The Rising: A Badlands Novel

by Morgan Brice

  “Everything you’re telling me is pretty classic,” Simon replied. “The malicious pranks worry me. That can go wrong fast. Do you get any sense of who the ghost is or what it wants? Or whether there’s more than one?”

  Trevor shrugged, turning his palms up. “This is so far out of my league, I got nothin’. I’ve been alone in a room and knew there was something else in there with me, something I couldn’t see. I’ve heard footsteps and thought I saw someone who wasn’t there. So my guys aren’t making it up. They’re getting paid well, so there’s no reason for them to sabotage the job. And we haven’t had any controversy, so I can’t blame it on protesters.”

  “I can come out tomorrow to have a look, if that suits your schedule,” Simon offered. “That doesn’t mean I can fix anything on the spot, but if I get a sense of what the energies feel like, I can see what it will take to stop the problem.”

  “You really think you can make it stop?” Trevor’s expression relaxed with hope. “God, it’s been awful. I’ve been worried about someone getting hurt, the job’s falling behind, and my boss is riding my ass over the delays.”

  “I can’t do much about your boss,” Simon said, “but if I can figure out how to send your unwanted spirits packing, you might be able to get back on schedule and keep your crew safe. I’ll do my best.”

  “You’ll get paid,” Trevor assured him. “I have a budget for contingencies. I’d say getting haunted counts.”

  Simon quoted his rate for an on-site consult, and Trevor agreed without blinking at the amount. “I’ll see you at noon, if that suits,” Simon replied, and Trevor nodded. “Good. In the meantime, I’ll look into the history. If there’s a haunting, there’s usually unfinished business—or secrets someone doesn’t want to have come out.” He frowned. “Has your crew found anything hidden, or that seemed like someone didn’t want it found?”

  Trevor shook his head. “No. I’d know if they had. This crew has been with me for two years—we’re pretty tight. They’re the ones who brought up the idea of having someone come out and bless the house, or even do an exorcism.” He grimaced at that last word. “I know—dramatic, right? But they’re scared. All of a sudden, they’re wearing saints’ medallions and burning sage, and I’m finding salt sprinkled everywhere. So I figured it might make a lot of sense to have someone like you come do what you do, before it gets worse.”

  “I’m glad you came,” Simon said, leaning back in his chair. “And with luck, it’s just a ghost problem, not something you’d need an exorcism for.” Fuck, he hoped not. Ghosts were trouble enough when they went bad. He had no desire to tangle with demons.

  “Thank you,” Trevor said. They exchanged phone numbers so Simon could text him. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this. I’ll meet you at the house tomorrow, and show you around. Most of the crew will be there, so you can meet them and hear their stories.”

  “I appreciate that. And I might take you up on it—or I might get enough from my own impressions to know how to fix it. One way or another, I’ll do my best to un-haunt your house.”

  During slow times during the afternoon, Simon searched the internet for anything he could find about Socastee Manor or the family that built it. Lord Jamison—Jamie—Dunwood had been granted the land back in 1747 for service to the crown and built a rice plantation that thrived through the Revolution. He died in a Yellow Fever outbreak while visiting Charleston, and was buried far from his beloved manor. When Jamie died, the title passed to his son John, and good fortune remained until the Civil War.

  After that, the plantation fell on hard times. Bad decisions and business failures dogged the family. Rumors swirled about gunrunning during the War and rum-running during Prohibition. The Dunwood family seemed to have a talent for prompting the other Lowcountry gentry to challenge them to duels or sue them. The last Dunwood to live in the manor, back in the 1970s, had been an ill-tempered man by the name of Patrick. It seemed that Patrick had a reputation for shady business dealings and appeared to have been universally disliked and feared.

  “You know anything about Socastee Manor?” Simon asked Pete when the shop was quiet.

  “The abandoned place down past Murrells Inlet? I mean, I know where it is, but not much else. When I was a kid, everyone called it the ‘witch house.’”

  Simon raised an eyebrow. “Do you know why?”

  Pete shrugged. “It was hella creepy, and no one had lived there for a long time. I heard stories that there used to be a mean old man who chased people off with a shotgun, but that might have been made up. As for the witch part—probably just the kind of thing kids say to dare each other to go in.”

  “Did anyone you know actually go into the house?”

  Pete chuckled. “Are you kidding? Some of the older kids said they did, but I’m pretty sure they lied. We all joked about it, but none of my friends went in. And certainly not me—I hate spiders, and that place looked like it would’ve been full of them.” He gave Simon a look. “Why?”

  Simon sighed and closed his laptop, pushing his half-empty cup aside. The coffee he made in the break room was never as good as what he got at Le Miz. “That guy who came in—Trevor—is trying to remodel it, and says they’ve got ghost problems. I’m going out to have a look tomorrow, and just wondered what I was getting myself into.” From everything I’ve read—trouble.

  “Try not to almost get killed this time,” Pete said, straightening the crystals and candles in the glass case. “I like working here, and I’d hate to have to find a new job.”

  Simon and Vic had chased down a supernatural serial killer in their first case together, and it had nearly cost Simon his life. They’d caught a second killer with the help of a ghost’s testimony around Halloween, and stopped a series of murders with a magical connection right before Christmas. Simon had to admit that Pete wasn’t wrong to be concerned.

  “No one’s gotten killed—and hopefully, no one will be,” Simon replied. “It sounds like a poltergeist, or maybe just a ghost that’s unhappy people are invading its home. With luck, it’ll be easy to fix.”

  Pete’s skeptical snort told Simon what his assistant thought of that.

  Simon worried much more about Vic than he did himself. Weeks ago a suspect in one of Vic and Ross’s murder cases took a shot at the two detectives. While the suspect’s aim went wild and no one was hurt, Simon’s nightmares were full of what might have been.

  Deep inside, Simon knew his fears were fueled by a high-profile case years before, something that splashed all over the news when he lived in Columbia. Murder and politics often went hand-in-hand in the state capitol, and one big story had featured a state representative whose wealthy wife disappeared under mysterious circumstances. When evidence turned up that the missing heiress had been murdered, the husband had hired a hitman to go after the lead homicide detective on the case. Although the politician was eventually caught and convicted, the hitman made good on the contract, killing the detective in a gangland-style murder.

  No matter how much Simon told himself that Myrtle Beach wasn’t Columbia, he knew that bad things could happen anywhere, and desperate people took desperate measures.

  Simon shivered, trying to force his gloomy thoughts away. Vic and Ross were good at their jobs, and they’d managed to stay mostly safe so far. He knew he had to trust Vic to come home safe at the end of the day. Still, in a battle between what his head knew and what his heart felt, Simon sometimes struggled to look on the bright side. To take his mind off his worry, Simon decided to throw himself into researching new merchandise vendors. A few hours of productivity boosted his mood tremendously.

  The afternoon flew, and since it was the off-season and tours only ran on weekends, the shop closed at seven. On nice days, Simon liked to walk to work, but it was cold and windy enough for him to drive. Vic had walked to the precinct instead of riding his Hayabusa motorcycle, but he was a little more used to the cold, coming from Pittsburgh, than Simon who was raised in the South.

  The
blue bungalow had belonged to Simon’s aunt and uncle, who had wintered in Myrtle Beach for years until health problems kept them closer to home. When Simon lost his teaching position at the University of South Carolina and headed to the beach to clear his head, his aunt offered to sell him the house and its contents for an amount that was really a gift. Simon had moved in and then started Grand Strand Ghost Tours three years ago.

  All the lights were on, which told Simon Vic had beat him home. He grinned, climbing out of the car and heading up the steps, then paused to shake his long hair out of the man bun he usually wore at the shop. Vic met him in the entranceway as Simon hung up his coat, and pressed up against him from behind.

  “You’re cold. Let me warm you up.” Vic wrapped his arms around Simon, splaying his fingers wide across his chest. He drew Simon close against him, pressing his groin against Simon’s ass with a shimmy that sent sparks through every nerve in Simon’s body.

  “I missed you today.” Vic’s warm breath on Simon’s neck was giving Simon all kinds of delightfully naughty ideas, all of which would result in dinner being late. Simon tilted his head, giving Vic access, and his partner licked and nipped his way from Simon’s ear down to his shoulder. Simon brought his hands up to cover Vic’s, and couldn’t resist bucking back against Vic’s very evident hard-on.

  “Missed you, too. Always do,” Simon said breathlessly. “Do we need to worry about dinner burning?”

  Vic’s low chuckle made Simon warm all over. “It’s in the oven. We have time.” He dropped his right hand to unfasten Simon’s belt and work his zipper open. Vic’s hand slipped inside and his fingers wrapped around Simon’s hard cock. Simon groaned and reached back to pull Vic even closer.

  “God, you smell so good,” Vic murmured, still nibbling at Simon’s neck. “I like it when you have your hair down. So sexy.” His calloused hand worked Simon’s shaft with skill, and Simon knew it wouldn’t take long like this to bring him off. A few more strokes and Simon’s release spilled over Vic’s fist, which continued pumping him until he was completely spent. Then, as Simon turned to face his lover, Vic lifted his come-streaked hand to his mouth and licked his fingers clean.

  “Fuck,” Simon groaned, thinking that was so damn sexy. He kissed Vic, tasting himself on his lover’s lips, and then sank to his knees. “One good turn deserves another,” he said, looking up at Vic beneath his lashes.

  Shit, Vic looked so amazing standing there, eyes lust-blown, face flushed with arousal, smelling of sex. Simon ran his hands down Vic’s muscular thighs, nuzzling against his crotch, mouthing Vic’s erection through the denim. His hands moved around to cup Vic’s perfect ass and gave the globes a good squeeze.

  “You’re killing me,” Vic panted.

  Simon gave him a saucy smile, then flicked the buttons open on his fly and nuzzled the briefs beneath, breathing in a scent that was sweat and musk and all Vic. He licked at the wet spot where pre-come already stained the cotton, then pushed Vic’s jeans and underwear down to mid-thigh and swallowed his lover’s cock down to the root.

  “Oh, fuck, Simon—so good,” Vic moaned, steadying himself with one hand on Simon’s head, tangling with his dark hair, and bracing against the wall with the other.

  Simon worked Vic’s cock, licking his way up the shaft and swirling his tongue over the head, tasting the salty bead of pre-come on the slit, then going down on him again until his nose hit Vic’s dark, wiry pubes, sucking and humming.

  Vic didn’t last much longer than Simon had, shooting his load as Simon drank it down, then made eye contact as he licked the last drops from his lips.

  “Jesus, what you do to me,” Vic said as he pulled Simon to his feet and kissed him, mingling their flavors.

  From the kitchen came the ding of a timer. “I’d like to do a lot more to you, but I’m hungry, so let’s eat first,” Simon said, giving Vic’s ass a pinch as a promise of sexy times to come.

  The smell of lasagna filled the bungalow. Simon followed Vic into the kitchen and poured them each glasses of water while Vic took the pan out of the oven. A bowl with tossed salad sat on the counter.

  “What’s the occasion?” Simon asked, wracking his brain to see if he had missed something special. Vic’s birthday wasn’t for another few months, and his own was still weeks away. Their first anniversary was closer to summer. And it definitely wasn’t Valentine’s Day. Simon was already making plans for that.

  “It was a cold, blustery day and I wanted to eat comfort food and then maybe make out on the couch for a while,” Vic replied, glancing over his shoulder with a wicked grin. “Something wrong with that?”

  “Not at all,” Simon assured him, grabbing a bottle of salad dressing from the fridge and putting the bowl on the table. Vic had already set the table, and he pulled a sheet pan with garlic toast out after the lasagna. “Just checking to make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

  While they ate, Vic caught Simon up on what he could about the cases he was working. Simon felt a weird sense of relief that the murders were normal and non-magical, and at the same time, sadness that people didn’t need supernatural interference to hurt each other.

  “How about you?” Vic asked, as he finished the last bite of the lasagna on his plate and eyed the pan, deciding whether to have a second piece.

  “Lots of talk about that wreck the rough waters uncovered,” Simon replied. “But right now, no one really knows anything, it’s all just rumors.”

  “Well, the rumor at work is that there’s a dive team scheduled to come examine the ship,” Vic said, with a grin that told Simon he was happy to have a scoop. “Some kind of historic reclamation specialists—like the guys who found the Titanic and the Hunley.”

  “Wow. I hope I get to see them out on their boat. That’s so Indiana Jones.” Simon knew Vic didn’t mind when he got his geek on. He’d already confessed to following the search and recovery saga of the Civil War-era Hunley submarine and been down to visit the museum in Charleston the last time he dropped in on his cousin, Cassidy.

  “More like Clive Cussler,” Vic replied, mentioning the famous author who also was an exploration diver. “Count me out. I can swim okay, but I’m not crazy about being underwater.”

  “Can’t blame you,” Simon agreed. He’d never quite gotten up the nerve to go snorkeling, let alone scuba diving, although both were popular pastimes at the beach.

  They cleaned up after eating, then headed into the living room. The new couch was their first major joint purchase, and it had been delivered the week after New Year’s when Vic officially moved in. The cushiony leather couch was as wide as a twin bed, so they could easily snuggle and watch movies.

  “There are a couple of new shark movies streaming,” Vic said. He put two beers on the end table and grabbed the remote as Simon arranged the pillows and reached for a cozy throw. Vic turned on the TV and then pivoted so he was lying down. He spread his legs in open invitation, and Simon slipped between them, lying with his head on Vic’s chest, very aware of the semi Vic sported in his jeans.

  “Oh good. More ways to die at the beach.” Simon’s mock-protest got an arched brow in response from Vic.

  “You love these movies. Admit it.”

  “Maybe. In a guilty pleasure sort of way.”

  “There’s a reason there are so many Sharknado sequels,” Vic said. “They’re like potato chips. You can’t have just one.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t want to grow up to be the police chief in Jaws?” Simon teased.

  “Nah. The oceanographer guy got to be the real hero,” Vic returned with a grin. “Still epic.”

  Simon nuzzled into Vic, taking in his scent, listening to his heartbeat. Vic’s fingers tangled in Simon’s hair, then dug deep to massage his scalp, and Simon nearly purred.

  The beer on top of dinner and being wrapped up with Vic put Simon in a comfortable daze. He watched the movies, only paying partial attention, drifting in and out as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

  The gallows stood
in the park, just beyond the dune overlooking the sea. Three nooses dangled from the crosspiece, and a hooded executioner awaited the condemned men.

  A crowd gathered, eager for the spectacle. Sheriff’s deputies with muskets accompanied the shackled prisoners—nine in all—while a minister with a white collar read a prayer. Once the praying stopped, the crowd took up with catcalls and jeers. Some threw rocks. The deputies turned a blind eye, and the clergyman walked away, having done his part for their damned souls.

  The men looked haggard, dressed in stained, ragged clothing. Their hair was unkempt, and they hadn’t shaved in a while—whether from preference or circumstance.

  Simon saw the events through someone else’s eyes, someone who kept to the back of the crowd, who felt the need to bear witness although the execution sat in his belly like a stone.

  Then the sheriff climbed onto the scaffold’s platform, and a hush fell over the audience.

  “William Beecher, Hastings Anders, Jacob Thornton, Steven Hunt, Thaddeus Green, Michael Bates, Caleb Strong, Benjamin Ross, and Joseph Hardin—you have been tried and found guilty of piracy on the high seas. The verdict is to hang by the neck until dead. So be it.”

  One of the pirates lunged forward. His hands were bound behind him and his ankles shackled, but he managed to nearly reach the platform before two deputies grabbed him.

  “You know who the real pirate is,” the man snarled. “You know who paid us and outfitted the ship. You’re just too much of a coward to have him hang with us.” The guards dragged him back, and the pirate fought them, struggling with all his might.

  “Hear me!” he shouted to the crowd. “Jamie Dunwood is our master, and if we hang, he should too, by God!”

  Simon sat up, gasping for air. Hands reached for him, and he fought his way free, bolting to the other side of the room and crouching in the corner. The vision had been so real, down to the smell of wood smoke and horse manure, and the creaking of the heavy ropes hanging from the gallows’ arm. For crucial seconds, he had no idea where—or when—he was, and blind panic took over.