by Morgan Brice
“Whatever attacked you, it’s gone.” Simon didn’t try to touch again, but he stayed close, hoping that his presence and the calming energy he sent Vic’s way would help clear away the fog of terror.
“Simon?” Vic croaked as if noticing him for the first time. His voice rasped, and Simon saw red marks where unseen hands had choked him.
“I’m here. I love you. You’re safe.” Simon met Vic’s gaze.
Vic took a long, shuddering breath, and covered his face with his hands. “God. What was that thing?”
“I’ll tell you, but first I want to reset the warding on the front door to make sure nothing can come in.” Simon jumped up, taking the salt container with him, and laid down a fresh line inside and outside the door. He added a blessing Gabriella had taught him, and a splash of Four Thieves vinegar as well as a sprinkle of brick dust.
That will do for now, he thought, feeling the protective energy strengthen. In the morning, he’d do a proper, full warding. He felt certain that whatever he and Travis had cast out would not be coming back soon.
Simon poured a Coke for Vic and returned to the living room. He handed off the glass, and Vic drank it down.
“Was that a demon?” Vic’s voice still wasn’t completely steady.
Simon shook his head. “I’m thinking boo hag. Demons are harder to summon and manage. Lesser spirits can be conscripted more easily.”
Vic stared at him. “You sound like this was a hit.”
Simon met his gaze. “I think it was. I had the feeling that something was watching us down on the beach, but I couldn’t get a read on it. Whatever’s behind the knife murders and the hangings, it’s not afraid of the police—but I think it does see me as a threat.” He looked away, awash in guilt. “I think it went after you because it couldn’t get to me.”
Vic took Simon’s hand, squeezing hard. “If it had gotten to you, I wouldn’t have known what to do,” he said quietly. “And it’s my fault—I have the bracelet but not the pocket square you gave me. It’s in my other coat.”
Simon got up and ran to fetch the kerchief, and returned in a moment, pressing it into Vic’s hand. “This will help you feel better,” he assured, “but it probably wouldn’t have held off the spirit. It was very strong.”
Vic slumped, and Simon gathered him into his arms. So many times, Vic had been the one comforting Simon after a disturbing vision or nightmare. Now, Simon was grateful to be able to return the favor. Vic leaned against him, and Simon pulled him close.
“Come on,” Simon urged. “Let’s get some sleep. I promise you’ll feel better in the morning.”
When Simon woke at his usual time, he called Pete and told him he would be a few hours late. Then he slipped out of bed, letting Vic sleep, and padded to the kitchen to make breakfast.
Later, he’d finish up strengthening the wardings and call Travis to explain. But first, Simon wanted to make sure Vic was all right, and help him make sense of the attack from the night before.
“Morning.” Vic stood in the doorway, sleep rumpled and half awake. Simon had managed to strip Vic’s clothes off except for his briefs before they fell asleep, and Vic hadn’t bothered to grab anything on his way to the kitchen. The tension in Vic’s jaw told Simon that Vic’s first instinct when he woke alone was to find him and assure himself that Simon was all right and nearby.
“Morning,” Simon returned, giving Vic a once-over. In daylight, he could see the bruising where the boo hag had tried to strangle Vic and the red welts where her sharp nails had scored across his chest.
Vic still looked spooked, understandably so. “I saw the marks when I went in the bathroom. It really happened, didn’t it?”
Simon nodded. He poured Vic a cup of coffee and brought it over to the table, waiting for Vic to have a seat. Then he grabbed a cup for himself and joined him. “Yeah. It was real. It would have sucked for it to be a nightmare, but it sucks even worse that it wasn’t.”
Vic wrapped both hands around his mug, closing his eyes and breathing in the aroma as if he were trying to steady himself. If the attack had been purely physical, a Mob hitman or a jacked-up addict, Simon knew that Vic would have had a frame of reference to process it. Sure, he would have been thrown for the proverbial loop, but that would have fallen within the range of “normal.” But Vic was relatively new to the idea that supernatural creatures were real, magic worked, and ghosts existed. Getting jumped by an invisible monster was clearly shaking his concept of reality.
“How do you do it?” Vic asked, opening his eyes and staring at Simon intensely.
“Do what?”
“Deal with all…this.” He made a gesture that Simon took to mean everything supernatural.
Simon stretched across to take Vic’s hand. “It takes some getting used to,” he admitted. “But I’ve had all my life to figure it out. It’s a little overwhelming to dive in head first.”
Vic’s laugh sounded brittle. “You could say that.” He took a deep breath and seemed to collect his thoughts. “I can fight what I can see. But I don’t have your mojo. I can’t punch or shoot or kick things like that boo hag. It almost got me.”
Simon repressed a shiver. “You scared me,” he said in a voice just above a whisper. “All of a sudden, you couldn’t breathe, and I didn’t know what was happening. Then I reached out with my Gift, and I knew it was a supernatural attack. The car’s wardings aren’t as strong, but I knew if I got you in here, the hag would have to fight the wardings to keep her grip on you. And I gambled that an exorcism would work.”
Vic nodded. “Thank you.”
“I love you, Vic D’Amato. I’ll do anything to protect you. I’m not much good in your kind of fight, but on my territory, I can usually hold my own.”
Vic raised their clasped hands to his lips and kissed Simon’s knuckles. “Love you, too.” He sighed. “I have no idea how I’m going to explain the bruises and marks. I mean, I can tell Cap and Ross the truth, but everyone else?”
“Just make sure no one thinks I did it,” Simon cautioned. “I don’t need a bunch of pissed-off cops with misplaced protective instincts coming after me.”
“I think I’ll chalk it up to a mugging, but the perp got away,” Vic said. “As long as Hargrove and Ross know what really happened, that should cover it.”
Vic declared himself fine to go to work. Simon knew that Vic would deal better with what happened if he stayed busy, and trusted Ross to keep an eye on him. Hargrove and Ross had Simon’s number if they needed him.
Once Vic left, Simon strengthened the wardings on the house, including dusting the front stoop with red brick dust and washing it down with water mixed with Four Thieves vinegar, one of Miss Eppie’s hoodoo protections. He refreshed salt lines at all the windows and sprinkled fresh salt on the carpet around the bed. That wouldn’t hold off any of his visions—they came from his Gift—but it was a second line of defense should any hostile spirit make it inside the bungalow. Once that was done, Simon lit a bundle of dried sage and let its smoke fill the house. Sage was a protective plant, and burning it drove out negative energy.
When the smudging was complete, Simon poured a fresh cup of coffee and called Travis.
“I wondered when you’d get back to me,” Travis said when he picked up. “Everything go okay last night?”
Simon let out a long breath. He’d tried to stay calm for Vic’s sake, but with Travis he could admit to his own fears. “I almost lost him, Travis. And I don’t think the attack was random.”
“Start at the beginning,” Travis said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Travis listened patiently as Simon told him about the hanging “suicides” and the vengeful ghosts at Socastee Manor, as well as the knife murders. He trusted Travis’s discretion, although neither he nor his hunting partner, Brent Lawson, worked for law enforcement.
“I agree that the wreck is the key,” Travis said after he’d mulled over Simon’s story. “But I don’t know how or why. There are pieces missing to the puzzle.
It takes a powerful spirit to possess someone and ride them hard enough that they’d kill themselves. And if the boo hag really was sent, then whoever had the power to do that is certainly out to get you. That means they think you’ve got the ability to hurt them or stop them, even if you don’t quite know what’s going on.”
“You sound like I should be flattered.”
Travis laughed. “Encouraged is more like it, because if the killer fears you, then it isn’t invincible.”
“Vic’s working the knife angle,” Simon replied. “That’s solidly cop stuff, although I think the killer has a supernatural influence.”
“I’d agree, from what you told me. My suggestion is to try to connect with the ghosts who’ve reached out to you. They might not have the juice to come to you unless you seek them out. Maybe they can help you fill in the gaps.” Since Travis was also a psychic medium and had at one time worked for a secret Vatican group of demon-hunting vigilantes, Simon appreciated his input.
“Will do. Thanks. And if you get any brilliant ideas, let me know, okay?” Simon ended the call and decided he needed to make a side trip before he went into the shop.
He hadn’t visited the Horry Area Museum in a while, which meant seeing new-to-him exhibits—a distraction Simon couldn’t resist. He found himself in an art display titled “Wrecks and Rogues,” staring at paintings of pirate ships and sea battles from the South Carolina coast. In one of the paintings, a black-hulled corsair dogged a larger ship with a strangely familiar red-haired figurehead.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Edith Lindsay, the curator of the museum, spoke from just behind him. She wore a trim pantsuit, and reading glasses dangled from a crystal-beaded lanyard around her neck. Her gray hair was tucked into a smooth chignon. Simon had done several ghost lore presentations for the museum and counted Edith among his friends.
“I love the exhibit,” Simon replied. “Are the paintings on loan?”
She shrugged. “Some were in our collection but not on display, and others were loaned by private collectors. With all the interest in the Annabelle, it’s turned out to be very timely.”
“Is that ship the Annabelle?” Simon asked, pointing to the one with the figurehead. He was almost sure it was the one from his vision.
Edith nodded. “Probably an artist’s fancy, but yes. And that’s the Vengeance in pursuit, one of the most infamous privateer ships of that period. Its record against pirates is positively spooky.”
She might not have meant that literally, but Simon felt a chill down his spine as he recalled his vision of the two young men aboard the dark ship and the way the dark-haired man had seemed to stare right at him, through space and time.
“What do you know about the Vengeance?” Simon wondered if there could be any connection to the men and ship in his vision.
“Not as much as I’d like,” Edith admitted. “Although privateers were legal because they carried a Letter of Marque authorizing them to pirate the pirates, they often kept their identities secret since they straddled the line on legality. From what we’ve been able to find out, the captain and first mate were from a fishing village that was wiped out by pirates, and they swore to take vengeance—hence the name. I think they were based somewhere near Charleston, which was quite the hotbed back in the day. Rumor has it one of the privateers was a witch,” she added with a confidential tone. “They say the men had ties to an old Charleston family.”
“And the Annabelle?” Simon asked.
“Everyone talks about pirates like Bluebeard and Blackbeard, but ships like the Annabelle terrorized the shipping lanes for years without the fame. The Vengeance is said to have helped scuttle the Annabelle, and led to the capture of the Gallows Nine.” She smiled. “Nowadays, there’s an ‘outlaw chic’ attached to the Nine, but they were unrepentant killers who didn’t just steal cargo, they slaughtered the crews of ships they boarded to leave no witnesses.”
“They were hanged here in what’s now Myrtle Beach, weren’t they?”
She frowned. “Closer to Georgetown, which was the bigger city back then. But the judge and jury were all local. I think most of the families are still around this area.”
That caught Simon’s attention. “Do you know the names of the men involved in passing judgment on the Gallows Nine?”
“I should be able to find it. Is that what brought you to the museum today?”
“Actually, I wanted to know more about the three knives that were stolen. Did they, by any chance, have a connection to the Annabelle or to Socastee Manor?”
Edith gave him a look as if she were trying to figure out his reason for asking. Simon managed his most innocent smile. “I’m working up some new ghost stories, and I want to get the background history right.”
“The knives were said to belong to Jamie Dunwood, the man who built Socastee Manor,” Edith replied. “You know it’s being renovated?”
“I’d heard,” Simon answered, unwilling to disclose his role. “I’m guessing that at some point, all the personal effects were removed?”
She nodded. “Yes. Such a shame, but the mansion sat empty for a long while. The family left the area after a series of scandals, and whatever they didn’t take was auctioned off for tax purposes. Scandal or not, the Dunwoods left an imprint on this area, and collectors wanted to own a piece of their history. Those knives were purchased by a collector who just recently donated them.”
Edith put her hand to her heart. “You can imagine how we feel, not just that the knives were stolen, but that two of them have been used in crimes.” She shook her head. “It’s awful.”
“Any leads on the thieves?”
“Not yet. The truth is, we’re not a big museum with a big budget. Our security systems are adequate, but nothing like the big museums have. The police said it wouldn’t have required a genius to get in—just someone who knew what they were doing.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I know the police are working to find whoever is responsible.”
Edith patted Simon’s arm. “I’m sure they are. But even if they catch the thieves, those knives will be tied up as evidence in the murders for a long time. Who knows when—or if—the museum will get them back?” She sighed. “Ah well. That’s out of my hands. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll look up those names for you. Have a walk around the rest of the exhibit—it’s really quite nice.”
With that, Edith bustled off, leaving Simon alone in the exhibit. He moved from painting to painting, hoping to find more clues about the Annabelle or the Vengeance. Instead, he found himself in front of a large canvas showing what had to be Socastee Manor overlooking a stormy sea. Frigates armed with canons fought in the distance, illuminated by exploding gunpowder. In the foreground, a small ship made its way across the dark water.
He was still staring at the painting when Edith returned. “Oh, you found the controversial one!”
“What makes it controversial?”
“It’s during the Civil War, and those are Union and Confederate frigates fighting,” Edith said, pointing to the sea battle in the background. “Of course, the Union blockaded the South, but there were plenty of blockade runners, like the small ship off the coast. There have always been rumors—unproven, but persistent—that the Dunwoods had a hand in first smuggling, then blockade running, and during prohibition, in rum-running.”
She patted her hair, a nervous gesture. “While the Dunwoods were still a force locally, they denounced any attempt to link them to those activities, maybe a little too forcefully,” Edith replied. Simon thought she was probably old enough to remember when Patrick Dunwood still lived at Socastee Manor. “They were used to getting their way, and quick to defend their honor. With duels back in the day, and later with lawsuits.”
“When was this painted?” Simon asked.
“In the early seventies. The family was still living at the manor, and when a local gallery displayed the work, Mr. Dunwood went ballistic. He threatened both the artist and the gallery with a lawsuit and created qu
ite a stir. Of course, that just made the painting more notable to collectors and drove the price up. This is the first time it’s been publicly exhibited since then.”
She passed a thick envelope to Simon. “Here’s what my system printed out as far as people who were involved with the Gallows Nine trial. It was a long time ago, so some of the families may have died out or moved from the area, or even changed the spelling of their name. But it should give you a good start.” She winked at him. “And any time you want to come back and do another Night at the Haunted Museum tour, we’d love to have you! That was our biggest event last year.”
Simon left, after assuring Edith that he would call her with dates to do another tour. He stopped to pick up sandwiches and coffee for himself and Pete, then went in to finish out the afternoon at Grand Strand Ghost Tours. The storm forecast hadn’t changed, and gray skies supported the predictions that the bad weather would continue to worsen.
“I’ve already gotten the inventory done and priced everything in the back room,” Pete said as they ate. “We had one actual customer this morning, one browser who I think really just came inside to get warm, and a man selling books of discount coupons.”
“I’m glad you weren’t run ragged,” Simon said through a mouthful of sandwich.
“I also lost fourteen games of solitaire on my phone, dusted everything in the shop, put the t-shirts in size order, and made a list of what we need to restock,” Pete added. “Just a thrill a minute.”
Since the afternoon didn’t look likely to suddenly attract crowds of customers, Simon worked on invoices and orders in his office, while Pete cleaned, straightened, and puttered in the front of the shop. After Simon had soothed his conscience by getting some work done, he leaned back and pulled out his phone.
“Cassidy? It’s Simon. Did I catch you at a bad time?” Simon’s cousin, Cassidy Kincaide, ran Trifles and Folly, an antique and curio shop in Charleston, SC. Cassidy was a psychometric, able to read the history of objects by touching them. Simon had never quite made up his mind whether that Gift was a benefit or a liability in her line of work. Teag Logan, the witch who had made Vic’s protective bracelet and pocket square, worked with Cassidy and was her best friend.
