Haunted on the Gulf Coast (Gulf Coast Paranormal Trilogy Book 2)

by M. L. Bullock

  Vet-tu meong ichway…

  Vet-tu meong ichway…

  And then nothing. Until she heard the footsteps, small and light, like the footsteps of a child. Not the footfalls Chris would make. He wasn’t the tallest guy in the world, but he sure didn’t sound like a child when he walked. But it had to be him. Who else could it be?

  “Chris, you idiot! Cut it out!” she whispered into the fog.

  Then she heard the whistle. The same whistle she’d just made. That couldn’t be an echo; echoes didn’t wait a full minute to come back to you. Carla stepped back on the gravel, waiting to see the figure emerge from the fog. The footsteps were closer now, close and steady. She took another step back, unsure she wanted to see who was approaching.

  The fog gathered up like something pulled it in; an invisible force gathered it up into a heap. She decided to run. She didn’t know where she was going, but she wasn’t going to wait around to see who was coming out of that fog. Chris would have said something. He wouldn’t pull a prank like that. Not on her.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “Chris!” she called out, hoping he would answer. She was panting now; how far had she run? She could see the oak tree erupting from the mist like an otherworldly creature. Had she run all the way back to the beginning of the tour? Struggling to breathe, she put her hand out to steady herself against the trunk of the tree.

  But her hand didn’t rest on the bark. Instead, her fingers touched leather and denim. It was then she heard the creaking sound of rope. It was then she found Chris. The flashlight was on again, and the beam cast a dreary spotlight on his purple face.

  And then she screamed.

  Chapter One—Cassidy Wright

  Despite my determination to pace myself, my art supplies were running hopelessly low. With this last squirt of paint, the deep blue pigment was empty. The only blue I had left now was a turquoise. However, this tiny dab would be enough to give his eyes the right color. Despite their lovely color, those eyes would be full of fear.

  He would certainly be afraid—he was about to die!

  With careful, tight strokes, I widened the eyes a bit and dabbed on a touch of white along his lower lash line for a pronounced effect. Next, I’d brush on his dirty blond hair and finish the strong jaw on his oval face. The hair on my arms crept up as I studied him. Yes, he seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. I stopped for a swig of water from one of my last water bottles and stared at the scene. The woman who stood behind him had her left hand raised, menacingly cupped as if she would like to strangle him, but I could feel that was not her intention—at least not yet. The woman wanted to press her painted hand on his face and mark him as her own. He’d done something to offend her, something he must pay for. He would be marked and the price paid!

  Yes, I could feel her power…her determination. He would eventually die for his transgression against her.

  How could one with such a lovely face wield such power—and immense hatred?

  Vet-tu meong…

  The young woman wore her hair in a wild arrangement; her curly locks were piled high atop her head. Various leaves and twigs poked out of them, along with pieces of silk cloth twisted into the strands. Her hair gave her the look of a lioness, and despite its untidiness, it flattered her heart-shaped face. She had wide brown eyes, slightly slanted at the outer corners with subtle smudges beneath them. Her arched eyebrows and elegant nose suited her petite features. Although her hands were small, they looked like they belonged to a woman accustomed to hard work; gold and jewel-encrusted rings covered her short fingers. I blinked at her as if that would break her devilish focus. Behind her, peeking through the forest, were three crosses. They were clearly some type of marker or border. I turned my attention back to the woman’s face.

  “Who are you?” I asked as if she’d respond to my query. I took another drink of water and began rummaging through my sloppy supply cabinet for the perfect shade of eggshell. Rats, nothing left. I’d have to mix it by hand. I needed it for the handprint. Yes, there would be a handprint on the side of his face, her handprint.

  As I continued to mix the paints together, I sighed unhappily. I’d have to leave the house soon, which I’d been avoiding for the past week. No, longer than that. When was the last time I’d gone to the grocery store? I couldn’t recall. Thank goodness for restaurants that delivered, or I’d have starved to death. Pretty soon, though, I’d have to stock the pantry, and I also needed toothpaste, shampoo and a slew of other personal items.

  Just thinking about journeying outside filled me with anxiety. How could I go out knowing that the man who had my sister—I assumed he was a man—was walking around this city as free as a bird? How could I ever look anyone in the eyes or trust a stranger again?

  The last time I’d gone to Daley’s Market, I left in a panic. After fleeing the checkout line and abandoning my buggy like a lunatic, I broke down in the car and spent a good ten minutes crying until I drove away defeated. That had been a dreary, rainy day, and my utter depression didn’t pass with the rising of the sun. I couldn’t help but wonder obsessively if Kylie’s kidnapper was near me. What if the man behind me in the checkout line knew where Kylie was? Or the cashier, or the older man who liked to help me out with my bags?

  Two months ago—yes, two months ago today, in fact—Midas told me the horrible news: the place in Kylie’s painting was the same place they’d found his young cousin Dom’s body all those years ago. And not only that, but two other children had been found in that field, just a few years before Dom. The water tower, the toolshed, the fence…the painting was an accurate depiction of a vacant lot I’d never seen, but Midas knew it all too well.

  Somehow, we’d convinced the detective, the very same one who had treated me like a suspect not long ago, to walk the area with cadaver dogs just to make sure Kylie wasn’t there. And she wasn’t. I was incredibly grateful, but I’d prepared for the worst, certain we would find her. Now that we’d learned that my sister wasn’t there, that the backdrop I’d imagined was probably a place I’d seen and just forgotten, I fell apart. How could I live one more day without her? Without knowing what happened to my baby sister?

  Midas repeatedly apologized for days afterward. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have said anything at all. I’m truly sorry, Cassidy,” he told me.

  He was truly sorry…

  I knew he would never knowingly feed me wrong information, so I didn’t blame him. I didn’t hate him. I didn’t feel anything. I felt empty. I had nothing to give to him; no words could express how I felt. So why bother picking up the phone? I’d stopped accepting his calls; I ignored messages from Sierra about the investigations. I had missed three team meetings, and those were just the ones I knew about. There was no telling how many I’d missed now. As if to prove to myself that I was done with Midas Demopolis and Gulf Coast Paranormal, I wore my GCP shirt to paint in. I hadn’t gotten much paint on it yet, but a few more paintings and the shirt would be unwearable, at least in public. Time to move on. I couldn’t continue to paint ghosts and get involved with paranormal investigations—I had to leave that world behind. How cruel to be constantly drawn into the supernatural, to solve old mysteries but never know the answer to my greatest question—where is Kylie?

  Yes, letting go of that world and everything in it seemed to be the only thing to do.

  But for now, I had to see the man’s face. Unlike with my other compulsive paintings, the details weren’t clear to me yet. When these images came into my mind, I could usually see the whole picture in panoramic view, but this time proved different.

  Brushing on the carefully mixed hues, I pulled the brush up at an angle to create his jawline. Like the painting of Aurelia Davis, this would be an outdoor scene with plenty of pines and cedars. My stomach growled, but I didn’t want to eat just yet. I needed to finish this painting. Another few minutes and this mystery would be solved. I’d know who he was and maybe what they were doing, and then maybe…

  I dabbed on more o
f the tan paint for the man’s face and bare arms. With the last few frenzied strokes, it all became clear. I had never seen the woman, but him…him I knew. He was no ghost from the past. His eyes were wide with terror, his mouth open as if he were about to scream…

  I painted Joshua McBride.

  My heart sank as I dropped the palette on the table beside me. Lord, this can’t be right! Don’t let this be right!

  But it was him, or someone who looked exactly like him. Before I could think it through, my fingers touched the edge of the painting, smearing the dark green and black paint, destroying the carpet of multicolored greenery.

  And then I was there…

  Chapter Two—Ettawa Maybee

  Mobile, Alabama, 1842

  Ettawa Maybee walked the edge of the woods around Simple Touchard’s wooden shack, dragging her hex stick behind her. The wooden shaft left a deep furrow in the sand, a groove that would set the boundaries for her curse. She whispered and gurgled as she walked, beginning the spell that would bind and kill Simple Touchard dead before the sun came up if she was lucky. If not, if it took an extra day or two, she was all right with that too.

  Only Simple knew about her whiskey shipment; only he had known that the barrels were floating off Frenchman’s Point. He’d known it, and he’d told it. Those barrels were gone now, and Simple was to blame. She spat as she whispered his name and shivered at the power of the curse but pushed back any remorse she felt. Simple had done this to himself; he’d betrayed her and aligned himself with Quincy. More was the pity, because until now, Simple had been her best whiskey man.

  The moon rose high above her, and she felt the power of its magic surge through her fingertips. This trembling was a good sign for Ettawa. As she completed the last circle around the shack, she held her hex stick high and straight like an unholy shepherd’s staff and tapped it on the ground three times to seal the curse. In a loud voice, she called to the man in the shack. The fool would be asleep now, sleeping with his wife and children, sleeping like a baby.

  “Simple Touchard! Come out here and face me!”

  No light appeared, but she heard furious whispers, and soon the crooked wooden door creaked open and the old black man stood on the porch wearing only his threadbare overalls.

  “Miss Ettawa, is that you out there?” Fear caused his voice to shake, and the sound of it gave her the assurance she needed to quiet the last of her worry. Yes, he had betrayed her; why else would he be afraid to come out?

  “You know it’s me, and you know why I’m here. You’re going to die, Simple Touchard. You’ll die soon. And you know why.”

  “I don’t know at all.” He licked his lips; she could see him clearly in the moonlight. His eyes were wide with fear, and he shuffled nervously on the rickety wooden porch. She heard his family stirring in the shack. They’d all be out soon. Well, that couldn’t be helped, could it?

  Jutting out her chin, she called to him in a deep, authoritative voice, “I know what you’ve done, Simple. You told him where to find my whiskey. You stole from me, Simple; you stole from my family. But you didn’t do it on your own. You ain’t that smart. You had some help taking my property. I know who you’ve been dealing with.”

  “It’s not true, Miss Ettawa! I would never do that! You know I respect your power. Haven’t I always respected your power?” Simple stepped down on the step and waved his hands in the air as if he wanted to surrender, but she watched him. She didn’t trust him, and if he got too close, she’d whack him with her hex stick.

  “Simple? Who’s out there?”

  He waved his hand behind him and whispered, “Go back inside, Emily. Don’t come out!” The young woman whimpered, and Ettawa heard her footsteps disappearing back inside, but Emily didn’t go too far.

  “It’s a shame you got yourself such a young wife. You’re going to leave her a widow, Simple.”

  “Don’t say that, Miss Ettawa. I swear to you on my children, I didn’t betray you. I would never do such a thing.”

  His oath took her by surprise, but she couldn’t reverse the curse now. Like her grandmother used to say, might as well go for the whole hog.

  “Oh, but I believe you did. You know my power—you know what I am capable of, and you did it still.” With a deep breath, she straightened herself up and shouted angrily, “I curse you, Simple Touchard. I declare you dead! You betrayed me, Ettawa Maybee, and now you must pay the price.”

  “No, Miss Ettawa! Don’t curse me now! I can explain it! It’s true he came to me. Quincy Justice wanted me to tell him what I knew, but I didn’t tell him nothing! I swear to you! I didn’t tell him nothing!”

  Behind her, Ettawa heard her son whispering to her. He was creeping in the bushes watching her, a bad habit he’d taken up a few months ago. Despite her stern warning to remain at home, Leo must have followed her to Simple Touchard’s. She’d swat his behind later—she’d told him more than once to stay home when she was doing voodoo business, but the child was too curious to realize he might be in danger. With a wave of her hand behind her back, he stilled, and she never let on that Leo was nearby. Although she loved him more than anything, more than life itself, she could not let him interfere with her magic. It was the only way to keep her power, to keep her fortune.

  She imagined that these men thought her a fool, but she was no fool. They’d soon know—they’d soon understand. Ettawa was the voodoo queen of these parts and had been for years. Nothing would change that. Yes, Simple deserved whatever he got. He didn’t know that Ettawa had already poisoned his well, that she’d made the dolls and dipped them in strychnine and burned them up. A doll for him, one for his young wife and two for his children.

  “Stop, Miss Ettawa! I ain’t done you no wrong. Don’t you curse me with an unjust curse! You know that’ll be bad for you. Real bad!”

  She popped the ground again with her hex stick and stepped closer. Simple stood on the steps, breathing harder and faster now. That brought an even bigger smile to Ettawa’s face. Yes, she’d used her poisons. He would die soon enough, and everyone around here would respect her again. It didn’t matter that she could no longer call up the old spirits to do her bidding. It didn’t matter that she’d given up her powers when she had Leo. No one knew that. Nobody at all.

  “Vet-tu meong ichway…vet-tu meong ichway…bee konna vet-tu!”

  “Don’t do it, Miss Ettawa! That’s unjust! It’s an unjust curse! Don’t do it!”

  She stalked the yard, her head bent down but her eyes fixed on Simple. “Bee konna vet-tu!”

  “No! You got no reason to curse me, Miss Ettawa! I ain’t done you no wrong.” Ettawa saw the man’s wife standing behind him now. She’d begun to cry and beg the voodoo queen to leave, but Ettawa would not relent. Simple had done her wrong, and he would pay. He’d stolen her money, her whiskey. And worse than that, he did all this in the employ of Quincy Justice, her boy’s devil of a father. Angered that she no longer tolerated his whoremongering ways and that she refused to pack up and leave Mobile and give him all her whiskey business, he’d sent the dogs out after her. Dogs like Gosling and that fool of a sheriff, Edward White. Quincy had the man come out to the Red Hill Mansion and toss her out like she was a sack of rotten potatoes. She’d never cried, never begged, although it tore a hole in her soul. But Queen Ettawa wasn’t one to stay down when struck. She had left with her crying son, but she would never forget Quincy’s cruel greed.

  She would fight to the death for her child. She pulled the bones from her pocket, tossed them into the sandy yard and waved her stick over them as Simple’s wife screamed. Lost in her curse work now, Ettawa danced to music that only she could hear. Closer and closer she moved to the worn porch with the paint flaking off and the broken boards that creaked beneath your feet. The Touchards were poorer than poor, but what Simple had done would not bring him the fortune he so desired.

  And now he was cursed. Good and cursed.

  She raised her arms high to seal the spell up and make it unbreakable. Her
magic might be powerless, but they would never know that. “Vet-tu meong ichway quay!” With a glowing smile, she laughed until both the man and his woman were crying and begging not to be cursed. She wanted to revel in her success, but she would not be allowed such a luxury.

  “Mama!” Leo screamed from the woods. What followed was a muffled sound and the stirring of the bushes. She tossed the stick to the ground and picked up her skirts as she ran into the woods to see what had her son.

  “Leo?” she called, her pulse racing. What could have done this? A bear or a bobcat? She poked at the bushes and called his name. “Leo Justice! Step out now, no more hiding from your Mama!”

  She called again and again, but he was gone—and the passing seconds brought a new realization. Leo had been stolen by someone, not something. She stormed back to the porch, but Simple and his wife had concealed themselves inside and refused to open the door to her. Ettawa cursed and swore at them as she banged on the door, but they would not open it. She heard the woman crying, but Simple said nothing else. “I’ll be back, Simple Touchard. And if you ain’t already dead, it’ll be worse for you.” She stomped off the porch and ran through the woods, running back home to her small camp on the river. Perhaps the boy had returned there. That was possible, wasn’t it? Even as she ran, she knew she was only fooling herself. Her son was her moon and stars, he was her everything, and now he’d been stolen.

  And there was no question as to who had done the stealing.

  Ettawa knew it was Quincy—he never wanted to have the boy, but she had. Oh yes, she had. She’d given up her magic for him, she’d pleaded to God above for a son, and she’d gotten one. Even though Ettawa made a poor follower of the Christ-man, she respected him, but sometimes she was angry at the price she had to pay for her boy child. First, she had to renounce her powers, that’s what the old woman had told her, and then she’d lost her control over Quincy. Yes, that’s what had happened, but she had her Leo. Quincy had suspected the truth, but she’d never told him what she’d done. For a time, it hadn’t mattered, until she could no longer kill his enemies. Until she could no longer command the flies and spy on his adversaries by way of her ghosts. That had been her greatest gift, controlling the spirits. But now she had no such power—and Quincy no longer needed her.