Southern Haunts

by Stuart Jaffe

  Sandra nodded.

  “If you can’t see it, then what the heck is it?”

  She jumped to her feet and dashed for the kitchen. Max followed but he could hear her yelling long before reaching her side.

  “Why are you still here?” she cried out. “Pack up your stuff and get out of this house.”

  As Libby spoke, she pulled out some glasses and filled them with peach schnapps. “I know how frightening it can be in here, but understand that first, nothing else has happened here, not like this, until you and Max showed up. Also, I wanted to make sure Shawnee was safe before attempting to move her. But then I realized that without knowing what we’re facing here, how can we know anywhere else would be safe?”

  “So your answer is what? For all of us to get drunk and try to forget about it?”

  “I just wanted to calm things down.”

  “Calm is not what is called for here. You need a healthy panic. You need to leave this house.”

  Libby threw back her glass and winced as the alcohol burned its way down her throat. “Have you found anything in your research to suggest that this house has attacked other people? That there’s any history in this house?”

  Though Sandra knew the answer, she still looked at Max. He could see the wish in her eyes that his answer would be different. He offered the best he could, “Not yet.”

  “Then it’s possible, maybe even likely, that whatever is attacking Shawnee is not connected to the house but to her. Move her and it will follow.”

  Hearing his own words echoed, Max thought they sounded hollow. They could try, couldn’t they? Take Wayne and Shawnee to a hotel and see if they get through the night. They were certainly not safer in the house.

  Libby went on, “At least here we have some information and some sense of where it resides strongest — the baby’s room. If we go to a different house, an office, anywhere else, we’ll be starting over at square one. Do you think Shawnee wants to start over at square one?”

  Sandra slammed her hand on the table, and Shawnee jumped. “I think she would prefer to live and have her baby be safe. It doesn’t matter what square we’re standing on. Maybe if you knew how to do your job better, this wouldn’t be happening.”

  As Libby’s face reddened and her mouth tightened, Max stepped in. “Both of you, stop. Remember discord feeds these kinds of things. You two have got to make nice. For Shawnee’s sake.”

  Shawnee stood and removed the ice from her face. Max knew how bad it must have hurt. He had been punched in the face enough. The bruising would swell more and it would be awhile before she could chew without sharp throbs in her jaw and cheek.

  Shawnee clasped Libby’s shoulder and Sandra’s. “It’s my baby, and I say we all go. If this thing follows us, we’ll deal with it. But I can’t even sleep in here.”

  Before anyone could argue, Max said, “Great idea. Let’s go.”

  “There’s only one thing I need — my back-pillow. It’s in my bedroom, and I have to have it.”

  “Can’t we go buy you a new one? Or if we put you in a hotel, I’m sure there will be plenty of pillows.”

  “Have you ever been pregnant? Anybody in here? Because I can tell you, none of you know what it’s like. It hurts, and that pillow is one of the few saving graces I can cling to.”

  Sandra tried to hide the painful look at Shawnee’s words, but Max saw it. Sandra said, “Honey, go get the pillow.”

  Max did not argue. He wanted to, but he wanted to get out of that house more. Arguing would only delay them, and he would still end up getting the pillow.

  Sandra wore her determined, purposeful look. “Now, Honey.”

  With that, Max found himself climbing the staircase. His nerves jangled as he expected to be rifled back down at any moment. His temples thrummed with the heavy beat of his heart. Each step seemed to add more stairs as he went. He climbed and climbed, wondering if he would be assaulted or shoved or sent into a dark memory, but soon he reached the top and found that only his mind had plagued him.

  The hall stretched out before him. All the doors were closed save one — the baby’s room. He would have to walk by that open door to reach the master bedroom. His legs refused to move.

  “Come on, Max,” he whispered. “Get down that hall, grab the pillow, get out of this house.”

  The way he saw it, he had only two viable options — walk soft and slow, hoping not to disturb anything that might be waiting, or sprint like a madman and get it over with. He deliberated for all of two seconds before pouring every bit of energy into flying down the hall.

  He slammed the door open, lost his footing, and met the floor with his face. He rolled to his back and watched as the door shut itself. No — when rolling over, he had kicked it by accident. Get control of yourself.

  Max crawled up the side of the bed. Once standing, he scanned over the bedroom. No pillow. His eyes fell upon the closed, closet door.

  “Why does it always have to be closed?”

  With two hesitant steps, he neared the door. Then he recognized his stupid mistake. He had looked everywhere but the bed.

  Glancing back, he saw the long pillow designed for a pregnant woman. Relief rushed through his body. A shaking laugh fell from his lips. He reached forward. The pillow felt inviting, and as he thrust it over his shoulder, the room lost its sense of foreboding. He marveled at how powerful the human imagination could be.

  That’s when he heard the screams from below.

  Max’s throat constricted as he leaped over the bed. His foot caught the edge of the mattress and he tripped to the floor. Without pause, he popped back to his feet. Wrenching the door open, he heard another scream.

  He tore through the hallway, pivoted around the bannister, and raced down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. Momentum bounced him against the front door. Shawnee’s long pillow took the brunt of the hit, but Max still experienced a sharp pain in his shoulder.

  “Stop it!” Libby said from the kitchen.

  Max entered the room, huffing as he took in the scene. Sandra and Libby stood against the kitchen counter, trying to meld even further back while Shawnee sat at the table, flinching with every sharp movement by the man at the center — Wayne. He burned fury — red-faced, spit flying, eyes pinpoints of rage.

  “You’re all a bunch of hypocrites,” he bellowed. “Tell me you’re here to help but you do nothing. You make it worse. Look at my wife.”

  He screeched the last word and Shawnee jumped back, keeping her eyes down.

  Though her jaw quavered, Libby tried to speak in a soft voice. “Please, Wayne, I know this has been stressful and upsetting —”

  “You don’t know shit! You promised to fix all this and instead, my wife is being beaten up by what? Ghosts? I’m supposed to believe in ghosts, for crying out loud.” Wayne caught sight of Max and refocused his wrath. “You. We brought you in because you were the experts. Well? What the hell do you have to show me?”

  Max exhaled slowly, trying to calm the situation by being relaxed. Inside, his stomach spun circles around itself. “We’re narrowing it all down. A little more patience and we’ll have —”

  “Nothing. You’ve got nothing and you’ll have nothing. And all the time my wife is a punching bag for an invisible bogeyman.” Wayne grabbed a handful of wires connecting up the monitors. “All your fancy equipment and you can’t do shit.” He yanked hard. The wires ripped out with a spark.

  Shawnee yelped. “Honey, no! We need these people.”

  “Lot of good they did you.” He pushed a monitor onto the floor and the screen cracked. “I want you all out of my house. Take all this crap with you.”

  Shawnee clutched Wayne’s arm but he shoved her aside. “Please, don’t do this. I want them to stay. I want them to help.”

  “I wanted them to help, too. But they’re doing nothing but using us. They just want to get it all on film so they can land a deal on tv and become famous. They don’t give a crap about us.”

  Sand
ra’s jaw set firm and Max knew that look too well — she’d had enough of this. With a determined step, she walked towards Max. Wayne put out an arm to block her, but she slapped him in the face. “You ignorant, stupid, little man. Your wife is in trouble here and so is your baby, and you’re going to throw a fit because we can’t fix it all as fast as you want. Selfish. See how well you do without us. You and your family will be dead before the week is out.”

  Wayne stared at her and for a second, Max thought his wife had gotten through to the man. But then Wayne’s face turned a heavier shade of red. “Get out of my house! Get out before I kill you all!”

  He pulled back his hand as if to slap her. He never got the chance. Max plowed his sore shoulder into Wayne’s back. The man careened forward, his head narrowly missing the edge of Shawnee’s chair.

  Shawnee screamed as tears soaked her face. She crouched by her husband, afraid to touch him and equally afraid to abandon him. With her cheeks puffed up both from crying and from the injuries of her earlier attack, she gazed up at Libby. “Go,” she said, the words choking on her tears.

  Libby shook her head. “I can’t leave you here.”

  “Please. We’ll be okay. Just go.”

  “But —”

  “Go!”

  Libby blanched but still did not move. Sandra had to take Libby by the arm and tug her to get the shocked woman moving. As they left the kitchen, Max glared one last time at Shawnee. “This won’t end here. Whatever’s after you won’t go away.”

  “Then don’t give up on us.” She stroked the back of Wayne’s head. He didn’t appear to be unconscious, but he had not stirred either. As quiet settled in the room, she whispered her final word. “Please.”

  Outside, Max joined Sandra and Libby by his car. Libby stared at the house. She shuddered and sniffled, but she had managed to get a better hold over herself than when inside the kitchen.

  “We can’t walk away,” she said. “At least, I can’t.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Sandra said. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  “The rotten thing is Wayne’s right. What good are we doing? We’re failing here. We don’t even know what’s causing this, let alone how to deal with it.”

  Sandra rested her eyes upon Max. “Don’t worry. See my husband — he’s a super-researcher, and he’s only had a short time on this so far. You give him a little more time and he’s going to find out what this is all about. I promise.”

  Max didn’t like a promise made for him to fulfill when he wasn’t the one doing the promising, but Libby looked at him with such hope that he stayed silent.

  “Trust me,” Sandra went on. “Research is Max’s superpower. He’ll beat this thing.”

  They talked for a few more minutes before they saw Wayne peeking out of the window. Not wanting to cause Shawnee any further trouble, Libby walked off to her car. Max and Sandra glared back at Wayne, but they left, too.

  As Max drove off, Sandra kissed his cheek. “You do this for me, okay?”

  “You have any doubt?”

  She smiled. “No.”

  “Besides, apparently I made a promise.”

  Chapter 18

  Max and Sandra collapsed on their couch. Exhausted bodies and frazzled nerves had taken their tolls. He wanted to put his arm around Sandra’s shoulder, but even with his arms at his sides, he could smell his reek. He needed a shower.

  Such a pleasure would not be coming anytime soon. Before Sandra could start snoring, he gave her a soft poke in the side. She mumbled.

  “Go upstairs and get in bed,” he said.

  “You’re not coming?”

  “I’ve got a superpower to use, remember?”

  With her eyes closed, she said, “Then I’ll stay up, too. I can help.”

  “Thanks, but no. One of us needs to be thinking clearly tomorrow and it ain’t going to be me.”

  Sandra required no further cajoling, though she did need a hand to rise from the couch. Once she stumbled upstairs, Max trudged to his study. The thought I have a study flashed through his weary mind and he giggled.

  “Okay, time to research.”

  He decided to start over with the basics, but this time, he would focus on an earlier period. Since nothing useful came from when the house had been built, perhaps he could find something during the time of the Casper Company. That blue bottle was their best clue so far — really, the only solid clue they had.

  The other worthwhile find was the name Unger, but with nothing more to narrow the search, the Internet would spew out millions of answers for Max to sift through. That would be pointless. No, Max’s instincts said following the Casper Company made the most sense.

  After a while, Max had typed up several notes from his searches. Some of his discoveries were odd, such as the man who, in 1908, sued his father-in-law for stealing his wife. There were also two strange fires at the YMCA — one on January 19, 1908 and the next on January 30, 1908. In February 1888, a widely respected man named William Thaw donated a large sum to Yadkin College. Twenty years later, his son committed murder. Apparently, 1908 was a violent year for Winston-Salem.

  Violent, but not connected to the Casper Company.

  Earlier, in 1902, Winston’s reservoir collapsed, sending nearly one million gallons of water rushing across the city. And in 1915, three notorious blind tigers were arrested.

  That piqued Max’s interest. Blind tiger was another term for speakeasy. It came from the practice of saloon owners charging customers to see some type of attraction — such as a blind tiger (most likely a large, old cat in a cage). Then, the customers would be served a “complimentary” alcoholic drink. Because Prohibition made the sale, not the consumption, of alcohol illegal, this game circumvented the law. As time went on, the term became synonymous with anybody dealing in alcohol, legal or otherwise, and for Max, it held the most promise to connect with Casper.

  However, after a lot of searching, he had to let the lead go. There were simply too many people using the term back then, and even more people used it now. Bars, bands, and old time bandits all adopted the name, and all of them popped up in even the narrowest search.

  He came across a series of photos from the 1920s featuring police officers holding bottles of confiscated alcohol and taking axes to wooden kegs. One photo featured a young officer proudly holding a dark bottle over his head. The bottle’s distinct design jumped out at once — a Casper bottle. Unfortunately, further research turned up nothing regarding the officer, Jack Robertson,

  Scratching his stubble, Max cleared his search bar and started over. Again. He decided to review the history of the Casper Company, hoping to locate some nugget that he had missed. He started with the name Floyd Johnson, but that turned up nothing useful. He’d have to leave that one to Drummond.

  DAY THREE

  Sandra tapped the top of his head. Max jolted awake. He could feel the imprint of the keyboard on his cheek.

  “Morning,” she said. “I’ve got coffee brewing.”

  “My angel.”

  “How late were you up?”

  “I don’t even remember falling asleep.”

  “Any luck with the research?”

  “No. Do I still get coffee?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, because I’m going out to the library to tackle this some more.” He kissed Sandra’s hand. “We will get somewhere with this. Don’t worry.”

  After downing a mug of coffee, Max shucked off his clothes and threw on fresh ones. Twisting his arm through his neck hole, he slathered on some deodorant. He pecked Sandra’s cheek and headed out. Fifteen minutes passed before he slapped his forehead.

  “I’m such an idiot,” he said. His wonderful wife had made him coffee, gently woke him, and quietly helped him get ready. She asked a few questions but mostly stood nearby in silence.

  She was waiting for him to bring up the talk that had been interrupted. She finally was ready to open up. And he had blown it.

  The sun had set l
ong before Max returned home. His eyes stung and rubbing them only made it worse. He needed a shower, a meal that didn’t contain anything deep-fried, and a long sleep. None of those things would be coming his way, however. Not before he told Sandra what he had learned.

  He burst into his study, calling for Sandra to join him. As tired as he felt, his mind swirled with excitement. “I did it,” he said as Sandra entered. “I found something important.”

  “I knew you could do it. Tell me.”

  Max couldn’t sit still. He paced around the room, punctuating his words with each step. “Well, I couldn’t find anything about that house and what I learned about the time period didn’t really help. But then I decided to check out the area — not Winston-Salem in general, but the specific area. Elizabeth Street.”

  “Don’t make me guess. What did you find out?”

  “I found out that just two houses up the street, 1824 Elizabeth, there was a huge scandal in 1925. It all started in September when a woman named Grace Renner went on trial for stealing a hat.”

  “A hat?”

  “Yup. Everything I’m going to tell you came to light because of a stupid hat. Now, during the trial, Renner’s sister, Mrs. Charles Johnson, is on the stand and refers to complaints regarding dancing and liquor parties being held in her home. This little remark isn’t so terrible in itself, but the editor of the Winston-Salem Journal at that time was Santford Martin. This guy was a devout prohibitionist and he takes a major shine to this story. He smells blood.”

  “But wasn’t everybody having little private parties?”

  “Yeah, but this one was admitted to in open court. Plus, Mrs. Johnson made reference to ‘riding’ in a car with two Winston-Salem police officers.”

  “I take it riding is a euphemism.”

  “You take it correctly. Martin jumps on this story and fast learns that the sisters, Renner and Johnson, are running a brothel out of their house — one that apparently is servicing the police as well. He prints the story on September 20th and the whole storm begins to roll in. It moves fast. On the second day, Sergeant W. M. Cofer is suspended but the Mayor and the Police Chief decline to comment. On Day Three, Cofer is fired, the sisters leave town, and the brothel’s address is published. The entire neighborhood is being tarnished and this is in a time when local reputations meant a lot more than they do today.”