It was pretty clear that Binky couldn’t tell me more about the cat-eating gnome, so I paid her a fair price for the ‘acquisition’ and waited until she glanced around our front showroom and departed before I looked to Teag.
“If you’re wondering, it’s a ‘hell no’ about me carrying this to the back,” I said drily.
He chuckled. “I figured as much. And I already sent Sorren a text that we had something potentially dangerous. He said he’d be back in town tomorrow.” Teag walked over and peered through the wire cage. “Do you think she was telling the truth?”
I shrugged. “I think she believed what she told us was the truth,” I replied. “And I’m getting creeped out just standing next to that thing. So whether or not it ate her cat, I suspect that the gnome has some kind of bad mojo.”
Teag gingerly carried the caged gnome back to the office. The bell over the door rang, and I looked up, wondering if Binky had returned, to see a svelte gray-haired woman in a St. John suit wave a cheery greeting.
“Cassidy! I’m so glad I caught you. I was on my way back from lunch, and I wanted to remind you about the Archive fundraiser. You know, to restore the Bethany Plantation? I can count on you and Teag to attend and help us out, can’t I?”
Mrs. Benjamin Morrissey was a true doyenne of Charleston society, and the Director of the Historical Archive. She had the trifecta of wealth, family history, and social connections to be a rainmaker for the Archive’s preservation projects, and she was often a big help to Teag and me when we were researching local history. She had been a good friend of my Uncle Evan, who ran Trifles and Folly before I inherited it, so I was never quite sure how much she knew about the family magic or about the store’s real purpose. I suspected it was more than she let on, just as I wondered whether or not she and my late uncle had at one time been an ‘item’ after her husband died.
I grinned, in spite of the spooky gnome problem. “It’s always good to see you,” I said, and meant it. I enjoy Mrs. Morrissey’s wit and although she’s in her seventies, her energy usually leaves me feeling like a slacker. “And yes, I’m planning to attend.”
“Count me in!” Teag called from the back.
“I’ve heard stories about the Bethany place for a long time,” I said. “I think it’s wonderful the Archive is taking on the restoration project.”
Mrs. Morrissey adjusted the pearl necklace at her throat. “I agree,” she said. “It’s something I’ve been advocating for years, and I’m so thrilled that we’re finally making progress. In fact, the initial donations have been enough to have the house and grounds professionally appraised, hire an architecture firm that specializes in old homes, and remove some of the trash from the site.” She wrinkled her nose. “We also identified pieces that just weren’t up to the quality of the original plantation, and sold them off to raise more money.”
Preservation was the lifeblood of a city like Charleston, and at any given moment, there seemed to be dozens of worthy causes raising funds to rebuild, renovate, repair or safeguard pieces of the city’s past. I couldn’t support every one, but I had a soft spot for Mrs. Morrissey, so her pet causes usually got priority.
“I can’t stay,” Mrs. Morrissey said. “Just poked my head in to say hello. Give my best to Teag. Ta-ta!” And with that, she was gone.
My cell phone rang, and when I answered it, Kell Winston, our favorite ghost-hunter, was on the line. “Hi Cassidy! Are you and Teag doing anything tomorrow night?”
I hesitated, and Kell barreled on ahead. “SPOOK is going out to look at a house you might find interesting,” he said. “No one said it was haunted until the place was renovated, and now they seem to be having a lot of problems.” SPOOK stood for ‘Southern Paranormal Observation and Outreach Klub’. Kell was the leader of the group, which had started to make a name for itself in ghost-hunting circles.
“I can ask Teag,” I said. “You need an antiques consult?” Kell knows a little bit about my ability to read objects, but he doesn’t know about Trifles and Folly’s secret mission, or about other things best kept under wraps, like Teag’s magic and the fact that our patron, Sorren, is a six hundred year-old vampire. Family secrets aren’t for sharing.
“Got it in one,” he said with a laugh. “It’s the old Hoffman house, south of Broad. Know the place?”
For obvious reasons, Teag and I were pretty well connected to Charleston’s historical renovation circles. Teag’s partner, Anthony, did pro bono legal work for several preservation societies. And since I’m a history buff on top of what we do at the shop, I’ve been on house tours of nearly every old house that opens its doors to the public, and a few that don’t. But I couldn’t place the Hoffman house. “Remind me. Which one is that?”
Kell chuckled. “I know—there are so many old houses in Charleston, right? It’s the one with the wrought iron gate, the pineapple finials and the double stairway to the front door.”
“Yeah, that really narrows it down,” I remarked. He had just described more than half of the historic homes in the city.
“The plum-colored mansion that isn’t on the Battery.”
“Gotcha.” I frowned, thinking. “I remember going through it a couple of years ago, when the Preservation Society first purchased it to fix up. They were trying to raise the money for the renovation. I don’t recall hearing anything about ghosts then.” I also didn’t remember getting bad vibes, which is something I never forget.
“That’s what makes it interesting,” Kell said. “Apparently, the ghosts came with the renovation—or something they brought in to do the remodel,” he added. “We haven’t been inside yet, but even the garden pegged our meters—and that was from the other side of the wall.”
Now he had my attention. I wondered if the Hoffman house had any cat-eating gnomes. “Sure,” I said. “I can go. I have to check on Teag’s calendar.”
“Tell him I’m going,” Teag said as he walked out from the back. “If you’re ghost-hunting, someone needs to be along to watch your back.” Actually, Teag and I watch each other’s backs pretty well, but I appreciated the sentiment. My touch magic can be pretty intense, and when I’m wrapped up in a vision from a supernaturally-charged object, I’m vulnerable if something spooky and nasty attacks. Teag makes a great wing-man.
Kell gave me the details, and we agreed to meet up after dinner. Teag was watching me as I ended the call. “Okay,” he said. “Give.”
I leaned against the display case. “Two places with haunted gardens that didn’t used to be haunted. Seems like more than a coincidence. Especially since Binky’s mother liked to buy from architectural salvage shops and I’ll bet anything the preservation people who fixed up Hoffman House also bought from those stores.”
Teag nodded. “Seems like a reasonable guess. But this is Charleston. Architectural salvage shops are almost as common as antique stores, and that’s not counting the swap meets, estate sales, and other places you can buy old stuff.”
“There’s got to be a reason the gnome suddenly turned dangerous and the Hoffman ghosts got riled up,” I said. “Want to bet they won’t be the only places that start having problems?”
Teag sighed. “You’re probably right. So the sooner we figure out what triggered the reaction, the faster we can shut down other problems.”
“That’s the plan,” I replied. But I should have remembered that plans change.
* * *
The next evening, Teag and I stood with Kell and the rest of his SPOOK group outside the gate to the Hoffman house. In some ways, the old mansion was just like its more sedate neighbors—including being haunted. An old, custom-designed wrought-iron gate guarded the entrance. Dual staircases curled toward the wide front porch with its pillars, dating from a time when women and men entered by separate stairs to avoid an unseemly glimpse of ankle. Carved wooden pineapples, a symbol of welcome from the days of sailing ships, adorned the gateposts. But beyond the fence, the Hoffman house was painted a deep plum color, unlike its more discreet white cla
pboard or brick neighbors. On the Battery, with its rainbow of houses reminiscent of the Caribbean, a plum-colored house might not be unique. But in this neighborhood, it had always made the Hoffman residence a one-of-a-kind treasure.
“We’ve got the key,” Kell said, holding it up. “The Preservation Society actually called us, if you can believe it. They started running into situations they couldn’t explain, and it got strange enough they figured we could take a stab at figuring it out.”
That alone spoke volumes. While Charlestonians believe in haunts, it’s one thing to quietly co-exist with the ghost of an ancestor, and it’s another to call in the ghost-hunters. “What kind of things have been happening?” I asked. I preferred to get my briefing now, on the outside of the wall, rather than later, when we might be running for our lives.
“The Hoffman family trust sold the house to the Preservation Society last year, when the last of the Hoffmans died,” Kell said. “Until that point, the only ghost stories involved sightings of an old man on the stairs and a lady in a rocking chair—standard stuff, very quiet, no danger to anyone. So the Society bought the house and raised funds to renovate, and did their best to make sure everything they used was period-authentic.” Charlestonians are sticklers for their history. They prefer real old stuff to reproductions, even if the real stuff isn’t original to the house.
“The remodeling went well at first,” Kell went on. “Then in the last few months, there started to be problems. Voices. Footsteps. Sounds of things sliding around on the floor or chairs rocking—that kind of stuff. Out in the garden, a couple of the gardeners had a bad enough experience with something—they wouldn’t say what—that they walked away and didn’t even come back for their paycheck.”
“Did the problems stop the renovation?” I asked.
Kell shook his head. “No. They managed to finish. But there have been enough problems—escalating incidents—that the Society is privately afraid to hold an Open House. And of course, they don’t want to tell all their donors it’s because of ghosts.”
While Kell briefed us, his team spread out along the wall. Calista, who always rocked a goth vibe, already had her tablet computer out and was recording from a variety of sensors. Drew, tall and dark-haired like a skinny raven, was getting readings on an EMF monitor. Pete, the sound guy, had a small action cam like extreme sports athletes wear attached to his hat, and he was gathering audio readings down toward the end of the fence.
“From what I’ve been told, the ghosts got worse little by little, probably as new items were brought into the house. But when the contractors finished up the landscaping, things got bad,” Kell said. “The ghosts had been noisy before or mischievous—hiding objects, moving things—but at the end they were more aggressive.”
We had been out with Kell and his team on some pretty wild situations, so Teag and I could picture too well just what Kell was talking about. “All right,” I said. “Let’s get started.”
Teag and I did not come unprepared. My touch magic enables me to pull from the memories and emotions associated with an object in order to defend myself. I had an old dog collar on my left wrist, which connected me to the protective spirit of my beloved golden retriever, Bo. As a ghost, Bo was one hell of a watch dog. I also carried an old wooden spoon that had been my grandmother’s. When I connected to its emotional resonance, I could send out a cold blast of energy that could knock most things right on their asses. I have other weapons, too, but they tended to be a bit extreme for tonight’s situation.
Teag has Weaver magic, which means he can weave spells and magical protections into cloth, and he can also weave data streams, making him one hell of a hacker. Tonight, Teag and I both wore vests beneath our clothing into which he had woven protective spells. Teag is also a champion martial arts competitor, and he’s been making sure I do enough training to protect myself. He carries a tall wooden staff, which is both a weapon and a way to channel his magic. I suspected he had some other weapons hidden in his bag as well, and both of us wore an assortment of protective charms and amulets. We were ready for trouble.
Kell unlocked the gate. The lights in the house were already on, likely a security measure. We stuck together, walking in pairs, heading up the stairs to the wide front porch. Kell brought out a second key and unlocked the gate, then disarmed the security system.
The house had a huge foyer with parquet floors, a large circular table with an empty vase that was ready for a big bouquet of fresh flowers, and a tasteful, tiered brass chandelier. A huge mirror in a gilt frame hung against one wall, above a Hepplewhite table. The house was cold, a rarity in Charleston except in mid-winter. I doubted the chill could be attributed to the air conditioning.
A thump upstairs made us all jump. “Readings are off the meter,” Drew said, watching as the needles jumped on his EMF instruments.
“Picking up some audio,” Pete said. “Nothing I can make out—like voices in the distance.”
“Damn, they’re starting up early,” Calista observed, watching the graphs jump on her tablet. “Cold spots all over the place. I’m live-streaming the video from Pete’s hat. Picking up a couple of orbs at ten o’clock,” she indicated. We looked up, and sure enough, two silvery orbs drifted like soap bubbles near the chandelier, only to wink out an instant later.
“After what happened last time, I’m going to advise that we stay downstairs,” Kell said.
“What happened?” Teag asked.
“I was pushed,” Calista muttered, and her hand went to a newly-healed scar above one eyebrow.
“I think you’ll get the idea from what happens down here and in the garden,” Kell said.
As hauntings go, this was one that should have been on reality TV. I glimpsed a bluish, transparent figure in the parlor that wasn’t there when I looked again. Teag pointed to a shadow that had taken the shape of a person on the upstairs landing, only no one was around to have cast the image. The crystal in the chandelier began to rattle as if there was an earthquake, but the floor beneath our feet remained still. Upstairs, we heard doors slam, one after another.
“You’re certain no one’s here,” Teag said. “Someone could be pranking us.”
Kell shook his head. “No. The Society is really worried. You can imagine the idea of bringing donors into this—”
From up ahead of us, we heard the sound of shattering glass, as if someone had overturned an entire cabinet of tableware. At the same time, I saw a reflection in the mirror of a woman in a long, gray dress. She seemed far away, but as I watched she grew ever-closer.
No one in our group was wearing gray.
“I think we’d better keep moving,” I said, with a glance toward the mirror. Kell followed my gaze and paled, then nodded curtly and led us forward.
The Hoffman house’s renovation had been beautifully done. I knew antiques, and I was impressed that the Society had spent a pretty penny to furnish the house with pieces appropriate to its time-period. Where there had been nods to modern life, like with electric lights, the fixtures were old pieces that had been retrofitted. Even the hardware for the doorknobs and latches was old.
The thud of footsteps overhead reminded me that the house’s ghostly inhabitants were unimpressed by the remodeling efforts.
I staggered into Kell, shoved off-balance by an invisible force. Teag reached for me, but I shook my head. I was all right, but someone—something—had made its displeasure clear. A moment later, a small bit of gravel pinged me in the forehead. I heard the gravel fall on the hardwood floor as more pieces pelted us. Calista protected her tablet and cursed the ghosts. Pete protected his eyes with one arm even as he turned face-forward so that his action cam could record the assault.
“The voices are louder,” Drew reported, deflecting the hail of gravel with his arm while he studied his read-outs. He turned the audio on so we could all hear what he was listening to on his headset. The low babble sounded like what you’d expect from a party held in the apartment next door, except the tone made me
think the ghosts weren’t having a good time.
“Anything?” Teag asked me quietly. I shook my head. We hadn’t lingered long enough for me to zero in on any single object that called to my magic.
“Nothing in particular,” I murmured. “We’ve passed several things that had a resonance, but nothing that screamed at me. I don’t think any of the pieces we’ve seen are causing this.”
The pebbles stopped as quickly as they started. I heard heavy footsteps coming down the steps in the foyer, and hoped Kell meant to take us out the back door. The lights flickered, but we all had heavy-duty flashlights, just in case. It was cold enough that gooseflesh rose on my arms, and I almost expected to see my breath mist.
“Keep moving,” Kell said quietly. “I think you see the problem.”
I winced as another crash sounded overhead like a huge plate glass window shattering. “What about the damage?” I asked.
Kell shook his head. “This happened before. They’ll come back in daylight and nothing’s broken, doors that ‘slammed’ are open, no evidence of anything—maybe a few bits of gravel. This is all supernatural phenomena.”
He sounded pretty calm about it. I was jumpy as hell.
I took a deep breath and tried to shut out the house’s attempt to frighten us. Hoffman House was beautiful, and had been lovingly redone. Ghosts often dislike being disturbed by remodeling, but I remembered how distressed the house had looked in the declining days of its last owner, and to see it restored to its glory was truly amazing. I couldn’t imagine what its ghosts might dislike, other than the unexpected buzz of activity, and the constant parade of strangers. Ghosts are funny like that.
I concentrated on what I felt from our surroundings. I wasn’t a medium or a clairvoyant, but when a location has this much pent-up mojo, it comes through the walls and the floor, too much to overlook. I could feel the Hoffman house’s age. Blurred images like a movie on fast-forward crossed my mind’s eye. So much life had filled this home over generations, love and loss and hope and pain. I felt the resonance of the Hoffmans’ lives in the walls and floorboards, but while it was bittersweet it was… very normal. No deep secrets or dark tragedies loomed in the house’s memories.
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