Stumptown Spirits

by E. J. Russell

  Yeah, you’re a fucking hero, Conner. So afraid you’d lose your nerve that you bolted first chance.

  “I’ve known Bert since I was a kid, and if there’s one thing you can count on with him, it’s his bad temper.” He offered her his best imitation of a reassuring smile. “Believe it or not, he’s mellowed in his old age. He used to be worse.”

  As he’d hoped, she eased her death grip on herself. “Bert was young once?”

  Logan tilted the chair back on its creaking gimbals. “He’s always looked the same to me, but adults always look old to little kids.”

  She nodded, shoulders sagging. “Too bad you won’t have a chance to chat that guy up tonight after all.”

  “That was never going to happen, girl.”

  “No?” Her voice rose in her usual chirp. “I still say it’s too bad. You’re a good guy, Logan. You deserve some fun now and then.”

  No. I don’t. And next week, he’d finally get his true deserts. He couldn’t let anything or anyone—including Riley Morrel—divert him from his obligation.

  Now that Riley was gone, though, he could take his regular bar shift and keep Bert from terrorizing all the other patrons. Logan may not need the money, but Heather and the rest of the staff did, since Bert was notoriously cheap. Logan wasn’t the only one whose hourly wage verged on criminal.

  “I’ll finish this crap and take over from Bert. Hang tight for a few?”

  Pressing her hand to her chest, she heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Thank the lord. See you out there.” She disappeared with a finger-wiggle wave.

  Logan turned back to the computer, glancing out the window to see if his fan club still lurked on the street.

  His vision narrowed on the scene, and he clenched the chair’s wobbly armrests. The two assholes weren’t alone anymore. They had Riley trapped between them.

  Fuck no.

  Logan leaped up and barreled down the hall, exploding out the back door in a crash of metal against brick. He sprinted down the alley and onto the sidewalk.

  “Hey! I told you guys to back off.”

  Riley’s coffee-dark eyes, visible over Leather’s beefy shoulder, widened, and he tried to sidestep the burly idiot again.

  Leather grabbed Riley’s arm and swung him off-balance. “So? What do you gotta say about it? You’re the guy who ran.”

  But not for the reason you think, asshole. First order of business: get Riley out of the blast zone. Logan paced around Leather, forcing him to turn if he wanted to keep Logan in his sights. Unfortunately, he dragged Riley along with him. “You weren’t worth my time. But now, you’ve pissed me off. Let him go.”

  Leather got up in Logan’s face, almost chest to chest. “Make me.”

  Jerking his thumb at the bar entrance, Logan grinned. “Boss doesn’t like it when I punch out douche bags inside the bar. But out here? Threatening his customers? That shit’s bad for business. I get a free pass on assholes who threaten his bottom line.” Weight balanced on the balls of his feet, Logan was ready to make a move if Leather so much as twitched in Riley’s direction. “Trust me. You don’t want to give me a reason to cash in on that. Let. Him. Go.”

  “Hey, Ace?” Denim’s voice quavered. Out of the corner of his eye, Logan saw the guy drop Riley’s bag. “There’s two of ’em now. You can’t get in another fight. You promised your mom—”

  “Shut up, Tyler!” Red washed up Leather’s neck.

  Logan buried his urge to laugh. If it had only been him against the two of them, he’d have gone for it. He would have welcomed a throw-down with these guys, just to release the dual tensions of Riley’s presence and his own approaching checkout. But when Riley could be collateral damage?

  No fucking way.

  And a sure-fire way to push a poser into blind idiocy was to call him on his pose. So he shut the fuck up and didn’t bait Leather about his momma. Just stood there, staring the guy down.

  Leather’s chest heaved, and Logan prayed Riley wouldn’t decide to distract the guy by struggling or, God forbid, talking. But Riley stayed still and silent.

  A beat. Two. Three, and Leather’s gaze finally dropped. He released Riley with a shove, although Riley managed to keep his balance.

  “Come on, Tyler. This shit ain’t worth our time.”

  The idiots swaggered away, leaving a trail of undervoiced profanities, and Logan was left face-to-face with Riley. Well, face-to-top-of-head. Riley’s attention was on the water pooled around his shoes and the soaked hems of his skinny jeans.

  Skinny jeans. Logan’s mouth went dry. He knew what Riley’s ass looked like in those jeans. Furthermore, he knew what Riley’s ass looked like out of those jeans.

  His cock punched at his fly. He wanted nothing more than to take Riley in his arms. Take him back to his own shitty apartment. Take him, period. Christ, no. Don’t let him get close. Do what’s right. Be an asshole, damn it.

  Riley glanced up through the fringe of his bangs. “Thanks. I think I could have handled it myself, but thanks.” He bent to pick up the yellow wad of paper on the sidewalk at his feet, giving Logan a perfect ass-shot.

  Gah!

  He gritted his teeth, widening his stance to give his erection and tightening balls some desperately needed room, and grasped one wrist in front of his groin, fist clenched. “Where are you staying?” He’d intended to keep his voice neutral, but it came out rough, bordering on threatening. Better.

  But when Riley stood, shoving the paper back into his bag, his eyes shone in the sulfurous light of the streetlamp and his mouth softened in a hopeful, heartbreaking smile. “Vaughn Street Hotel. You want to—”

  Logan forced a harsh guffaw, although he’d never felt less like laughing. “You and me? No. I thought you got that memo five months ago.”

  He extracted a twenty from his wallet and held it between two fingers. When Riley didn’t take it, just stared at it as his lips pinched together, shoulders hunched, Logan pitched it onto the sidewalk.

  “There. Pick it up or not, your choice. But take a cab back to your hotel, and for God’s sake, don’t wander around on your own. You have no fucking clue about urban survival.”

  Logan yanked the bar door open and stalked inside, shutting Riley out of his sight. Christ, whoever had come up with the saying “Out of sight, out of mind” was either a fucking idiot, delusional, or had never met Riley Morrel.

  The crew of Haunted to the Max filled Scott’s hotel suite to its fake-paneled walls, entertaining themselves until Scott and Julie got back from their daily power breakfast to start the production meeting. Riley kicked himself for forgetting to bring his headphones so he could settle his nerves before his presentation. Too much auditory input always shorted out his brain, and between the crew’s banter, good-natured and otherwise, the music blaring over the sound system, and the rerun of Sharknado gibbering on the flat-screen TV, his sensory overload was approaching terminal.

  Focus, damn it, focus. This was his first official presentation of something other than beverage-of-choice to the whole staff. His first chance to prove he was someone other than Julie’s awkward sidekick. Someone worthy of respect in his own right.

  He couldn’t exactly claim his pride was at stake. He was fresh out of that, since he’d sacrificed its pathetic remnants on the altar of Logan last night at Stumptown Spirits. But his credibility—and by extension the credibility of folklore as valid source material for the show—was on trial today.

  So he’d better not freaking blow it.

  Scott strode into the room, followed by Julie, who gave Riley a tiny nod of encouragement.

  “Settle down, people.” Scott’s raised voice added to the din. He pointed at the sound guy. “Chris, kill the music. Wes, turn off the TV.” He looked around the room. “Where’s Max?”

  Max sauntered in and posed with one hand on the top of the door. “Here.”

  Scott scowled, but didn’t give Max shit about being late, as he would have with anyone else. Placate the star. It was the official party li
ne. “All right, then.” He pointed at Riley. “You. You’re up. Brief us on the ghost crap.”

  Oh God. Showtime. Riley wove his way to the front of the room through an obstacle course of outstretched legs, his finely tuned flight reflex continually recalculating the best path of escape. He fumbled with the projector cable, taking two tries to get it hooked to his laptop. When a smatter of laughter broke out, he made the mistake of glancing up. Max mimed a pistol with his finger and thumb, and mouthed Wabbits.

  Fabulous.

  He faced the crew. There couldn’t be twice as many as usual, could there? Just pretend they’re a class of freshmen business majors filling a humanities requirement. A wad of paper sailed through the air and hit him square in the crotch. Someone snickered.

  Okay, make that a study hall full of seventh graders cruising toward detention.

  Nevertheless, for Julie’s sake as well as his own self-respect, he could do this. He grabbed his laser pointer, his palm so damp it nearly slid from his grasp. “We’re investigating an incident at a site called the Witch’s Castle.” He pulled up the PowerPoint slides. “It’s a derelict stone building in Forest Park, next to Balch Creek.”

  “So it’s haunted?” Scott asked.

  Riley nodded. “According to local legend. Some of the sightings are just the usual clouds and inexplicable mist on photogw—” He cleared his throat. “Photographs that should have shown clean.”

  Max groaned and slid down in his chair—the biggest one in the room—tilting his ever-present fedora over his face. A cache of crumpled paper lay half-concealed next to his hip. Great. More ammunition.

  “Um . . . I . . .” Riley’s mouth was suddenly dry. Julie, her best-friend ESP obviously back online today, handed him a water bottle, and he took a grateful swig. Ignore the idiot star. You know what you’re talking about.

  Zack, one of the camera operators, leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So, the witch who lived in the castle. She one of the ghosts?”

  Gratified that someone other than Julie appeared to be listening, Riley smiled and shook his head. “‘Witch’s Castle’ is only a spooky name. There never was a witch, and it’s not really a castle. Some w—rumors claim the place was a trading post in the 1600s.”

  Max pushed his hat up his forehead with one finger. “Now you’re talking. We could do a whole costume reenactment. I’d look great in buckskins, right, Charmaine?”

  Charmaine, the wardrobe coordinator, shot Julie a panicked look. “Uh . . .”

  Riley gave her a reassuring smile. “Those rumors are just that. And mistaken to boot.”

  “If there’s no ghost,” Scott said, without raising his gaze from his cell phone screen, “why are we here?”

  “I didn’t say there were no ghosts. Only that Witch’s Castle wasn’t a trading post. The building was constructed by the WPA in the mid-1930s. It was a restroom.”

  “This is your big story?” Max scoffed. “A haunted john? Jesus, Wiley.”

  The rest of the crew laughed, and heat crept up Riley’s neck. Were they siding with Max’s mockery or amused by the idea of a haunted toilet? He took a gulp of water and tightened his grip on the laser pointer. “It’s not the building that’s haunted. It’s the location. We have multiple weports . . .” He took a deep breath. Slow down. Don’t let them rattle you. “Reports of partially corporeal spirit sightings connected with a local legend. It’s a piece of Oregon history with a frontier Wo—Romeo and Juliet story thrown in for good measure.”

  Riley clicked the next slide and a picture of the roofless building filled the screen, graffiti warring with moss on its rough stone walls. “Danford Balch was the first man legally hanged in Oregon after it became a state. This spot in Forest Park was originally the Balch family homestead, where Danford lived with his wife and nine children.”

  “Nine kids?” Grace, the camera PA sounded horrified. “I’m surprised his wife didn’t save the hangman the trouble and murder him first.”

  “When was this?” Zack asked.

  “Late 1850s.” With evidence that a few of the crew had at least a passing interest in the story, Riley’s nerves subsided and he settled into his lecture groove. “He was well-off enough to employ a hired hand, a teenager named Mortimer Stump. Stump’s family lived on the other side of the river, and likely were not as high up socially or financially, since their eldest son was working for someone else rather than his own family.”

  Max propped his feet on the coffee table with a thump. “Who cares? Halloween is coming up. Can’t we do a story on Houdini?”

  Riley reeled in a sigh. Okay. Fascination not universal. Got it. “Everybody does stories on Houdini at Halloween.”

  “Exactly. Proves he’s popular. A guaranteed audience. I can totally do his look too.” Max sat up and fixed Scott with a goggle-eyed stare.

  Jeez. If Max intended that expression to be intense, he’d missed it by a mile, landing somewhere in the middle of constipated.

  “Max,” Julie said in her humor-the-star voice, “we can discuss a Houdini show at another time. Besides, this show won’t air until January, so the Halloween connection is irrelevant. Let’s hear what Riley has to say.” Max thrust his lower lip out, and Julie played her trump card. “Afterwards, we’ll discuss the promotional appearances I’ve got booked for you.”

  Max’s eyes took on the manic glow of a kid anticipating trick or treat, and Julie nodded for Riley to continue.

  “Balch’s eldest child, Anna, was fifteen in November of 1858. She and Mortimer fell in love, and Mortimer asked Balch for permission to marry her. Balch refused.”

  “Oooh. Bad move,” Grace said.

  “Exactly. For everyone. Anna defied her father, and she and Mortimer eloped. A week later, when they’d come to town for supplies along with the rest of the Stump family, Danford ran into them at the tin shop on Front Street. He demanded his daughter back. The Stump patriarch, Cuthbert, insulted his new daughter-in-law, and Danford stormed off. He returned with his shotgun and caught up with the group at the Stark Street ferry.”

  “If anyone cares about my input, I think the Houdini story would be better,” Max grumbled. “We could restage one of his escape routines.”

  “Oh give Houdini a fucking rest, Max,” Scott said, and Max’s mouth dropped open. “Go on.”

  Riley shared a quick stunned glance with Julie. Was Scott taking his part against Max, or simply moving the agenda along? Okay, then. Stakes raised. Maybe. Better make it good. “Danford Balch shot Mortimer Stump in full view of his daughter, the entire Stump family, and a crowd of onlookers.”

  “So who’s the ghost?” Grace asked. “And what does the Witch’s Castle have to do with it?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. The second legend about the Witch’s Castle haunting involves not just a single apparition, but a full-on ghost war. A family feud between Stumps and Balches, a sort of replay of the events leading up to the hanging of Danford Balch on October 17, 1859.”

  Julie looked up from her clipboard, where she’d been furiously scribbling notes during his presentation. “Riley? Can those dates be correct? According to this, he wasn’t hanged until nearly a year after the murder.”

  “He might not have been hanged at all if he hadn’t been an idiot. They jailed him immediately after the shooting, but the jail was no Alcatraz. He escaped. He could have run anywhere. Instead, he hid out near his own home and had regular meals with his family. He was rearrested, and this time he couldn’t escape, but he contended all the way to the gallows that the shooting had been an accident. They hanged him, apparently much to his own surprise, in front of a crowd that included his wife and daughter.” Riley turned off the projector and closed his laptop. “The daughter, by the way, sat with the Stumps.”

  Scott stood up. “Right. Everybody’s dismissed. Julie, schedule change. I want to complete the principal photography tomorrow night. You stay on with the second unit crew to film all the supporting shit.”

  Riley inched his hand into th
e air. “Um . . . sorry, Scott. We can film the preliminary interviews with witnesses beforehand, but we can’t film the ghost war until October seventeenth.” He gulped under Scott’s narrow-eyed glare. “From everything I’ve been able to uncover, the full war only materializes, complete with an unbreachable perimeter, on the anniversary of the hanging of Danford Balch. The evidence of sightings on other days is sporadic and not especially reliable.”

  Scott scowled and poked at the screen of his smartphone as the crew straggled out of the suite. “Fuck. I was counting on getting back to LA by Thursday night. Why’d we get here so early?”

  “We’ve all got plenty to do, if that’s what you’re worried about. Aside from the background shots, we’ve got PR appearances, red tape to cut through with the city, meetings with Parks and Rec. I gave you a rundown of the timeline in the pitch, Scott. It’s been in the production schedule for over a month.” Julie rose from her chair, clipboard at attention. “But if you really need to get back to LA, I can handle the main shoot, no problem.”

  Scott shot her a look from under his lowered brows. “Don’t dance on my grave yet, Ainsworth. This is still my show, God help me.” He stalked to his desk and cracked open his laptop. “Now get out. I need to call my agent.”

  Riley scrabbled his computer and water bottle together and escaped into the corridor with Julie on his heels. She followed him down the two flights of stairs to his floor and into his room.

  “That went well.” She collapsed onto the lumpy desk chair.

  Riley set his laptop on the desk, flipped up the screen, and plugged in the power supply. “Yeah. The crowd went wild. Huzzah.”

  “Shut up. You did great. At least we’re not doing that stupid Houdini story. Max’s usual camera-ready poses are bad enough. Can you imagine him trying to channel Houdini?”

  “You gotta admit. The fans love him.”

  “Yeah, but do they love him for the right reason? Is he just camp now? Something they use as background for a drinking game? How many times will Max Stone say, ‘Chilling . . . if true’?”