Haunted Waterways (Dark Legacy Series Book 2)

by Sara Clancy

  “Why isn’t she leaving?” Marigold asked after her hearing had recovered. The woman remained in place at her sentry point, neither fading nor drifting, as solid looking as flesh. “She can’t get in, can she?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. With a tired sigh he twisted to sit down on the deck, his back to the ghost. “What the hell is it doing here?”

  It was a struggle to keep the agitation from her voice, “Louis, remember how I didn’t grow up with this sort of stuff?”

  He pulled his hand over his short buzz cut and cast a look over at his shoulder. The ghost was still there.

  “Like anything else, legends of the Wailing Woman vary, but they have similar key facts. They normally involve a woman that due to rage, self-pity, or pride, drowns her children when her husband abandons her for a younger woman. She then drowns herself. As punishment, she can only pass into the afterlife with her children, so she’s doomed to wonder along riverbanks and streams in search of the children she’ll never be able to find.”

  Marigold glanced back to the woman. She had edged a little closer. Light drenched over her features, illuminating her skin even as it passed through her. Real or not, the light glistened off of the tears that trickled from her eyes. Even as Marigold studied the pure anguish on the ghost’s face, she couldn’t summon any great amount of sympathy. She knew first-hand what it was like to have someone hold her under the water and feel her lungs burn for air. She had survived that torture. Her little sister hadn’t.

  “Seems a fitting punishment,” she mumbled.

  Louis joined Marigold in studying the ghost. “The problem is, when a strong Wailing Woman gets desperate they will take anyone they come across. When I was a kid, my grandfather worked a Wailing Woman case. She was strong enough that she drowned a fit, forty-five-year-old man in two inches of water. But I’ve never heard of one this far north.”

  “Right,” she drowned out the word to make her confusion clear.

  “I wish I could give you a set answer but no one can really explain the phenomenon. It might be the land that creates different kinds of ghosts, maybe different kinds of ghosts naturally gravitate to certain locations, but there seems to be a natural segregation. It’s why different cultures have different types of ghosts.”

  “And Wailing Woman is native to Mexico?”

  “Travelling isn’t unheard of. Like demons, they can follow certain people. But it’s not common.” He observed the ghost more closely. She hadn’t moved but now trembled with unheard sobs, “Grandpa is going to lose his mind when he hears about this. It’s like finding a great white shark in a lake. Would you mind if he came out here and studied her?”

  “Well, I can’t stand in the way of paranormal research.”

  Louis stood up and offered her a hand. His smile was weak as if even a strong breath could destroy it. “She can’t break through the barrier. So why don’t we at least get cleaned up?”

  She hadn’t noticed how the swamp water had sunk into her jeans. Algae dripped from her legs and slithered into her shoes. Timidly, she took his hand and let him pull her up. Chills ran along her skin like scurrying spiders. She didn’t want to give the ghost her back, but she didn’t want to look at it either.

  “The boundaries are holding,” he assured.

  “Right,” she said. “So we just have to worry about the ghosts on board.”

  Chapter 5

  They had started up the generator, turning the boat into a beacon of light in the mounting darkness. It wasn’t a quiet machine and created a constant low hum that competed with the buzz of electricity through aging wires. Louis sat on the deck, enjoying the security of the light while never fully trusting it. They would constantly flicker, but that was to be expected with so many restless spirits around.

  Just like the radio stations, mobile reception wasn’t fully functional around these parts. He would have to travel at least a mile if he wanted to make a call. The distance seemed longer as the tide began to crawl in. His car would be submerged in a few hours. If they were lucky, the water wouldn’t rise high enough to completely flood the engine. But even with that grace he doubted they would be able to get it out of the ditch without a tow truck. And the Wailing Woman was still there, still silently sobbing even as she watched him.

  He tapped the phone with quick raps against his thigh. The vision still rolled in his mind. How was the demon strong enough to make a group hallucination? Its access to Marigold had been cut off for months. It shouldn’t have been able to do that. Something was very wrong. It made a cold sensation squirm in his stomach and his hands sweat. The woman screamed again and the sound dug into his skull like an ice pick. He closed his eyes and endured it. When he opened them again, he spotted the dubby standing along the water line, a good mile away from the woman. The moonlight glistened off its teeth as it smiled at him and waved. Even as the hair on the back of his neck prickled, he absently lifted his hand and waved back.

  ***

  There were very few cabins still completely intact. There were even fewer that the other passengers had decided she was allowed to use. Two single beds hung from the wall in a bunk-bed-like pattern. They were made out of mahogany wood that was now chipped and beaten. The chains that kept them secured to the wall were layered with rust and she didn’t trust them to hold her weight. She used the one on the other side of the wall. It was too thin to be a called a single-bed and sat low to the floor. A moth-eaten curtain dangled from the bed and covered the rest of the distance.

  At the end of her bed was a narrow wooden wardrobe that easily held her limited amount of clothes. The hinges were warped, so the door hung at an odd angle. The ghosts didn’t bother banging that door, probably because one strong shove and it would break off, so the effect wouldn’t be too intimidating. An antique vanity was pressed along the wall between the wardrobe and the bunk beds. A marble sink that had to be rigged to empty into a bottle was between her bed and the door. The place was small enough to light with the glow of one candle.

  After all of these months, she had perfected how to bathe in a sink. Time hadn’t made it easier to go into bathtubs. If anything, her memories had festered into a full-blown phobia. Sponge baths were effective, but it took a far longer to remove the musky odor of the swamp scum. The process and routine made it easier to think about all of the things that threatened to overwhelm her. She had to scrub her foot three times to get rid of the memory of the baby holding her ankle.

  She was just putting her long hair up into a ponytail when she heard the laughter. It started with a giggle, as it always did. Like someone trying to keep themselves from making noise and drawing attention. Cheeky, almost playful. Marigold gave her ponytail a sharp pull, having forgotten about the damage to her skull. Pain sliced through her but she ignored it as she inched towards the cabin door. The laughter steadily got louder. Boisterous and feminine. Marigold reached for the door and slowly closed her fingers around the handle. As quietly as possible, she twisted the knob and cracked the door open.

  The laughter snapped into a frantic, manic cackling. It charged down the hall, fast enough to sound like a gale force wind. It burst past her. The force slammed the door open and knocked Marigold off her feet. Her back slammed into the bunk-beds and the air rushed from her lungs in a pained gasp. The laughter continued down the hall and she could hear it descending the staircase to the main deck.

  She’s going after Louis, Marigold thought before she lurched into the hallway. Her shoulder bumped against the walls in her haste. The metal stairs clattered and shook and she hurried down them. The laughter never stopped. It grew with malice as Louis screamed. Marigold jumped the last few steps and ran out onto the back deck. It was empty. The outside table and chair had been flipped over. The laughter continued, coming from everywhere at once.

  “Louis?”

  “Over here!”

  She followed the sound of the voice and, in the dim light, spotted Louis’ fingertips. They gripped the rim of the deck, the positio
n leaving him dangling over a sharp fall off into the swamp. Marigold dropped onto her knees by his fingers and reached through the gaps in the bars. She latched onto his closest arm with both hands but didn’t have the strength to pull him back over. All she could do was hold him stable while he pulled himself up.

  The laughter grew louder, an annoying sound that grounded over her nerves. Still, there was no mistaking the slick slosh of something large moving through the water. From her position, she couldn’t see what it was. Louis could, and he gripped at the rim with heightened desperation. Her fingers ached as she tightened her grip and heaved back with all of her weight. The rubber soles of his sneakers squeaked across the side of the boat. Their muscles strained. The laughter continued.

  Finally, Louis managed to slither his torso through the gap created by the deck and the first rail of the balcony. Marigold released his arm and wrapped her fingers around the top of his pants to help pull him in. The second he got his footing he flung himself forward and flopped against the floor, panting; one hand searching for her arm and giving her a reassuring and thankful pat.

  “I know you have your style, but that would have been a lot easier if you had a belt.”

  “I’m a suspenders guy,” he laughed. It was breathless and far more pleasant than the chuckling that echoed around them.

  Marigold inched closer to the railing, careful to keep the bulk of her body safely on board. Flat against the floor, she curled her fingers over the rim and glanced to the water below. The light from the boat combated with the shadows for dominance of the area. In the fray, there was a dozen fiery points of light, each trained on her. Alligators. She had thought maybe one would have come towards the noise, but not so many.

  Are they here because of Mr. Smash Mouth? she wondered. Do they eat him? What would that do to them?

  “They must have caught the scent of our leftovers,” Louis said when she sat back up. He slowed his breathing as the laughter dwindled away.

  “They’re going to rip up your upholstery.”

  “Probably,” he dismissed. “Do you know what that was about?”

  “I call her ‘Little Miss Giggles’.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t judge,” she said. “It’s less scary when they have silly names.”

  He remained sober, “She wasn’t so aggressive when I scouted the place.”

  “She’s gotten more territorial,” Marigold said. “But that’s what we want right? Something to keep the bad things at bay?”

  “We’re not going for homicidal. Has she done this to you?”

  “She’s chased me. Not so much since I’ve begun staying out of the captain’s room.”

  Louis didn’t look appeased. If anything, he looked like he was grinding his teeth against an angry outburst. It wasn’t an expression he wore often. He shifted his glare from her into the darkness and Marigold watched him grimace. She followed his gaze caught sight of the dubby. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but she was sure it was closer. Her spine shivered as she raised her hand to return its wave.

  “How long has he been there?” she asked.

  Neither of them had bothered to get to their feet just yet. The chill of the metal seeped through her sweatpants to attack her legs. She had never known the bayou could get this cold. It was the water. It robbed the soft breeze of all of its warmth. Louis hadn’t heard her. His eyes were focused on a point on the horizon, glazed over in thought, a frown forever in place. There was something deeply bothering him that he wasn’t quite ready to share.

  “Louis?”

  He snapped out of his reprieve with a slight gasp, “Pardon, cher?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Other than the fact that I was almost fed to some gators?”

  “That’s not what’s bothering you.”

  Louis smirked, “I’m pretty bothered by it.”

  Marigold had never had much skill at asserting dominance. The only person who would ever call her stern was her little sister. Jasmine would accuse her of being unfairly bossy any time Marigold insisted that she couldn’t have another cookie or run into traffic. But she tried to school her features into something self-possessed and sure.

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  She wasn’t delusional enough to believe that her pitiful attempt had any effect on him. Still, Louis heaved a sigh and shook his head.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m still just surprised. Wailing Woman in New Orleans? But it does look like you’re stuck with me for the night. Don’t suppose you have a spare cabin.”

  There was more to it. She could feel it like a pressure in the back of her skull. But for whatever reason, Louis was determined to keep it to himself for now. It would be useless to try and get it out of him before he was ready. While she was stewing over her own disappointment, Louis got to his feet and offered her a hand to help her up. She slipped her hand into his palm and resigned herself to his silence. As if to reassure her, Louis draped his arm over her shoulders and gave her a one-armed hug. She playfully scrunched up her face and shoved him.

  “You smell like a swamp.”

  “That I do. How’s your shower situation?”

  “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I never use it.”

  He kept his smile, even as a hint of sadness tilted his lips.

  Chapter 6

  There were only two cabins on the boat that had showers. One was the captain’s quarters, the other was in the first class cabin, and they were both pump action. Since the captain’s one had already been claimed by the swamp and a ghost that obviously didn’t like him, he had set up the first class shower. As it turned out, there wasn’t much difference between the shower and a sponge bath. The pump action let him slick up his skin but the flow dwindled after only a few squirts. It was enough to let him lather up and he figured that the process would save on their fresh water supply.

  The stench of decay still clung to his clothes. They had to be washed. It was lucky for him that, as soon as the weather had turned, Marigold had shown a fondness for oversized t-shirts and sweatpants. It was a preference she had stuck to, much to Cordelia’s dismay. It was near impossible to get her into town anymore, so a good portion of her winter wardrobe comprised of his hand-me-downs. At least he would have something to wear while his clothes dried.

  Soap suds slid through his fingers as he lathered up his chest. The question lingered in his mind if he had made the right decision. Marigold would resent him for keeping his concerns to himself, he could already see her struggling to accept his silence, but nothing good could come from telling her. He wasn’t even sure that there was a problem yet. If the demon had found a way to feed off of her, her fear would only add strength to whatever it was planning.

  Small twin lamps bracketed the space where a mirror had once hung. The mirror was gone now, and without its reflection, they struggled to cast any more light than a set of candles. He had left his glasses in the sink, rendering the room into a cluster of formless, fuzzy colors. With his foot, he pumped the lever to get the water to flow. The pipes groaned and rattled within the walls before a weak stream came out of the faucet in sharp bursts.

  He gasped as the cold water drenched his skin. The water continued to sputter out and he tried to wipe the remaining droplets of soap from his skin. He flinched at a sudden loud whoosh and a streak of color. Louis blinked into the blurred shapes and shadows. Nothing moved. A slight tremor shook through his fingers and he slowly lifted his hand. Empty space met his fingertips where the see-through plastic of the shower curtain should have been. Releasing his breath on a sigh he groped along the wall until he found it and pulled it back into place. He turned away. The curtain dragged back against the wall with a thick rasp.

  “Stop it,” Louis said with as much authority as he could muster. It still came out thick with fatigue and frustration.

  He pulled the curtain back into place and held it against the wall. For a moment, there was only silence. Then the back en
d of the curtain slid across the bar and bunched against his fingers, the tips of the curtain sweeping against his legs. His skin bristled at the touch, his stomach twisted into knots, and a cold lump clogged his throat. He stomped on the pump, determined to hurriedly wash the rest of the suds off and get out of there. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He could feel someone watching him. The wall vibrated around the rumbling pumps. He pulled his hand away just as the water spurted free from the pipe. It sloshed over his face and dribbled into his mouth, tainted by the taste of rust.

  “Okay, I got it. I’m leaving.” He stepped out of the shower and grabbed the nearby towel.

  He dragged it over his skin in solid wipes as he crossed the few feet to the sink. The marble basin was cool under his searching fingers. Where were my glasses? he thought as his lungs squeezed. He released a slow breath. It churned before him, becoming a misted cloud as the temperature in the room plummeted.

  “Old school, huh?” Louis blinked rapidly, vainly trying to clear his vision.

  Shadows crowded in around him. Each one moved even as they remained still. He groped at the limited counter top and squinted, but couldn’t spot his glasses. Suddenly very aware that he was naked, Louis grabbed for his sweat pants. Forgoing actually drying himself, he pulled his pants on, not bothering to keep the waistband from bunching. He just needed to be covered. The legs of the sweatpants dangled up but he forced his feet through.

  His spine turned to iron as ice-like hands pressed against his stomach. Frigid air ghosted past his ear as a voice, as smooth as molasses yet as gruff as rolling thunder, whispered from the shadows.

  “My, my, my.”

  He jerked away, his feet tripping over each other. The startled movements made his ankle roll and he fell back through the threshold. Moldy carpet ground against his back as he scrambled further from the bathroom. The touch had burnt his skin like dry ice, so he couldn’t tell if it was still touching him or if it was just an echoed memory of contact.