The Ghosts of Kali Oka Road (Gulf Coast Paranormal Book 1)

by M. L. Bullock

  “Find my girlfriend—find Melissa!” I cried until my parents came to get me. They took me straight to the hospital, where I was put on a seventy-two-hour psych hold until the police department could get the evidence they needed against me. My parents didn’t know what to think, and I felt extremely disappointed that they didn’t believe me. Obviously they didn’t, or I would have been home with them.

  Three days later, I’d heard no news and had no guests. I would discover later that my parents were not allowed to visit me during the psychiatric hold period. It had been agony wondering if they’d abandoned me. I could only imagine that my Melissa was dead—murdered by the owl or the screaming woman. Or perhaps something else. She had to be dead if her hand and head had landed on my car. Yes, she was dead. Even with the psychotropic drugs they fed me intravenously, it was the only thing that made sense to me.

  After I was released from the psych ward of Mobile Infirmary, two armed detectives came to visit me at home. They insisted I knew where Melissa was because I was the last person she’d been seen with.

  Don’t you remember that party on Presley’s Landing, sonny?

  How many beers did you say you drank?

  Your friend Hope says she saw you in a screaming match with Melissa before you guys left.

  Despite my “fantastic story,” as they called it, and my insistence that it happened just as I described, there were no body parts found. No bloody hand or the head of my girlfriend. No signs of a freakish woman or a strange owl.

  And worst of all, there was absolutely no Melissa. And I couldn’t make myself go back to Kali Oka Road.

  I never saw her again.

  Except in my dreams.

  Chapter One—Cassidy Wright

  I woke up early with the compulsion to paint the picture I saw in my mind, images left over from my visions. There were faces, two faces—one of a dark-skinned man, and one of an unearthly pale woman with pitch-black hair. They needed me to see them, to paint them. They wanted to be remembered.

  I had to be at work in four hours; it was three in the morning now, but I thought that would give me the time I needed to satisfy the compulsion. I immediately grabbed a water bottle and moved the easel over by one of the airy loft windows. I flipped on all the lights; it helped with the painting and sometimes tricked my brain into thinking it wasn’t that tired. I padded off to the bathroom and brushed my teeth. That was another way of telling my body to fall in line. “We’re awake now. Get moving.” I wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but I could probably become one without much provocation this morning. Too bad I didn’t have any in the house. Mike used to keep some around, but I’d booted him out six months ago. Him and his coffee.

  “Cassidy Wright, you should go to bed and get some rest!” I advised myself in the mirror. Of course, I didn’t listen. I washed my face quickly and patted it dry. The reflection that stared back at me testified that I needed sleep. Dark circles under the eyes didn’t pair well with my pale skin and red hair, and the weird cowlick that I constantly warred with didn’t help. I felt my mind drifting back to the image from my vision, the image that would remain there until I delivered it to the canvas. I put my hopeless hair in a clip and pulled on my smock. I slipped socks on my feet; the floor of my loft apartment was perpetually cool, even in summer. Now that it was October, well, that made it even colder. How was it October already? I felt heartsick thinking about it. October 23rd was a mere twenty-two days away now. Another year of not knowing anything about Kylie except that she was missing.

  And strange how today was so much like the day she disappeared.

  I had woken up early that morning to paint too. I had reasoned with myself, “Stay in bed. She can model for you later,” but the urgency never diminished. And paint I did. I painted her face, and it peered back at me from a meadow of sunlight and flowers and butterflies, three of her favorite things. I was working on the last details of her eyes when I heard a knock at the door. A friendly police officer came to inform me about my sister’s disappearance. As he spoke, I stared at her portrait. Kylie’s eyes watched me as if she expected me to know something, to help her. I imagined I heard her voice in my ear and I fainted. That was the first time I’d ever fainted. When I recovered I immediately flew back to Mobile to await the news of Kylie’s safe return.

  Six months later I still waited. And then a year and then another.

  We had no word at all. She merely vanished from school; the only witness to her disappearance was one of her classmates, and her closest friend, Angela Michaelson. After a few months Angela refused to speak about it again, and who could blame her? The media coverage had been relentless. They had stalked Angela, demanding interviews day and night. But all that changed after just a few months. Eventually nobody remembered my little sister. It was like she had never been born, except she had been born. I had the scar on my knee to prove it. I remembered the day I got it. It was a freak accident, really. I’d chased her through the yard as she screamed with delight. I fell on a piece of slate rock and sliced open my knee. For further proof of her existence, I kept her last lost tooth in my jewelry box. I’d been the one to put the quarter under her pillow. I knew our uncle would never remember to do that.

  Our uncle managed to have Kylie declared dead two years after she’d vanished, which left him very wealthy. And me as well, but I didn’t care about the money, as my banking account could attest to. I purchased my loft, but I did so only because I wanted Kylie to know I wasn’t leaving until she came home and when she came back to me, she’d have somewhere to go.

  It had been four years since I looked at my sister’s portrait. The canvas rested at the back of the closet, facing the wall. I couldn’t bear to see her sweet face staring back at me so helplessly. The following week, after waiting to hear her voice again, I covered the portrait with a sheet and eventually put it away. I had to if I wanted to keep my sanity. But I never forgot her.

  And now it was 3:15 a.m. and I was experiencing the strange compulsion to paint all over again. I put on my headphones and cranked up my newest instrumental album download; this one featured a violinist I loved. In a few minutes, I began to paint. I started with the image of the woman. I stroked the long lines of her sinewy arms and then brushed on her dress. Yes, she was strong and perhaps once a handsome woman. With increasing determination and curiosity, I began discerning and then painting her face. She had an oval-shaped face with defined cheekbones and heavy dark brows that wouldn’t be attractive in modern times, but they were natural and full. They suited her. Yes, she was a handsome woman. I stretched my back a moment and closed my eyes to drown myself in the lovely strains of the stringed instruments. I lined out her dress and dabbed in the various colors to create textures, white, off-white and cream, and then rounded her modest bosom. Whoever she was, she had been young, at least in this moment. As I worked and studied the mental image, I believed even more strongly that I was not looking into the face of anyone alive.

  The woman had lived long before my time.

  I glanced at the clock. It was now 5:20. Where had the time gone? I had less than two hours to finish this before work, and finish I must. I whimpered with desperation. I closed my eyes, and yes, I could see him now. Plainly.

  He was dark, as dark as she was pale. He had powerful-looking arms and was much taller than she was. He would have certainly towered over most men too, but I could only see these two. And they weren’t in an embrace or looking at one another. With fearful expressions, they were fleeing.

  Fleeing from someone who remained just out of my view. Hmm…keep painting. See what emerges.

  He stood behind her, close but not too close, just as I saw them in my mind, or wherever I had summoned these images from. Yes, he stood behind her, as if he would protect her as they ran through the woods. Woods I had yet to paint. This project was getting out of control. Four hours wasn’t going to be enough.

  I used the caramels, the browns, the taupe hues to create the shade for his burnished sk
in. No, that was wrong. I dabbed and blended a black paint and soon found the ideal color for the man. His mouth was determined, and he was reaching protectively for the woman who ran in front of him. I dabbed his eyes; they were moist and focused on something beyond the scope of what I saw. He wore a torn white shirt with blue trousers and black boots. They ran through woods that I furiously sketched. The man had a strong face, a smooth brow, wide cheeks and full lips. He was an unusual-looking man, and I still hadn’t made up my mind if he was the hero or the villain in my portrait. It wasn’t my job to judge—just record and paint.

  I glanced at the clock. 6:35, and I had to get a shower and get ready. It wasn’t like I really had to work, but it kept me grounded and I loved my students. I loved that they were excited about art and about me. Now I reached for the gray-green paint and began painting leaves on the bare brown trees. Under the couple’s feet, I tapped loose pine needles and piles of leaves. For some reason, I decided to drop the paint and pick up a charcoal. I quickly sketched a house in the distance. It was a large house, not as grand as some I’d seen, but it was important to this scene. Somehow, I knew it was important.

  I sketched four fireplace chimneys and the steps that led up to an ominous-looking front door. No, this was no mere house; it was a plantation. But something was missing. Something important. I studied the portrait and focused inward, scanning my mind for any clues I might find. I could see the woman, the man, the black windows of the house, but then there was something else…

  My phone rang, and after my pulse stopped racing, I picked it up. I knew who it was, and from the tone of her voice, I knew I was in trouble. “Sorry, I’m on the way.”

  “Don’t bother coming in, Cassidy. I called in a substitute when you didn’t show up. It’s eight a.m. You couldn’t call me and let me know what’s happening? It’s not my responsibility to call you every time you forget to come in.”

  “I’m sorry, Desiree. Something happened and…” I stopped myself and rubbed my eyebrows. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  With a deep sigh, she said, “I’m going to have to let you go, Cassidy. You are a great teacher, but I can’t have you not calling in over and over again. The students need to know they can depend on you, and so do I.”

  “Please, Desiree. I had something I had to do this morning, but it won’t happen again.”

  She sighed again. “I’m sorry, but it’s out of my hands. I’ve got to go; the school day is starting.”

  I hung up the phone, too tired to be mad at her. Too tired to cry.

  I washed my brushes and arranged them in their stained jars so they could dry properly. I edged closer to the painting and stared at the results of my frenzied session. If this project had been for one of my clients, I would have been completely unsatisfied. The man’s face needed more definition, more color in his lips. The woman’s hands weren’t quite right either. I breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the urgency lift.

  I felt I’d captured the essence of what I’d seen. Unable to resist, I reached out and touched the corner of the painting. It was as I expected—it felt sticky. The paints hadn’t had time to set yet. It felt like congealed blood.

  And then I was in those woods, and I was running.

  Running for my life.

  Chapter Two—Aurelia Davis

  1858

  Buried beneath layers of linen, silk and brocade, my legs pumped furiously. It proved difficult navigating the unfriendly tapestry of the Kali Oka forest. Slender hickory and white oak branches tugged at me as if they never wanted me to leave. I cried out as a hanging vine slapped my cheek and cut my face. I tore at the wild vine of Bourbon roses; they ripped at my skin, but I ignored the pain in my hands. Even though it was well past dark, I could see light shining brightly at the edge of the forest.

  And the moonlight will lead you home…

  That’s what the old woman had said to me. I would never forget the dark, shiny eyes of the gypsy fortune teller. I hadn’t put much stock in her cryptic message then, but that was before I arrived at Oak Grove Plantation. Before I became the wife of Bernard Davis. Before I knew the depths of his depravity and his complete obsession with administering pain to those closest to him.

  And the things he had done—I could never have imagined them.

  Just a hundred feet now, so close to freedom. I could hear a carriage hurrying along the road. Dark bushes tugged at my skirts, as if they too would will me to stay here in this dark place. No! I thought as I pulled the skirt and ignored the sound of tearing fabric. I ran toward the sounds of the carriage wheels rolling down the lane.

  It must be Jonathan! My brother has come to save me!

  Finally, I could fall into his arms and be safe. He would whisk me away to a secret place where my husband would never find me! I had written so many letters, and I had Della’s promise that she herself had carried them to the post with her own two hands. But I had heard nothing. After a few weeks, I reasoned that Bernard must have stolen Jonathan’s messages on their way to me. He controlled everything, from my waking up to my lying down and everything in between. And now I had no doubt that after he discovered my second attempt to escape he would want to punish me.

  “No!” I screamed, forgetting that I needed to remain quiet. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me, the smell of rotting leaves and wet soil rising up to greet me. It was a warm night, and there were animals stirring in the woods. Something small and furry ran across my path, and I gasped as I stumbled onward.

  And the moonlight will save me!

  The moonlight glowed brighter now, as if it heard my thoughts and knew that it offered me my salvation. Shafts of the unearthly glow filtered through the thick canopy of leaves above me. It made the shadows darker; the woods seemed to fully come to life now.

  And then another shadow crossed over me, just above the lowest limbs. I froze and waited. My bosom heaved up and down as I struggled to breathe in my tight stays. I heard a low rumbling, a man’s voice! It shook me awake, and I continued to flee.

  The path opened a little wider now, and my skirts ballooned out as I ran pell-mell toward the road. I heard the screech behind me; the Devil’s bird soared above me, and I let out a cry of fear. I continued to run, losing a high-heeled shoe in the mud, and to make my flight easier I kicked off the other. I cast a fearful eye over my shoulder and saw the bird of prey, the creature’s black feathers spread out—the thing’s evil mouth opened in a scream. It corrected its flight and dove for my hair, dragging its talons through the piles of dirty curls and sending me screaming to the ground. After it fought with me for a full minute, it flew away, but not far. It wasn’t done with me yet. And a familiar voice, Bernard’s voice, came from behind me. He saw me but pretended he didn’t. This was part of his game. I didn’t look back but crawled a few feet and scrambled to my feet again. My scalp bled; I could feel the warm blood streaming down the sides of my face. My clothing was torn in many places, and one of my breasts was exposed now, but onward I ran.

  I could see the road! I kept it in my vision, and to my utter relief, I could hear the carriage approaching.

  Unable to control my desperation any longer, I cried out, “Jonathan! I’m here!”

  Twenty feet, fifteen, ten…and then the carriage sailed past, never stopping. Never slowing. He hadn’t heard me—he didn’t see me.

  It couldn’t have been Jonathan. He would never have left me! There was nothing to do now but continue to run—I ran toward the moonlight.

  Five feet now! With what felt like my last breath, I bounded onto the road. I was unsure where I would go now, but at least I was out of the Kali Oka forest and away from the evil bird. “Jonathan! Don’t leave me!”

  And then a shadow towered over me. His dark hands were on my shoulders. He grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. He shook his head slowly, his eyes sympathetic but unmoving. I pleaded with him to release me and screamed for help, but he was a wall, a statue. His eyes told me he would never let me go. He couldn’t, or he
would die too.

  I thought I heard the carriage stop, but it didn’t swing around to pick me up. After a few seconds, the driver popped the reins and the carriage clattered away.

  And then he released me. I fell to the ground in a heap of despair.

  Chapter Three—Cassidy

  Cassidy…Cassidy…wake up!

  “Kylie?” I tore the covers back and sat bolt upright in the bed. Of course, she wasn’t there. It was just another dream. I fell back on the pillow and pushed the hair out of my face.

  I had woken up to a power outage, which was hugely inconvenient as I seriously needed to wash clothing. I was a notorious procrastinator when it came to laundry. In the past, I had toyed with the idea of sending my laundry out, but I didn’t like the idea of a stranger touching my personal things. I decided to take a quick load to the Hullabaloo Laundromat; it was on the next street over. I’d been there once, when I first moved into my loft and was waiting on my appliances to be delivered. It was in a tidy brick building with clean machines. Despite its strange name, I’d never seen a hullabaloo going on inside. In fact, there was only one other customer when I was there. Nobody bothered me, and I enjoyed the quiet rumbling of the dryers.

  I wasn’t going to drag all my laundry into the elevator and down the street. I just needed enough to get me through the day. I opened the kitchen window halfway and peeked outside. It was windy out, but then it was often windy on the third floor. It smelled like another day in downtown Mobile; I could smell the diesel of the city’s buses and the street cleaners as they tidied up the city. Yesterday a mob of people had crowded Penelope Street. It was a marathon, one that I’d promised myself I’d participate in but never got around to training for. I used to love running.