Ghosted on the Gulf Coast (Gulf Coast Paranormal Trilogy Book 1)

by M. L. Bullock

  “Don’t think it will work?” I asked.

  “No, but what if it does? Is this going to be how we work now? Because I didn’t sign up for this. I’m down for debunking, but not for this.”

  “Don’t put the cart before the horse, Jack,” Midas warned him. “This is just a one-time thing. Investigation and debunking are still our priorities. Let’s get it done and move on to the next client.”

  “Sounds good to me. As far as I’m concerned, the investigation is over with. This is just playtime,” Jack grumbled as he dug for a camera cord.

  “Okay, you’ve told us how you feel, but please keep that to yourself when you’re in front of the client.” Jack shot Midas a dirty look but didn’t argue.

  We left the storage room, touching fingers one last time.

  Four hours later, I wore a dress that made me look a lot like Lady Spring. Midas wore a turn-of-the-century tuxedo with a black bow tie and carried an old-fashioned walking stick. Everyone looked wonderful. Helen wore a neat, turn-of-the-century updo with a pearl comb that kept her long white hair in place. She wore long white silk gloves and a small black fascinator feather in her hair. She was lovely and looked every inch the part of a sophisticated turn-of-the-century lady. I pulled my hair up too, in a Gibson Girl-style bun. I left a few tendrils down around my temples and curled them. I looked at myself in the mirror of the theater bathroom and could hardly believe it. Somehow, with barely any hair skills at all, I managed to pull off the look. Or so I hoped. I started to ask Helen for her opinion on my hair, but I heard whispering and looked around.

  She was in a stall grabbing some tissue, and I didn’t know whether to mention the noise. I dug in my beaded purse and pulled out a digital recorder. Trying to be covert, I clicked it on.

  Helen stood beside me now, patting her lipstick with the tissue. “Do you think this is too much? Can you tell I never wear cosmetics? I feel like I have makeup all over my face and in all the wrong places.”

  More whispering.

  I couldn’t tell if the voices were male or female, but it sounded like there were several. And they weren’t at all happy with us. My bare arms were covered in gooseflesh, and a chill ran down my spine.

  I swallowed and finally asked, “Helen, do you hear something?”

  “You mean the whispering?”

  “It wasn’t just me, then.”

  “Oh no,” she said as the toilet paper in the stall behind us began to fly at ninety miles an hour. Paper flew everywhere, and the two of us backed up slowly until we were flush against the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. Then the whispers came from behind me, filling my ears with threats, and I snatched myself away from the glass as if a hand were about to grab me.

  “Hurry up, Helen.”

  “I’m right behind you, girl.” We scurried out of the bathroom and into the darkened hall. I could hear the sounds of applause coming from the auditorium; it sounded so real, I half expected to find the place packed with living fans of Estella Winters. I reminded myself that it was just a recording. A very good, very loud recording. It had taken some convincing earlier, but Norman had agreed to put Estella’s name in lights on the marquee. Hopefully she would figure out this was all for her. Tonight really would be Estella’s night.

  “I hope I haven’t put us all in danger,” I confessed as we made our way to the auditorium.

  “No more danger than Ginger Perry faced.” I raised my eyebrows at her. She had a point. If we could rid this place of the conniving Estella Winters, if we could set her spirit free to go wherever it belonged, we would have done the right thing. I didn’t know if it was possible, but it was worth a try. If we couldn’t make this happen, Norman would lose it all.

  “You are right, Helen. Time to face the music.” My hand was on the auditorium door now. No turning back. We were in it up to our eyeballs.

  “Time to see Estella Winters.”

  Chapter Seventeen—Cassidy

  “Time to take your seats, ladies. Please follow me and I will show you the way.” Bruce looked too happy. I wanted to tell him so, but I couldn’t help but stare at the auditorium. I don’t know how the little man did it, but the place looked fantastic. There were candelabras burning on both sides of the stage, a fabulous-looking burgundy curtain with gold cords hung off to the sides, and there were playbills on a few of the seats. Where in the world did he get those?

  Bruce offered his arm to Helen. He was taking his role as head usher a bit seriously, but she seemed to enjoy the attention.

  “May I?” A dapper-looking Midas offered me his arm, but there was no smile on his face. Like me, he appeared edgy, even nervous, like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He glanced over his shoulder and then at me.

  “What’s going on? Have you seen something? I heard whispers in the bathroom.” I tried to keep my voice down…what was the sense in that? These spirits knew who we were and probably knew why we were there. But maybe I was giving them far too much credit.

  “Yeah, I think I saw Martin Hankins when I first came in. He didn’t look happy to see me. It was only for a few seconds, but he made sure I saw him. I think we might have miscalculated this a bit.”

  “What do you mean?” I said in a fierce whisper.

  “I mean maybe it was Martin who put the kibosh on Estella’s performance. Maybe he doesn’t want her to take the stage. It makes sense, you know.”

  I had to agree, but I didn’t voice my concerns. “We’re here now. We might as well follow through.” Bruce waved us to seats in the second row. I didn’t know if he regularly wore glasses, but the round spectacles he sported now really suited him. I noticed that many of the seats in the front row had period items like top hats, ladies’ fans and even a pair of opera glasses.

  Bruce waved his hand, and I glanced behind us to see Jack waving from the control booth. Apparently the guys had orchestrated the night’s performance down to the letter. A beautiful soundtrack of violins began to play, and Bruce gave a quick bow as he walked to the stage entrance. In a few seconds he was in the center of the stage and Jack was shining a huge light on him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Carmichael Theater. Tonight is a special night, for we welcome the very talented Miss…Miss…Estella…” Suddenly Bruce began to shake, like a rag doll in the hands of an angry giant. He was on his knees and now his hands were around his own neck as if struggling against invisible hands that wanted to choke the life out of him. I jumped to my feet, unsure what to do. Bruce made a gurgling sound, and Helen and I screamed. Always a man of action, Midas raced to the stage and leapt up with hardly any effort. As he did, both sets of auditorium doors slammed shut so hard I thought they would fall off the hinges. Helen grabbed my hand and held on tight.

  We weren’t alone now. That was for sure. I glanced back at Jack for help, only to see him disappear out of the control room. He was clearly trying to help us, but I doubted he’d be able to get those auditorium doors open. Not in this lifetime.

  “Bruce!” Helen yelled as the man passed out, his body slumped in Midas’ arms.

  “He’s breathing!” Midas shouted back.

  Helen was halfway up the stage when I pulled her back.

  “No, Helen! Stay with me. We’re not alone!” I heard the whispering again. Two words, loud and clear.

  My turn. My turn. My turn.

  Helen wasn’t listening to me. She slipped out of my grip and sailed down the aisle to the side of the stage and to Bruce’s side. I remembered that she had been a nurse for a while when she was younger. While they loosened Bruce’s collar and struggled to wake him up, I heard Jack screaming at us from the other side of the door. I thought I heard Norman too, but I couldn’t be sure. On the stage a black cloud formed. I thought it was a problem with the lighting, but the dark spot grew until it was as big as a balloon and then took on the shape of a man. Suddenly, the lights went out, the spotlight was snuffed out and the only light left were the two candelabras on the sides of the stage.

&
nbsp; And that was enough to see the shadow grow.

  “Midas!” I shouted, unable to move. Something constrained me, not arms or hands but a force I could not describe. The corset I wore already made it a struggle to breathe, but now I couldn’t breathe at all. I didn’t want to turn around, but I had to. I had to look.

  I heard the voice again.

  My turn…

  Yes, she was behind me now. And Midas could see her too because he yelled at me.

  “Cassidy!”

  The voice was getting louder, her voice. In that moment, I was torn between turning around and facing the devil or fleeing, like I had once already.

  This bound feeling was similar to what I’d experienced during a rare bout of sleep paralysis. My mind raced as I pondered my next move. All I could do was watch Midas and Helen finally rouse Bruce, but I couldn’t focus. With all my might I shook myself—finally my legs and arms could move and I spun about and came face to face with Sierra McBride.

  Or was it Sierra? Estella and Sierra looked so much alike except for their hair color, and in the dark that distinction didn’t help much. I went to my artistic strengths and searched for familiar details in the figure that stood before me. The differences between the women were hard to find. I racked my brain as I struggled to remember some small thing that would set them apart. They had the same perky nose, and their eye shape was similar. In fact, if they had not been separated by a century I would have sworn they were sisters.

  “Sierra?” I whispered hopefully.

  The pretty woman’s face changed. Her skin was not smooth but puckered and scarred. The wide eyes that sparkled in the candlelight faded to dull blackness. As I struggled to breathe, her mouth opened impossibly wide until out came an inhuman scream. Her skeletal hands shot out like lightning and squeezed my shoulders. The pain and fear overwhelmed me.

  That was the last thing I remembered before the world went black.

  Chapter Eighteen—Estella

  My feet sank in the mud, and I staggered like a drunk trying to release myself from the horrid muck. Nobody offered to help me; in fact, the few pedestrians on Esplanade Street did their best to avoid me. I hoped the rain would drown me, but it didn’t. Further proof that I was alive. Wounded but very much alive.

  And I wanted what was owed to me! I had paid the price. I had done the deed, and now I wanted what was mine!

  A child looked at my scabbed, scarred face and whimpered. I practically growled at him as I finally freed myself from the mud. My borrowed gown was tight and muddy, but I had to get to my destination.

  I would find Martin and make him pay. He owed me! It’s my turn! He promised me! I have done it all. He must give me what I want!

  Finally I arrived at the Carmichael Theater. Feeling as weak as a kitten, I carefully climbed the iron stairs that led to the actors’ entrance. The door was shut, but I knocked and knocked until finally Barry answered. He had never been my friend and wasn’t happy to see me tonight. He stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

  “What are you doing here, Estella? Don’t you know the police are looking for you? They think you killed your brother. Did you?”

  I had not expected to be asked outright, but now there seemed no sense in denying it. “Yes. Now where is Martin? Call him here, now.” The door opened again and cast full light on my face. It was dark out tonight, and I’d hoped to avoid having anyone see me clearly.

  “He is helping Birdie get ready for the stage. She’s going on in your place.”

  Before I knew what was happening I slapped him across the face. He rose up from the metal grate staircase, swearing at me and calling me evil names. “You bitch! Martin is right—you are quite mad! I’m sending for the sheriff. You had better leave, Estella.” I wished I had a knife I could shove into his heart, but I did not. All I could do was watch as he closed the door behind me.

  I banged on the door again, feeling cold and exhausted, but no one came. Suddenly I began to cry, and I sat on the cold steps crying for all my heart’s worth. Then the door opened again.

  It was Martin, my mortal enemy. He must have come to gloat over me, for the expression on his face was one of disgust.

  “Martin, you have done me wrong. You deceived me! I did everything you asked, but you have mistreated me so! I demand you let me in. It’s my turn! You promised!”

  He grabbed me by the neck and stared down at me, his eyes like dark black olives, only colder. “I owe you nothing, you murdering wench. Your family took everything from me; you think I would help you?”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I knew Martin hated my brother and my father, but me? This I did not believe. I could not believe. But he continued on.

  “You were just the means to an end. You served your purpose,” he said as he lit a cigar and blew the smoke in my face. “Now kindly disappear.”

  “But you said…you said it was my turn. I want my turn, Martin.”

  He ignored me; instead he puffed his cigar and looked at the people below. Crowds were beginning to make their way to the theater to see this year’s finest play, Fortunato’s Spring, and I was supposed to be the star. I had been tricked and betrayed.

  “Do not turn your back on me, Martin. I will not be ignored. Look what you did to me! Look at my face! You did this to me!” As I touched my face, my heart sank into a deep despair. What would happen to me now? I had nowhere to go, no one to turn to.

  With a devious smile, he turned around and leaned back against the iron railing. “Now I have to admit that was an accident, but there’s nothing to be done for it. You are ruined for the theater, Estella. I suppose you could fall back on the world’s oldest profession…but take my advice and wear a mask or at least a veil. I can’t imagine you’ll get many takers looking like that.”

  Someone called up to him, and he turned around and shouted back. He was laughing. And smoking. And loving his life. He wasn’t thinking about me or the pain he caused. He wasn’t thinking about that at all.

  And all I could think about was hurting him. Just like he hurt me. I wanted him to suffer, just like I had. With a scream I ran toward him, and the next thing I remember, I was flinging my arms around him and we were falling together through the night air. And then we were no more.

  I rose immediately, a ghost, an invisible Estella with no hope, no life, no future. But Martin lingered in his broken body. I could see his spirit struggling to be free, and he saw me too! And I knew that I did not want to see him. That if I did see him again, it would be bad for me. Worse even than death.

  I flew into the theater, whisking past the blurry living people and into my dressing room. I managed to stay there, hide there, until one day everything changed.

  She’d come to the theater and played the song. Just like Martin used to do. And it drew him. Then he came and he saw me.

  And he hated me still. Even in death he was determined to keep me from taking my turn. He would deny me the one thing I wanted more than anything else, a chance to perform at the Carmichael Theater. I’d sung at the dress rehearsal, true enough, but I had never achieved the thing I wanted most.

  And his spirit would not allow it. I knew that now. And that filled me with despair.

  But now the girl was here, the one who saw me and painted me. And the other who looked like me. Yes, she would do nicely. I needed her. She must help me!

  Can you hear me? Can you help me? Please, help me!

  Chapter Nineteen—Cassidy

  “I’m awake. I’m awake. Help me, Midas.” I wobbled on my feet, but all I could think about was what I just saw. Estella murdered Martin. She murdered him, and he was determined to stop her from performing now. Martin was the one who had attacked Bruce.

  “You have to go, Martin!” I called to the spirit. “You can’t stay here anymore. You did a bad thing, and bad things were done to you, but you cannot stay. The owner doesn’t want you here.” I was surprised to see Norman beside me. At some point during my vision, the doors had opened; bot
h Jack and Norman were inside with us now. “Right, Norman?”

  “That’s right, Cassidy!” He looked around, but when he didn’t see anyone he said, “That’s right! This is my place now! If you can’t behave, sir, get out!”

  Midas followed my lead. “You heard him. You can’t stay. This isn’t your property; it never was. You didn’t own it in life, and you don’t own it in death. You HAVE to go!” I heard a moaning sound—it was Martin. He knew the truth. He had no true claim here. He had to go.

  “You aren’t on the marquee out front, Martin. You were never the star. You were a thief.” I considered my next words carefully. “And you too were a murderer.” I played a hunch. “It was you who attacked Brent Winters that day and left him to die. You set up Estella, thinking that she would get the blame and you would be rid of her. Your war wasn’t with Brent after all, for you always planned to kill him, but with Estella. And why, Martin? Because you once loved her? Or because you always hated her?”

  I heard him crying now, but I didn’t quit. He needed to hear the truth, finally. He needed to know that we knew. “You are the murderer, Martin! You act like you are so high and mighty, but we all know it was you! You did horrible things to Estella. You did it!”

  Bruce yelled too, “Now leave this place and never come back. Your deeds have been exposed and brought to light. You cannot escape your punishment any longer. Go now, Martin Hankins! Your time here on this earth is done!” And then everything went quiet.

  Nothing happened. Our small group gathered in the aisle and waited to see what would happen next. Without another word, Bruce climbed back on the stage. The place felt more peaceful, but there was something left to be done.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I now present Estella Winters as Lady Spring! Please welcome her to the stage.” Bruce scurried off while we all clapped, and soon an orb began to bounce around the stage.