Not Quite Gone (A Lowcountry Mystery)

by Lyla Payne

  “So you’re not influenced,” I surmise. “Interesting.”

  The concept of ghosts is so odd. Human beings—or lingering imprints of human beings, maybe—there all the time that only certain people can see. It makes some weird sense that, for those of us who can occasionally peer through that curtain, we might apply attributes that aren’t there if we’re expecting them. Or something.

  “So what can you tell me?” I ask.

  “We’re going out to an old house about fifteen minutes from downtown, over in Mount Pleasant. The structure is only about a hundred years old but the land has obviously been settled for far longer. Homeowners have been hearing sounds like footsteps and laughter, seeing movements like doors being slammed, for years.”

  “Why are they just now asking you to come out, then?”

  “Their experiences have been getting worse. Violent. The mother claims that something rocked her ladder while she was painting the ceiling over the staircase, two of the children keep complaining of scratches on their backs and legs. That sort of thing.”

  Sweat pops out of my pores, slick and cold on the back of my neck. A shiver slips down my spine and I wish I hadn’t worn my hair in a ponytail. My wardrobe choice is sort of funny, actually, because I’m wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, so Daria and I almost look like an unintentional team. Maybe we are one.

  “Is that normal? For ghosts to hurt people?” My mind goes to Amelia’s sleepwalking and each of our nightmares. All this time we’d blamed voodoo curses and Mrs. LaBadie, but what if we’d been wrong? What if a ghost was trying to hurt us through dreams, one that hadn’t shown itself to me yet?

  “No. It’s not unheard of, just unusual. It’s usually the other things that go in for violence.”

  I can actually feel the blood drain out of my face. “Other things?”

  “Demons. Devils. Things that used to be people but have gotten so broken and twisted through the process of death and being stuck that they’re only the evil pieces of the person they were. You know.” She studies my face. “You don’t know.”

  My head shakes in response because there are no words. There’s nothing in my life that could have prepared me for this sort of shit. I love ghost tours—I’ve been on lots of them—but honestly, it has always been the history that draws me, not the paranormal. The parts I love are the lives and trials and triumphs that made them human, not why they’ve stuck around to haunt the living. Finding out that there are more than charming stories lurking in the darkness shakes me more than a little.

  “Do you…you see all of those things?”

  She nods, her gaze guarded. “You might, too. What we have…it’s a gift and a curse, Graciela. Even the ones who aren’t malicious, they’re not…it’s not natural, to stick around the way they do. You have to be prepared for the darkness.”

  Daria watches me, a little perplexed, but there’s a light around her eyes that makes me think maybe she’s figured at least part of me out. She pats my knee, saving me from having to form a response. “Let’s get going. No better way to learn than by doing.”

  I down the rest of my drink, resist asking for another, then follow her beat-up gray truck in my Honda. For some reason, the thought of being trapped in a small space with her any longer than necessary makes me anxious. It’s her wealth of knowledge, I think. It could spill out and into my head, and having at least a little control over when and how that happens feels important.

  The sun has completely set, making room for an almost full moon and a velvety blue sky full of stars by the time we pull up in front of a two-story, classically Charleston-style home that’s painted a cheery yellow. The shutters are white, the windows are all dark, and a sense of foreboding that does not match the exterior snatches at my hair and skin with cold, bony fingers.

  “Okay.” Daria walks up, her hands empty and her features tight, as though she’s got some anxiety, too. She did say she had the drink to settle herself down before these things. The thought that she still gets nervous calms me, for some reason.

  “Okay,” I breathe, still staring at the house, half expecting to see shadows move in the windows.

  “The first thing I do, that a lot of mediums do, is open myself up. It’s like meditation. Do you meditate?” Daria looks annoyed at my negative headshake. “Don’t take this personally, but you’re pretty uptight. You should try it.”

  “Thanks for the tip. Can you just give me a quick-and-dirty explanation as far as how it relates to assessing the paranormal activity in a house?”

  “Yes. It will take about fifteen minutes for me to feel prepared, so we’ll go with that.” She waits for me to nod. “First, anchor yourself. Sometimes I do it in the car, but out here will work as long as your feet are both planted to the ground. You can imagine roots growing out of the bottom of your shoes if that hippie shit works for you.”

  “Noted.”

  “Okay. Then we do some deep breathing. Three seconds in through the nose, three seconds out through the mouth. This is the part that really empties your mind and prepares it to see beyond the physical, so we won’t rush it. After that, you’ll want to mentally state your intentions to the spirits that guide you—”

  “The what that what?” I interrupt.

  “Spirit guides. You don’t have to know them by name or face, but they’ll be the ones to protect you from unwanted contact.”

  “I wish I would have known them at a few frat parties in college,” I joke.

  Daria frowns. “You can ask angels for help, if you prefer.”

  I think of the devils on each of my shoulders. No reason to expect an angel to show up now. “Spirit guide is fine.”

  She’s taking this super seriously, which settles my nerves into a low hum.

  “You’re going to ask the spirit guide to not allow any low vibrational energies through to you, and let him or her know that you’re after the highest and best outcome from the session.” She pauses, her gaze locked on mine. “This part is very important. Highest and best outcome. Remember that.”

  “Highest and best outcome. Got it.” My palms are slick again. I wipe them on my jeans, not caring that she’s sure to notice. “And then?”

  “You need a mental image of something opening—a door, a book, a flower, whatever works for you. It will symbolize your being open to receiving communication.”

  “What’s this communication going to be like?” My voice is small and scared. I clear my throat, trying to push it out with confidence but I’m too far out of my element for it to really work. “I mean, I see ghosts and they pass, I don’t know, emotions to me? Sometimes? But that’s pretty much it.”

  “Emotions are common conduits of communication. You might feel the pain or fear that’s holding a spirit here on earth. You might see images that they choose to show you, either a replay of their deaths, which is common, or ones from their lives that left a mark on them. You could hear words or phrases, or just feel as though you know something.” She glances up at the house. “You make note of all those things and then try to connect them to what you learn during research later.”

  It’s a lot to take in. My knees want to dump me in the dirt but it seems kind of damp. Plus, that wouldn’t be the best way to begin my first intentional attempt to communicate with the spirit world. Or wherever.

  “You ready?” Daria looks as though she suspects her trainee isn’t exactly up for this but doesn’t voice her concern.

  I nod. She nods back, then closes her eyes, flexing her hands until her palms lay open against her legs. I copy her pose, my eyes closing and my weight balancing evenly between my two feet. At least I chose my trusty old Chucks instead of flip-flops or sandals. Roots are more likely to grow out of these, especially given the particular earthy smell they already have going for them.

  It takes a moment for my heartbeat to settle and my fingers to stop twitching. Then it happens—I do sort of feel rooted to the land. My mind wanders down into the earth, touching the water table, then skirts alo
ng the landscape. Oxygen travels deep into my lungs and I hold it there for a second, then two more, before exhaling slowly through my lips, again and again. It’s unclear whether any of this is going to make me a better ghost-talker but it definitely works as far as a balm for my anxiety.

  Meditation. Not just for hippies. Learn something new every day.

  I’m not sure how many minutes go by before Daria taps me lightly on the forearm. We didn’t discuss nonverbal signals but it’s not too hard to figure out she’s telling me it’s time to move on to the next phase of the process: talking to my spirit guide.

  This comes harder to me. I don’t know what it or he or she looks like or why it would agree to keep the bad juju away from me. She said this part is super important, though and never to skip it, so I try.

  Dear Spirit Guide, please take pity on the newbie white girl who’s pretty much about to jump out of her skin right now. It’s taken me months to get to a place where I’m okay with seeing ghosts and they’re nice ones who only want help. I might completely freak if you let any bad, low vibrations or whatever Daria said into my body. In fact, if you could just listen in on whatever Daria’s saying to her spirit guide right now, that goes double for me.

  My brain goes blank. I’m supposed to remember something specific. Oh yeah.

  I’m here to gain the highest and best outcome. I think for a minute, wondering if that’s good enough. Then, I tack on, I solemnly swear that I am not here to stir up any shit, just for good measure.

  Onto the next part. I picture, strangely enough, the doors of one of my favorite spots in downtown Charleston—the old theatre. They’re huge and painted teal, with ironwork on the balcony above and ornate wooden columns around them in the front. They’re substantial and thick, the kind of doors that really make you feel as though you’d be safe on either side of them, depending if you want to keep something out or in.

  In my mind, I push on them until they stand wide that way on their own, then open my eyes to find Daria watching me. Her intense gaze asks if I’m ready to go in, and even though there’s no way to be sure, I nod.

  Daria, my guru in ratty jean shorts and two dollar Old Navy flip-flops, hands me a purple flashlight and flicks on the orange one in her hand. There are a million questions rolling around in my head, like why we have to wander around in the dark, even though the house is supposed to be clear and unlocked and all that nonsense. I keep my mouth shut because I don’t want to get yelled at, but also because my curiosity over whether this is going to work soaks up my attention.

  I don’t feel any different. Don’t feel any emotions other than my own, don’t hear any extra voices in my head. Don’t even see the people I’ve been seeing—Henry, Nanette, the slave woman. Voices would be an amazing development.

  As we step through the white-painted front door and into a large foyer, I remember what happened in Charleston the evening I saw Dr. Ladd’s death replay in front of me. If this meditation and opening thing could get that to work with Nan, it’s possible I could learn whether she was alone the night she died hanging from that tree. I could see whether Brick was with her or if someone else strung her up.

  All of a sudden I’m dying to get into that file and see what the dissenting cop or cops found during the investigation that made them question her suicide.

  I take a deep breath in, then out, reminding myself that I’m here to learn how to pick up more from my ghosts than I’ve been getting. I focus on the house, which is gorgeous. Wood floors stretch out in the dark, under the staircase and uninterrupted into what looks like a parlor on the left and maybe an office behind French doors on the right. The stairs have patterned carpet in the middle and spin out of sight when they make a turn to the left, then to the right before landing on the second floor.

  A prickle starts between my shoulder blades, spreading out into a hum until it feels almost like a swarm of bees has landed on my back. I whip around, sure there’s going to be someone behind me, but find only darkness.

  Get out, bitch.

  I squeak, dropping the flashlight when I hear the words in my head. Daria snatches it up, pressing it back into my hand, her eyes wide. “You heard it, too?”

  I nod, my heart stuck on my tongue.

  “Can you see him?” she asks.

  It takes all my chutzpah to look into the corner by the door again. I’m not proud of the fact that I feel nothing but relief at not seeing a damn thing. I shake my head.

  “It’s a man. Or was. In his fifties, maybe, but he looks like… I don’t know what. He’s tall and black, not see-through at all. Long, clawlike fingers. Fangs. We call them shadow people, when they’re this strong.” She grimaces. “Nasty dude. Hates women. He might be the scratcher. Are you getting anything else?”

  This time I try harder. I concentrate, pushing imaginary feelers toward the door. Every muscle in my body goes stiff when images begin to swirl before my eyes—not him, not a ghost or…whatever Daria described seeing. I see how it must have been when he was alive, and it’s truly awful.

  There’s a man. He’s sort of rotund, with a bright red face that speaks of blood pressure or some other kind of circulatory issue, and dressed in a three-piece suit and hat. The whole picture makes me think he lived in the early twentieth century. Two little girls in pinafores, curly blond ponytails, and Mary Janes that would be shiny if they weren’t covered in mud, cower in front of the door, cheeks pressed against the wood. He brings his belt down across the backs of their legs repeatedly, their tiny mouths open in silent screams as tears run down their cheeks.

  I turn my head, not wanting to watch any more, and see a woman in the parlor door wringing a dishcloth between her hands. Everything about her says she’s coiled, desperate to spring into action, to gather up those little girls, but the fear in the room is palpable. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and my heart thunders, like the sound of horses running a track. I’m feeling her terror, her helplessness, her indecision, and the moment she decides to leap forward, between the man and the girls’ now bloody legs.

  The scene goes on another minute before it begins to tremble around the edges, pieces drifting away like rust flaking off an old fender, but not before it’s pretty clear he’s going to kill her. The woman.

  My fingers are wrapped around Daria’s forearm, gripping so hard they’ve left a mark by the time we’re alone again. “Did you see that?” I whisper.

  “No. I only see him. The shadow-man. And I’ve gotten the sense that he’s a misogynist.”

  “I saw a man, the same age as you said,” I whisper, swallowing hard. “He’s definitely a misogynist. And a murderer.”

  “Could be the same person. You saw something?”

  “Yes. A scene.” I swallow again, hard, determined not to cry. I don’t know those people. They died a long time ago.

  It doesn’t do much to assuage my guilt at standing by, guilt I suspect actually lingers from the woman, who waited longer than she should have to save those little girls. If she even saved them. Maybe all she accomplished was leaving them alone in the house with a monster.

  We keep walking—through the parlor and the kitchen, the dining room and office—without further incident, at least for me. Daria mutters about an abused woman who keeps shrinking away from her and into the darkness, refusing to talk about what happened in the house. It sounds like the same woman to me, but without seeing her, it’s impossible to verify.

  It’s not until we’re upstairs that things start to happen again. There are footsteps and giggles, just like the ones the homeowners complained about to Daria, and my mind goes to the little girls. They seem harmless, but Daria’s face goes completely pale when we enter one of the bedrooms, one that belongs to a small girl. She presses a hand to her forehead. “This is bad.”

  “Is it the man? Is he in here?”

  She shakes her head, looking sick. “The children, the ones making noise in the hall. They’re different in here. Can you feel it?”

  I stop again,
the way I did downstairs, and make sure those theatre doors are still open wide. I nudge them a little, focusing on the darkness, but see nothing. I smell something, though. Something rancid, like spoiled meat or maybe really, really awful vomit. Like, your-guts-are-coming-up puke. My own stomach churns, bile swishing up my throat.

  Then I feel pain. Horrible pain along my back and through my midsection, pain like I want to die. A groan slips through my lips but Daria’s already doubled over, unable to help me.

  “What’s happening?” I pant.

  “One of the girls died. Painful…” She squeezes her eyes shut. “Her father wouldn’t help her. Told her she wasn’t worth the doctor’s bills so she just wasted away in here.”

  Then there it is—one of the girls from earlier, the older one, writhing on the bed. She’s soaked in sweat, the sheets underneath her sopping wet, and no one but her teary-eyed younger sister there to mop at her forehead with a damp cloth.

  They’re talking but, much to my frustration, I still can’t hear a thing from ghostly lips. When I tear my eyes away from the scene to see if Daria has any advice, she holds a hand up my direction, her head cocked to the side. Thinking that maybe it’s like it was downstairs, when I see and she hears, or gets some sort of impressions, I snap back to the scene.

  The littler girl, the healthy one, is on her feet now. Tears course down her dirty cheeks as she shakes her head back and forth so hard she loses her balance, collapsing on the edge of the bed.

  The older girl gets a grip on her pain, or at least grits her teeth through it, and goes still on the bed. Her long, spindly arms grab a pillow and put it over her face. Then she reaches out, fumbling until she finds her sister’s hands and presses them into the feather pillow over her face.

  She doesn’t move, not while the younger girl sobs, putting all her weight against her big sister’s nose and mouth. It’s a long time until the little girl pulls the pillow away, her expression a wrecked horror as she peers down into her dead sister’s face. The scene begins to flake away again, too soon and not soon enough. When the younger sister turns toward us, she’s changed. Instead of horror, instead of grief, she’s wearing a maniacal smile. There’s a glint of madness in her eyes and she reaches up, starting to yank chunks of hair out of her head by the fistful.