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

by M. L. Bullock

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Elizabeth? Elizabeth Bosarge, are you here? My name is Cassidy, and I think you showed me something earlier. You showed me what happened to you.”

  “Slow down, Cassidy,” Sierra reminded me.

  “Right, sorry.” I’d forgotten to leave space between the questions. “Elizabeth, this is my friend Sierra. She wants to talk to you. She can help you.”

  Sierra began to pace. I saw her rubbing her gloved hands together as if she were trying to warm them. She wasn’t. That was just how she worked—she often rubbed her hands together when she communicated with ghosts. I took it as a good sign. Sierra was picking up on someone’s wavelength.

  “Hello, Elizabeth. Like Cassidy said, my name is Sierra. Are you here?” She paused and then said to me, “An angry man is here with Elizabeth. He’s very protective of her. His name is…it starts with an E…”

  “It’s Edward.”

  “That’s right, I’d forgotten that. Well, he’s with her and trying to hold her back.”

  I took Sierra’s hand. “Please, let me try something.” She nodded. “Edward Bosarge, you have no right to stop Elizabeth from coming to us. We won’t hurt her, just like Marguerite never hurt her. She never did!” Then we saw it, the shadow moving along the fence line. It was the shadow of a large man, pacing back and forth. I softened my tone. “I know you wanted to protect Elizabeth, but what you did was wrong. You have to leave here, Edward. You have to face your maker and be accountable for what you did. Go find peace, if you can.”

  Suddenly, the air felt lighter, and I no longer saw the shadow along the fence. Sierra began again. “Elizabeth, it’s safe now. You can come out. Let me see you, Elizabeth.” The air in front of us wavered a bit, and we could see the outline and the face of a young woman. “Yes, I see you, Elizabeth. I see your beautiful face. You didn’t deserve what happened to you. You were a good friend. A good friend to Marguerite…”

  Then Elizabeth’s mouth opened as if she were yelling. She flickered and nearly vanished as we both looked in the direction she was staring. A blue light, a loa, approached us. I thought about reaching for my walkie-talkie, but I doubted it would work. They rarely did whenever these things were around. The light hovered nearby, and Elizabeth began to fade.

  “Wait! Elizabeth! Wait! The light can’t hurt you now. It won’t hurt you. Look closely, Elizabeth, and you will see the truth.”

  The clicking grew, like the light was communicating with Elizabeth. I looked deep into the light and saw the eyes of Marguerite Babineaux staring back at me. Then in a flash of light, the Marguerite-loa and Elizabeth were gone. Completely gone. And Elizabeth hadn’t been scared off. We knew she had left with her friend. The two of them were finally reunited and finally free. Elizabeth was free from her father, and Marguerite was free to go to Elizabeth, to help her cross over.

  My head hurt, but my heart was full as we loaded up the van and the SUV. Nobody talked much as we drove back to Mobile. This investigation hadn’t been like our usual ones, but I felt good about it.

  Later, Midas and I chatted about what he would tell the client. He said, “I’m going to tell them that the lights are gone now, and if they show up at some point in the future, don’t touch them.”

  “Good call. See you later?”

  “Yeah, you’ll see me later. I’ll bring an ice pack and some mistletoe.”

  “I’ll be the one wearing the red lingerie.”

  He smiled and kissed me goodbye.

  Epilogue—Cassidy

  It was Christmas Eve, and Midas would be stopping by in just an hour or so. I was a nervous wreck about his gift. I was never much good at shopping for gifts—not good ones, anyway. In the end, I settled on two things, a soft gray sweater and a silver pendant of St. Christopher. He admired his grandfather’s pendant often, and I took it as a hint. He wanted to spend the day tomorrow with Papa Angelos and the crew at Demeter’s, and like a good girlfriend, I offered to tag along. The business would be closed, but Papa Angelos always cooked Christmas dinner for the Demopolis family and whoever showed up for a meal. I was impressed with how giving Papa was. And obviously Midas was so much like him.

  I had a romantic evening planned for tonight, but I couldn’t get much preparation done right now. Domino had fallen in love with the Christmas tree and spent most of the evening whacking ornaments off the branches and mauling the tinsel, which I finally had to remove completely. That had been a chore and a half. Even though Domino had been with me only a few days, I was completely attached to him.

  Suddenly, he tumbled off the couch and began to hiss at the air. The hair all over my body stood up. Something must be there—something I couldn’t see. “Hey, what is it, little guy?” Domino stared at a spot near the fireplace, his black fur spiked on his back, and then hissed one last time before skittering off down the hall. “Thanks a lot, coward!” I called after him. I froze as I saw the candle on the coffee table flicker as if the tiny flame got caught in an invisible draft. A chill fell on me, and I rubbed my arms to warm them up.

  As a paranormal investigator, I knew the hissing cat and flickering flame weren’t much in the way of evidence. But my gut told me I wasn’t alone. Uncle Derek was here. I’d promised myself when I moved into this place that I wouldn’t make the same mistakes I did at my loft. No EVPs here. No investigations in my own home. But I couldn’t ignore him, either.

  This had been his place, and no matter how far apart we’d drifted during life, he was and would always be my uncle. Maybe Christmas was making me sentimental. Maybe seeing how loving my GCP family and the Demopolis clan were had softened my heart. Whatever the reason, I had to tell him how I felt.

  “Uncle Derek, I hope it’s okay that I’m here. I want you to know that I appreciate what you did for me. You didn’t have to come help me, but you did, and I’ll never forget it. But let’s set some ground rules. No spying on me, especially when I’m with Midas. No jumping out at me or doing anything creepy. I think we can make this work. I’m willing to try. But if you don’t want me here, just tell me. Please.”

  The living room was completely still except for the ticking of the grandfather clock. “Oh, and one more thing. Hands off my personal belongings. I don’t want to find my lingerie in the linen closet again, okay?” I didn’t hear anything. Not a word.

  I sighed, hoping that he somehow heard me. That I’d somehow gotten through and everything would be all right. I walked to my bedroom to pull my hair up when I noticed my nightstand. There were three pictures there now, three pictures that weren’t there before. The picture of my mother, one of Kylie and one I’d never seen before. That photo really took my breath away.

  It was Mom, Dad and Uncle Derek in some long-ago year, sharing a laugh at something beyond the picture frame.

  And then I got it. It wasn’t just Uncle Derek here. They were all here. They were here, and I’d be safe. Mom, Dad and my uncle were with me, and Kylie was too.

  It was just the sign I needed.

  “Merry Christmas, everybody. I miss you. I love you.”

  Wiping a tear from my eye, I slipped out of the room and closed the door behind me. The doorbell was ringing. Midas was here.

  Time to leave the past behind. At least for a little while.

  Connect with M.L. Bullock on Facebook. To receive updates on her latest releases, visit her website at M.L. Bullock and subscribe to her mailing list. You can also contact her at authormlbullock@gmail.com.

  About the Author

  Author of the best-selling Seven Sisters series and the Desert Queen series, M.L. Bullock has been storytelling since she was a child. A student of archaeology, she loves weaving stories that feature her favorite historical characters—including Nefertiti. She currently lives on the Gulf Coast with her family but travels frequently to explore the southern states she loves so much.

  Read more from M.L. Bullock

  The Nike Chronicles

  Blue Water

  Blue Wake

>   Blue Tide

  The Seven Sisters Series

  Seven Sisters

  Moonlight Falls on Seven Sisters

  Shadows Stir at Seven Sisters

  The Stars that Fell

  The Stars We Walked Upon

  The Sun Rises Over Seven Sisters

  Christmas at Seven Sisters (bonus short stories)

  The Idlewood Series

  The Ghosts of Idlewood

  Dreams of Idlewood

  The Whispering Saint

  The Haunted Child

  Return to Seven Sisters

  (A Seven Sisters Sequel Series)

  The Roses of Mobile

  All the Summer Roses

  Blooms Torn Asunder

  A Garden of Thorns

  The Gulf Coast Paranormal Series

  The Ghosts of Kali Oka Road

  The Ghosts of the Crescent Theater

  A Haunting on Bloodgood Row

  The Legend of the Ghost Queen

  A Haunting at Dixie House

  The Ghost Lights of Forrest Field

  The Ghost of Gabrielle Bonet

  The Ghost of Harrington Farm

  The Creature on Crenshaw Road

  Shabby Hearts Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series

  A Touch of Shabby

  Shabbier by the Minute

  Shabby by Night

  The Sugar Hill Series

  Wife of the Left Hand

  Fire on the Ramparts

  Blood by Candlelight

  The Starlight Ball

  His Lovely Garden

  Ghosts of Summerleigh Series

  The Belles of Desire, Mississippi

  The Ghost of Jeopardy Belle

  The Lady in White

  Lost Camelot Series

  Guinevere Forever

  Guinevere Unconquered

  The Desert Queen Series

  The Tale of Nefret

  The Falcon Rises

  The Kingdom of Nefertiti

  The Song of the Bee-Eater

  Standalone books

  Ghosts on a Plane

  More from M.L. Bullock

  From the Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection

  A smile crept across my face when I turned back to look at the pale faces watching me from behind the lace curtains of the girls’ dormitory. I didn’t feel sorry for any of them—all of those girls hated me. They thought they were my betters because they were orphans and I was merely the accidental result of my wealthy mother’s indiscretion. I couldn’t understand why they felt that way. As I told Marie Bettencourt, at least my parents were alive and wealthy. Hers were dead and in the cold, cold ground. “Worm food now, I suppose.” Her big dark eyes had swollen with tears, her ugly, fat face contorting as she cried. Mrs. Bedford scolded me for my remarks, but even that did not worry me.

  I had a tool much more effective than Mrs. Bedford’s threats of letters to the attorney who distributed my allowance or a day without a meal. Mr. Bedford would defend me—for a price. I would have to kiss his thin, dry lips and pretend that he did not peek at my décolletage a little too long. Once he even squeezed my bosom ever so quickly with his rough hands but then pretended it had been an accident. Mr. Bedford never had the courage to lift up my skirt or ask me for a “discreet favor,” as my previous chaperone had called it, but I enjoyed making him stare. It had been great fun for a month or two until I saw how easily he could be manipulated.

  And now my rescuer had come at last, a man, Louis Beaumont, who claimed to be my mother’s brother. I had never met Olivia, my mother. Not that I could remember, anyway, and I assumed I never would.

  Louis Beaumont towered above most men, as tall as an otherworldly prince. He had beautiful blond hair that I wanted to plunge my hands into. It looked like the down of a baby duckling. He had fair skin—so light it almost glowed—with pleasant features, even brows, thick lashes, a manly mouth. It was a shame he was so near a kin because I would have had no objections to whispering “Embrasse-moi” in his ear. Although I very much doubted Uncle Louis would have indulged my fantasy. How I loved to kiss, and to kiss one so beautiful! That would be heavenly. I had never kissed a handsome man before—I kissed the ice boy once and a farmhand, but neither of them had been handsome or good at kissing.

  For three days we traveled in the coach, my uncle explaining what he wanted and how I would benefit if I followed his instructions. According to my uncle, Cousin Calpurnia needed me, or rather, needed a companion for the season. The heiress would come out this year, and a certain level of decorum was expected, including traveling with a suitable companion. “Who would be more suitable than her own cousin?” he asked me with the curl of a smile on his regal face. “Now, dearest Isla,” he said, “I am counting on you to be a respectable girl. Leave all that happened before behind in Birmingham—no talking of the Bedfords or anyone else from that life. All will be well now.” He patted my hand gently. “We must find Calpurnia a suitable husband, one that will give her the life she’s accustomed to and deserves.”

  Yes, indeed. Now that this Calpurnia needed a proper companion, I had been summoned. I’d never even heard of Miss Calpurnia Cottonwood until now. Where had Uncle Louis been when I ran sobbing in a crumpled dress after falling prey to the lecherous hands of General Harper, my first guardian? Where had he been when I endured the shame and pain of my stolen maidenhead? Where? Was I not Beaumont stock and worthy of rescue? Apparently not. I decided then and there to hate my cousin, no matter how rich she was. Still, I smiled, spreading the skirt of my purple dress neatly around me on the seat. “Yes, Uncle Louis.”

  “And who knows, ma petite Cherie, perhaps we can find you a good match too. Perhaps a military man or a wealthy merchant. Would you like that?” I gave him another smile and nod before I pretended to be distracted by something out the window. My fate would be in my own hands, that much I knew. Never would I marry. I would make my own future. Calpurnia must be a pitiful, ridiculous kind of girl if she needed my help to land a “suitable” husband with all her affluence.

  About the Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection

  When historian Carrie Jo Jardine accepted her dream job as chief historian at Seven Sisters in Mobile, Alabama, she had no idea what she would encounter. The moldering old plantation housed more than a few boxes of antebellum artifacts and forgotten oil paintings. Secrets lived there—and they demanded to be set free.

  This contains the entire supernatural suspense series.

  More from M.L. Bullock

  From The Ghosts of Idlewood

  I arrived at Idlewood at seven o’clock thinking I’d have plenty of time to mark the doors with taped signs before the various contractors arrived. There was no electricity, so I wasn’t sure what the workmen would actually accomplish today. I’d dressed down this morning in worn blue jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. It just felt like that kind of day. The house smelled stale, and it was cool but not freezing. We’d enjoyed a mild February this year, but like they say, “If you don’t like the weather in Mobile, just wait a few minutes.”

  I really hated February. It was “the month of love,” and this year I wasn’t feeling much like celebrating. I’d given Chip the heave-ho for good right after Christmas, and our friendship hadn’t survived the breakup. I hated that because I really did like him as a person, even if he could be narrow-minded about spiritual subjects. I hadn’t been seeing anyone, but I was almost ready to get back into the dating game. Almost.

  I changed out the batteries in my camera before beginning to document the house. Carrie Jo liked having before, during and after shots of every room.

  According to the planning sheet Carrie Jo and I developed last month, all the stage one doors were marked. On her jobs, CJ orchestrated everything: what rooms got painted first, where the computers would go, which room we would store supplies in, that sort of thing. I also put no-entry signs on rooms that weren’t safe or were off-limits to curious workers. The home was mostly empty, but there were some pricy mantelpieces and ot
her components that would fetch a fair price if you knew where to unload stolen items such as high-end antiques. Surprisingly, many people did.

  I’d start the pictures on the top floor and work my way down. I peeked out the front door quickly to see if CJ was here. No sign of her yet, which wasn’t like her at all. She was usually the early bird. I smiled, feeling good that Carrie Jo trusted me enough to give me the keys to this grand old place. There were three floors, although the attic space wasn’t a real priority for our project. The windows would be changed, the floors and roof inspected, but not a lot of cosmetic changes were planned for up there beyond that. We’d prepare it for future storage of seasonal decorations and miscellaneous supplies. Seemed a waste to me. I liked the attic; it was roomy, like an amazing loft apartment. But it was no surprise I was drawn to it—when I was a kid, I practically lived in my tree house.

  I stuffed my cell phone in my pocket and jogged up the wide staircase in the foyer. I could hear birds chirping upstairs; they probably flew in through a broken window. There were quite a few of them from the sound of it. Since I hadn’t labeled any doors upstairs or in the attic, I hadn’t had the opportunity to explore much up there. It felt strangely exhilarating to do so all by myself. The first flight of stairs appeared safe, but I took my time on the next two. Water damage wasn’t always easy to spot, and I had no desire to fall through a weak floor. When I reached the top of the stairs to the attic, I turned the knob and was surprised to find it locked.

  “What?” I twisted it again and leaned against the door this time, but it wouldn’t move. I didn’t see a keyhole, so that meant it wasn’t locked after all. I supposed it was merely stuck, the wood probably swollen from moisture. “Rats,” I said. I set my jaw and tried one last time. The third time must have been the charm because it opened freely, as if it hadn’t given me a world of problems before. I nearly fell as it gave way, laughing at myself as I regained my balance quickly. I reached for my camera and flipped it to the video setting. I panned the room to record the contents. There were quite a few old trunks, boxes and even the obligatory dressmaker’s dummy. It was a nerd girl historian’s dream come true.