southern ghost hunters 01 - southern spirits

by fox, angie

  A high-pitched sob broke the silence. This time it came from above and I fought the urge to wince. My heart thundered in my chest.

  Dang me. I didn't know anything about luring a ghost.

  But I wouldn't run now. I stood firm, ready. I parted my feet, locked my knees. "Come on. This isn't helping anybody. Come on out. Now."

  The lights fell, smashing to the ground. Darkness descended over me and I screamed.

  Chapter Ten

  "Here it comes!" Frankie hollered.

  A wall of energy smashed down as the ghost launched itself at me. The blast raced along my skin, pricking every hair on my body to razor points. It coursed through me, sizzling with electricity as it shook me from the inside.

  I lost my breath. My voice.

  My mind swam and my blood turned ice cold.

  Frankie let out a battle cry like he was the one attacking. His image stretched and flickered. Either he broke in half or two ghosts raged against our attacker.

  Steel groaned and bent, bolts shook. My teeth rattled as frigid wind shot up from under me. I gripped the metal cooktop, shrieking when it came off in my hands. I tossed it aside and grabbed for the cold burners. I held on until my fingers ached, clinging for dear life.

  The force intensified and I felt myself go light for a brief second before it tore away, up into the ceiling.

  It left me trembling in the darkness, sweating and trying to make sense of the tears running down my face and the hitch in my throat when I tried to breathe. The air tasted like saltwater.

  I wasn't so sure this was worth twenty thousand bucks anymore. I tore my shaking hand away from the grill in order to pull the tangled hair from my face.

  Frankie stood directly in front of me, hunched with his hands on his knees. He wheezed like he'd just battled a monster, which he kind of did. One of his feet had sunk into the floor. His panama hat lay near my left foot. It glowed against the red industrial floor tiles. Frankie cocked his head and struggled to find the place on the ceiling where the energy had disappeared.

  A knot in the wood glowed softly.

  With shaking fingers, I reached in my bag for a candle and placed it on the service station. I hastily struck a match and lit the wick, needing the light. Any light.

  I let out a small squeak as a second ghostly gray image appeared near the ceiling.

  He wore an old-fashioned military uniform, complete with leggings and a wide-brimmed hat that I assumed had been dark brown at one point. It was hard to tell. His wide moustache joined a set of crazy sideburns. The translucent, gray-skinned man pointed his rifle directly at me.

  "Don't shoot," I said, fighting for my voice, holding up my hands. No telling if a ghostly bullet could hurt me, but I preferred not to take the chance.

  In an instant, the ghost appeared directly in front of me, the muzzle of his gun inches from my chest. I could see the crinkles at the edge of his eyes, the way his prominent nose dipped before it curved back up to a sunburned tip.

  I tried to lean away, but I had nowhere to go, not with the stove at my back. He had piercing gray eyes and was younger than I first imagined. He couldn't have been more than thirty. He wore a pair of matching oak leafs on his collar. Next to them, in blocky embroidered text, I read the letters UVC.

  Holy heck. I was a good Dixie girl. I knew my history. And I was looking at a lieutenant colonel in the First United States Volunteer Cavalry.

  "You're a rough rider," I gasped, the words tumbling out. Amazing. I'd never considered this particular turn of events, that I'd meet dead people that had actually done things, seen things. "You guys are legends."

  He blinked twice. "Well, I…" He drawled, lowering his gun.

  "Did you know this man fought under Teddy Roosevelt?" I asked Frankie. "I'll bet you even met him, didn't you?" I geek gushed. He must have. Teddy Roosevelt recruited the Rough Riders personally. This was too much.

  The ghost blew out a breath that made his moustache ripple. His eyes darted over to Frankie. "She can see me."

  The gangster nodded. "You get used to it."

  The rough rider kept his back straight, his shoulders rigid. "Colonel Clinton Maker, at your service," he added, almost as if by habit. He eyed the mark my attacker left on the ceiling. "This is a strange, strange night."

  He didn't have to convince me. "Did you see the entity that attacked us?"

  "Couldn't miss it." He hitched his gun over his shoulder. "I'm afraid one of our own has gone poltergeist."

  "Poltergeist?" Josephine mentioned that about her mother. That she'd gone poltergeist once and tore the chimney off the house. Sweet Lord in heaven. He couldn't mean—

  Frankie drew his foot out of the floor, and shook it off like it had gotten dirty. "A poltergeist is a manifestation of negative emotions," he said, as if that explained it.

  I stood for a moment in shock. Her mother had been very, very angry, but she didn't strike me as demonic. At least I hoped not. "I thought poltergeists were evil spirits that came from hell."

  Frankie barked out a laugh. "If it was only that simple."

  The colonel appeared less than amused. "Any spirit can manifest into a poltergeist, given enough anger. It's the negative energy that turns you."

  Yikes. I'd have to think a little more carefully about how I interacted with the spirits in this realm. I crossed my arms over my chest and glanced up at the glowing knothole on the ceiling. "It's not permanent, though," I said.

  "A spirit can be soothed back to sanity," the colonel agreed.

  Frankie shot him a look. "If you want to call it that."

  "I've seen it," the colonel insisted.

  I wasn't sure I wanted to try. "Whatever, or whomever we just met…that was the scariest thing that's ever happened to me."

  After Josephine's mother, that was saying something.

  The colonel regarded me carefully. "I wish I could say the same." He followed my gaze. "Leave, and I doubt it will bother you again."

  "We can't go yet," Frankie said, shifting uncomfortably. "Verity's here to deal with it." Naturally, he left off the part about how Ellis would prefer we got rid of all the ghosts, not just the poltergeist. I noticed he also omitted the part about him helping me.

  The colonel drew back. "You leave that to me," he said, irritated. "This is my property. My problem."

  "You used to own this place?" I asked.

  A faint, grayish blush crept up his neck and cheeks as he cleared his throat. "Not exactly. But after so many years of lingering here, I look at it as mine."

  I could see where that would be an issue with spooks. You haunt a spot long enough, you feel like you own it.

  "We'll stick around, learn what we can," I said.

  "And try not to piss it off next time," Frankie added.

  The colonel sputtered. "You will not."

  Frankie ignored him. "I suppose it didn't work out half bad." The gangster leaned against the counter. "It used up most of its energy on angry wind and less on beating the hell out of you."

  "Thanks for the support," I said, keeping an eye on the colonel. "But why is the spirit so angry?"

  The colonel scoffed. "My dear, we're all angry," he drawled. "Workmen are tearing apart our home." He headed for the doorway, paused. "But now somebody's out of control. It takes a lot more than anger to manifest like that."

  "Wait," I said, my sandals crunching over broken glass, "what do you mean more than anger? What else does this apparition have?"

  He turned to me. "Rage. A burning desire for revenge. And I can't say as I blame it."

  He walked away.

  Oh my. Okay. "Wait," I said, following him out, not at all sure I was doing the right thing. The colonel was the best lead I had so far. I couldn't let him leave without asking more questions, even if he didn't want to answer them. I glanced back at Frankie. He'd stayed in the kitchen, and he was missing his entire right leg from foot to thigh. Dang it. He was losing energy faster tonight than he had last night. I needed more time.

&
nbsp; The colonel passed through the arched main hall of the carriage house and over to the nooks that had once held horse stalls. I dodged a glowing, broken-down case of Southern Spirits Finest Whiskey as I rushed to catch up with him. There, in an alcove that would soon hold a table for eight, stood a gorgeous gray mare with a snip of white on her muzzle and a swirling cowlick between her eyes.

  The colonel stopped in front of her. "Don't scare her," he said, refusing to acknowledge my presence in any other way.

  "She's beautiful," I said, as he stroked her head and neck.

  "Her name is Annabelle." She nuzzled his palm.

  "I can see why you stay," I said, itching to touch the horse, knowing I couldn't. I remembered what happened when I'd accidentally stood up in the middle of Frankie. Still, she looked so sweet and soft. I could almost smell her horsey hair.

  "It's not only Annabelle," he said, scratching her between the ears. The horse dipped her head toward him. "My Sally is buried out back in the family cemetery near the woods. Her daddy built this place." He gave a wistful sigh. "She wanted me here, but the town insisted on burying me under a monument in the big cemetery. An honor, you see." He dismissed it with a chuff. "Some honor. To take me from my wife."

  "That's so sad." Maybe we could get him moved. I didn't want to promise anything, but I'd look into it. "At least you get to see her."

  His face fell. "Maybe someday. I'm starting to think she's already gone."

  Annabelle nudged me, her nose slipping into my skin. Where I should have felt a velvety horsey muzzle, it felt like someone had pressed a large chunk of ice into the soft center of my palm. I trembled, yanking back. My skin pebbled with goose bumps that I couldn't rub away.

  "She makes friends easier than most," the colonel said.

  I wouldn't be riding her anytime soon. "She just wants a carrot," I told him, trying to keep the mood light.

  He produced an apple out of his pocket and fed it to her. She took the entire thing in one bite, crunching it happily. The colonel smiled, watching her for a moment. He turned to me, his manner anything but friendly. "I've enjoyed meeting you, Verity. But you must never come here after tonight."

  I took a sharp breath. "I don't have a choice. Whoever's mad has caused too much trouble."

  He fixed me with an intent stare. "There are certain things that are not meant to be disturbed. Dangers you can't imagine. Places like this are abandoned by the living for a reason. Do you understand?"

  I must not have looked like I got it because he drew back a hair and swore under his breath.

  This could be a neat restaurant—would be if Ellis had his way. I just had to find the ghost who was causing the trouble and somehow…help.

  If only I knew where to start. There were so many places to hide around here. The stable as well as all twenty acres of the property had to be full of nooks and crannies. I hadn't even begun to explore it all.

  My eyes fell on an olden wooden trap door, built into the floor right outside Annabelle's stall.

  Some things wouldn't be fun to explore at all. "What's down there?" I asked, moving toward it.

  The colonel stood in my way. "If you know what's good for you, you'll tell your friend Ellis to leave this property alone."

  So he knew about Ellis. He'd been watching.

  I dodged around him. "Are you stronger than those gangster ghosts? Do you have more power than the others?" This world seemed to revolve around strength and energy. "Is that how you can be here and they can't?"

  He refused to answer, so I tried another tack. "Tell me how to fix our problem in the kitchen." If I could calm the troublemaker, or at least find the spirit, it would be a start. "Who around here is angry enough to get destructive?"

  He blocked me from the wooden trap door in the floor in a disconcertingly simple way: he hovered above it. "It could be my mother-in-law," in a righteous tone that left me wondering if he was serious or not. "Although she prefers to storm around the main house and terrorize the servants' quarters. It could be a half dozen others as well. It's hard to say."

  I didn't buy it for a second. "Hard to say or you won't say?" I could have gone through him. I considered it. But I needed his help and I'd upset him enough already. "You know who it is, don't you?" Maybe he was friends with it. Maybe he worked for it. Maybe that's why he could move freely while the rest of the ghosts had been tamped down.

  He stood his ground, directly on top of the trapdoor. His voice grew deeper, louder. "None of this started happening until you living people came around and started digging. Now the negativity is spreading and there's no peace."

  "Whoever it is, we can help," I began.

  His voice boomed over mine. "We like things the way they are. I don't wish to sound rude, but I don't know any other way to say this. You shouldn't be here. This isn't a place for the living anymore." I felt the agitation rolling off him. "Tonight, I felt the poltergeist manifesting and I did what I could, but I can't always protect you."

  "If you don't want me here, why didn't you let the poltergeist have its way with me? Why did you protect me?"

  He seemed surprised at that. He drew back and his voice calmed, his manners returned. "How could I not?"

  He truly was a gentleman to the end. Then a startling though occurred to me. "Are you trying to protect it as well?"

  He ignored the question. "I implore you to listen to me," he pressed. "Talk to your male companion. Stress the urgency."

  "I'll pass along the message, but you and I both know that won't work." I didn't want it to.

  "You've disturbed enough today," he said, almost to himself. His mouth formed a thin line as he placed his rifle down on the floor. "This rooting around has to stop."

  He crouched down over the cellar door and placed his hand on it. I didn't understand what he was doing. I sure as heck didn't want to go underground. Not unless I could drag Ellis with me. Ghosts were one thing, spiders and snakes were another.

  His hand glowed stronger and I watched the energy ripple from it. His eyes glowed hot, his face set in determination. It appeared as if he were willing the door closed. I watched as the rest of his body flickered and faded, even as his hand remained steady. His brow furrowed, his jaw clenched. He drove every bit of heart and soul into blocking that door until he was spent with the effort and blew away like smoke on a breeze.

  I drew in a sharp breath. It sounded loud in the absolute silence that followed.

  "That was weird," I said aloud.

  "He seemed decent enough," Frankie said, scaring the daylights out of me.

  I whipped around. He'd chosen to stand directly behind me. Not next to me so I could have seen him coming. I brought a hand against the heart threatening to thump right out of my skin. "You've got to stop doing that."

  If he cared, he didn't show it.

  "How are you?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "It would be nice if I could feel my toes." He winked. "That was a joke. I don't technically have toes anymore."

  I shook my head, still unsettled by what I'd learned tonight. "Anything else I need to know about angry spirits that you haven't told me?

  "Hey," Frankie said, as if I were out of line, "I didn't know it would be a poltergeist in here. I was hoping for a pissed off group of winos. Maybe a hard-partying jazz band."

  I turned away from him. "Be serious." I didn't like the idea of a ghost who could attack like that. "Could you actually become a poltergeist like the colonel said?"

  Frankie stood next to me, rubbing at his chin. "Nah. It's easier to get tanked." He sighed at my reaction. "You gotta understand. Spirits don't always consciously decide to become like that. It just happens. They lose whatever it is that makes them them. They morph into pure negative emotion."

  "What kind of emotion did this?" I asked, looking down at the sealed trapdoor.

  The room glowed with ghostly grey light.

  "He's protecting somebody." Frankie shrugged, watching the trap door like it might haul off and bite him. "It can wait for
daytime. You're not getting paid enough to mess with that."

  Yes, but that would mean borrowing Frankie's power for longer. I didn't want to impose, but since he didn't bring it up, I decided I wouldn't either. "So is it locked?" I asked, not quite willing to try and touch it.

  He shivered, despite himself. "Might as well be. I wouldn't want to touch the field he put around that thing. It's going to give you that hair-standing-up-on-the-back-of-your-neck feeling if and when you try to go down. You're going to swear someone is behind you, ready to pounce."

  Shadows flickered over the ominous looking trap door. "Will it be true?"

  Frankie clenched his jaw. "It just might be."

  Chapter Eleven

  The real courage would be telling Ellis I'd failed to protect his kitchen. I pulled the flashlight out of my back pocket as we made our way back to the scene of the crime. Hopefully, the beam would help me illuminate what truly existed in the kitchen versus the illusion. I hadn't even checked the damage before. Perhaps I didn't want to know.

  I paused beneath the bug-eyed security cameras Ellis had set up in the rafters. At least he'd know I did my best. The service station was well and truly ruined. It lay on its side, even more beat up. Still, it had already been ready for the scrap heap when we started the night. Maybe Ellis wouldn't count that.

  I made my way around the scattered of an overturned trash can while Frankie retreated to a small space behind the overturned serving station. I sincerely hoped more parts of him weren't about to go missing.

  Slowly, I made my way back to the stove where I'd taken refuge. It was intact. Hallelujah.

  Except for a large, fist-sized dent between the burners.

  "That's not pretty."

  "Smashed?" Frankie asked, still holed up.

  "Only the top." If you wanted to look at the bright side. I'd done my job. It wasn't in pieces on the floor.

  Who was I kidding? Ellis would still be ticked.

  I inspected the rest of the remaining kitchen appliances and breathed a somewhat agitated sigh of relief. Everything else remained unscathed. For the most part. I'd have to use this encounter, this failure, to learn more about what was going on. I righted the overturned trashcan and began reloading it with scattered construction scraps, amused that for once I wasn't annoyed at the man in my life for not helping during cleanup.