Spooked on the Gulf Coast (Gulf Coast Paranormal Trilogy Book 3)

by M. L. Bullock

  Whenever I did wrong, Aunt Ruby would take to reading and praying and preaching. She’d read from her Bible a good long time before she whipped you, and I think enduring her painful reading was worse than her attempts at actually administering physical correction. In fact, one time Leevale pleaded with her to move on to the beating because he couldn’t take it anymore. He felt powerfully grieved, and convicted was his confession; and also, he had chores to do. Aunt Ruby’s fire and brimstone preaching vexed his soul back onto the straight and narrow more than once. I had a strong inkling that Bart Humphries had never heard any of that kind of preaching. Nothing about mighty King David or the flames of hell. Nothing vexed his soul. Not even the death of a young man who had a new wife and baby.

  “Move up, Darcy. I can see someone in the window.” I scurried up beside the lieutenant and steadied my gaze in the direction he indicated. Sure enough, there was a small shotgun house standing under a bent oak. There were no curtains in the lone window, and there did appear to be a figure moving around. Maybe more than one, but it was hard to tell with the light bouncing off the glass. Beneath me, I heard a sound. To my dismay, I saw the hound, the blue tick hound that I shooed away yesterday. And today. I waved my hand at him to tell him to stay back as if he’d understand what that meant. I hoped Bart didn’t see him.

  “I don’t have any ammunition left, sir. You got any?”

  Bart shook his head and crawled back down the hill a few feet, presumably so we could talk without being spotted. “Nah, but they don’t know that. We’ll have to come up with a plan. We should surprise them. Run in screaming and we’ll surprise the hell out of them. I’m starving, and so are you, Darcy. I’ve been listening to your stomach complaining all morning.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much of a plan, lieutenant.”

  He frowned at my lack of enthusiasm, but I wasn’t anxious to get my head blasted off. Not like Young.

  “I can smell the food cooking. Can’t you? Don’t be stupid, Darcy. We need that food, and if there are any Johnny Rebs in there, we need them too. We have to take something back to the battalion.” Bart had that glazed-over look in his eye, that one that said he’d made up his mind and was going to do what he wanted to do. Bart was one to take risks that weren’t necessary, especially if they presented a solution to his immediate problem. Usually, those problems were ones he created himself. Like this one.

  Yeah, I smelled food, but I could live another day without a stolen meal. In the hills of Kentucky, it happened that way sometimes. You had to eat when you could.

  During the drought a few years ago, we’d gotten so hungry that Leevale threatened to eat Lester, but Aunt Ruby wasn’t having any of that. She loved that old mule. Yeah, I could wait a little while longer to eat; besides, I had a greater hunger. A hunger for justice. I couldn’t let this fool of a lieutenant get himself shot out here. If I did, nobody would know what he’d done. Lieutenant Bart Humphries would be just another dead body on the war front—maybe even celebrated as a war hero, which he was not. But his fine, stiff-collared father wouldn’t want to believe anything else, not unless he confessed the truth. And nobody would know that he caused the death of at least two men. Maybe more. Probably many more. Nobody but me.

  I wasn’t about to let his crimes go without treatment. He would have to answer to someone.

  When Humphries began to spider crawl the hill and then creep toward the back of the house, I was hot on his heels. Maybe it would be easier to kill him myself and be done with it; I’d be like an avenging angel from Aunt Ruby’s Bible. But it would be an empty kill, like so many I’d already sent God’s way.

  For now, I would satisfy myself with watching over Lieutenant Bart Humphries as best I could; he had to stay alive. As we raced towards the flimsy wooden door, I prayed, not for my life but for his. If I died, no one would miss me, but Young had a wife named Emmie and a baby girl he had not yet named. Humphries kicked the door open, and we ran screaming into the house. Although a battle cry sprayed from my lips, I continued to pray in my mind. As the shouting ceased and the bedraggled rebels stared at us, each of them looking more starved than the other, I prayed yet again.

  I pointed my empty gun at one man’s face while the lieutenant bashed the nearest man with the butt of his rifle. He didn’t kill him, but I could hear the man’s bone crack. He’d have a broken rib, probably is all. Better a broken rib than a blasted head. Bart Humphries cussed and swore and stomped around the poky cabin like he’d taken the whole county and not one dilapidated shack and four defeated soldiers.

  God, I hate this man. Please help me not to kill him.

  Bart ordered me to tie the men up with some rope he found. I secured each man while he railed at them, and then when the lieutenant was satisfied with my work, he immediately helped himself to the burning pot of beans. He offered me a spoonful, but I shook my head and avoided the stares of the hungry men.

  Funny how even though we were on different sides we were all thinking the same thing. I didn’t talk to them, but I knew. I could see it in their eyes. Undoubtedly, they could see it in mine.

  We all wanted Bart Humphries dead.

  Chapter One—Cassidy Wright

  Bruce and Helen waved us around them while Midas eased the SUV up the dirt road that led to Harrington Farm. The place had a ton of visitors this morning. In fact, except for the nearby power lines and the cars, it might very well look like a scene straight out of the past. The hillside was crawling with RVs and campers. Apparently, some of these Civil War reenactment groups planned on staying all weekend. And to make things even livelier, there was a cannon on the other side of the house along with two period wagons.

  “Wow. Whoever planned this went all out.” I stared at the costumed soldiers, some in gray, a few in blue. The men were laughing and chatting excitedly about this evening’s events; I imagined that the original gathering had been much less friendly than this one. These were true history buffs, and from what I understood, some of this gear could cost you a pretty penny. Even reproduction rifles from this period were pricey. Bruce told us all about it on more than one occasion.

  “Did you bring your sketch pad?” Midas asked softly as he eased the vehicle towards an open parking spot. “Looks like you’ll have plenty of subjects to study.”

  I gave him a wry look as I picked up my canvas backpack from the floorboard between my legs. “Never leave home without it. That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, though. I want to finish my sketch of you, Midas Demopolis.”

  He shook his head and wouldn’t look me in the eye. I knew it embarrassed him posing for me, but it’s not like I made him sit there without clothes on. It was just a sketch of his face and upper body. I couldn’t get him to actually pose, but at least he didn’t complain too much. Midas put the car in park and stretched his back. It was three hours from Mobile to Jackson, which wasn’t that bad, but it was a lot of sitting in one place for the both of us. We were both active people. I was glad I went for my run early this morning. He flexed his big arms and arched his back again, and I heard his back pop.

  “Ow. That sounds painful. I wish I was that flexible,” I said as I reached for the door, eager to get out and check out my surroundings.

  “You are that flexible,” Midas joked, and I stuck out my tongue at him. He wasn’t usually one to kid around about personal things like that, but it didn’t bother me. At least he wasn’t cranky today. As I stepped out of the air-conditioned vehicle, I was immediately covered with an invisible blanket of humidity. Had to love the south.

  Yes, at least Midas was in a better mood today—not that he was ever mean, just quiet or what I liked to call thoughtful. The past few months had been discouraging for us all. After a wildly exciting string of investigations, the last two cases had been disappointing, to say the least. The Gulf Coast Paranormal team had successfully snapped photos of a fat possum that’d gained entry into the homeowner’s kitchen by way of a hole under the sink and rummaged around on a regular basis
. What I couldn’t figure out was how the possum learned to open a cabinet door. What the client thought was poltergeist activity and ghostly fingernails scratching the walls was actually a giant rodent with a hankering for human food. Mission accomplished.

  And then there was the case of the creepy Peeping Tom or Creeping Tom. A college girl, named Amelia Buckley, called our office convinced that there was a ghost in her rental. The place was an old Victorian that had been converted into four apartments. Her top-floor apartment was located beneath the attic; the homeowner said the attic was never used and we weren’t allowed access to it. We investigated the place for three days and had no personal experiences but set up cameras just to make our desperate client feel better. Neither Sierra nor I felt anything unusual. It didn’t take us long to figure out that the “ghost” in the Buckley case was not a ghost at all. Just a guy that climbed into the attic and accessed Amelia’s room via a forgotten access panel whenever she slipped out. The things we caught him doing on camera while no one was home were beyond embarrassing. Poor Amelia had to get a restraining order and a new supply of undergarments, and, eventually, she moved out of the apartment.

  Although Midas was proud that we’d helped the client, and that we’d caught the weirdo, I sensed that he had been hoping for a different ending in both cases. I reminded him repeatedly that this was what we did. We debunked things—that was first and foremost. “As you’ve told me many times, we can’t find proof of the paranormal if it isn’t there. We can’t force the evidence.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  When Helen and Bruce invited us up to witness the reenactment of the Battle of Patch Town, I jumped at the chance. I pitched it to Midas as a romantic getaway, and I hoped that it would be. Bruce’s brother Jason owned the property, and we were lucky enough to spend the night in the historic farmhouse. It was bigger than I thought it would be, and I looked forward to politely exploring every nook and cranny. As we walked up with our bags in hand, I took in the scenery. Somewhere close, a coffeepot was going, and there were various and assorted smells of roasted meat and corn. There was a wraparound porch complete with ceiling fans that spun around in the occasional breeze. The two-story farmhouse was old for sure, but it had been kept up beautifully. The clapboard siding appeared to be freshly painted white, and the front steps were lined with Boston ferns. A screen door opened, and a man who looked remarkably like Bruce, only about a foot taller, welcomed us to Harrington Farm.

  “Good to see you all. Welcome to Harrington Farm. Bruce, I see you brought the belle of the ball with you. Good to see you again, Helen.”

  “I don’t know about all that, but good to see you too.” She smiled and extended her hand to Jason. He ignored her hand with a big smile and hugged her up, and I could see he was a friendly kind of guy.

  Bruce playfully punched him on the shoulder. “After all these years you still have to hit on every girl I bring around? Come here, you old fool.” The brothers hugged one another, and then Bruce introduced Midas and me.

  “These are my friends, Jason. This is Midas Demopolis and Cassidy Wright. You’ve heard me talk about the Gulf Coast Paranormal investigators before.”

  “Sure have. Glad you could make it. How was the drive up?”

  We chitchatted for a little while, and then Jason clapped his hands excitedly. “There’s a lot going on out here this afternoon. I hope you understand that I’ve got to get back outside, but before I do, I’ll show you to your rooms. Have any of you besides Bruce been to a reenactment?”

  “Helen has,” Bruce answered as Helen frowned at him as if to say, I can answer for myself.

  “In that case, the noise might surprise you. There’s going to be gun and cannon fire throughout the rest of the afternoon and tomorrow, but we always taper off before sunset. The noise of war makes some people jumpy. Feel free to walk around and meet everyone. Bruce, why don’t you and Helen take the yellow room upstairs? It was Rose’s favorite. And you two follow me.”

  We left Bruce and Helen and followed the older man down an empty hallway to another room. Obviously, this was the oldest room in the house, the original cabin. The floor felt a bit worn. It was an inch or so lower than the hallway, but I could see the wood was well taken care of, even if it had a bit of a definite bow to it. The room didn’t smell bad, but it smelled old. After all these investigations, I knew that smell. A wrought iron queen-sized bed stood in the middle of the room against the far wall, and it was covered with a white chenille blanket. Framed samplers covered the walls, and on the nightstand was a jar of wildflowers and a lamp. It wasn’t the artifacts that made me believe this was the oldest room in the house—it was just a feeling I had. Call it experience.

  “This is great. Thank you for your hospitality, Jason.”

  “My pleasure, Midas. Glad you could be here to witness the reenactment.” He paused as if he wanted to say something else but then changed his mind. After another few seconds of hesitation, an embarrassed smile stretched across his face. “When you get ready, there’s food on the grill out back. That’s where I’ll be. In the meantime, make yourself at home. Feel free to walk around and check things out.”

  The door closed with a click, and I sat on the edge of the bed and took in all the details. There was an old fireplace on the far wall, so old that some of the stonework was crumbling. There was a black-painted wrought iron poker set on the hearth, but it didn’t look like the fireplace had been used in a long time. Yet, I could easily imagine the smell of smoke.

  Had to be from the many campfires I’d seen going outside. Right?

  “Are you hungry, Cassidy, or do you want to change first?” Midas smiled flirtatiously as he closed the lace curtains. Those flimsy things weren’t going to give us much privacy. Normally I’d take advantage of his playful mood, but the hair on my arms crept up and my mind began to swirl with images. Images from another time.

  I saw hands and falling bodies. I saw a man falling into the mud and faces…faces of the long-ago dead.

  As he drew close to me, I whispered to him, “Midas, we’re not alone.”

  Chapter Two—Cassidy

  After Midas’ paranormal dry spell and my confession, he was eager to scout around Harrington Farm. Talk about a kid in a candy store. Yeah, it was like the place had invisible eyes, but the feeling diminished as we walked around the rest of the home. It felt as though the strangeness was zeroed in on that room and not anywhere else. I wasn’t sure if I felt threatened or what exactly I did feel, but it put me on edge. Yeah, it was good seeing Midas excited—I didn’t realize what an adrenaline junkie he was—but I didn’t even want to think about sleeping in that room. With or without him. I suddenly missed Sierra; her spiritual intuition was amazing, and I knew she would know exactly what was happening here. Maybe I was making too much of it? With all the history being celebrated this weekend, with people walking around in Civil War uniforms, guns going off and whatnot, it was easy to get a feeling of nostalgia. It was easy to picture lost souls haunting the place.

  No second-guessing yourself, Cassidy. You know exactly what this is. There’s something paranormal going on here.

  Instead of taking my sketch pad, I decided to bring along my digital camera. Bruce and Helen must have stepped outside because their bedroom door was wide open and they were nowhere in sight. The moment we stepped back onto the front porch, I was overwhelmed with the sights and sounds of this year’s Battle of Patch Town Reenactment. We were immediately greeted by a friendly couple, neither of whom wore Civil War garb, and we quickly struck up a conversation with them. Ed and Fran Jacoby had come all the way from Kentucky to witness the event.

  “Back home, Fran and I never miss local events like this. It’s so important to remember the past.” I raised my eyebrows at Ed and nodded, but I wasn’t quite sure I agreed with him completely. Sometimes letting go is important too. “Is this your first time at a reenactment?” he asked us both.

  “I’ve been to a few but never participated in them, and
this is the first time we’ve been here. Have you been to Harrington Farm before?” Midas asked in his informal interviewer tone.

  Like me, Fran was snapping photos. She interrupted and said, “First time for us on the property too. It’s amazing, isn’t it? So spacious and beautiful. I love those old trees.”

  “Me too,” I added absently. “You should see inside the house. It’s like stepping back in time.”

  “You went in the house?” they asked in unison. I had no idea Ed was paying attention to our conversation.

  “Yes. We’re staying with Jason Goddard this weekend.”

  Fran made a strange face. “You couldn’t pay me to stay in there. Hey! Is that Bud?” Fran was already tugging on Ed’s arm, and he walked away with a shrug that said What are you going to do? That man looked completely happy about being led around by his excited wife.

  For the next hour, Midas and I walked the perimeter of the activity and chatted with a blacksmith, a friendly camp cook, and a group of college students who were here to observe the activities for research on a project. There was a lot going on, but it was largely a friendly affair. The big battle would be tomorrow, but the local history groups were putting on some skirmishes in a few minutes. Midas and I sat on the sidelines along with the other tourists and watched as young and older men ran out onto the battlefield and took their places. All the smiles vanished as they got down to business. A solemn hush fell over the crowd as guns snapped, and people began to fall to the ground in quick order. It was riveting and disturbing. There was no fake blood or any guts and gore to be seen, but the skirmishes unfolded like a disturbing vision.

  And I knew visions.

  I snapped pictures, not just at the faux battle we witnessed but at the crowds around us. Everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. I spotted Bruce and Helen in my viewfinder and went to take a photo of the usually sunny couple and saw that they were clearly arguing.