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

by M. L. Bullock

  Finally, the prisoners fell asleep. Humphries and I leaned against the wall next to the door and listened to the wind whistle through the rafters and around the walls of the tiny house. At one time the wind was so strong that I thought for sure it would blow the place down and take us all with it. That would be a bit of irony: both the Union and Confederate armies blown away by an Act of God. It was probably as much as any of us deserved.

  I thought about my cousins for a while. I prayed again that they were safe and at home. Maybe they were. It was certainly possible. Leevale better be home; joining up with the Union was his idea. Once Kentucky decided to get involved, of course we had to go. We were true sons of Kentucky. True blue. We weren’t no cowards, not like the man beside me. I remembered the moment when Leevale asked me if I would join him in the ranks.

  “You kidding me, Leevale? Of course I’ll join you. I was born ready.” Aunt Ruby had cried in the corner, but she didn’t try to stop us. She didn’t try to talk us out of it. This warring was our duty, and we wouldn’t shirk from it, even if we were poor. Her only requirement was that we travel further south and sign up at the other side of the state. Aunt Ruby didn’t want us fighting against people we knew. We were the last state to declare for a side, and by some bit of irony, of all the states in the Union, Kentucky had become the most divided.

  But now here I was with good Ol’ Bart.

  “What do you plan on doing, lieutenant? With these men, I mean.”

  He closed his eyes and pulled his hat down further on his head. “That’s none of your concern, private. You leave those kinds of things to your superior officer.” He leaned back against the flimsy wall. I thought that would be the end of it, but he whispered his thoughts anyway. “The way I see it, we have an opportunity here to upgrade some of our necessities. For example, those shoes of yours are too small for your big feet. If we plan on hiking back to Kentucky, you’re going to need a better fit of shoes. Seems to me these fellas don’t need shoes like we do. Go try on a pair. That small fella, his shoes look like they’d fit you.”

  I shook my head and dropped my voice to avoid being heard. “I don’t want to take these men’s shoes. They are our prisoners, and according to the code, we can’t deprive them of their personal belongings.”

  Lieutenant Bart Humphries was on his feet now with his gun in his hand. Everyone stirred awake, but nobody said a word. I could see the men in the darkness; my eyes had grown used to the black. Why was he threatening me with an empty gun? “You don’t take orders too well, Private Darcy. I can see why you haven’t moved up the ranks yet even though you have been fighting for a year. What do you think is going to happen when you go back to Jackson and you haven’t had a promotion? It’s within my power to give you one. Don’t you want a promotion?”

  A promotion was the last thing on my mind. I wanted to survive the war, to make it home to Aunt Ruby and her Bible. Only a judge’s son would be thinking along those lines at such a time as this.

  “No. I don’t want a promotion. Sit down, lieutenant. Let’s get some sleep,” I said without moving from the floor. Our prisoners tried their best to sit up so they could be prepared for whatever fresh hell was coming their way via the lieutenant. And something was certainly coming if I failed to defuse the situation. Since we broke into this place, Bart’s behavior had changed dramatically. He’d gone from being a coward to being a bully. But then again, it was easy to bully men that couldn’t defend themselves. Now all he talked about was getting his promotion, making it back to Jackson and what to do with his prisoners of war.

  “Alright, private. If you want to disobey me, that’ll be fine.” Bart was rocking back and forth now on his heels, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he nodded his head. But it was his eyes that had me worried; as the lightning illuminated his face, I could see them clearly. Yes, sir. He had those crazy eyes, the kind you see in men that have seen too much or have done too much of the wrong thing. Thunder cracked above the little shack and the whole place shook. Nobody said a word.

  “Every one of you sonofabitches, take off your shoes! Do it now!” Humphries waved his empty rifle at them, and I shook my head at him and raised my hand to the prisoners as if to say, Nobody move.

  “They can’t do that, lieutenant. Their hands are tied, remember? Please, put the gun down. We’ve had our shelter, and we’ve had our free meal. Let’s be on our way.”

  “Evidently, you didn’t hear what I said. Take off their damn shoes, private!”

  Angry now, I jumped to my feet and shouted at him, “You know as well as I do that your gun is empty, lieutenant. There ain’t no bullets in that gun. Now put it down and let’s be on our way!” And then without even turning his head, Bart Humphries held the muzzle of his rifle next to the youngest man’s head and pulled the trigger.

  Bart Humphries had lied to me.

  He still had bullets in his gun, and now that young man, probably not even sixteen, that boy was dead. The man beside him, an older man with a scraggly white beard and corn-silk hair, began to cry, “My boy, my boy…” but he wisely cried quietly. I couldn’t take my eyes off the boy’s surprised face. He was dead alright, dead before he knew what hit him. His bright blue eyes were vacant of any and all expression.

  And those eyes were watching me.

  Suddenly, the lieutenant was in my face; his fetid breath filled my nostrils. “Now, in case you didn’t understand me, private, will you kindly remove that boy’s shoes? He’s not going to need them where he’s going. And then gather up the rest of them. Do you hear me, Plum Darcy?”

  I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the boy. I heard the gun cock again as he whispered in my ear, “I said do you hear me, private?”

  “Yes, I hear you, lieutenant,” I managed to whisper.

  I did as he asked. All three men surrendered their boots to me, and finally, I took the dead boy’s too. I put them all on the wobbly table and waited to hear what horrible thing Bart would make me do next.

  And the whole time the boy’s eyes watched me.

  He was gone, just like Young Springfield and that other fella, but some part of the boy was still there, still watching. Still waiting for justice.

  If I made it out of this shack alive, I silently promised the boy, he would get exactly that. Somehow, I would deliver Lieutenant Bart Humphries into the hands of Lady Justice herself.

  Or the hands of the Devil.

  Chapter Four—Cassidy

  About one in the morning, I crawled out of our comfortable bed and reached for my backpack. I headed to the restroom for some privacy. Thankfully, we had our own private bathroom where I could go to draw without turning on the bedroom light and waking up Midas. The floor felt cold under my bare feet. I sat on the fluffy blue rug and immediately began sketching a face. A young man’s face. He had light brown hair, which he wore parted to the side. He had thin whiskers at his chin and thoughtful hazel eyes. As my pencil flew over the page, a cold chill made me feel uncomfortable. I pulled a towel down from the towel rack and wrapped it around my legs. I quietly pushed the door closed a little more to avoid waking Midas, who was snoring softly.

  Back to my sketch…

  Yes, he had a mole here, just under his eye, above his cheekbone. This could have been a handsome face if it weren’t for those melancholy eyes. He had a blue hat on his head and wore a blue coat, but that was all I could see for the moment. I leaned back, closed my eyes and sighed. This was frustrating. I always worked better with paint. I suddenly missed my studio with all my paints and supplies. At home, I had everything I needed to bring this picture to life.

  But he won’t let me go. I can’t wait. He wants me to see.

  I drew a hand and a rifle and then another man…

  And then my thoughts turned to Helen, and as I sketched I cried. Her news was going to rock the Gulf Coast Paranormal team. I couldn’t believe she’d received such a horrendous diagnosis. She’d never even told me she was sick. We couldn’t lose Hele
n—I couldn’t lose her. The doctor had to be wrong—they often were. Helen was so healthy and so full of life, and she’d beaten cancer once before. But this particular type was complicated, what they called “resistant,” and not many people beat it. That’s why she needed me. She’d just have to make it. I put the sketchbook down and cried my heart out.

  And then the bathroom door opened. Midas was there. He didn’t ask any questions. He was on the floor beside me; he put his arm around me and pulled me close. I cried on his shoulder until he picked me up and took me back to bed. I let him hold me, but we didn’t do anything else. He didn’t talk, and neither did I. I didn’t know what to say other than why had she waited to tell us? Soon I had fallen back asleep.

  Sometime near sunrise, I heard the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. I reached over beside me, expecting Midas to be out of bed, but he was still there. That sound was coming from inside our room here at Harrington Farm. And I felt him get really still beside me. I could see that his eyes were open too. He put his fingers up to his lips to tell me to be quiet. I remained very still, but I never took my eyes off him. As the chair moved around the floor, my heart pounded in my chest. Something was in here with us.

  How much longer are we going to wait?

  And then it stopped. Simultaneously, we sat up and looked at the cane-backed chair; obviously, that had to be what was making the noise. We got out of bed and both reached into our bags. I grabbed a camera while Midas surprised me by bringing out his EMF detector. I didn’t even know he’d packed one.

  I snapped photos of the chair while Midas waved his gadget around, above and beneath it. He got no readings at all, but clearly, this was the chair that had been making the noise. It had changed locations, that was for sure. When we went to bed, the second time I’d seen it, it had been up against the closet door. Now it was beside the bed. I stepped back and took another picture of the chair, and that’s when I spotted the scratched-up floor. There were deep grooves in the floor now, and I knew there weren’t any before.

  “Does that say something? I think that’s a word.” I blinked at the scratches.

  Midas removed the chair and stood back. “I think it does. Looks like B-A-R-T. Maybe something else, but I can’t tell.” Suddenly the chair flew across the room with such force that it broke into a half a dozen pieces.

  I screamed and Midas swore as we both got out of the way of the flying furniture. “Midas, I’m ready to get out of here. If you want to stay here another night, then fine, but not in this room.”

  “Agreed,” Midas said as he stepped out of the room behind me. We immediately went looking for Jason, who couldn’t believe our report. He came in to check out the chair and saw the markings.

  “I swear we had nothing to do with this chair getting destroyed. It just flew across the room and slammed against the wall. Any idea who Bart is?”

  “The only Bart I know of was a Union soldier. He was here during the slaughter of the POWs, right before the Patch Town Battle. He tried to stop Private Darcy, his junior officer, but the man went into an uncontrollable rage. Anyway, this Private Darcy apparently lost his marbles during the war and went on a killing spree. Bart Humphries, Darcy’s lieutenant, was attempting to bring him back to Jackson to face a court-martial from a previous incident when the private escaped. During his pursuit of him, Bart had to shoot Darcy. Those were the rules in those days. You got shot if you acted like a coward.”

  “Anyone else survive, or did anyone else see this escape attempt?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, but you should talk to Matthew King. He knows all that stuff about the Patch Town history from that time period, and it was quite a scandal killing those four men.”

  “Where can we find Matthew?” Midas asked as he refused another cup of coffee.

  “At the cannon at the back of the house. He should be up and ready to go by now. Be sure and bring your earplugs, though. That cannon will go off soon, and it will go off every hour until sundown.”

  “Good to know. Thanks, Jason. Sorry about your chair.”

  “No worries. I’m glad you’re here, and I’m more convinced than ever that someone wants to communicate.” We trailed him to the kitchen, and he left us alone in the house. There was no sign of Bruce or Helen.

  “Shall we go talk to this Matthew King?”

  “I think we should,” I agreed.

  Midas and I went in search of the amateur historian. Just like Jason told us, he was right by the cannon. A younger man was with him, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the two were related. They practically looked like twins, only Matthew King was twice the younger man’s age. “Matthew? I’m Midas, and this is Cassidy. Jason said you might be able to help us.”

  The man slung his hat off and beat it on his leg as if to rid it of some invisible bug. He popped it back on his head and appraised us. “He said that, did he? What kind of help do you need?” Uh-oh. I detected about ten degrees of smartass with this guy.

  Midas was immovable. “I have some questions about local history.”

  “Would that history have to do with Harrington Farm?” The man crossed his arms now, but his son or whoever he was didn’t pay us a bit of attention. He was tearing linen strips from a larger piece of cloth and tossing them in a basket.

  “Yes. My friend and I were wondering if you could tell us the story about Bart, the Union soldier who witnessed the killing of those four POWs.” Midas gave a friendly smile, but I was getting the feeling that he was wasting his time. This Matthew King had already made up his mind that he wasn’t going to like us or help us. And he wasn’t going to talk to us. I glanced around and noticed that quite a few people were looking nervously in our direction.

  What’s up with that?

  “We don’t need any more revisionists around here, Mr. Midas. History is history, and it can’t be changed. I think you ought to leave the story alone.”

  Midas was stupefied by his comment. “I’m not sure what you’re thinking, Mr. King, but I’m here to help Jason Goddard. I’m not trying to rewrite history or anything like that. I surely wouldn’t want to take away from the importance of this town or the people in it.”

  “You write for a newspaper or something?”

  “No. I don’t write for anyone. We are doing an investigation, and in order to do it, we need facts. Facts I was told you could provide us with, but I see that I am wrong. Sorry that I bothered you.” Midas’ jaw popped, and I could see how ticked he was.

  We started to walk away when Matthew King called after us, “What kind of investigation? Is this about the Andersons? Because if it is, that case was closed a long time ago.”

  “Thanks anyway,” Midas said as he stormed away from Matthew King. “What an ass.”

  “I’m kind of glad you didn’t tell him we were paranormal investigators. That wouldn’t have gone over well. Why would he think that we were revisionists? I don’t get that, and I’m not even sure what that means. I guess groups like this must be a little protective of their communities. Bruce says it’s a dying art, these historical reenactments.”

  We heard a vehicle pulling into the driveway and turned to see Sierra waving at us from the front seat of the Gulf Coast Paranormal van. In this morning’s craziness, I’d forgotten that the team was on the way out here. Sierra had gotten over her initial fright of investigating during her pregnancy, which was good news for us.

  “They’ll know that we are now.” Midas nodded a hello at some woman who walked by staring at us as if we were aliens or some other type of strange creature she had never seen before. Our friends began piling out of the van, and we wasted no time greeting them.

  I hugged Sierra and whispered in her ear, “I have never been so glad to see you in my life.”

  She hugged me back and said, “I just saw you the day before yesterday. What’s going on, Cassidy?”

  In a rush, I told her everything. I didn’t care who heard us. I told her about the presence in the house and th
e strange way we were being treated this morning by some of the reenactors.

  “Hey, where are Bruce and Helen?” she asked.

  “In the house, I believe. No, wait. They weren’t at breakfast this morning, so they must be out here somewhere. Helen got some bad news, Sierra. Really bad news.” Joshua and the rest of the crew were walking toward the house. I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, but I was so worried about Helen that it all came tumbling out.

  She squeezed my hand reassuringly. “We’ll make sure Helen does what she is supposed to do. She won’t go through this alone.”

  Pete rubbed his jaw with his hand and stared at the house and all the activity around him. “Man,” he said as he visibly shivered. “Why do I feel like I have been here before? Talk about a wicked case of déjà vu. No joke; I feel like I have been here before.” He walked around a few seconds and shook his head in disbelief.

  Then he turned to me and said, “Cassidy, I want to see everything you have drawn. I have to.” I nodded in agreement, but I was a little taken aback by his tone. Pete wasn’t the kind of guy to get worked up about my drawings or paintings. Yeah, something was definitely going on with him.