Spooked on the Gulf Coast
Gulf Coast Paranormal Trilogy volume 3
By M.L. Bullock
Text copyright © 2018 Monica L. Bullock
All rights reserved
Table of Contents
The Ghost of Gabrielle Bonet
The Ghost of Harrington Farm
The Creature on Crenshaw Road
The Ghost of Gabrielle Bonet
Book Seven
Gulf Coast Paranormal Series
By M.L. Bullock
Text copyright © 2018 Monica L. Bullock
All rights reserved
Dedication
To all the brave souls that peek into half-open closet doors and follow phantom footsteps and always look under beds.
Prologue—Carl Fletcher
“Imagine hiding these things in his desk all this time. What was Deter thinking?”
It was an innocent enough question, one for which I had no answer. My stepdaughter reached for one of the precious glass beads, but I shooed her away from the display case. Yes, I wondered the same thing myself. The answer was obvious: Deter Simon wasn’t thinking, not reasonably—not at all. Now that my lifelong friend and mentor had died, I could admit that, even if only to myself. Dementia had brought Deter down quicker than anyone could have anticipated; this had not been his expected end. As a curator, he would never have hidden such treasures away if he’d been thinking clearly; he would never have penned such a note. Like me, Deter had been a man of science and reason, never one to give credence to superstition and fables. Yet, I’d read the note many times.
These things cannot be allowed to see the light of day. You’ll thank me one day, Carl. Keep these things in the dark, put them away! Forget you ever saw them!
I wish that I could. She haunts me now…
The words were the ravings of a madman. I shivered at the memory of reading that panicked message for the first time. Deter had always been so proud of all the museum’s artifacts, even the creepiest acquisitions like the Mantilla Death Mask collection and the Egyptian mummies. He had been so meticulous with everything, down to his bow tie and matching suspenders. I suddenly felt tired and wanted nothing more than to be alone with my thoughts and these precious things.
“You’ll be late, Patricia.”
“Message received,” she said with a sigh. “You want to hang out with your treasures by yourself. Good night, Carl. Don’t stay here all night. We do have another week to finalize the arrangement of this exhibit.”
“Good night, Patricia. Give Randy my kind regards.” I turned the glass beads over in my palm one last time before arranging them on the black velvet fabric I’d laid in the glass display case.
Yes, these should go here, by the ivory and gold barrette. Deter always left these exhibit displays up to me. He’d say, “You have a sixth sense about how these things should be displayed, Carl. You must arrange the exhibit, please.” For this one, I’d kept things simple: black velvet lining the tall glass cases, the ones with the hidden lights and an interesting collection of maps for the background. Each map detailed the presumed location of the lost fort and the missing harbor.
“It’s Andy,” Patricia corrected me as she slung her purse over her shoulder.
Was she still here?
“Who?”
Another sigh of disappointment, or something. I’d become used to those over the past thirty years. She kissed my cheek. “Good night, Dad. I’ll lock the door and arm it, but you’ll have to reset the alarm when you leave. Don’t forget, it’s the new system. Remember the code?”
I paused, my glasses poised perilously on the tip of my nose. “Is it all fours or fives? No, it must be all sevens—your mother’s lucky number.” Another frown. Patricia had no sense of humor. And although I loved her, I was tired of making small talk. “It’s your birthdate, of course I remember. Now go before Randy finds a replacement for the ball.”
Without another word, she left me alone. I waited to hear the heavy click of the door behind her and the alarm beep. Ah, I’m finally alone. I breathed a sigh of relief.
She is right, Carl, I heard Deter’s voice in my ear. You spend too much time here. His voice was so clear that I paused for a moment. That had to be my imagination, just a strange expression of grief over the loss of my old friend.
“Hello?” I called out politely, but no one responded. What did I expect? I didn’t believe in metaphysical beings, and Deter was certainly gone. I’d attended his funeral three months ago. No, I was all alone. The rest of the staff, including Herve, our maintenance man, had left early to avoid the crowds of revelers that would show up soon. An early Mardi Gras parade rolled tonight, and traffic mayhem would certainly ensue. I glanced at my watch and sighed. Yes, I would have to leave in the next half hour if I hoped to cross over Government Street without encountering obstructions or crowds of people. Once the roadblocks were in place, they would not be moved until after the parade ended, and that would take hours.
With a sigh of my own, I reached into the box and took out the last item, a French filigree hair comb with five slender prongs. This was a treasure! One of the six original prongs was broken, but the comb remained a thing of beauty and could certainly be used if some woman today were inclined to use it.
Imagine, this fine example of French workmanship has been buried in the Alabama dirt for over three hundred years and then ingloriously hidden in Deter’s drawer for who knows how long.
My initial dating of the beads and comb had been correct, the filigree swirls, the excellent gold and ivory work were certainly from the right time period—early French colonial. Although I could not yet prove it, I believed the comb was evidence that Deter had been right all along. These were items from the lost Fort Louis de La Louisiane! But then why would he hide them? Finding the fort had been his life’s work!
She haunts me now…
Ramblings of a sick, old man.
These artifacts proved the French presence in the area, but it would take more than these Parisian beads and a broken comb to establish Deter’s theory. And I wanted to do that for him. If he’d been in his right mind, he would have shown these items to the world. He would have declared it from the mountaintops, held a press conference, argued his theory, but he couldn’t; I had to do it for him. Unfortunately, I did not have the standing that Deter had in our community of scholars. Nevertheless, pulling together this exhibit had been a brilliant move and should go a long way in beginning a conversation about the fort’s position. Patricia had carefully worded the promotional material to avoid making an outright claim, as I had my reputation to think about, but it had certainly caught the eye of the curious public. One day soon, someone of significance would sign off on Deter’s theory.
I held the item up in the dim light. When had Patricia turned the lights down? Yes, they were certainly dimmer…and now they were out completely. Even the EXIT sign had gone dark. Another power outage? I’d never seen the power go out quite like that. I got the strange sensation that I was not alone in the growing darkness, not alone in the exhibit. I could hear the swishing of clothes, like swishing skirts, and I suddenly felt crowded—no, panicked!
With shaking fingers, I took my phone from my pocket and saw that it too had no power. Breathe, Carl. This is not unusual. You are infamous for letting the battery go too long without a charge. Still holding the comb, I put my phone away and then used my free hand to make my way down the hall. The staircase was somewhere in front of me. Ah, yes, I see it now. The lower steps were eerily illuminated by the moonlight that shone through the glass front doors o
f the museum. Watching my footing carefully to avoid a dangerous fall, I prayed the front door would open. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone walked behind me as the swishing of garments continued.
Perhaps these slacks of mine…no, that couldn’t be it…I’ve never heard that sound before. Would the door remain closed now that the system has gone offline?
I had no idea, but the thought of being stuck in the museum until the power came back on worried me. I had a touch of claustrophobia, and being locked in any place, even a place that I loved, did not appeal to me in the least. I walked past the receptionist’s desk, a modern-looking semicircular desk that I detested. Some former volunteer’s idea of a joke, I supposed. Why not place an antique desk in here instead of this chrome and particle board monstrosity? At some point, I would certainly bring this up to Patricia.
The streetlights were on, and the neighbors obviously had power. How odd. Apparently, the only building without power was the museum. Well, there was nothing for it; I’d have to find the breaker box. If I remembered correctly, it was in one of the storage room closets, but which one? And how would I find my way in the dark? The storerooms were located at the back of the building and were largely windowless. I couldn’t go without a flashlight. Maybe there was one at the reception desk. As I turned away, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of a full-skirted silhouette, a shadow moving. It didn’t want to be seen, but I had the feeling that it watched me. Even when I couldn’t openly see it, it stayed close to me. Yes! I could see it! And as quickly as it peeked out, it disappeared again. Flattening myself against the glass door in surprise, I stared hard but could see nothing. No one was there. My pulse raced, and I laughed at myself.
Okay, Carl Fletcher. You’re a sixty-year-old man with a college degree. Two college degrees! Stop jumping at shadows. Go to the desk, find a flashlight and flip the breaker! No sense in playing mind games with yourself.
After a deep breath, I stomped to the desk, ignoring the weird sensation that someone continued to watch me. Nervously, I hummed a show tune that I couldn’t name as I opened all six drawers. Luckily for me, I found a flashlight in the bottom drawer. I shoved the comb into my pocket (Why had I brought this with me?) and clutched the flashlight like a drowning man with a life preserver.
“Thank God,” I said, thinking that talking to myself would help. It didn’t. An unintelligible whisper answered me—and this was not Deter’s voice at all.
Hearing Deter earlier had been comforting; this was nothing like that. This whispering voice sounded angry and scrambled, like a recorder playing at 78 RPM instead of the recommended 33 or 45.
“Stop!” I commanded nervously. Despite the winter chill that seeped into the museum, my forehead felt sweaty. I dabbed my head with my shirt sleeve and twisted the back of the flashlight to get the beam working. The light blasted back the darkness. I breathed a sigh of relief and waved the light around my perimeter, but there were no unknown silhouettes…and for the moment, no other angry whispers. I found no forgotten guests or angry janitors in any of the corners. I wished I had insisted that everyone stay here until regular closing time. Such a coward, Carl.
Again, I could not shake the feeling that I was being watched. Too much mystery theater, Carl. Go tend to the breakers so you can leave. Following my own advice, I walked through the courtyard past the twelve-foot statue of Marianne, Goddess of Liberty. The bronze figure took up much of the courtyard; she was a beautiful sentinel, an elegant reminder of the city’s past. Walking past her, I went to and through the Civil War room. The dressed mannequins gave me a start, and I quickly left and traveled to the back of the museum trying to remember which of these cluttered storerooms housed the breaker box. After carefully walking through two rooms and finding nothing, I moved on to the last one. Naturally, this was the one that smelled like mold and dusty books.
Ah, on the far wall there.
The closet door stood ajar, but that did not make me want to open it. Why was I so hesitant? Okay, Carl. Don’t be a coward. At this moment, my degrees didn’t matter, my age and maturity didn’t matter. All I wanted to do was get out of here.
Well, the only way to do that is to flip the breaker on.
Faking confidence, I hummed again and walked to the closet door. I held my breath, grabbed the moist handle and swung the door open in unintentionally dramatic fashion. Nothing and no one was there. Did I expect to find a dead body hanging from the breaker box? How macabre! I half-laughed and opened the squeaky metal panel.
Then I heard the voice again, the same voice I’d heard in the reception area. It was demanding, angry and unintelligible. Spinning around, I waved the flashlight wildly.
“Who’s there? Patricia, are you here to teach me a lesson?”
No answer.
“Herve? I insist you come out now.”
What a fool you are, Carl. Nobody is here. You saw them leave. I warned you. I tried to tell you…
“Deter?” Now that was certainly Deter’s voice! “Deter? Are you here?”
An overwhelming stench of rotting leaves filled the dark room. Where was that coming from? It was almost as if Herve or one of his flunkies had dragged a bag of wet foliage in here and left it to decay. Strange that I hadn’t noticed the smell before. Sniffing again, I held the flashlight like it was a gun and waited.
Nothing. Not another sound.
I had to finish this minor task and leave. I couldn’t get the doors open without turning the power back on. Yes, there was probably an override button somewhere, but where? My hands shook as I focused on the breakers. No, this one is good. This one is good. This one is… Oh! There it is! I nearly laughed aloud with joy. It was as I thought—a flipped breaker. Nothing creepy about that. I tugged on the switch and heard the hum of electricity surge through the building. The heater promptly kicked on, but the storage rooms remained dark.
Because I didn’t turn the light on when I walked in here.
I shook my head at my own stupidity and closed the metal box. Well, I had a flashlight, and some of the other lights would be on. With my hand still on the box, I froze.
I felt breath on my neck. Cold, clammy breath. And once again, the absolute funk of rotten foliage filled my nostrils. Someone was standing behind me, and every atom, every particle in my body testified to that truth. With wide, frightened eyes, I wished it away, but the breathing continued. One putrid blast after another. I closed my eyes, thinking that would help, but it remained.
“Deter?” I whispered hopefully. If it was my friend, I would have nothing to worry over. He would never harm me. But this couldn’t be Deter. I heard the swishing of skirts, and the air smelled foul.
There was nothing for it. I had to turn around. I had to face it, whatever it was. But I wasn’t going to do so slowly. Taking a breath, I spun around with all my might and came face to face with something tall and black, something that should be dead but wasn’t.
And then it screamed at me.
Chapter One—Cassidy Wright
I sucked my thumb and frowned at my suddenly ferocious kitten. Domino hissed at me one last time for good measure before he went scurrying out of my bedroom. I heard his padded feet sliding down the hallway and back toward the living room.
“Bad kitty!” I called after him and headed to my bathroom to give my bleeding scratch some much-needed attention. Was cat scratch fever a real thing? I’d never owned a cat before, if you could call me a pet owner now. I had the feeling that Domino considered me more his butler than his owner. All I’d wanted to do was play with the little rascal, and he’d scratched me for no apparent reason. Little monster. I wondered absently if this was what raising a child would be like. Not that I was anywhere near ready for a child of my own, but hanging out with Sierra the past few weeks had me thinking. What kind of mother would I be? Probably a horrible one. I barely remembered to feed myself and Domino; how could I be responsible for a human child?
Nope. Not ready at all. I’m just excited for Sierra
. In the meantime, I’ll work on keeping my cat alive.
“Domino! That really hurt!” I yelled back through the bedroom as if that would guilt him into a cuddle. I washed the scratch, applied some antibacterial cream and then wrapped the wound with a bandage. I heard him scratching outside my door now. “Now what? You want to scratch my other thumb?” I threw my bandage wrappings into the garbage can and waited for his fuzzy black head to pop up around the corner. It didn’t.
Scratch, scratch.
That’s not Domino. Good Lord, please tell me I don’t have mice. Where is that coming from?
Feeling brave, I explored the nearby closet but didn’t find any evidence of rodent activity. I waited for the noise to manifest again but heard nothing. Well, I better check. If there were critters hiding in my bedroom, I wanted to know about it sooner rather than later. I quickly pulled open a few dresser drawers, just as a precaution.
Huh, nothing. No pellets or torn paper. Well, that was weird, but I’m glad to be wrong. Just one drawer left. Might as well check it too.
This was the drawer where I’d stashed the photos of my mother, the ones Uncle Derek had for whatever reason. I didn’t take them out; I didn’t have the heart to go down memory lane right now. Doing so always took the wind out of me, and I was determined to get something done today, not mope around the house. As much as I loved my family, they were gone and there was nothing I could do about it.
Quite a cavalier attitude, Cassidy.
And there was work to be done. Creative work. My former garage turned art studio waited for me. Too bad Helen couldn’t be here today. She and Bruce were in Gadsden for a reenactment of some sort. Ever since she’d started dating the ghost archaeologist, she’d really gotten into playing dress-up. Despite our age difference, she’d become one of my closest friends. I was sure she’d come hang out when she got back. In the meantime, I had paint to stock on my newly built shelves and sketches to work on. I had so many ideas now! Brushes and canvases wanted arranging. I closed the drawer on my mother’s patient face when I heard the scratching again.
Spooked on the Gulf Coast (Gulf Coast Paranormal Trilogy Book 3) Page 1
