Haunting Savannah: 8 Dark and Seductive Tales

by Lia Davis

  Chapter 3

  Harper awoke to the chatter of magpies in the cottonwood trees. The morning sun streamed through her open window, and a gentle breeze billowed the lace white curtain into her room. Pluto lay curled in a ball beside her pillow. She ran her fingers through his soft, thick fur and then sat up. Funny, she had no recollection of changing into her nightgown or even going to bed. Last she remembered, Pluto had been in his cage and she had taken a walk with Clay.

  After a quick shower, she filled Pluto’s bowl, plucked a stale donut from a box marked food and wandered through the front lawn, taking inventory of the manor, looking for minor maintenance projects she could handle herself. Her eyes fixed on the half-painted porch ceiling, and a quiet groan escaped her. Project number one.

  She made short work of the job and was already cleaning out the paint brush and rollers when she saw Clay standing on the sidewalk with two large coffees, staring at the porch ceiling.

  “Holy shit. You actually did it. You painted it white.”

  “I like white,” she snapped.

  “You stubborn Yankee princess. It’s supposed to be blue.”

  “What’s your problem? It’s my porch.” Suddenly, her eyes grew wide. “Did you think my grandfather was leaving the plantation to you? Is that it? It’s some kind of control thing?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous." He handed her one of the steaming cups and sat down on the porch steps.

  “Then what? Why can’t the porch ceiling be white?”

  He took a long, slow sip and watched the steam rise from his cup as though he were weighing his words. Then he looked into her eyes and said, “Life is different down here. We whistle when we walk past graveyards, we pour salt across our thresholds, and damn it, we paint our porch ceilings blue. You think it’s because we’re a bunch of superstitious hicks, but it’s not. It’s because...” His voice trailed off and he shook his head.

  “What? Just spit it out.”

  “Harper, Bellehaven is haunted.”

  She stood stone-faced, waiting for him to chuckle. But his drawn lips and narrowed eyes refused to budge. She burst out laughing. “Ghosts? You can’t be serious! You know there’s no such thing. Wait — that still doesn’t explain why porch ceilings can’t be white.”

  Clay ran his hand through his hair and squirmed. “Spirits can’t pass over water. They see the blue and think ...it’s water. It... protects you.”

  She nearly spewed her coffee across the porch. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “What if I told you, I know for a fact they’re real?” he asked.

  “I’d say you’re full of crap, and you probably just want to buy the plantation from me for next to nothing. Well, it won’t work.”

  His face blazed. “Even if you gave me this plantation, I couldn’t afford the taxes. Whether you believe it or not, I’m not out to hurt you, little Miss Priss. Just tell me this: what do you remember about last night? After our walk. How’d you wind up back inside all snug and cozy in your bed?”

  After an awkward silence, she said, “I don’t remember. But how would you know that?”

  He retraced their steps from the night before, telling her about the music, her trance, and how he carried her inside. “Something — no, someone had control of you, Harper.”

  She shook her head. “Stop trying to scare me. I don’t believe in ghosts. I...I was exhausted, that’s all.” Her eyes narrowed. “How did I end up in my nightgown?”

  Clay swallowed hard. “ Well, I...changed you. You passed out. I had to carry you. I couldn’t see where I was going and I stepped in a hole. We fell in the swale. You were covered in mud, so I...changed you and put you to bed.”

  “You took off my clothes.”

  His face blanched. “Well, technically yes, but I put some back on, too.”

  “I...you...how could you?” Harper flew down the porch steps and sprinted for the backyard.

  Clay called after her, “It’s not like I did anything...else. I wouldn’t lie about that. You’re losing sight of what’s important here. You could be in danger.”

  Harper turned and pointed at him. “Do not follow me. Ghosts, trances, and disembodied voices? Forget it. I can’t process any of this. Leave me alone. I need time to think.”

  Her feet flew across the grass, sure and certain as though they knew where they were headed. All the while her mind reeled. Part of her believed Clay was telling the truth — at least as he saw it, even though none of it made sense. He’s not out to hurt me, she reasoned. I’m a better judge of character than that. Her legs and lungs began to burn. She pulled herself from her reverie and was surprised to see that she’d raced all the way to the icehouse.

  The air was different there, thicker and stagnant with a sweet, cloying stench. The grounds, filled with birds and wildlife, had grown eerily silent. The branches of the towering oaks arched over the top of the icehouse and covered it in darkness like a shroud.

  Something, or someone, called from inside the icehouse. Her heart raced. She tried to block the sound from her mind, yet even as she resisted, her hand moved of its own volition and reached for the door. She watched helplessly as the knob turned beneath her fingers. The door swung open with a mournful moan and Harper McKinnon stepped into the past.

  The icehouse, which had been empty for over a hundred years, now held large blocks of ice stacked in frozen columns. Its floor was muddy with runoff and smelled of the nearby Savannah River. As Harper breathed in the cold, wet air, she noticed other smells, too — the stink of man sweat and whiskey. Looking down, she saw vintage leather pumps peeking out from beneath a floor-length ruby dress that billowed below her waist. Disoriented, she grabbed hold of the wall to steady herself with hands that were no longer manicured and creamy, but calloused and honey-brown.

  The floor and ceiling began to spin, slowly at first, but then spiraled toward her in dizzying circles. She closed her eyes and the crazed, high-pitched keening of animals surrounded her, approaching ever closer, until she felt the heat of their breath on her skin.

  Chapter 4

  Clay patched the worn interior walls of the drawing room and wondered which color Harper would want to paint them. He rolled his eyes and looked at Pluto laying in a ribbon of sunlight on the parlor floor.

  “God help me, cat, another discussion about paint.”

  For now, there were more cracks and holes in the plaster than he could tackle in a month. He put on his headphones, cranked up some Toby Keith, and lost himself in the music, thinking she’ll come back when she’s damn good and ready.

  The shadows on the wall grew long, and he adjusted the light. Three o’clock. He hadn’t heard or seen Harper since morning. Pluto meowed pitifully.

  “Where’d your momma go, kitty? Are you getting hungry?” He walked to the kitchen and filled Pluto’s bowl. Uneasiness gnawed in the pit of his gut. He tried to shake it off.

  She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.

  He sighed, wiping the plaster dust from his hands, and went to look for her. The woman was ten pounds of trouble in a five pound bag. God knew what silly project she might have started that he would have to finish. He walked through the house and called for her but got no answer. He headed outside; her car was parked in the circle, so she had to be there somewhere.

  He checked the grounds in front of the manor then circled to the back, picking up his pace with every step. He called for her over and over again but there was no answer. His stomach churned. Something’s wrong.

  He ran.

  When he approached the icehouse, the air began to tumble and swirl. A gray translucent woman fluttered in the doorway, hovering, beckoning him to enter.

  Clay stumbled to a halt. “Ophelia! What have you done?”

  He threw back the icehouse door. Harper lay curled into a ball, rocking on the floor, facing Clay. Her glazed eyes didn’t appear to see him.

  He knelt beside her and pulled her into his arms. “Harper, Harper. It’s me,
Clay. Harper.”

  She moaned. Her eyes fluttered a few times before finding his. “Clay?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  As he lifted her gently from the ground, he noticed she was clutching something in her hand — a muddy hair comb. She gave it to him, his rough, large hand nearly swallowing hers. He shoved the comb into the back pocket of his jeans. It was a typical October afternoon; warm and breezy, and yet her skin felt like ice. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around her. Then he shook his head. She was so tiny, the shirt hung on her like a bathrobe.

  He cradled her in his arms and carried her back to the manor. “This is becoming a habit,” he said, “I might have to start charging you by the mile.” The quip was meant to make her smile. But things were getting out of hand and he couldn’t help but wonder if or when Ophelia would appear next.

  He laid Harper on the sofa, covered her with a soft chenille throw, and brushed a lock of hair from her face. Pluto climbed onto the back of the sofa and curled up near her shoulder. After starting a fire in the fireplace, Clay fixed her a hot cup of hot tea. Then he went to sit beside her and felt something dig into his thigh. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out the hair comb and flaked off the mud. It had a few broken teeth and was yellowed but exquisite, made of scrimshaw and inlaid pearls. He showed it to Harper.

  “Is this yours?”

  “No, I’ve never seen it before.”

  “You were holding it when I found you at the icehouse.”

  She shrugged helplessly and turned to face the fire. Even with her tangled hair and dirt-smudged face she took his breath away. Her amethyst eyes burned soft and warm in the firelight, her skin shone like alabaster that begged to be touched. He leaned in closer.

  “What’s this on your neck?” he asked.

  “Ow. That hurts.”

  Fingertip bruises, he thought. Could Ophelia have left them? He didn’t think so. She’d never been violent, and besides, the hand print was too large.

  “Jesus, Harper, what happened out there? Who did this to you?”

  She rubbed her face with her hands. “After our...discussion... this morning, I started running and ended up at the icehouse. Something inside it called to me, actually pulled me toward it. I remember being frightened and trying to keep my hand off the doorknob, but I couldn’t. It just kept pulling me in, and when I looked...”

  Her shoulders began to shake as she broke into sobs. Clay put his arm around her and pulled her close.

  “When I looked at my hand, Clay, I swear it wasn’t mine. It was the hand of a young black girl. And I...she...was wearing a red period style gown. It was so surreal. Everything started to spin and I got dizzy. I heard such awful sounds — these crazed, high-pitched shrieks that seemed to go on forever. I’ve never been so scared in all my life!”

  Unable to stop the flow of her tears, Harper curled into Clay’s body and cried with the openness of a wounded child. He was stunned. It was the first time she’d let her guard down. Moved, he held her tight, wanting nothing more than to take away her pain, but a quiet voice in back of his brain screamed, Was it Ophelia? Had she seen Ophelia? When Harper finally lay still, he continued to hold her, and whispered, “Now, I’m going to tell you all about this place. At least as much as I know.

  “Your coupla-times great granddaddy, Thaddeus McKinnon, built this plantation in 1843. He was a widower with one son who went off to school and moved to Richmond to practice medicine. Like most of the rich, low-country farmers, he grew rice. And like most of those farmers, he bought slaves to handle the field work and to staff his manor.

  “In fact, there’s something I need to show you.” Clay scooted out from beneath Harper and walked to the mahogany secretary next to the fireplace. He gently removed a picture from the top drawer and brought it to her.

  “Oh, look at the detail,” she murmured, “It’s beautiful.” It was an old daguerreotype photograph in its original display case.

  “That’s a picture of the McKinnon slaves,” said Clay. “That’s Mammie Odette in the back, her daughter, Ophelia, standing next to her, and a couple of orphan slave girls, Willow and Maisie. Thaddeus was partial to his house slaves and treated them well for the times. In fact, they stayed on at the plantation with him after the Civil War. Your granddaddy told me that according to family scuttlebutt, Ophelia up and disappeared one day. Talk was she ran off, though Thaddeus swore that wasn’t true. She was never found... and she never did come back.” Then he whispered, “At least not while she was alive.”

  Harper, no longer crying, sat on the edge of the couch, silent, and waited for him to continue. He squatted down in front of her and peered into her shimmering violet eyes.

  “You aren’t going to want to believe this, but it’s the God’s honest truth. There’s something dark here — a presence. I don’t know who or what it is, but I feel it. Sometimes, at night, I wake up to the sound of a cracking whip, and there’s a black mist hovering over me. My room stinks of cigars and whiskey. And there’s more,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ophelia appears to me now and again, too. She’s never done me any harm. She seems to be partial to me. Like maybe even...attracted to me.

  “Take a good look at that picture, Harper.” He pointed to Ophelia. “Could it be her hand you saw?”

  “Maybe,” said Harper. “But why would she attack me? Is she jealous that I’m here in the manor — alive — and she’s not?”

  He reached out and took her hands in his. “It’s possible. Who knows? But I’m not leaving you here alone. I’m going to ride this out with you. Anything, or anyone who wants to hurt you will have to get through me first.”

  Harper looked into his eyes and kissed his hands. “You mean that, don’t you?”

  “Damn straight,” he whispered, slowly leaning toward her. So far, he’d been able to hold back his desire for her, telling himself she wasn’t the kind of woman who suited him, that she’d be nothing but heartache and trouble.

  But everything about her seduced him, from her blue-violet eyes and long copper curls to the full, ripe curves of her body — even her quick Yankee temper made him smile. He kissed her softly at first, letting her taste linger on his lips. But she moved into him, her mouth soft and wet and hungry. His tongue found hers as he slowly laid her back on the couch. He felt himself growing hard.

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he whispered.

  She shooed Pluto off the couch. “Just tell me you have protection,” she whispered, unzipping his jeans and sliding them off.

  He smiled and pulled a condom out of his wallet, tore open the packet, and rolled it on. Then he teased down the zipper on her jeans. He slid them over her hips and tugged them off. His heart fluttered when he unbuttoned her blouse to find that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her round porcelain breasts were firm beneath his mouth. He flicked her nipples with his tongue and watched her arch her back in ecstasy.

  God your good, she moaned.

  His hands moved over her silky white skin exploring every inch of her body. He was glad to see that she gave as good as she got, grinding against him until he thought he’d lose his mind.

  His hand trailed down below her stomach and his fingers dipped between her thighs.

  When he thought he couldn’t hold himself back another moment, she cried, “Oh, God, please,” and pulled him closer with her legs. He thrust himself inside her.

  She was soft and warm and wet, passionately writhing against him. They moved as one, as if they’d been together forever. He watched her face, and let her body tell him when she was ready. Her eyes closed and she moaned, “Oh, Clay.” He let himself release, closing his eyes, breathing her in, amazed at the depth of his desire — and amazed at the intensity of his feelings for her in such a short time.

  He heard a quiet hiss and noticed Pluto, back arched, staring toward the ceiling above Harper where the mist-like shroud of Ophelia hovered. The ghostly wraith looked down on H
arper, translucent tears staining her cheeks. Why was she crying? Maybe he’d been right. Maybe she had fallen for him. She was acting like a jilted lover. He glanced at Ophelia with pleading eyes and sent a silent message. Please — you have to let me go. Don’t hurt Harper. It’s time for you to move on.

  Ophelia glared at him and vehemently shook her head, then wafted away like a puff of smoke.

  Clay held Harper while she dozed peacefully in his arms and tried to figure out why Ophelia was so reluctant to give up her place among the living. In his heart he knew she wasn’t a malevolent spirit. She would never hurt him and he didn’t believe that she would hurt Harper either, which left him with one burning question.

  Who was trying to kill Harper — and why?

  Chapter 5

  Harper awoke deep in the night snug in her own bed, once again with no recollection of how she got there. She glanced at Clay sleeping peacefully beside her and instantly understood. She stretched like a contented cat and grinned, wondering sheepishly if perhaps she should start paying him by the mile.

  A full moon hung outside her window casting a brilliant swath of light across her bedroom floor. Pluto lay snoring gently on the worn Oriental rug beside her.

  Too energized to sleep, she rose and walked toward the window to watch the night sky. She passed by her dresser and noticed the hair comb Clay had found, now lying on a lace doily, its inlaid pearls iridescent in the moonlight. Clay must have laid it here, she thought. Curious, she picked it up and turned it over in her hand. It felt almost... familiar.

  She swept back her hair, slid the comb into place and glanced at the mirror. The reflective surface began to flex and bend, stretching like carnival glass. When it stopped quivering, Harper looked at her reflection again. Silhouetted in the dazzling moonlight, her auburn hair had turned onyx, her cascading curls now coiffed into a spiral at the back of her head.