A Watch of Weeping Angels (Devecheaux Antiques & Haunted Things Book 3)

by M. L. Bullock

  “Hey, Henri,” Aggie said as she poked her head in my corner office. I’d carved out a little piece of the workroom area to keep the dust off the computers. We needed this equipment to last at least another year. “Got a minute?”

  “Sure, what’s up?” I leaned back in the chair slightly and pushed it away from the door.

  She leaned against the sliding door with her arms crossed. “Has Detra Ann talked to you about that statue, the one from Mr. Glass’ place?”

  I put my pen down and waited to hear what she had to say. Detra Ann hadn’t mentioned anything about the statue, but she was not a fan of Mr. Glass either. It was unanimous—none of us liked him.

  “Did we get an offer on it?” I asked hopefully.

  “No, it’s not like that. Come take a look. It’s better to show you than tell you.”

  Aggie’s worried expression concerned me. I said, “Sure. Lead the way.” Nobody stirred in the shop. No customers, not even any window shoppers outside. Oh, well. Such is life. Sales tended to come in waves, I lied to myself.

  She stood by the cherub, which we had put near one of the front windows. “Take a look at it. Do you see anything unusual?”

  I leaned in to examine the thing, but I saw nothing out of the ordinary. We’d decided not to clean up the statue since the beautiful patina made it much more desirable for the right customer. Where, oh, where was the right customer? That’s when I saw the wet spot on the cherub’s face. I glanced up at the ceiling, but there was no evidence of a leak.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked as I carefully examined the statue for evidence of a fountain or anything that would make it leak. That’s probably it, it’s a leak. Maybe it had been full of water and now it was seeping out.

  “That’s what I’d like to know. And not only that, but I also think it’s trying to tell us something. There’s a story behind this thing, Henri. I know that’s probably not what you want to hear, not after the radio and the teacup set. I mean, maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the one making things happen…” Aggie was going on and on, blaming herself. For what, I wasn’t sure.

  “Whoa, hold on. I’m not blaming you for anything. Give me a minute to process this. Does Detra Ann know?”

  Aggie shrugged slightly. “I don’t think she knows about the weeping, but she did kind of get sick when she was around the statue for a few minutes. I don’t think she likes it either. I don’t know what to do about this. How do I explain it to customers? How do we make it stop?”

  I scratched my head as I gave it another once-over. “I know who to call. Let’s get the experts out here. I’ll move this thing to the workroom until we can figure this out. And let me move it. The less you handle it, the better.”

  “Come on, Henri. I’m not afraid of it, but I do feel there’s someone connected to it. I don’t want to say it, but I think there’s a spirit attachment. And judging from Mr. Glass’ creepiness, there’s a lot going on at that property.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Oh, shoot. Here comes a customer. Can you take care of him? I think he’s here about the silver trumpet. Trey Humphries is his name.”

  Aggie immediately greeted the customer but also allowed him to wander around before offering to help him find anything. I was wrong; it wasn’t Trey. I hoped he showed up soon, though. I had a second buyer for the antique instrument.

  With a grunt, I hoisted the angel up and carried it to the back room. I didn’t feel anything unusual or off-putting, but that meant nothing. I really wasn’t a gifted person, not like Detra Ann and Aggie, or our best friends Carrie Jo and Ashland. The Stuarts were so busy with Marietta that I didn’t call them, although I was certain they would come as soon as they could if I did ask. But if there was something going on here, if there was no explainable reason for this statue to be weeping, this was obviously supernatural.

  I could hear Aggie talking up a midcentury table and chair set. It sounded like she was going to make the sale. That was good news. I decided to call Midas Demopolis, the guy who ran Gulf Coast Paranormal, a reputable paranormal investigation team stationed right here in Mobile, Alabama.

  “Hey, Midas. Henri Devecheaux. How are you?”

  “Great, Henri. Still in Greece with Cassidy. It’s beautiful here.”

  My heart sank; I was a little jealous. How long had it been since we’d taken a vacation? “I bet. I feel a little guilty about calling you now that I remember you’re on your honeymoon. Sorry, Midas.”

  “No problem. What can I do for you?”

  I tapped my pen on the desk as I stared at the angel statue. “It’s about an item I have acquired. I think there may be something attached to it. It’s a cemetery statue. From a cemetery that was on the grounds of an old home for orphaned and abandoned kids.”

  Midas paused a bit before continuing in a quiet voice, “Call Sierra, Henri. She’s in charge now; she’s the boss over there. Gulf Coast Paranormal is still working, and I know she’d love to help you. Would you like me to call her?” Midas’ voice sounded warm and understanding, but he clearly didn’t want to get involved. Yeah, I was married to Detra Ann, so I could read between the lines like an FBI agent.

  “Oh, no. I can do it. Should I just call the office number?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I wish you all the best, Henri. I better go. Have a great day.”

  “Yeah, you too, Midas. Thanks. My love to Cassidy.”

  I left a message for Sierra, and she called me back and promised to come out tomorrow. “I’m wrapping up a case today, but I can stop by tomorrow. It sounds interesting. Thanks for calling us, Henri. Tell me what you know.”

  I did my best to describe the phenomenon, the feeling that the statue gave Aggie. She stood over me giving me her best description. “I’m glad you’ll be coming by. Thank you. Is there anything I need to do? I’ve moved the item to our workroom, but it still looks damp. I’ll keep it covered up, but I can see already that the cloth is wet. This is so weird.”

  Sierra paused. “Are there any mediums at your store? You mentioned Aggie, an employee. She’s the one who first noticed the weeping? She’s a medium, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. She lives on the top floor of the antiques store. She’s our only full-time employee, really. Occasionally, if we’re super busy, we’ll have more help. Her sister works for us part time.”

  “I see.” Sierra got quiet but then said, “I think you should keep Aggie away from the statue. Just for the day. Her abilities might make her vulnerable if there is an attachment to the statue.”

  “I’ll tell her. Holler when you are on your way, please. I want to make sure I’m here.”

  “Will do, Henri. See you tomorrow.”

  I hung up the phone and went in search of Aggie. She’d peeked her head in and out during my conversation. At least we were selling antiques now. That was good news. I glanced back at the wet cloth before closing the door on the statue. I imagined I heard a sound. Soft laughing? Soft weeping? I couldn’t tell, but I didn’t want to know.

  Tomorrow would bring us all the answers. Hopefully. We could wait another day, right?

  Please, God. Keep my family safe just one more day.

  Chapter Six—Aggie

  I couldn’t wait on Sierra for her to start the investigation. Something had to be done today. I had to find out what was going on with the statue, with everything. Going it alone might be more beneficial to get to the bottom of all of this. I mean, I knew Detra Ann and Henri meant well, but why didn’t they just trust me? We didn’t need a whole team in here to investigate paranormal stuff. How much more evidence did they need?

  Was I in over my head? Heck no. All it would take would be one touch. Just one. And then I would know the truth about this strange statue. Clearly it was a haunted item, but haunted by what? Why make such a big fuss? I didn’t know. It bothered me that everyone in my life treated me like a kid. I was nothing of the sort.

  Even though the statue put off bad vibes, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the child i
t had been assigned to protect. Like an eternal sentinel, this being had the appearance of a child, but the odd draping of the garment and the hand pointing to heaven suggested otherwise.

  The statue did not turn or move—thank God—and for the moment the tears had ceased. It was as if it knew I was coming for a visit and didn’t want to weird me out. Too late. I was sufficiently weirded out.

  I planned on touching it with my bare hands. I had to! How could I not?

  With a determined sigh, I tossed my work gloves on the cloth next to the statue. Henri had draped it before leaving, but I removed it like the badass I was—or wanted to be. It didn’t seem right to smother the thing. Ugh, why did I feel so strange?

  Fuzzy-headed. Yeah, that’s right. Fuzzy-brained.

  I took a deep breath as I stood before the item. It wasn’t as tall as most of the statues in Mr. Glass’ collection, only about three and a half feet tall, but it was remarkably heartbreaking. As I put a finger to the stone, I traced the face of the angel.

  Tell me, what secrets do you hold?

  I continued to trace the damp imprint cautiously yet gently. Were these true tear stains? What happened to this child that he or she was weeping beyond the grave? Or was it the angel? Or something else? Without further hesitation, I placed my bare hands on the stone. Despite the warm temperature in the shop, the stone held no heat. Nothing about this could be normal. It was as cold as ice, like it had been sitting in a meat locker. Yes, it was getting colder, and the contact with my skin hurt a bit.

  But there was no stopping me now. Nope. I had to keep going. Before I knew it, the room began to fade.

  It worked! I knew it would. Why was I so surprised?

  *****

  I stood in the center of a large hallway. Ridiculously large. The space felt massive and cold. The stark white color of the walls ginned up visions of asylums and old-fashioned hospitals. I walked forward tentatively. More space, more white walls, and then finally I realized the floor beneath me had changed. I was walking on wood floors now. The only warmth to the room was the dark rich mahogany wood that framed the two rooms on either side of me. Sun beamed through the stained-glass windows and created a variety of colors that danced across the otherwise stark walls. But even the dazzling sun couldn’t block out the darkness of this place. A strange crackling caught my attention.

  Sweltering heat cut through the cold sterility of the room, and a bright orange glow engulfed me. Kerosene filled my nostrils and overwhelmed my senses, taking my breath away as I inhaled the fumes. Something was different. It felt like I was looking out of someone else’s eyes. I shook my head, hoping to shake this feeling. Nothing worked. Suddenly a wretched familiarity came over me. I didn’t know this entity, did I?

  Ugh. I wanted this connection to end and fast! I needed to get out of here. Could a person die while immersed in a vision? God, I should have listened to Henri and Detra Ann. Too late now because I wasn’t alone.

  A woman’s voice called out, “Randall! Come to me! Where are you?”

  A fiendish voice replied, “Here, Mother. I am right here. Can’t you see me.”

  Oh, I don’t like this. Not one bit. Run, lady, run! This isn’t right. Aggie, snap out of it.

  The woman didn’t appear to know that anything was wrong with that voice. Didn’t she hear how strange and inhuman it was? I sure did. Yet, I couldn’t warn her. I couldn’t do anything except endure the vision.

  “Come quickly, dear. We must get out of here!”

  “Help me! Help me, Mother! I can’t see you!” The boy’s voice shifted a bit. He did sound familiar, like the boy in that first vision. The one who met the devil in the graveyard.

  How did I forget that? Yes, I knew who this kid was and what he was capable of—I dreamed about him. Or had a vision, I couldn’t be sure. But this woman, the woman I pretended to be, didn’t know how evil he truly had become.

  She loved her son, loved him with all her might even though she was afraid of him. Randall was a bad seed. Her husband declared that the night before he died. But Mrs. Overstreet believed none of his cruel words. If Randall was a bad seed, it was because Mr. Overstreet beat him far too often. But he was gone now, dead. And she was much relieved by that, although she would never admit that to a soul. Not a single soul.

  “Randall!” Her lungs began to fill with smoke. I experienced that sensation too. I blinked furiously, searching for any trace of the child in the blackness that surrounded me. Again, I heard that strange raspiness behind the child’s voice as he answered her pleas. Could it be from the smoke?

  “I’m here, Mother. Please come save me!” the voice called out pitifully. Thick, hot air wrapped around my body—no, her body. The heat was relentless in its pursuit. And then I wasn’t Mrs. Overstreet any longer.

  I was someone else. Everything shifted like I’d been a ship that tipped over in the water. Like the Titanic. Heck yes! That was exactly it!

  Someone evil. Someone not quite who they appeared to be. I felt terrible. Sick. Angry. I experienced hatred, vicious hatred. There was nothing good in life. Nothing at all. Looking through the so-called little boy’s eyes, I could see the silhouette of a woman coming toward me.

  Oh, she wanted to save him, but the little boy had no intention of allowing that. In fact, it was too late for her. Reaching up to her, the little hands of a boy lifted. I felt his emotions. The fire swirled around him, around them both, but it would not harm him. His Master had taken all that could be burned. He would return to him soon, with his own offering.

  “Take my hand,” the woman shouted at him as the boy reached up. I could feel my burnt skin stretching into a smile.

  Oh, God, I don’t want to be here! Wake up, Aggie!

  The skeletal hands of a child, their flesh melted away from the unrelenting fire, reached out toward the woman. “No!” I screamed, and the spell was broken. I was no longer at the mercy of this horrifying nightmare. I choked and gagged, the smell of smoke still fresh in my nose and mouth. I was barely able to stand from it all.

  “What is wrong with you, Aggie Kelly!” a shrieking voice greeted me. “You scared me to death with all that screaming. Why are you acting like a lunatic, young lady?”

  Great. It was Mrs. Biederman. Or Old Biddy Biederman as I sometimes called her. I went from one terrifying nightmare to another. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Biederman,” I replied, still reeling from the vision. My hands were shaking, but at least the smell of smoke was fading. “I saw a bug or something. Could have been a mouse.” I covered the statue with the cloth and went back to my counter. What in the world was she doing back here, anyway?

  “I think you have a screw loose, Miss Kelly. I can’t understand why a smart woman like Detra Ann would hire someone like you,” she snarled.

  Mrs. Biederman was a regular in the shop. She never had anything nice to say, especially to me. She reminded me of Ouiser from Steel Magnolias—only a larger version. Same demeanor. Harsh and to the point. If she didn’t like you, you knew it. There was no holding back with her.

  When I did not offer up a snappy comeback, she continued her interrogation. Moving closer to me, she asked, “What kind of bug do you think you saw?”

  “A big roach.”

  “All that noise because you saw a tree roach? You better mind yourself. I’m watching you. I know what your generation is into, and you are showing all the signs of being a druggie.”

  “What? I can assure you that I’m no druggie, Mrs. Biederman.” The nerve of this lady.

  Still glaring, she set her jaw and continued, “I’ll be sure to let Detra Ann know that she also needs to keep a better watch over her employees. Between you and your sister, there won’t be anyone visiting this shop soon.”

  “Detra Ann is quite capable of running her shop however she likes. My sister and I are not drug users, nor are we criminals, Mrs. Biederman. Was there something I could help you with?” I was ready to be done with this conversation. This lady always brought the worst out in me. I just couldn�
��t help but be sarcastic. She had it coming.

  Mrs. Biederman’s face tensed. “I’ve known Detra Ann since she was a baby. That’s why I’m watching you. Her good name doesn’t need to be tarnished by the likes of you. She has enough to deal with from some people around here without you adding to it.”

  I did not understand exactly what she was talking about, but there was no way that I would intentionally add to any of Detra Ann’s troubles. I liked the Devecheauxs.

  Wait a second. Was this old biddy hinting about the community’s collective disapproval of Henri and Detra Ann’s marriage? What year was this that having a biracial marriage was such a dang shock? Really. Some people need to get a life.

  Mrs. Biederman needed to get lost and go hang out with some of the other busybodies around town. It was kind of funny that this lady thought she was the Boss Lady’s best friend yet secretly looked down at her for marrying a black man. I suspected that Mrs. Biederman was quite jealous of Detra Ann. Jealous that she married someone as sweet, caring and handsome as Henri Devecheaux.

  “I do my best to be a good reflection on Detra Ann. Don’t you worry, Mrs. Biederman. Is there anything else I could help you with?”

  With a tilt of her head, Mrs. Biederman said through clenched teeth, “No, thank you.” I guess she didn’t like that reply. That would get her out of here. She hardly ever bought anything anyway. When she shambled out of the store with her oversized purse, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Where had Henri gotten to? Should I tell him what happened? Maybe I should keep this to myself. Yeah, probably a good idea. Huh, I was truly by myself. Good, I needed more time to check out the statue. I returned to the storeroom and removed the cloth again. As I stared down at the poor chiseled cherub’s face, my skin flushed with a nervous heat. I did not touch it. No, I wouldn’t do that. I had no desire to experience any of that again. Not by myself.

  The memory of those screams and the smell of burning flesh would stay with me for a long time. I still had so many questions, but at least now I knew who the statue belonged to. I knew some of what happened. And even though I hated to admit it, Sierra had been right.