unger’s store did well, and survived for close to a decade.

“This next part, I discovered in my notes from early on but never knew its importance. Turns out, this is the key to everything. On November 2, 1902 at 5:20 in the morning, Winston’s reservoir collapsed. Over one million gallons of water thrust down upon that northern section of Winston. Shoddily-made, one-story rental homes of black families were wiped clean from the ground in the flood. Nine people were confirmed dead, but many reports suggested that number had to be a lot higher — the white police officers didn’t feel it necessary to count all the black bodies.

“Unger lived above his store along with his wife and two daughters. At first, they must have thought they would survive the flood by holing up on the second story. It could have worked out that way, too, had the surrounding buildings also been multi-story. There might have been enough material blocking the rushing waters to lessen their impact. But Unger’s was alone in this way. Couple that with cheap construction and they didn’t stand a chance.”

With a hand on her chest, Libby said, “So, they drowned?”

“Some. We can hope that’s the case. But according to various reports and eyewitness accounts, it appears that the building shattered into pieces. As it washed away, much of Unger’s General Store got clogged up against other homes and debris. Unfortunately, screams could be heard for a long time. For some of them, it was a slow, agonizing death.”

Max’s words hung in the air until Sandra said, “This building, this wood, it was used to build the Darians’ house.”

Max nodded. “I think the Unger family haunts that wood.”

Libby, Carl, and Jack exchanged glances. “That’s good news,” she said. “That means we know exactly who we’re dealing with, and we can help them get to rest.”

Max’s chair groaned as he shifted. “There’s more to this. See, the flood also killed Floyd Johnson and Milton Hull while they were in those woods making whiskey.”

“Let me guess,” Drummond said. “Their stills were located exactly where Skinner Warehousing now sits.”

“It’s possible their stills were where we found Floyd’s ghost. Or maybe the flood washed him to that location to die. Either way, he has no grave today because nobody found a body — that is, nobody identified his body. Now, this next part I have no proof of, but I suspect that Milton Hull was in the process of making his bottles when he died.”

Sandra’s face lit up as she connected the dots. “Milton Hull put magic on those bottles to make his horrible whiskey taste better. What if as a last ditch effort to survive, or more likely as a result of his poor magic skills — what if he transferred himself into the bottle? His soul?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. And these two events, the Unger’s tragic horror being imprinted onto the wood of their building and Milton Hull either willfully or accidentally transferring himself into a bottle, combined in one location — the Darian house. The wood was used to build the house, and Hull’s bottles, which by the 1920s were highly sought after, were stored in the tunnel that connected to the brothel. So, the house itself became like a ghost.”

Drummond tipped his hat to Max. “I like that. It explains why Sandra and I couldn’t find a ghost because it was the house.”

Jack appeared to like the idea as well. “The arrival of a baby must have awoken the house.”

Libby sat forward. “No. It’s worse. The coming baby awoke Milton Hull. That’s why the house revealed the bottle.” Her eyes widened as she rose to her feet. “The house is trying to protect the Darians because Milton Hull’s spirit wants a body. The baby.”

Max said, “That’s my fear. Wayne is succumbing to Milton Hull’s influence. The Hull magic has driven away Wayne’s own sanity, but I don’t see why Milton doesn’t just take over Wayne.”

“It’s harder. Taking over an adult brain is difficult. The adult will fight back.”

Max recalled when a witch had taken over Sandra. In many ways, it was Sandra’s fighting spirit that had saved her life. “Then he’s after the baby because a baby won’t fight back.”

“A baby’s brain is still developing, and its spirit is completely innocent. Much easier for Milton to step in and take over.”

Max gestured for Libby to sit back down. “This is all in line with my thinking, and that’s why I have a plan.”

Drummond moved around the table, his excitement daring to create warmth around his dead soul. “Max, I like what you’ve done here. Not only did you put all the pieces together, but you’ve come with a plan. That’s the kind of partner I want. You’re making me happy.”

Max suppressed a grin. “I think we can defeat this somewhat the same way we would break a binding curse. Except instead of cutting through a circle to break the curse, this curse is in the wood itself. Once the spirits have been let loose from the wood, they can move on and will no longer empower the house.”

Carl cleared his throat. “I thought the house was keeping Hull at bay. If you release those spirits, won’t he have free reign to do what he wants?”

“Not exactly. He’s connected to the bottle that we removed from the house. Now, I gave that bottle to an associate.” Max didn’t dare call Mother Hope a friend. “That means whatever is still Milton Hull in that house, the part that’s attacking Wayne is not complete. I think that as much as the Ungers were using their energy to help the Darians, Milton is able to use that same energy. That’s why he was able to attack my wife and Shawnee on different occasions — shaking the house, creating those sounds, and doing all the frightening things he did. There’s a battle going on in the foundations of that house between the Ungers and Milton. But Milton is weaker because that bottle is no longer there. Once we have released the Ungers, most of the house’s energy will be gone. We can then go to my associate and destroy the bottle. It’ll all be over.”

Libby smiled. “I don’t know if this sounds good or not, but it certainly sounds the best I’ve heard in a long time. How exactly are we going to let the Unger spirits free?”

“We’re going to have to destroy the wood. And since this is magic we’re dealing with, we’ve got to do it in a pure way.”

“Purify wood? That’s usually done with fire.”

“Exactly. We’re going to burn the house to the ground.”

Chapter 27

Max didn’t like the plan.
That it was his plan only made him feel worse. Throughout the remainder of the afternoon, as they discussed the details, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had missed something — some small step in this complex affair that would end up getting people hurt. Everybody had a crucial role, and that meant that everybody was vulnerable.

They waited until Ms. Williamson had left her home and night arrived. With the darkness came the danger.

Max had driven down Elizabeth Street several times over the last few hours, watching the homes until he saw that the majority of people had gone to bed. As midnight approached, the streets emptied out. He parked a few doors up from the brothel house.

“You ready?” he asked Sandra.

She pecked him on the cheek. “For luck.”

“Don’t I get one?” Drummond said from the backseat.

Max forced a chuckle — it sounded as empty as it felt. As they got out of the car, Libby approached from further up. She looked as pale as Drummond.
Good,
Max thought.
Healthy fear might be exactly what she needs.

Sandra gave Max one more kiss before shifting down the street. She would stand at the Darians’ house and wait for his signal. Meanwhile, he and Libby climbed the stone stairs to the front door of the famous brothel.