Southern Haunts

by Stuart Jaffe

  Max put out his hand. “May I?”

  She held out the bottle but was slow to let go. Max examined it. “Looks like your ghost has a sense of humor.”

  “Oh?”

  He pointed to the name printed into the blue glass — CASPER.

  Chapter 9

  The morning sun still had to wait a few hours as Max pulled into the driveway of their new home. Neither he nor Sandra had ever owned a newly constructed home before — one that no other person had ever slept in, ate in, lived in. The all-brick house stood on a third of an acre like a castle nestled amongst numerous other castles in a neighborhood where all the street names were related to Robin Hood (Sherwood Drive, Nottingham Road, and the most obvious, Robin Hood Road). Clicking the remote to open the garage, Max took a moment to marvel at the idea that this all belonged to him.

  His bones crackled as he climbed out of the car. He cradled the blue bottle marked CASPER like a delicate newborn. Libby had put up a fuss when he took it, and only backed off when Sandra promised they would return it while also emphasizing Max’s excellent researching skills. Libby acquiesced but not without scowling and grumbling.

  Sandra had slept the entire drive home and now stirred from her slumber like a drunken co-ed paying for a long night out. Only, in Sandra’s case, she didn’t get to have any fun. She poured out of the passenger side and uttered a non-committal sound as she headed toward Max.

  As the garage door rumbled down, he stared at the alarm keypad by the kitchen entrance. Ten seconds clicked by before he could recall the code. Sandra pressed her head against his back while she waited.

  When they finally stepped inside the kitchen, Sandra mumbled a few indecipherable words and staggered upstairs to bed. Max threw his coat on the marble counter, set the blue bottle down, and threw on a pot of coffee. As tired as he felt, he knew he had gone past the point of falling asleep. Wired on adrenaline and caffeine, he figured he would focus on the case until he either discovered something important or passed out.

  He grabbed the bottle, walked across the kitchen, stepped into a sunken living room, and through a door that opened into his study. A study. The idea that he lived in a house big enough to furnish a study still prickled his skin. The Darians had no such luxuries, despite both holding excellent jobs, and all they wanted was a place that wasn’t trying to kill them or possess their baby.

  “Okay, Casper, time to find out about you.”

  Max inspected the bottle with care. Cobalt blue with a fluted neck, the bottle had distinct ribbing that traveled from the mouth down to the shoulders. The name CASPER, curving to follow part of a circle, could be read with ease, but the rest of the engraving had been worn away.

  Googling blue casper bottle returned instant hits. Max clicked on the images tab and saw dozens of bottles similar to the one sitting on his desk. Along with the blue bottles, the search results included several brown and tan whiskey jugs. The stamped labels on those jugs were easy to read.

  FROM THE CASPER CO.

  WINSTON-SALEM, NC

  LOWEST PRICE WHISKEY HOUSE

  SEND FOR CONFIDENTIAL PRICE LIST

  From there, the searching went even easier. In no time, Max waded through article after article detailing the life of the Casper family and their involvement in the whiskey trade.

  It all began in 1861 when the grandfather of John L. Casper set up a of couple stills in North Carolina. They were used for the family — mostly — and served to keep everyone happy through hard times. John L.’s father, John C. Casper, joined the unofficial company in 1865 after serving four years in the Confederate Army. He turned the private stills into a local business, expanding the distillery and selling throughout the Winston-Salem area. Soon after, he took over full operations of the business.

  But things really changed when John L. Casper came into the picture. Once old enough, he began an apprenticeship under his father. John L. displayed a real knack for business, in particular, for understanding the power and methodology of advertising.

  Max could feel John L.’s anxious desire to run things bleed through every article he read. “Don’t do anything stupid, and you’ll get the kingdom soon enough.”

  Luckily for John L., he had the patience to wait. No nefarious or mysterious accidents befell his father, and in the late-1890s, he finally gained control. Moving fast, he put together an investment brochure with the aim of taking the company in a new and profitable direction — mail order liquor.

  Max chuckled. “Ambitious little guy.”

  Ambitious and successful. Investment came in, and with the aid of a few friends and his own finances, John incorporated and for the first time, officially, created The Casper Company. He became president and chief operating officer, and quite quickly, he grew the company by acquiring twenty-one other distilleries in nearby Yadkin and Davie Counties.

  While accomplishing all of this, he set up a massive advertising campaign across the nation’s newspapers and magazines. He pronounced The Casper Company as the lowest-priced whiskey distributor to be found and the largest mail order business in the entire South. A typical Casper ad touted: “All the North Carolina whiskey we sell is good — there’s no bad. People here wouldn’t adulterate if they knew how — they are too honest! Most whiskey sellers are noted for mixing, blending and watering. We sell more genuine old whiskey and less water than any known competitor.”

  As Max scrolled down an article, he knew the man’s gambit would succeed. “You push that hard in a world that isn’t used to it, and you’ll either shine bright or flame out.”

  John L. shined. By 1905, his company had a net worth of over $250,000. John used the profits to build what he claimed to be “the largest building in the world devoted to the mail order whiskey trade.” Max didn’t know if that were true, but the building certainly looked huge. It took up an entire city block in Winston-Salem. Not only did they handle their own whiskey mail order business, but the building also became the local outlet for Milwaukee’s Pabst Beer.

  Max stepped away from his desk to stretch his back and roll his neck. Dawn would be coming soon enough, and he considered tumbling into bed for a little bit before reading the rest of Casper’s life. However, the thought of ascending a flight of stairs that at the moment rivaled Mount Everest kept him from moving.

  Instead, he shuffled through the kitchen and entered the half-bath off to the side. Throughout the long night, he hadn’t been paying attention to the needs of his body. All the coffee he had swallowed, all the shock he had absorbed, all the nerve-wracking events he had experienced finally added up. He stood at the toilet, listening to his steady stream, unable to do anything more than sigh in relief.

  Until he saw the trash can.

  Through bleary, dry eyes, he swore he could see a plastic stick poking up through the used tissues — a plastic stick quite similar to a pregnancy test. Despite an entire evening of adrenaline rushing through his body over and again like high tide on a stormy night, he still managed to pump enough of the stuff through his system that he perked up, wide awake, his eyes locked open and staring at the trash. Stone still. Heart racing. Hardly a breath.

  Am I going to be a father?

  Max flushed the toilet and washed up in the sink. He moved slow and deliberate, trying not to snatch glances at the stick in the trash while also avoiding eye contact with his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  Years ago, they had stopped talking seriously about children. It was always something in the far future, and as time went on, it became something that they both knew would never be. He was okay with that. He knew his mother wanted grandchildren, but his life had never been conducive to child-rearing. Especially after moving to the South and encountering Drummond, the Hulls, and the real world as opposed to the one people think to be real.

  Yet right behind him, an alternative life sat atop a nest of tissues. He merely had to pick up that stick and read it.

  His hands shook. He stared at them, marveling at the idea that a little
piece of plastic could cause such a reaction. Except he couldn’t be sure whether he feared looking at the stick or not looking at it.

  “Here we go,” he whispered. “Count to three and then just check it out. 1 ... 2 ... 3 ...”

  In case his body or mind might balk, he moved fast. He whirled around, bent over the trash, and snatched up the plastic stick. Not giving himself any time, he spun the stick until he found the marked window and saw the line — negative. Not pregnant.

  Dropping the stick back in the trash, Max let loose a long sigh and collapsed onto the toilet seat. He hadn’t felt that kind of a scare since college — nor that kind of intense relief. An involuntary smile crossed his lips. Everything would remain normal.

  Except Sandra had been acting strange lately. Could this be what’s been behind her behavior?

  Their entire conversation in the alley sounded quite different under this new light as did her insistence regarding the Darian case. Of the two of them, she had always been the one who wanted kids more. How long had she been sitting on the news that she might be pregnant? All the hoping and dreaming and planning that whipped through her head like a hurricane of never-ending thoughts must have been exhausting. And then to have it all dashed away by a line on a stick.

  Max wanted to rush upstairs and hold his wife. He wanted to kiss her, let her know that he loved more than ever, and that he was there for her. Instead, he walked back to his study. If he did go upstairs, if he did say those things, the conversation would have turned toward a question — Would it have been so bad? And once that Pandora’s Box was opened, they would soon end up discussing purposefully getting pregnant.

  “No,” Max said to his desk. They had closed those doors already. To open them again would only bring hurt.

  As Max delved back into the life of John L. Casper, part of him kept picturing the pregnancy test. Another part of him saw Sandra. And another part chastised him for staying quiet. Risking pain was a necessary part of a good, eventful life. Besides, ignoring this information would only build up walls between him and Sandra, walls they had worked hard to tear down.

  He decided to let her sleep. The more rested she was, the better chance they had of getting through this discussion without a fight. She would probably awake in an hour or so. He would talk with her then.

  Chapter 10

  The remaining time until sunrise crept by. Each second clicked upon the wall clock like the ticking bomb in a thriller — Max would count out five seconds passing, but the clock only showed two. When amber light finally slipped into his office, Max had to stop himself from bounding upstairs to question his wife.

  Another tense half-hour meandered by before he heard Sandra plodding around. He could tell by the slow thumps of her footsteps that she needed more sleep. She was exhausted, but her body woke every morning at 6:30 no matter what.

  When she finally made it downstairs, she poured some coffee and peeked in the study. “Morning, hon,” she said, her voice low and cracked. “Had any breakfast yet?”

  Max figured the sensitive conversation would go smoother if he waited until she was properly fed and caffeinated. “I’ll take care of it. Eggs?”

  She smiled and sipped her coffee. Max kissed her as he went to the stove. He fried up four organic eggs, made a few slices of whole wheat toast, and set out artisanal strawberry jam — a simple breakfast they could never have afforded a year ago.

  Sandra dug in with vigor. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”

  Nibbling at a piece of toast, Max nodded. He knew he was staring at her, but he couldn’t look away. He tried to place his discovery into the context of the woman in front of him, but it all felt foreign.

  “Did you find anything out?” she asked, her attention stuck on her food.

  Max wanted to burst out laughing. Did I find anything out? He imagined her reaction when he threw the pregnancy test onto the table like Zeus hurling a lightning bolt. Then he saw himself sidling next to her and putting his arm around her shoulder. Their heads would touch, and he would mention what he saw in the trash. A third image came to mind — him simply reaching across the table, touching her chin, and giving her a look that said, I know.

  “Hon? You there?” Sandra said, snapping him back to the moment.

  “Sorry. I haven’t slept at all. I’m a little out of it.”

  “Maybe we should both go back to bed. Sleep in for a few hours. Or is something bothering you?”

  He opened his mouth, paused, and then told her all he had learned about the blue bottle. Sandra listened intently as he detailed the rise of The Casper Company. Each part of that family’s story made it easier to move on to the next and further away from the heavy thoughts weighing his mind.

  When he reached the point that Casper built up a whole block of the city, he had managed to clear his head of all but the case. “Things were going great,” he said, “and John Casper saw a bright future ahead.”

  “From the sound of that, I’m guessing things went sour.”

  “Yup. It started quietly in 1901 with a simple bill passed here in North Carolina requiring all distilleries to be in incorporated towns. Not a big deal, really. More of a nuisance since it forced Casper to relocate some of his operations. The real problem was that Governor Robert Glenn had begun to stir up the anti-alcohol sentiments in people — some say it was for his own political means, but it looks like he really believed in the evils of alcohol. Other laws came out, each one making it more and more difficult for Casper to run his business. Until finally, in 1906, North Carolina became the first state to go completely dry.”

  “I thought Prohibition was in the 20s.”

  “Started in 1920. But North Carolina was way ahead of the curve on this one. Casper couldn’t fight the state — well, he could’ve, but it would have been a waste. Too many people were riled up about alcohol and that made the politicians scared. But Casper wasn’t going to just roll over, either.”

  “Of course not. The guy’s making serious money, especially for back then. We’ve both seen enough to know that for people like that, making that much money, it’s like a fire burning in their brains.”

  “Yeah, well, Casper took that idea a bit further. He razed his company to the ground.”

  “Literally?”

  “Almost. He moved the entire business. Every last bit of it. Anything he couldn’t take with him, he sold off. The footprint of The Casper Company in Winston-Salem was erased.”

  “Moved his family, too?”

  Max hesitated, the word family floating before him, the letters formed from plastic, pregnancy test sticks. Shaking off the image, he said, “Casper never married, never had kids. When he moved, it was just him. He took the company to Roanoke. It’s only a few hours north of here, but it’s Virginia. Different state, different laws.”

  “All good until Prohibition.”

  “Not even that long. Things started out great. Money rolled in and he built on a fourteen acre property. But then it all soured. Not sure why. I suspect the cost of moving everything out of North Carolina and building anew caught up with him. Whatever the case, and here’s the first really weird part that I’ve found, in 1911, he pops up in Florida working with the Atlantic Coast Distillery Company.”

  “That doesn’t sound so weird. What’s so special?”“

  “At the same time, he was also on record living over a thousand miles away, running the Uncle Sam Distilling Company in Arkansas.”

  “Okay, that’s a bit weird.”

  “Just a bit. How does a guy who loses everything suddenly have the capital to fund two new companies that are a huge distance apart? It’s strange. But then in 1913, the whole thing grinds to a halt. Congress passed the Webb-Kenyon Act, actually overrode a Presidential veto to do it, and that made it illegal to transport alcohol into dry states.”

  “And that means the post office can’t deliver whiskey anymore.”

  “Exactly. The mail order alcohol business was over. By the time Prohibition became
the law everywhere, Casper’s life had gone way off-track. In the end, he died somewhere in Mexico, unknown by all but at least living in a country that allowed him to drink.”

  Sandra cleared their plates and loaded the dishwasher. “That’s a wild story. But I’m not sure it really helps us. You said that Casper left Winston-Salem in 1906.”

  “Right, when the state went dry.”

  “The Darians’ house wasn’t built until the 1920s. By that point, Casper’s life had crumbled apart. He might even have been heading to Mexico by that time. So what could Casper possibly have to do with the house?”

  “I don’t know. But if you’re some otherworldly spirit and have only one opportunity to send a message to the living, you don’t send a blue bottle unless it means something.”

  Sandra shuddered. “That thing is not right. Even with it all the way in your study, I can feel energy coming off it.”

  “You mean like magic?”

  “Probably. I’m not sure.”

  Max gazed across the kitchen and into his study. “Maybe you can take the bottle and identify whatever magic’s on it.”

  Sandra closed the dishwasher with a bit too much force. “I’m not a practiced witch. I see ghosts and I understand that world a bit, but you seem to think I can do anything with magic.”

  “You can do more than me. If we had a witch on payroll, I wouldn’t bother you, but that’s not the case. So, whatever you can do is better than nothing.”

  “Other than tell you I can feel energy coming off it, I don’t know what I can do.”

  “But I thought you had gotten interested in the subject. You follow the blogs and websites. You were the one who helped out at Baxter House with the spells.”

  “Just because I’ve dabbled, doesn’t mean I’m capable of dealing with whatever I’m feeling from that bottle. You want a witch on retainer; you’d be better off finding a new witch. Maybe before she died, Connor had a student.”