I wasn’t going to tell Alistair, but at least the part about curses and black magic wasn’t as far-fetched as he thought. “What year did all this happen?”
“Seventeen Thirty-Two,” Alistair replied. “Charleston got hit by two Yellow Fever epidemics just four years apart, in Seventeen Twenty-Eight and in then again in Thirty-Two. According to the diaries and records, people prayed and fasted and repented of their sins to try to end the plague, and when that didn’t work, they drove out anyone they thought might have brought judgment down on the city and hanged some unlucky folks on various charges, but it’s widely suspected the victims were said to be witches.”
His voice dropped. “Unofficially, more than a few folks tried some magic of their own to protect themselves. Even some of the wives and daughters of the prominent folk went to their slaves from the islands looking for root cures and Voudon protections.”
Everyone thinks of New Orleans when Voodoo—or Voudon as its practitioners prefer— gets mentioned. But in reality, slaves from Africa, Haiti, Barbados, and the other Caribbean islands were traded throughout the Deep South, and they brought their beliefs with them. Many wives and daughters of slaveholders adopted some of those practices to tide them over in areas where the Christian teaching was a bit thin, or where desperation called for desperate measures, like childbearing, sick children, and plague. All done secretly but done nonetheless.
“So the Wellrights moved the plantation because of the plague?” I asked.
Alistair nodded. “That was the official reason, and the fact that the new mansion was farther away from marshlands probably did help cut their chance of infection, although they didn’t know it at the time. But it’s interesting to note that they also located their new property on land that was inside the circle one could draw connecting the city’s outlying churches.”
“Sanctified ground?” I asked, surprised.
“After a fashion,” he said. “During the Yellow Fever epidemics, people didn’t want to hold funerals in the same churches where they also held worship services, baptisms, and weddings. Remember, they had no idea how the disease spread. So many cities built ‘plague churches’ that were only for funerals. St. Roch Church—invoking the patron saint of plague victims—was built as one of these funeral churches. The new Wellright mansion is on land that placed the church between it and the old property.”
“St. Roch?” I repeated. “Charleston has an awful lot of churches, but I’ve never heard of that one.” Charleston’s over four hundred churches have earned it the nickname of the “Holy City,” and some of those churches date from the city’s earliest days.
“It doesn’t exist anymore,” Alistair said. “It had a history as tragic as its purpose. St. Roch survived several fires and hurricanes, and more than one bout of madness among its clergy. The Great Quake of 1886 finally destroyed it.”
I made a mental note to ask Sorren some questions about the Wellrights and St. Roch’s. Both had runs of enough bad luck that I wasn’t quite willing to take at face value.
“What about Theodora?” I pressed.
Alistair smiled. “Ah, that’s where we’re in luck. We have a number of items from the Wellright family in our holdings, and because Theodora’s tragic story is so poignant, we actually have some items that belonged to her.”
“Could I see them?” The words were out of my mouth before my better judgment could stop them. Teag wasn’t here to pick me up if I got a vision that knocked me on my butt. But I didn’t want to miss this opportunity.
“I thought you might ask,” Alistair replied. “Come with me.”
I followed him out of the office and through the museum. I generally avoid museums for a very good reason: I can pick up strong resonance from items that were involved in highly emotional situations even without touching them. And what kind of things do people put in museums? Just the sort of thing that sends my psychic gift into overdrive. I was willing to bet Alistair still remembered the time I passed out cold in a “Plagues and Pestilence” exhibit.
Fortunately, we cut through exhibits on women’s fashions and fine china, so I was spared. We stopped in front of a display case filled with items that once belonged to the doomed young woman whose portrait I had seen at the “new” Wellright mansion. There was a new portrait that I had not seen, one painted of Theodora when she was just in her early teens.
“She was very pretty,” I commented, leaving out the fact that I had glimpsed what I believed to be Theodora’s ghost up close and personal on more than one occasion.
“Theodora Wellright was just in her early twenties when she died—probably near the age you are now,” Alistair said, looking at the portrait. “Everyone loves a tale of star-crossed lovers, and Theodora Wellright and Aaron Baskin certainly fit the bill.”
“I heard a little of their story when I toured the mansion,” I said. I leaned in for a good look at what was in the display case.
“You never really said what prompted your sudden interest,” Alistair said, and I tried to look casual.
“Someone brought us a cloak-fastener that might have belonged to Theodora,” I replied, not turning to look at Alistair. “We’re trying to authenticate it, and I got caught up in the history.”
Alistair nodded as if that explained everything. “Theodora was very well educated for a woman of her time. She had tutors from England and Scotland in classical literature and theology, as well as the classes in music and needlepoint which were required for a woman of her standing.”
“She died before her lover returned from the sea,” I murmured.
“And lately, some of the museum staff claim that she hasn’t stayed completely dead.” Alistair’s inflection gave nothing away, but the mere fact that he mentioned it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Oh?”
“You know Charleston—we have nearly as many ghosts per square inch as Savannah or New Orleans,” Alistair replied, trying for a light tone and not quite making it convincing. “And here in the museum, we’re resigned to having some resident spirits who have tagged along with their belongings. The Wellright exhibit is fairly new. And ever since we added Theodora’s things, the staff has reported getting a glimpse of a young woman in period clothing who isn’t there when they look again.”
I repressed a shiver. Peering into the case, I saw several more pieces of beautiful scrimshaw given to Theodora by her beloved Aaron. There was also a framed, elaborate baptismal certificate, a few yellowed needlepoint samplers and a time-worn Bible. Something drew me to the old leather-bound book. “Was there anything unusual about Theodora’s Bible?” I asked.
“Not about the Bible itself, no,” Alistair said. “But Theodora kept a journal, and some of her last entries are still being debated by the Charleston historians who have studied it.”
“Why?” I asked, sensing that I was getting to something important.
“Theodora was an educated woman for her time,” Alistair said. “Quite knowledgeable on science, and above some of the common hysteria of the masses. But her last entries are dark—almost verging on delirium. There’s some debate among scholars whether Theodora suffered from madness.”
“What makes them think that?” I tried to keep my voice casual.
Alistair met my gaze. “Her last several entries describe visions and dreams that are disquieting. And she seemed to be obsessed with a single verse from the Bible. ‘There is a generation whose teeth are as swords and their jaw teeth as knives.’”
“Yikes,” I replied. That didn’t cover it by half. A nasty suspicion started forming in the back of my mind. If I was right, poor Theodora hadn’t been mad, although what she might have discovered would have sorely strained her sanity. I had some pointed questions to ask my vampire boss.
When I got back to the shop, Maggie was taking care of a customer, and I figured that Teag had taken advantage of the lull to do some research of his own. I waved at Maggie and headed to the office, where I found Teag hunched over his laptop.
“Anything?” I asked.
“Plenty,” he said, not bothering to look up. “Give me a sec, and I’ll fill you in.” I waited until he finished what he was doing and looked up. “I think I know why the Wellright lands are seeing so much supernatural activity. Some of the land near the old plantation was sold to a developer for condominiums, and when they began clearing the land, they uncovered about a dozen old graves—probably from the 1700s.”
“And?”
Teag shrugged. “And—I don’t know more than that. Yet. I’m checking around. The construction company and the new landowners are being extremely quiet about things, which makes me wonder what they’re hiding. Especially since the Darke Web has heated up on the topic.”
Teag wasn’t your average hacker or even your average genius hacker. His Weaver magic meant that firewalls couldn’t keep him out and encryption didn’t stop him. He had no trouble finding stuff on the Deep Web that wasn’t on the search engines, or on the Dark Web—the Internet’s back alleys where criminal and unsavory activity flourished. But Teag’s magic meant that he could also navigate the Darke Web—currents of information shared by immortal, supernatural, and magical communities, protected by enchantments law enforcement couldn’t break, but that didn’t slow Teag down a bit.
“Why does the Darke Web care?”
Teag met my gaze. “That’s a good question. And I’m still digging for an answer. So far, what’s being said out there is like coming into the middle of a conversation—they’re talking about something but not defining what it is since it’s assumed those in the conversation already know.” He grinned. “Don’t worry—I’ll get to the bottom of things.”
“I’m sure you will,” I said. “But just the fact that the folks on the Darke Web are talking about the Wellrights means there’s something bigger going on here than a haunting.”
“Agreed,” Teag replied. “And the folks aren’t just talking about it—they’re definitely scared of something.”
I remembered the ghostly attack in the maze. “I’m still trying to figure out whether it was Theodora’s ghost who attacked me, or whether something else hit me first and Theodora drove it away. Either way, we’ve got an aggressive spirit out there that’s capable of knocking someone out—and maybe worse. That’s different from Charleston’s run-of-the-mill spooks.”
“We need to go out to the old plantation—what’s left of it—before the developers get in there and make a mess of things,” Teag said.
I was still a little shivery remembering what happened in the maze, but I knew Teag was right. “When?”
“It’s still light after closing time,” Teag said. “Let’s take an hour to get changed into hiking clothes, and drive out there. If anyone questions us, we can always say we were out for a walk and got lost, golly gee whiz.” I was willing to bet that Teag had never said “golly gee whiz” before in his life, and the overdone look of aw-shucks innocence was so unbelievable it made me laugh out loud. At the same time, I had seen Teag talk his way out of tight situations, so I didn’t doubt that he could bamboozle our way past a rent-a-cop if the developers had anyone patrolling the grounds.
“Sounds like a plan,” I said, resolutely ignoring the tight knot in the pit of my stomach.
A Dark Past
My Mini Cooper is cute but too recognizable for sneaking around. Teag’s old Volvo, on the other hand, is both reliable and non-descript. By the time Teag came to pick me up, I had fed my dog, Baxter, and changed into an old pair of jeans, low hiking boots, and a thin, long-sleeved shirt. Though it was early evening, it was still very warm since Charleston didn’t really cool off at night until October. South Carolina’s woods were home to all kinds of snakes and bugs, including ticks. Long pants and sleeves weren’t cool, but they were practical.
I threw a first-aid kit into the back of Teag’s car along with several bottles of water. The pockets of my hoodie were full of other things we might need. I had Theodora’s ivory disk in the pocket of my jeans, and I hoped that taking the disk back to the old manor might help me get another vision; something that would help put the pieces together and figure out how she died. There was a packet of salt, good for protection against a lot of supernatural nasties. I wore a necklace of agate, a stone known for its protective qualities, and a bracelet of woven hemp with a wooden amulet made of teak and birch intertwined in a complicated carved knot. Sorren had given the bracelet to me when I first took over the store. He had told me that it wasn’t a bullet-proof vest, but that it could protect me from a lot of bad stuff. I wasn’t taking any chances.
We picked up burgers at a drive-through. In the short time since we left the store, Teag had managed to download and print out a topographical map of the area that included the old Wellright place, as well as a very old map that showed the boundaries of the first plantation. I finished my burger and studied the maps while Teag drove.
“So the developer is going to take the back third of the old plantation land,” I said, squinting at the lines Teag had drawn on the copy of the old survey map.
“Yeah, that’s the plan,” he replied. “The historic preservation folks fought them to keep them from getting any closer to the old foundation. In theory, all they’re going to take is old farmland.”
“In theory,” I echoed. “You have doubts?” Teag was All But Dissertation (ABD) for his Ph.D. in History before he started working at Trifles and Folly, and he knew his stuff.
He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road. “There are a lot of things that don’t always make it onto official maps,” Teag said. “Slave quarters, for example. Outbuildings like summer kitchens and granaries, since they were so much smaller than the main house. Cemeteries, sometimes.”
“That’s what you think is back there?” I asked. “An unmarked cemetery?”
“When you’ve got restless ghosts, seems logical to me to go looking for their graves and figure out why they aren’t content to stay in them,” he replied. It occurred to me that what passed for normal conversation for us was way off the radar for most folks.
“Other than Theodora, there don’t seem to be a lot of reports of ghost activity in that area, at least, not that anyone has admitted.”
“True,” he said. “But the first issue you just touched on. Just because there’s no record or report, doesn’t mean there aren’t any ghosts. There are a lot of reasons—pride being one of them—that people might not want to report or admit to having ghosts wandering around.”
And among the Charleston blue-bloods, pride meant a lot. Especially for a family like the Wellrights who had seen their fortunes wax and wane over the years. Sometimes, pride was all a once-notable family had left. Reporting ghost sightings was an invitation to ridicule.
“Okay,” I replied. “We know there are ghosts now, but how long has it been a problem? Just since the developers came, or longer?”
“My money is on ‘longer,’” Teag answered. “And I’d be willing to bet that regardless of what was said in public, ghosts were at least part of the reason the Wellrights didn’t rebuild on the old land and moved the mansion closer to town.”
“With a plague church as a bulwark between them and whatever they were running away from,” I said.
Teag nodded. “Exactly. That’s an expensive proposition. Lots of people in Charleston live in haunted houses. Plenty of them are mighty proud that great-great grandpa or grandma sees fit to wander the family home. But the Wellrights got the hell out of Dodge, so to speak. Why?”
“Ghosts aren’t the only supernatural creatures out there,” I said. “Most ghosts are pretty tame. A lot of them are just stone tapes, images caught in a perpetual loop, not even really conscious.”
“And from what I’ve read about the founding fathers of the Wellright clan, they weren’t afraid of much,” Teag added. “That’s how they amassed their fortune. They weren’t above benefitting from piracy, and they were wheelers and dealers of the first order, so they had a pretty high tolerance for risk. But
something scared them so much they tucked tail and ran for town.”
“You know what they say about fools who rush in where angels fear to tread,” I replied.
“I don’t think angels have anything to do with this.”
The old Wellright place was down along the Ashley River, home to many of Charleston’s historic plantations. We weren’t far from downtown, but we might as well have been in another world. Huge old live oaks spread their sprawling, graceful branches while tufts of Spanish moss draped from their boughs. It was summer, so the smell of honeysuckle was almost cloyingly sweet, like a woman wearing too much expensive perfume. Oleander bushes, left over from plantings around the old mansion, were in sumptuous blossom.
Nature had reclaimed the land with such thoroughness that it was difficult to find the ruined foundations. Teag and I battled our way through brush and nettles, slapping off mosquitoes and chiggers. Charleston’s heat and humidity send plants into a hothouse frenzy, and some things—like kudzu—grow too well. I was wishing we had machetes to cut through the vegetation, but eventually, we found the weathered cut stones that marked all that remained of the original Wellright mansion.
“Not much to look at, is it?” Teag said, mopping his brow with the back of his sleeve. He guzzled a drink from his water bottle, and I did the same. “Do you think you could read anything from the foundation?” he asked.
I was wondering the same thing myself. Large stone blocks outlined the footprint of the house. They were overgrown in places, covered with debris in others, and along one side, several of the blocks were missing. Holding my breath, I walked over and then placed my hand on a weather-beaten foundation stone and closed my eyes.
I felt as if I was trying to listen to a radio station that was out of range, or watching a TV show that wasn’t coming in clearly. My gift picked up faint images and voices, but too distant and diffused to be readable. I sighed and shook my head. “Nothing I can read,” I said. “Unless we’re in a place where something really emotional happened, I don’t usually get a lot of information from buildings.”
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