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

by M. L. Bullock

  While I picked up paper and fluffed up throw pillows, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me. Watching every move I made. I paused a few times and looked around but saw and heard nothing. I shrugged and continued my mission.

  “Okay, I’m ready.” Cassidy didn’t seem any happier about leaving, but at least her cheeks were pink now and her clothes were clean.

  “Great, I won’t forget this, Cassidy. I really won’t.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that because when this is done, I want you to help me with something.”

  I slid my jacket back on and tossed my hair down my back. It always got hung up in my collar. “Sure, what’s that?”

  “I want you to use your abilities to help me find my sister. I want you to try, even if you don’t think you can find her. I have to know. I have to know, or I’ll…I’ll go crazy.”

  “Cassidy, I don’t think you understand. I’m not a psychic—I’m sensitive to the spirit world, but my gift isn’t that strong.”

  With her satchel purse over her shoulder, her green eyes liquid and sad, she asked me again, “Promise me you’ll try?”

  I hugged her; I couldn’t help myself. I could feel her pain, her desperation. I whispered a promise I knew I might later regret. “I promise, Cassidy. I’ll help you find Kylie. We will find her. Just don’t give up.”

  As we left her apartment, I saw something out of the corner of my eye.

  A shadow. It passed smoothly from the living room to the bedroom.

  I’d been right after all. We weren’t alone.

  Chapter Four—Cassidy

  Spending a few hours at the Gulf Coast Paranormal office with Sierra lifted my mood far more than I expected it would. After a few minutes of targeted searching on her cherry red laptop, Sierra and I knew a great deal more about Ettawa Maybee. Or more specifically about her sweetheart-turned-enemy, Quincy Justice.

  According to an obscure book called Day’s History of Alabama, Quincy Justice owned the Justice Distillery, the producer of the “finest sour mash whiskey you ever set your lips to.” He parted ways with his former partner, E. Maybee, when Maybee failed to qualify for a whiskey license in 1842. Since Justice produced the necessary paperwork and paid the required licensing fees, the State of Alabama was willing to look the other way, and he continued to produce Justice Whiskey until he died later that year. He left his remaining fortune to his younger brother, Darrell Justice.

  However, E. Maybee—whom we assumed was Ettawa—was hanged for murder and a host of other charges near the end of 1842.

  Midas never showed. Sierra called him a few times, and we’d expected him to come, but he begged off at the last minute. Something about an appointment that he couldn’t put off, but he sounded interested in what we were doing and asked Sierra to send him pictures of my portrait. I realized what a jerk I’d been to him. The truth was, Midas had no control over what I found in that vacant lot, and he didn’t even have to tell me about it, but he did. I blamed him for the disappointing results, and I couldn’t admit even to myself that I had wanted to find her there. It didn’t make sense, it wasn’t logical, but that was the shameful truth. I had to have someone to blame, apparently. No wonder he didn’t want to see what I was into now.

  And it wasn’t like he hadn’t made an effort. He’d called me a half-dozen times, and I’d never bothered to call him back. Why was I so witchy about it now?

  We scanned the photo into the best graphic search engine available with no results. Nothing remotely resembling the portrait that I’d painted. Sierra tapped on the keyboard and hit the archive search engine. “Yes!” She clapped her hands as if we’d won the lottery or something. I didn’t remind her that we were a long way from finding answers to this puzzle. A very long way. Why would a dead voodoo queen have it in for Joshua McBride? “Hey, I know those crosses. The ones in your painting. Those are from Valhalla Cemetery! I have a great-aunt buried there.”

  I stared at the picture of my painting displayed on GCP’s big screen. Yes, there were the crosses, peeking through the trees. “That’s crazy. I painted the picture and don’t even remember adding them to the scene.”

  “Yeah, let’s see. Let’s search for Ettawa’s name and Valhalla Cemetery.” After a few seconds, she poked out her lip. “Shoot. Nothing with those two together, but here’s something recent about the cemetery. I’m printing it out now. It’s from a couple months ago. Probably not related, but I’ll add it to the file anyway.”

  My sober mood soured even further when I pulled the article off the printer. “Man Murdered in Valhalla Cemetery,” the headline read. Sierra left her desk and read the article with me.

  Biloxi native Chris Trapper, 50, died Friday night as he and his wife walked the old property as part of a group with tour guide Bob Estes, of Scary Bob’s Haunted Tours. Trapper’s body was discovered at the entrance of Valhalla Cemetery in Eight Mile, Alabama. It was hanging from a tree near the front gates of the cemetery and memorial gardens. Detective Mike Brady said in a written statement, “We welcome the public’s help in solving this crime. At this time, we have no suspects and are at a loss as to how Mr. Trapper met his untimely demise. Any information regarding this crime is welcome. Contact our Crime Stoppers hotline at….”

  “Geesh, I know Bob. I’m going to call him. Let’s see if he ever heard of Ettawa Maybee.”

  Thirty minutes later, Sierra and I were pulling into the parking lot of Valhalla. Like most cemeteries, it was a beautiful place, a bit forlorn-looking with some broken trees and now with a gate covered in crime tape. I suspected we wouldn’t be able to get access to the property, but I followed Sierra out of the car.

  She said sweetly, “Hi, Bob. Thanks for meeting us here. This is my associate, Cassidy Wright.” Scary Bob Estes had a receding hairline, a tall, lanky frame, and a nervous expression.

  He shook my hand and nodded to me, then turned back to Sierra. “You’re welcome. It’s not like I have anything else to do. My business is dead as a doornail right now. Especially after this mess. Can you believe some guy gets murdered during one of my tours? That’s nuts. I might bore someone to death, but to have someone get murdered…well, that’s God-awful.”

  Sierra’s sympathetic smile said it all. “Sorry to hear about that. I’m sure it’s going to get better. The truth is, we’re not here about Chris Trapper. As I mentioned on the phone, Cassidy and I have a picture we were hoping you could help us with. May I show you?”

  “Sure, whatcha’ got?” Bob slid on black-rimmed glasses that made him look even geekier. “That’s Ettawa Maybee, isn’t it? This was a long time ago, long before this bit of forest was removed; that’s why those crosses are obscured. If I had to guess, I’d say that scene would have been over there, on the other side of the parking lot. There’s a little hill back there, and you can see the Three Crosses from that spot. You know the story about that, right?”

  Sierra shook her head and snapped a photo or two with her camera. “We don’t know much, Bob. Can you help us out? We did find some articles about voodoo in the 19th century and whiskey, which she was associated with. But other than that, we don’t know much. From what I can tell, she was hanged for murder, right?”

  “That came later. Come on, I’ll take you to the Three Crosses. It might be better to show you rather than tell you.”

  “I don’t think we can get in, can we? I see police tape across the entrance.”

  “It’s not closed, and quite frankly, I think the cops just forgot to take the tape down. They seem to have given up on solving this murder. But we can take the other entrance; it’s just on the other side of the office there. Follow me.” As we walked, Bob filled us in on the ill-fated tour. “Those two, the Trappers, seemed like nice people. I could tell he wasn’t delighted to be there—he did it for her because it was her birthday. They kept getting lost; it was real foggy that night. They wandered off a lot, going to check things out on their own. They seemed happy to me; they didn’t argue or anything. My
daughter, Amy, spent the most time with them. Anyway, I warned them to stay with the group, but they took off as we went to the Blue Cross. That’s the fourth cross down by the pond.”

  “So, there are three crosses here,” Sierra said as she pointed to the wooden crosses we were approaching, “and another one?”

  “Yeah, it’s just over the hill, nearer the pond. The Blue Cross is relatively new; it’s lit up blue at night. But these three, they were put here way back. Rumor has it they were put here specifically to repel voodoo folks like Ettawa. People around here were fearful of her.”

  “What do you mean, Bob?” Sierra pulled her notebook out of her back pocket and began jotting things down. Bob told us an incredible story about anointed nails and Reverend Gosling’s war against the voodoo queen, Ettawa Maybee.

  I asked, “I’ve never heard of a minister going to such lengths to keep someone out of a cemetery. And isn’t her son, Leo, buried here?”

  “We can’t know for sure, but that was the rumor. After Ettawa murdered Gosling and stabbed Justice nearly to death, they hanged her, and there was nobody left to care.”

  “Not even his father?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “Especially not him.”

  “That’s horrible.” I saw a flurry of leaves get caught in an invisible breeze, spin about like a top for a few seconds and then settle down, just as if a dust devil had blown past us. Nobody else appeared to notice it. It put me on edge, but I kept my focus on Bob and his story.

  “Do you think Mrs. Trapper killed her husband? That would seem like the logical explanation,” I offered. I still didn’t believe Ettawa had anything to do with this modern-day murder.

  He shook his half-bald head. “I can’t see how Carla could pull that off. How would she pull him up with that rope? She didn’t have one when we got here, or at least I didn’t see one poking out of her purse. I guess anything is possible, but I don’t believe she would ever have had the strength to hog-tie Chris and pull him up that oak tree. And I don’t think she would have convinced him to hang himself. I don’t know. You believe that this is related to Ettawa somehow? They did hang her here.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked suspiciously. This guy couldn’t be on the up and up. Bob paused on the gravel pathway. We were surrounded by graves on either side.

  His voice dropped to a whisper as if the dead would overhear what he had to say. It gave me the shivers. “Right where they found Chris.”

  “Good Lord,” Sierra said as she chewed on her pencil. “Are you sure?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, but I never tell the tourists about it. It’s a bit too creepy. Maybe they knew, maybe Carla knew. I can’t be sure, but I know I didn’t tell her.”

  “But why would they hang Ettawa here? I thought they did that sort of thing in town. Outside the courthouse.”

  “Adding insult to injury, I guess. Ettawa would die near her son but never know where he was laid to rest. That was Justice’s doing, even though he was near death himself at the time. One last strike at his ex, and he always got what he wanted. She didn’t have clean hands—in fact, she’d murdered many folks who crossed her, if you believe the lore of the Ghost Queen. That’s what they called her after her hanging. Said she could be seen walking around the cemetery, wailing for Leo.”

  The three of us stood on the pathway. All was quiet here now, nothing except a few birds complaining about our presence. “Hey, Bob. Do you think you could help us find the place in the picture? You said something earlier about some woods on the other side of the road?”

  “Sure, I would be glad to, on one condition. You take me on the investigation.” He smiled at Sierra hopefully.

  “I’ll talk to Midas, but he makes all those decisions,” she answered with a grin, all but promising him that she would make it happen. “You didn’t do so bad the last time, so I can’t imagine he’d say no. But like I said, he makes those decisions, and we don’t have the investigation scheduled yet. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Thanks, Sierra. If there’s a chance I can get some clues about Chris’ death, even if it’s just for myself, I’d be grateful. The place in the picture’s not far. I don’t remember seeing any stone structure or altar, though. Who painted that picture you showed me, and why was your husband in it?”

  “I did,” I confessed as I traipsed behind him out of the cemetery. “And I don’t know.”

  Sierra’s phone rang, and her ringtone was a creepy old tune, Werewolves of London. I was glad she answered it quickly. “Hello? Yeah, this is Sierra McBride.” In a whisper, she said to us, “Y’all go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

  I nodded, and Bob and I ambled up the road. He asked, “Is that painting a copy of someone else’s work, or did you dream it up?”

  For some reason, I felt comfortable telling him the truth. “I saw it, in a vision. I painted what I saw. It doesn’t happen all the time, just occasionally, but I’ve never had a vision of someone living before. I think we need to figure out what this means and quickly.”

  Bob’s dark eyebrows lifted. “That’s interesting. I’d love to see your work sometime. I’m always interested in learning more about people who have paranormal abilities. Unfortunately for me, I have none.”

  “Count yourself lucky,” I said dryly. “It’s not as amazing as it sounds. In fact, my painting can take over my life if I let it.” And I’ve been letting it, for sure.

  He said, “Touchy subject, huh?”

  “Kind of, but I’m learning to deal with it.” I glanced back at Sierra, who was still on her phone. I waved her on, but she held up her hand. She was clearly agitated by whoever had called.

  “She’ll catch up. It’s right up this hill here. See where it slopes up?”

  I followed Bob up the hill, and sure enough, he was right. There was no stone altar like in my painting, but it had been here once. “The sides are here. I wonder where the top went. Probably covered up in these leaves. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been back here for years. Nope, I take that back. There are some empty beer cans. Maybe if we looked around here…” I began poking at leaf piles with my foot. It didn’t take long to find it.

  Bob frowned. “Yeah, someone toppled this over a while ago. It’s got a crack in it too. Imagine, this was here all this time and I never knew it. I think I’ve walked these woods a hundred times looking for arrowheads with Amy.”

  “Let me ask you something, Bob. If Ettawa came back, why would she choose now? There’s nobody alive who knows where Leo’s body is, is there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Ghost Queen died close to two hundred years ago. If she’s responsible for Chris Trapper’s death and is now threatening Joshua McBride, as I suspect, why now? Why haven’t there been any other deaths?”

  He shrugged as he continued to shuffle the leaves around with his hand. “Maybe there have been. But to your point, probably because the place is closing soon and she hasn’t yet been able to find her son’s body.”

  “Closing? How do you close a cemetery?”

  “It’s a long process, but it is possible. A land developer buys the property, spends some time contacting family members, making proposals to move their loved ones…with an offer of money, of course. If enough people sign on to his plan, the rest will have to move.”

  “And that’s happening?”

  Bob stood up and dusted the leaves off his pants. “Well, there’s been no big write-up in the newspaper, but that’s the word on the street. They want to put a highway in here, right through here. The company is J. R. Steele.”

  “But Ettawa’s son…nobody knows where he is buried.”

  “No, they don’t, and Leo is as good as lost forever if they follow through with their plans.”

  “That’s horrible. We have to find him!”

  “I agree.”

  “Hey, guys, I have to head back. Did you find anything?” Sierra asked with a worried expression.

  “Yeah, we found the alta
r, but it’s broken apart. Bob says he’s never noticed it before, but it looks like the one from my painting.” Sierra took photos, and I poked around in the bushes a bit to see what else I could find. Bob rambled on about voodoo magic and appeared more nervous by the minute. “And that’s not all, Sierra. He says that this place is slated to become a highway. J.R. Steele wants to move all these graves.”

  “Get out of here! And the people out here are going to let Steele do that?”

  “Yeah, that might be the reason for the uptick in paranormal activity.”

  “God, that would explain it. Thanks for showing us this place, Bob. I do appreciate it.”

  “Keep me posted on the investigation. Tell Midas, all right?” He dug in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out two crumpled business cards, then gave one to me and one to Sierra.

  “Sure, you got it.” She playfully snapped a photo of him, and together the three of us traveled back up the meandering path to the Valhalla parking lot.

  Sierra and I rode in silence on the way back to the Gulf Coast Paranormal office. “You mind if I look at your pictures?” I asked her as she sped down Lott Road.

  “Nope, not at all.”

  I reached for the camera, hit the power button and flipped through the images. Nothing unusual. I didn’t know what I expected to find, but the last image took my breath away. It was Bob, smiling his dorky smile for Sierra.

  I’d been there when the picture got snapped. I knew for a fact that no one else had been in it. But there she was now. Ettawa was standing in the wood line behind Bob, her dark eyes full of hate, her head tilted down slightly as if she would charge us any moment. Yes, she’d been there. She knew we’d been there, and she didn’t look happy about it.