The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books)

by Marie O'Regan

  “And you, Dante, shouldn’t waste another minute when the band is playing. Come with me. I’ll introduce you to the prettiest young ladies in South Carolina!”

  Evann and I were swept into the high spirits of the ball. It seemed to me that, for a curio-shop owner, Evann seemed to know everyone who was anyone in Charleston’s notoriously cliquish upper society, and they treated him with the fondness usually reserved for an elderly, quirky relative. After Mrs Hallingsworth had made my introduction, I was accepted as an approved and eligible bachelor, and managed to dance with the daughters of some of the most powerful men in the city. I was certain those same men would be horrified to know that their coddled darlings were waltzing with a pirate.

  All the while, I kept my senses keen to magic. While more than one of the blue-blooded young ladies made me tingle, it had nothing to do with the supernatural. To my surprise, I picked up its traces on several of Charleston’s movers and shakers. Not water magic, but other forms of power. Land magic, not surprising given Charleston’s planter heritage. Charisma beyond the norm, good for swaying others to see things your way. Attraction magic, which led to the gathering of friends, power and money.

  I chanced a look at the black-frocked Anglican priest who was engaged in a lively discussion in the corner. What might the good Father have to say if he knew just how many of his parishioners had more than a hint of magic to them?

  Waltzing was a good excuse to circle the room without being obvious. I could keep my eyes on my attractive partner, while my magic swept over the bystanders as we circled past. Most of the people didn’t register at all with me, meaning that they were what they appeared to be and no more. But twice, as my partners and I passed the back corner of the room, my powers gave me an uncomfortable jolt, a wave of alarm.

  “Thank you for this dance,” I said, favouring Sarah, my latest dancing partner, with a deep bow.

  “The pleasure was all mine,” she drawled. She was so good at innocent flirtation that I knew it was a skill honed of long practice.

  I murmured an excuse about needing more punch, and found a reason to go the long way back to the sideboard. I passed within a few feet of the place where my magic had jolted me, slowing as much as I dared to get a look at its source.

  The elderly gentleman had his back to me at first, but he turned as I walked past, and I wondered if he sensed something, too. He had a shock of untamed white hair over bushy eyebrows and a furrowed face. His hazel eyes had a wary glint, and his lips were pressed tightly together, jaw set. In his prime, he might have been a tall man, but age had hunched him. I shook my head to clear it. No, it wasn’t age that made his shoulders slump. In my mind’s eye, my magic eye, I saw him clutching a chest against him, hunched over it to protect it with his body, to hide it from view. His eyes met mine, and I got a very nasty frisson down my spine. I was pretty sure I’d found our necromancer, and at the moment, I’d bet that he was wondering whether my magic posed him any threat.

  “Dante! There you are!” Mrs Hallingsworth’s greeting was music to my ears. Our hostess took my elbow and steered me away from the old man, whose gaze, I was sure, followed me as I headed in the opposite direction. “I’d like you to meet my niece.”

  “I’m embarrassed to ask,” I said, doing my best to look chagrined, “but I couldn’t place the older gentleman in the other corner. Should I know him?”

  Mrs Hallingsworth chuckled. “I should say not – unless you’re a pirate! That’s Judge Heinrich Von Dersch. He served as the king’s highest magistrate in Bermuda before he moved to South Carolina on the eve of the war, and he’s been an absolute bulwark against piracy on the high seas. He’ll tell you that he’s hanged over three hundred pirates himself, and I believe him.” She cast a backwards glance. “He’s a stern fellow, but then, who wouldn’t be in his position?”

  My hostesses’s words were gracious, but I could feel a tinge of fear. My good Mrs Hallingsworth had a generous dollop of magic in the form of charisma, though she probably didn’t know it and would be horrified to find out that her “charm” was indeed charmed. I was willing to bet that the tingle of fear she felt came from the feel of Judge Von Dersch’s magic: dark, grasping, and vengeful.

  I spent much of the next hour engaged in light conversation with Mrs Hallingsworth’s lively niece Isabella. To my delight, Isabella was well-read, educated in the classics, and had travelled extensively abroad. She also shared her aunt’s charisma, which was difficult to resist, even when I knew it to be magic. Alas, I also knew any prospects there were doomed from the start, though I was reluctant to say good night when Uncle Evann came to collect me for the drive home.

  A different servant brought us our cloaks. As we left, I made a point to look down at the step where I had seen the chalked symbol. It had been rubbed out.

  “I want to look at something,” I said to Evann as soon as the door closed behind us. I led him around the house, bending low so as not to be seen out of the windows, an eye on the foundation stones of the great house.

  “Look there,” I said in a whisper, drawing his attention to another of the intricate, graceful marks. Gingerly, I touched it. Magic quivered beneath my fingertips, of a sort I couldn’t readily identify. I slipped my fingertips together, puzzled. The marks seemed to have been made in a mixture of cornmeal and ash. Strange.

  “There’s another one over here,” Evann said quietly. It was a different symbol, but of the same sort, and we found them at intervals all around the foundation stones, and a few more at the entrance to the servants’ kitchen.

  When we were safely back on the street, I turned to Evann. “What did you make of all that?” I asked, interested to hear his thoughts before I shared my own.

  “You’re the one with the magic,” Evann replied. “I was just there to get you in the door.”

  I chuckled. “Forced to eat fine food and drink fine wine and be flirted with by some of the richest widows in the city.”

  Evann sighed. “I do what I must for the cause.” He sobered. “As for those marks, I know I’ve seen something like that before, but not often. I’ll see what I can find when I get back to the store.” He gave me a sideways glance. “How about you? Did you pick up anything, or were you too addled by the beautiful ladies?”

  “Considering that their fathers would line up to challenge me to a duel if they had any idea who had danced with their daughters, I’d say my attraction was tempered with a cold splash of common sense,” I said. “But they were pretty, weren’t they?”

  “Focus, Dante.”

  It was my turn to sigh. “As you wish. Yes, I picked up on something besides the symbols. There was an old man in the corner. Miserable-looking person, not exactly the life of the party. I saw a couple of the men talking briefly to him, but most people gave him a wide berth, and the servants did their best to stay out of his way entirely.”

  “Judge Von Dersch,” Evann replied. “And what did your magic say?”

  “He’s hiding something,” I answered, carefully sifting through my impressions. “I think he’s able to put a glamour on his magic, to make it seem different than it is. I sensed . . . falseness.” I paused again, thinking. “There was a feeling of doom around him, and the oddest thing was, I could swear it waxed and waned over the course of the evening. I barely noticed him when we arrived, but a few hours later his magic seemed to fill the room so that I could scarcely think. It gradually got better, but I wondered how many of the other guests with a hint of magic felt the same thing.”

  “Between eighth and ninth bells, I noticed that the good Judge was standing completely alone,” Evann said. “I was watching him, too, but for a different reason. Sorren didn’t want me to mention it before we came, didn’t want to prejudice your read on the evening, but he thinks the judge is our necromancer.”

  I shuddered. “I think you’re right.” I glanced up at the darkened windows of the other homes along the Battery. “What do you think Coltt’s found?”

  Evann gave a crafty s
mile. “I don’t know what’s he’s discovered, but I do know the judge’s house was at the top of his list to explore.”

  We hustled along with our capes drawn close against the autumn wind. As we passed the entrance to one of the many small, narrow alleyways, my magic tingled. I’ve got water magic, and I’m strongest when I’m at sea, but close to the bay I could feel the pull of its power, and I knew from prior experience that spirits could feel it, too. Evann hadn’t been kidding about Charleston being one of the most haunted cities in the former colonies. New Orleans might rival us, maybe. Both are gracious cities built on rivers of blood and a world of human suffering. The rich folks choose not to remember, but the spirits never forget.

  A shot rang out at close quarters. Evann grabbed me and shoved me against the wall, and we waited, but there were no running footsteps, no shouts for the police. Exchanging a worried glance, Evann and I straightened our clothes and ventured away from the shelter of the wall, daring to peer down the narrow alley.

  “Have you seen him?” The voice startled me. I looked more closely, and saw a young man standing in the shadows. My eyes narrowed, and I looked with my magic instead of merely sight. The man’s outline glowed faintly with a light blue nimbus. Now that I took a closer look, I could see that he bore a fatal chest wound, unfortunately not uncommon in the alleyways of Charleston. Dozens of headstrong young men met their untimely deaths at the hands of an aggrieved rival and a fast bullet in the side streets of the Holy City. But only one had bothered to hail us.

  “Who are you looking for?” I asked, expecting the shade to be searching for his killer.

  “The death mage.”

  That brought Evann and me up short. “What do you mean?” I said carefully, although I certainly had a good idea.

  “Can’t you feel him? You’ve got a touch of magic to you. There’s a hocus who binds souls to the tide. The spirits run from him, those who can. But the girl can’t get away.”

  Evann and I exchanged glances. “What girl?” I asked.

  “Are ye deaf?” the spirit asked, shaking his head. “Can’t you hear her wailing? She’s a pretty lass in a blue dress with a fancy brooch, and she sobs something fierce.”

  “Where have you seen her?”

  “Up and down the Battery. Mostly at high tide in the night.”

  High tide. Odd for that to come up again so soon. Not a coincidence, I was sure of it.

  “I’ve been looking for that girl,” I said cautiously. “Her name is Felicity Barre. Her family is very worried about her. Do you know anything else that might help me set her free?”

  The ghost seemed to take my measure. “Maybe. I know someone who knows a lot about spirits and hocus. She’s the one who told me I’m doomed to die in the same damned duel night after night until I put things right. She might could help you.”

  “Much obliged,” I murmured. The ghost turned, and Evann and I followed him down the narrow alley. We wound through the back streets of Charleston, a world apart from the glittering ball we had just left. These were dark, dank streets even the harbour’s burly longshoremen feared to tread. They were the province of Charleston’s slaves, and they were not generally a welcome place for people like Evann and me, or for our guide, had he still been mortal.

  I could feel eyes watching us as we passed the abysmal slave quarters. It was after 10 p.m. curfew, and few bondsmen would risk the beating that could come if they were found in the streets after the bells rang. I could feel the suspicion that greeted us, and the fear. There was magic, too, strange and powerful, from somewhere far away, utterly outside of my own experience.

  “By the way, I’m Ellison,” the ghost said over his shoulder. “Ellison Hawking-Muir the Third.” He paused. “My friends used to call me Hawk.”

  “Nice to meet you, Hawk,” I said. “How did you come to be in a duel?”

  “I was called out because I danced with the wrong girl at a party, and she told her brother I had somehow insulted her,” Hawk replied. “I hadn’t meant to. I tried to apologize. But her brother wouldn’t have it, and demanded a duel for her honour. Stupid game. Turns out, he was a member of that secret duelling society. Probably trumped up a reason to call me out. He’d already shot four men dead before me. I didn’t stand a chance.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told Hawk. I’d heard about Charleston duels, a pastime of rich, spoiled young men with more money than sense. It didn’t surprise me that duelling would be just another form of one-upmanship, only a game that left the loser dead instead of just humiliated. “What happened to your murderer?”

  Hawk gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “Happened? Nothing happened. Not for a while.” The ghost dropped his voice, although I was pretty sure I was the only one who could hear him. “Until he came back to the alley for another duel. I could see he’d picked another easy mark, like I’d been. Poor fellow must have borrowed the gun; he could barely tell the butt from the barrel.”

  “And?” I asked, sure there was more to the story.

  Hawk glanced at me over his shoulder, his lips pressed in a tight, pained smile. “Just as the guy who had challenged me sighted to aim, I tackled him. Went right through him. It made him shiver, and it threw off his aim. He missed, and the poor fellow he’d challenged was so frightened he managed to squeeze off a shot and got lucky. Took my murderer through the shoulder, and he bled to death before his buddies could do anything about it. The other guy ran off as fast as he could.” Hawk didn’t look as smug as I’d expected him to. Instead, he just looked sad. “But I’m still here.”

  Finally, Hawk stopped in front of an old slave cabin. I hesitated, unsure of what to do. Walking up and knocking didn’t seem like a good idea. Before I could ask Hawk what came next, the door opened and an old woman dressed in white stood in the doorway.

  “That’s Mama Nadege,” Hawk whispered. “Tell her I brought you.”

  “Mama Nadege?” I managed, finding my throat had gone dry. “I’m supposed to tell you that Hawk brought me here. It’s about the weeping ghost.”

  Mama Nadege looked me up and down, and then she did the same to Evann. When she spoke, I could see that her gaze was fixed just off to my right, where Hawk’s ghost stood. “Well, of course Hawk brought you. He’s right with you, plain as day.” Her voice was thick as gumbo, heavy with the consonants of the islands and somewhere else I couldn’t place.

  “Come in then. The neighbours won’t bother you none, not now that they know you’re here to see me,” she added, with a glance towards the darkened buildings behind us.

  We followed Mama Nadege into her house. The air was heavy with the smell of incense and candle smoke. Mama Nadege was a big woman, swathed in a white, loose gown. Her hair was tied up in a kerchief, and I couldn’t tell her age from her face. Her eyes were what drew me. Black eyes, dark as her skin, like deep pools for drowning. Her magic flowed around me, almost smothering in its intensity, but my power sensed no threat. She was curious, and intrigued. And I had the unsettling feeling that she had been expecting us.

  Her small cabin was hung with brightly coloured block-printed cloths and filled with candles, clay figures, crude stuffed, dolls, and carved wooden images. Lanyards of shells, beads and dried plants festooned everything.

  “You’re a mambo,” Evann said.

  Mama Nadege smiled. “Mambo asogwe,” she replied.

  Evann turned to me. “She’s a high priestess of voodoo.”

  I’d heard that term before, but I hadn’t associated it with Charleston. “I thought voodoo only happened in New Orleans,” I replied.

  Mama Nadege laughed, a deep chuckle that resonated. “Oh, there be voodoo in Charleston, all right. My mama was born in Haiti, where we know how to talk to spirits. She was brought to New Orleans and sold there, but her mistress married a man from Charleston and brought my mama with her. She raised me in the power. She wasn’t the only one he brought here from New Orleans, either. Oh, no, child, the voodoo is all around you. You’re just too pale to notice,” she said,
and laughed heartily at her own joke.

  She sobered and looked at me again, and I felt tendrils of her magic gliding over my skin. I fought the urge to shiver. “You’ve got some power,” she murmured, her consonants smooth as a spicy roux. “Considerable power. Why’d it bring you to me, child?”

  Evann gave me the barest hint of a nod, letting me know it was safe to tell the truth, or at least most of it. “I’m trying to stop a necromancer. He’s got a dark magic object, and my master sent me to take it back from him, put it somewhere it can’t hurt anyone.”

  She eyed me carefully. “You’re nobody’s slave,” she said, walking slowly around me. “You might not own those fancy clothes, but you’re a freeman, sure enough.” She began to shake her head. “Uh, uh, uh,” she murmured. “Only one kind of man be your master. You serve a nightwalker, am I right?”

  “Nightwalker” seemed close enough to vampire to accept without quibbling. “Yes.”

  “Mr Sorren?”

  I tried to hide my astonishment. “Yes.”

  Mama Nadege relaxed, and smiled broadly. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” She gestured towards two chairs near the fireplace. “Sit down. Tell Mama what you know, and what you need to know.”

  I told her about the missing girl, and how she might be the weeping woman Hawk told us about. Mama Nadege listened as I recounted the ball and the encounter with Judge Von Dersch, and rocked back and forth in her chair without saying anything. “There’s one more thing,” I added. “I saw a marking by the doorway. I don’t think I was supposed to see it. The man who took my coat looked afraid when I noticed it, like it might cause trouble.” I paused. “Afterwards, Evann and I walked around the house, and a whole series of markings were made on the foundation stones. They were made of cornmeal and ash.”

  Mama Nadege nodded knowingly. “Oh, trouble it would cause, that’s for sure.” She bent down and drew on the hard dirt floor of her cabin with a stick, tracing an elaborate symbol very like the one by the door of the Hallingsworth house. “Did it look like this?”