Southern Haunts

by Stuart Jaffe

  Square-head pushed the bottle harder into Max’s face. “Not poison. Perhaps a spell, then?”

  Seeing Chuckles ready to punch again, Max’s body dropped in defeat. No point in going on when these two would clearly keep beating him for nothing. “Rein in your dog.”

  “He talking about me?” Chuckles said.

  “Easy. I think he’s ready. That right? You going to tell me what this bottle is about?”

  “I don’t know. Really. I came here to show that bottle to Mother Hope. I think there’s a spell around it or connected to it or something, and I want her help to discover what’s so special about it. That’s it. That’s why I’m here.”

  Square-head hesitated. Max could see the dismay on the man’s face. He may have been counting on a more serious threat to Mother Hope. Perhaps saving her life from a sneaky assassin would have garnered him great praise or a promotion. But Max’s words must have sounded true — not only because they were true but because Max’s emphatic tones suggested the real panic that threatened to set in. Max was scared and Square-head knew it.

  To Chuckles, he said, “Come on. Let’s check this out.”

  Square-head left with the bottle in hand. Chuckles glanced back. “Stay here,” he said, snickering as he walked out.

  Max didn’t bother straining against his bonds. He already knew they were tight. Instead, he flexed his fingers, hoping to keep some circulation going through.

  When the door opened, he braced for another beating. Leon entered and closed the door with a soft touch. The dim lighting of the room made it hard to see all of Leon’s features, but Max could see enough — pity mixed with worry. Neither emotion appeared to be on Max’s behalf.

  Standing with his back to the mirror, Leon said, “I told you not to come here, that you would only cause trouble.”

  “I thought you people looked into me. Don’t you know I’m always causing trouble?”

  “There’s nothing for you to gain here. When they come back, apologize and get the hell out of here.”

  Max clicked his tongue. “I think I’ll stay.”

  “They might hurt you more.”

  “Been my experience that when the beatings start, I’m usually on the right track.”

  “Usually is the operative word. This time, you’re wrong.”

  Something in Max’s side dug hard. He hoped they hadn’t broken one of his ribs. “Look, I’m not trying to screw you over. If I had an alternative, I wouldn’t have come here. Untie me, and I’m sure we can work this out.”

  “You think I’m here to help you? I was helping you when I told you not to come.”

  “Bullshit,” Max said — if Leon wouldn’t help him, at least the guy would be stuck with a guilty conscience. “You said that for yourself. You pawned this case off on me, cut out the only witch who I’d dare to ask for help, and now you don’t want to be held responsible.”

  Leon stormed to the door and stopped with his hand on the knob. “I’m going to tell you what to do. You listen and do what I say, and you’ll get out of here alive — bruised but breathing, and definitely not cursed. You ignore me, and I won’t be responsible. Not for any of it.”

  “Whatever makes you sleep at night.”

  Leon glowered at Max. He gripped the knob tighter as if strangling Max instead of a piece of metal. “Mother Hope will agree to see you. When she does, you ask her only what you really came here for. Don’t let the conversation wander off. She’ll try. You keep things focused. Get your answer and get out as fast as possible. Whatever you do, do not promise her anything.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s enough. Do what I said and you’ll be fine.”

  “Piece of advice in return — you shouldn’t be involved with people you’re this scared of.”

  “Mother Hope does good work. We’re fighting the Hulls and that’s worth a bit of fear on my part. Besides, I know how to handle myself with her. My being scared — that’s for you.”

  Leon left. Alone and feeling the bite of rope against his wrists, Max swore the room darkened and grew colder. His brave face peeled away. A tremble worked its way up from his legs.

  He waited.

  For how long, he had no idea. Could have been fifteen minutes. Could have been an hour or two. He only knew that, despite his efforts, his hands had gone numb, and his back ached from being stuck in the same position. Only that pain kept him awake.

  When the door finally opened again, Chuckles entered with a hunting knife — any bigger and the thing would have been a machete. The lug moved in, licking his lips as he waved the knife under Max’s throat.

  Max had hoped to keep a stoic face — give nothing to this brute. But the way Chuckles laughed told Max he had failed. Then he felt his jaw quivering.

  “Don’t wet yourself,” Chuckles said. “I ain’t gonna kill you. I’d like to, but Mother Hope wants to see you.” With the knife, he cut the ropes binding Max’s hands. “You do anything stupid, and maybe afterwards I’ll get a chance.”

  With a rough hand, Chuckles gripped Max by the upper arm and pushed him out of the room. Square-head waited in the hall.

  Max knew to keep quiet, but his mouth opened anyway. “Told you she’d want to see me.”

  Square-head ignored Max’s cocky look and gestured toward the elevators. Chuckles, however, smacked the back of Max’s head. “Shut up and walk.”

  Max obeyed.

  The elevator rode all the way to the top floor. Only the fifth floor, but the penthouse suite nonetheless. The entire trip up, Chuckles squeezed tighter. Max knew he’d have finger-shaped bruises on his arm for the next week. Hopefully, it wouldn’t get any worse.

  Growing up, Max had learned not to make too many assumptions about people. His time with Drummond had taught him that often a detective had to make assumptions. As they entered the suite, Max drew some pretty quick assumptions that he had to gamble would be correct.

  First, he decided this suite did not belong to Mother Hope. Everything about the place spoke to a modern, stylish flair. Black marble floors with white, sparse furniture. Huge flatscreen on one wall and Japanese prints on the opposite. The only color burst from a lavish floral arrangement sitting in the middle of a black block coffee table. Nothing about this place agreed with Mother Hope.

  She was an old woman who dressed like an older gypsy and carried with her none of the light, airy feel of the suite. An aura of dark surrounded her, brought on by the strange, cursed things she had seen and experienced over her lifetime. At least, for the moment, she used her abilities as a witch to fight against the magic of people like the Hull family. But Max would not count on that.

  Square-head stopped at the doorway. Chuckles thrust Max forward and then took up position next to his partner.

  “Please, Mr. Porter, sit and be welcome.”

  In the corner to Max’s left, Mother Hope rested in a white armchair. The blue Casper bottle stood on a black cylinder meant to be a side table. Max lowered to the edge of the couch.

  “You want me to tell you about this bottle.” Mother Hope’s inflection had no question in it.

  “I already know about the bottle. I want you to tell me about the spell or whatever magic is on the bottle.”

  She grinned and the wrinkles in her face flattened. “Is this for one of your cases?”

  “That’s not really important.” Max remembered everything Leon had said. He had to keep the conversation focused on the answers he sought. Nothing else. Besides, Max had no intention of betraying Leon, so the less said the better.

  “Perhaps you’ll tell me where or how you came into possession of the bottle.”

  “Again, not important. I only want to know about the magic.”

  Mother Hope folded her arms and peeked at the bottle. “You are not being too helpful. More insulting, you are not being too observant. Either that or you’re simply rude.”

  “I don’t know what I missed, but I guarantee I have no desire to be rude.”

  “S
urely, one who claims to be a detective would notice that I am not the same decrepit old woman he had met before.”

  The moment she said the words, Max saw it. She looked several years younger, more vibrant, less wrinkled, perhaps even stronger. But he had to put that out of his thoughts. Stay focused.

  “I guess you’ve got some powerful mojo,” he said. “I’d be grateful if you’d use some of it on the bottle now.”

  “Mojo? How quaint. The ability to cast off years is not some mere trickery. It is among the most difficult of spells. Do you want to know how I achieved it?”

  “I want you to look at the bottle.”

  “I succeeded because of that bottle.”

  Max paused. “Excuse me?”

  “In order to gain even a few years of youth, a witch must siphon off energy from an item already imbued with magic. Most items that have been cursed or favored don’t have enough energy, and so the spell fails. But this bottle is overflowing. A spell that should have taken a full hour, I pulled off in fifteen minutes. And look at the results.”

  “Yes, you don’t look a day over sixty-five.”

  A scowl flashed across Mother Hope’s face and disappeared. “Not bad for a woman nearing triple digits.”

  “I suppose. But so far, all you’ve told me is that the bottle has a lot of magic on it. I already knew that. I want to know what that magic is, why the bottle appeared —”

  “It appeared?” Mother Hope’s hand shot to the arms of her chair as if bracing for an assault.

  Max locked his mouth shut. Stupid. After a slow breath, he said, “I’ve already spent too much time here, and I can’t say I was happy about the welcome I received.”

  “I won’t apologize. My men may be rough, but they protect me from constant threats.”

  “I want to know if you’ll tell me about the magic on the bottle. Yes or no?”

  “Well, now, that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “If you’re willing to make me a small promise.”

  There it was. Even if he hadn’t been warned, the lust on her lips would have been enough to ring the alarms in his brain. She observed every motion he made, her eyes darting between his hands, his mouth, his legs, his mouth, his eyes, his mouth. Yearning for him to speak the words she needed.

  “Sure,” he said. “What do you want?” In his head, Max could hear Drummond cursing and screaming.

  “A simple matter. All I ask is for you to promise me that you do not go back to the house where you found this bottle. If it’s part of a case, then you’ll have to recuse yourself. For that, I will take the time to investigate your bottle, and I will report to you what I learn within the week. Sooner, most likely.”

  Max popped to his feet. “You already know, don’t you?”

  “The magic? No. Though I have my suspicions.”

  “You know something about this. It’s been right on your face this whole time.”

  “Oh, bless your heart, you think you can outwit me. Dear, I’m an old, old woman. I’ve been living here for a long time. Of course I know a lot about a lot that goes on around here. Why should that be a surprise? But information is valuable, and I haven’t survived this long by giving it away freely.”

  “Now what do you want?”

  She licked her index finger and made a mark in the air. “I already have you for one promise. That’s enough. Leave. I’ll contact you when I understand what has been done to this bottle.”

  Square-head and Chuckles moved forward, but Max put out his hands. “Easy, fellas. I can walk out on my own.”

  Though they followed him all the way out of the O. Henry Hotel’s lobby, neither one placed another hand on him. He got in his car and started back to Winston-Salem and the Darians’ house. He had made a promise to help them. He had made that same promise to his wife. In his book, those superseded anything he said to an old witch.

  Besides, how would she know what he did unless she had him followed? He checked his rearview mirror. Clear. Over the next minute, he checked it ten more times.

  Chapter 13

  Route 40 drifted by, a constant blur of trees, cars, and construction. The last day had become a blur, too. Too many decisions hung above him, waiting for him to place his neck in their noose.

  He had to make that promise; otherwise, Mother Hope would have refused to help. It was that simple. But he knew nobody would accept his logic — especially Drummond. Considering how little sleep he’d had, perhaps Drummond was right.

  Max’s cell phone chirped. He answered it before bothering to look at the caller ID. “Hello?”

  “Max? I’m so glad I caught you.” His mother. Great — from one mother to the next. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Uh-oh. You don’t sound so fine. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing to be worried about. Just the day to day stuff.”

  “Come on, now. You’re talking with your mother. I’ve been learning to hear your tones since you were born and could only cry when you needed your diaper changed. Now, what’s the matter?”

  Usually, Max could deflect her with ease. Of course, this would be the time his mother decides to dig in. But what could he say? He didn’t want to lie to her, but she would never believe that he had troubles brewing with a witch, a ghost, an unknown spell, and a haunted house. In fact, if Max said any of that, his mother would probably take the first flight to North Carolina and have him committed.

  His mouth solved the problem by blurting out the first thing he thought of that she could understand and accept. “Well, I found a pregnancy test and —”

  “You’re having a baby?” Max could practically hear the fireworks bursting out of her.

  “No, Mom. The test was negative. But Sandra’s been acting a bit odd lately.”

  With a knowing laugh, Max’s mother said, “This is what you’re confused about? Men. You all are so thick sometimes. Your father was one of the worst. I could write him a note that I wanted to travel for my birthday, and he’d buy me a diamond, saying he had no idea what to get me.”

  “At least, we know where I get it from. You want to clue me in to why she’s upset?”

  “It’s obvious, dear. She wants a baby.”

  Max shook his head. “I know you want her to want to have a baby, but I’m not so sure. Last time we talked about it, she seemed scared of being pregnant.”

  “Of course, she’s scared. It’s frightening enough the first time around but think about her age. She’s no young, little thing. That can cause complications. I’m sure it’s got to be quite conflicting in her head. She wants to have a baby but fears losing it because her womb is getting old, yet she’s running out of time to have children.”

  “Maybe, but —”

  “Listen to me. I know these things. She may have spent many years crowing about how she never wanted kids, but all women have the desire for children. It’s in our blood. Just takes some a bit longer to recognize it.”

  Max tried to ignore this last jibe and focused on the overall idea. Sandra had been so vehement about the Darian case — particularly about protecting Shawnee Darian’s unborn child. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe Sandra felt her biological clock winding down and this case had brought it all crashing to the forefront. It would explain most of her behavior lately.

  “Oh, this is going to be wonderful,” his mother said. “You let me know when the timing’s right, and I’ll make sure to help you outfit this baby proper. You’ll need a crib and a changing table. And diapers! You’ll need lots of those.”

  “Mom, calm down. Sandra’s not even pregnant yet.”

  “But she will be. And that’ll make me a Grandma. What do you think I should be called? Grandma, Nanna, or Granny? No, not Granny.”

  Max had to endure for several more minutes before he could extricate himself from the phone call. Once he set aside his cell, he conjured a clear image of Sandra with a full belly of baby sticking out far. She beamed bright as she rubbed her st
omach. Pregnancy would certainly look good on her.

  And me? he wondered. How am I going to handle all of this?

  After a moment of thought, and with the naive confidence every first time parent experiences before the baby actually arrives, he decided he could do it, no problem. He could be a father. He could handle that. It might require a few changes in their lives, but so what? If Sandra needed to have a child, he would be on board with the decision.

  He smirked as a new thought hit him — their child would have a unique upbringing. Uncle Drummond would be a part of the experience. No way would a child born from him and Sandra not be able to see ghosts. That would bring some challenges in dealing with other children, but Sandra had been through it herself. Surely, she would have a better idea of what to say and how to handle it all.

  Max shivered. Like his mother, he was planning for things that were far off — especially because Sandra was not pregnant. Not yet.

  She seemed to want to be, and Max now wanted it, too. As he exited the highway and navigated the few roads to the Darians’ house, he decided he would broach the subject the first time they were alone. Sandra needed to know she had his support.

  Parking the car, he felt some of his stress lifting away. Until he saw Wayne Darian pacing on the front lawn, muttering to himself, and twisting his bottom lip. The blood had drained from his face, and his eyes were wide and darting around.

  When he finally spied Max, he called out, “Please, you’ve got to help us.”

  Chapter 14

  Max sauntered across the street and onto the front lawn, knowing he had to deal with Wayne Darian and fed up with the day already. Wayne’s head flew to attention as he heard Max approach. He looked like a blind date who thought he had been stood up but suddenly saw a beautiful woman arrive.

  And I’m the woman, Max thought. Sheesh.

  “You okay there, Wayne?”

  A sheen of sweat covered Wayne’s body. “You’ve got to help me.”