Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
About the Author
THE TAW RIDGE HAUNTING
ROBIN G. AUSTIN
Kindle Edition
© 2017 Robin G. Austin. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic or electronic process or by photographic recordings nor stored in a retrieval system transmitted or otherwise copied for public or private use including words and illustrations, other than brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews, without written consent of the author. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Reference to brands, media and trademarks are used fictitiously and under the fair use doctrine.
The Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Series
The Roxbury Haunting
The Cathville Haunting
The Shem Bay Haunting
The Eton Bluff Haunting
The Taw Ridge Haunting
Prologue
§
July 6, 2002
Taw Ridge, Tennessee
“It’s gonna cool off some tonight. Think I’ll take off all my clothes and run naked through the town.” He laughed loud until his coughing shut him up. Then he took a long, warm drink of whiskey. “Where you stayin’ these days?”
Malachi Morris grinned and tipped the bottle of Thunderbird to his lips.
“I know you ain’t sleepin’ on the streets like the rest of us. And I know you ain’t got yourself no sugar momma lettin’ you sleep on her floor.”
“Don’t need me a sugar momma. Got me a room at a fine hotel in town. Got me an inside connection.”
“Lyin’ fool. You ain’t got yourself no inside connection. You ain’t even got you an outside connection. I bet you be sleepin’ in the dumpster at the workin’ girls’ motel.” He laughed loud again before taking another drink of whiskey, never letting his eyes leave the man.
Malachi tipped the bottle to his lips with one hand and rolled a cigarette with the other. “You got those barbs we talked about?”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. You got money?”
Malachi slipped off his boot and exchanged a five dollar bill for a baggy.
“What’s a lazy old wino like you need with sleepin’ pills for anyway? You finish off that Thunderbird, you’ll be passed out before it gets dark.”
“They’re for a friend.”
“Pssh. You ain’t got your sorry self no friend. You’re bat-crap crazy, and I don’t know anybody who likes you one bit.”
Malachi slipped the drugs into the toe of his boot and put it back on. He finished the wine and started walking to town. The wine had warmed his head and his stomach, but both ached and his steps were slow. Still, he was looking forward to his fresh garden vegetables. He hoped tonight they were fried up with some white fish or chicken. He hoped they’d left some pastry in the cooler too. Nothing better after a good meal than something sweet.
He cut across the field so he wouldn’t be seen on the street. When he got there, he stood at the edge of the property. Sure enough, nobody was around. A bloody red tomato smiled at him as he passed by, and he looked away.
Malachi hit the frame with the palm of his hand twice, and the window slid up easy as butter. Just high enough so he could climb inside. He’d sleep awhile, but he knew he’d wake soon enough. ‘Cause how could anybody sleep on a night like tonight?
When his eyes opened, it was dark enough out not to be seen. He went to the fountain and waited for the lights to go off. One, two, three.
Chapter One
§
Quiche Lorraine and hot chocolate are what Georgia is bringing to the séance tonight. Her plan to come is my own fault and I’m not happy about it. She’s not the kind of person I’d prefer to have around when I’m contacting the dead.
The woman is nice in an irritating way. She’s caring, patient, always positive, and oh so helpful. In other words, irritating– to me anyway. She’s my father’s girlfriend– the first he’s had since my mom died almost thirteen years ago. He’s very happy and that’s the only reason I put up with her.
I was talking to my friend Char about the séance at my dad’s diner where Georgia works. The woman likes to be part of my conversations even when she isn’t. She thought a séance sounded like fun. Arthur, my dad, thought it would be a great way for us to get closer. I thought he knew me better than that.
After her self-invitation, things got worse. Georgia invited Libby and Libby can’t wait and can’t shut up about it even though she’s got nerves of noodles. She’s the station manager at KCRQ, the place where I speak to the dead– despite having quit two months ago. For some reason I don’t want to know, the two women have bonded.
I told Georgia that cheese and ghost don’t mix. She’d laughed. The woman tells me she believes in ghosts, but she doesn’t. I heard her telling a customer at the diner that we are having a girls’ night to “talk about my imaginary boyfriend.”
Tonight she’ll be crying in her custard when I contact Neil Franklin. And I know just what I’ll say when she does: imagine that.
Professionally, I’ve been helping earthbound spirits cross the veil for over five years. I’ve been talking to spirits for almost twenty six years, but Neil’s the only spirit I’ve ever considered my own. He’s been hanging around my home for the past six months.
It all started when I got an email from someone named Anna. She was supposed to be my online tarot card customer. Anna was a no-show then the FBI showed up at my door to tell me Anna was a man and the man was dead.
The FBI never told me what happened to Neil. Stranger still, an online search for him turned up nothing. The FBI is keeping secrets about my ghost.
Although he’s rarely around, Neil has grown on me these past few months. I don’t know where he goes, but I know he needs help in crossing over– like any earthbound spirit would. I admit I’ve been selfish in not helping him move on. He’s a peaceful ghost, and if it wasn’t for the FBI, I’d think he’s just reluctant to leave this world. Still, he needs to continue his soul’s journey. Tonight’s his night so I hope he shows up for the fun.
The house is clean, Mojo the wolfdog is fed, my website is updated, and I’m telling Neil what to expect tonight when my phone rings. It’s my business line and normally I’d be excited, but things have changed and I’m not sure in what way.
“Raven Eradications,” I say.<
br />
“Yeah, I saw your ad on the Haunted Hotels website.”
I’m thrilled. I spend a lot of money on advertising my ghost eradication services and so little of it pays off. “You have a hotel that is haunted?” I sound a little too excited.
“No, I want one.”
Now I get my unfair share of crank calls and psychos, but I’ve been experiencing some weird hormonal challenges lately. I’m sure not in the mood for one of those calls right now.
“I heard Walmart has them on sale,” I say. The guy, who sounds too old to be making crank calls, is silent. I’m ready to end the conversation.
“Walmart? I’m talking about real ghosts. Not some blow up dolls.”
I don’t get the connection. My finger is on the end button when he says those magic words no self-employed person can resist.
“The price doesn’t matter. I’ll pay you whatever it takes.”
“I’m listening,” I say.
He tells me he bought a hotel outside of Nashville that the real estate person swore up and down was haunted. He even got the place at a discount because it had been on the market way too long. Problem is there are no ghosts.
I tell him most people, especially guests, prefer it that way.
He doesn’t. He says he bought a haunted hotel because he plans on running a haunted hotel. He wants to be famous. He wants to be on some hotel registry for one of the top haunted places to spend the night. He has the hotel, the brochures, the online ads, the grand opening scheduled, but he doesn’t have a single ghost.
“So how much and when can you start?” he asks.
Unfortunately for both of us, nothing and never. But it takes me fifteen minutes to convince the guy that spirits don’t show up and haunt on command then agree to work in a hotel for all eternity.
I feel bad for the man. It sounds like he spent a lot of money on his dream of having a top-rated haunted hotel. When it finally sinks in that he can’t buy a haunting, he tells me my ad is nothing but a bunch of fake advertising and hangs up on me.
Before I set my phone down, it rings again. I’m ready to give whoever it is a double dose of my hormones on a platter. When I see who it is, I regret it’s not the hotel owner.
“Hi, Libby.”
“Is the séance still on for tonight?”
For the third time, I tell her it is. This time though she sounds seriously nervous. I’ve already told her she doesn’t have to come. Since I didn’t invite her, that would work fine for me.
The only one I invited was Char. The woman has been my best friend since grade school. We started doing séances together in junior high. It was fun and foolish and dangerous, but mostly fun. I know I can count on her to keep her wits about her. I know that won’t be the case with the other two women.
Libby says she considers the séance research for managing my show. Since my show has nothing to do with séances, I’d suggested she read some blog posts. I work one hour, one day a week at the radio station. She’s putting too much effort into me and if it wasn’t for my contract, I wouldn’t be working there at all.
I quit almost three months ago and the station owner, Dan Barboza, sued me. I figured the best way to get even was to come back to work for him. He can’t fire me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make him wish he’d let me quit.
I’m getting used to Libby’s quirky ways and that isn’t a good thing, but it is pathetic. She’s high maintenance, and I’m having problems maintaining myself lately. She reminds me of the stereotypical loser in high school who followed the popular kids around while offering to share her lunch and carry their books. I know I’m going to end up being mean to her then wish I hadn’t, but not a lot.
“What should I wear?” she asks.
“It’s casual. Ghosts don’t care what you wear.”
“So slacks and a jacket?”
“Ballroom gown to pajamas works for me. Neil too. Take your pick. Just no cameras and no hidden mikes or you’ll be the one going to the afterlife.”
“Oh, I couldn’t come in my pajamas.”
“Then don’t. I’ll see you at eight. Bye—
“Right at eight or a little before so we can start at eight?”
“Eight. Bye, Libby.”
“Neil, I’m sorry. Georgia and Libby mean well but they don’t come off all that… normal. If anything, they’ll give you an added incentive to leave this earth. It’s time for you to crossover and catch up with your loved ones. I want to help you do that. Whatever happened to you, whatever you might have done, let’s resolve it tonight. Know that I’m here for you. All is forgiven in spirit—
There’s a crash in the kitchen. Then another one. Mojo the ghost tracker is standing in the doorway when I get there. If somebody very much alive was in the kitchen, they would be running out the back door right now. The wolfdog does not tolerate those who get near his food supply.
I stand at the edge of the dining room and lean my head into the kitchen. “Hello?” There’s no reply so I take a step in and look around. A six inch butcher knife has defied gravity by jumping out of the knife holder on the counter and flinging itself to the floor.
“Neil? Was that you? I know you think you want to stay here, but the afterlife is wonderful. Lots of white light and fluffy clouds and singing angels. No bills, no work, no employers, no wacky clients, no even wackier people who want to be your friend. Trust me, you’re going to love it.”
Glass pops in the other room and Mojo lets rip his werewolf howl. I rush to see what happened and find two exploded light bulbs on the floor.
“Neil, stop. Whatever happened is over.” I light a smudge stick and sit on the sofa. Neil’s always been a quiet and thoughtful roommate, but I’ve never told him he had to leave. It seems that leaving isn’t in his plans, and now I really regret not trying to help him sooner.
“You can tell me what happened. You can release all guilt, fear, anger, regret, or whatever else you might have going on. In spirit you’re perfect and all is forgiven.”
I have my eyes closed, and I will myself to go deeper so Neil can tell me what went wrong in his life– enough so that the FBI got involved. “I’m listening, Neil. Speak and I’ll be able to hear you.”
Neil is silent and I’m getting tired of sitting on the sofa waiting for him. Still, I’m not eager to have Georgia or Libby here if he’s going to protest his planned departure with knife throwing. I try again.
“Neil Franklin—
“Anna.”
Chapter Two
§
I’m sitting in front of the closet in the hallway. If not for Mojo doing his ghost pose, I never would have guessed that’s where the whispered, “Anna” came from.
No wondered the guy hasn’t been communicating with me. I thought he was using the name as a cover, but it appears that Anna is how he wants to be known. Or the FBI lied and there never was a Neil Franklin. If that’s the case, all the time I spent looking for something about the guy online was wasted.
Whoever my resident spirit was in life, in death it appears to have some unfinished business that won’t get resolved in a onetime séance.
“Okay, Anna, I’m listening. It’s time to come clean. Whatever you did in life is over for you in death. Tell me what you need or what is preventing you from leaving this world, and I’ll do my best to help you. Since the FBI is involved, remember I’m a civilian. If it has to do with Russian spies or South American drug lords, don’t ask me to do anything that will get me or my family killed.”
Anna isn’t talking and I’m about to ask if she wants to put off doing the séance for another night when my phone rings. I’m hoping it’s Anna. It takes me four rings to find my phone. “Hello.”
“Is this Raven Eradications?”
“Anna?”
“No, this is Ellen Boshears. Is this the ghost girl or not?”
Ghost girl? I’m about ready to say or not, but it’s my own fault for thinking a ghost would actually be calling me.
“This is
Jack Raven,” I say. I’m back at the closet glaring at a bunch of junk that needs cleaning out. I slam the door and go to the living room. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a hotel outside of Nashville.”
I am so not in the mood for another crank call. “And you need a few ghosts to entertain the guests?” There’s a long pause and now I feel like I’m the crank on the call.
“No. I have a publicity problem.”
At the way this day is going, I should go back to bed. “Publicity?”
“Yes. I recently inherited a hotel from my uncle. The Herman Hotel in Taw Ridge. It appears the man left me more than a building. A few guests have complained about… noises. Of all the ridiculous things in the world, they’re spreading rumors about ghosts. I just learned the hotel has a reputation in town for being haunted.”
The woman sounds like she’s pacing and I hear a door slam. She sounds angry enough to be the one doing the slamming. I doubt it’s her alleged ghost.
“I’ve sunk a fortune into a grand reopening event that’s in less than two weeks. Instead of getting ready for it, I’m trying to stop guests from cancelling their reservations and fielding calls from reporters about complaints of ghosts. Complaints,” she shouts.
Her shout snaps me back to attention. I was busy thinking about the odds of getting two hotel owners calling me less than an hour apart. One who wanted ghosts and the other who didn’t. And both in Tennessee. The odds are better that my competitors are trying to drive me out of business.
She’s still talking, but now about the details of her reopening and the uncle who no one in the family knew existed. She’s telling me about the floor where guests report hearing the noise. She’s spent nights up there and hasn’t heard a single sound. One of her idiot employees even called the police to come out. She had to demand that a report not be filed.
The woman sounds like a she-devil. I’m trying to tune into her energy, but I get knocked back when I do. I’m guessing before she was a haunted hotel owner, she was an attorney or politician. She’s ready to pick a fight with me, and I haven’t said anything since the crack about her wanting ghosts.
The Taw Ridge Haunting Page 1
