by Chanel Smith
GHOST TOWN
The Ghost Files #6
by
Chanel Smith
Created by
J.R. Rain & Scott Nicholson
THE GHOST FILES SERIES
Ghost College (Book #1)
by Scott Nicholson and J.R. Rain
Ghost Soldier (Book #2)
by Evelyn Klebert
Ghost Fire (Book #3)
by Eve Paludan
Ghost Hall (Book #4)
by Michelle Wright
Ghost Crypt (Book #5)
by Chanel Smith
Ghost Town (Book #6)
by Chanel Smith
OTHER BOOKS BY CHANEL SMITH
STANDALONE
The Turning
THE GHOST FILES
Ghost Crypt
Ghost Town
Ghost Writer
THE PACK TRILOGY
Werewolf Moon
Werewolf Nights
Werewolf Forever
THE HUNTRESS TRILOGY
The Vampire With the Golden Gun
The Vampire in the High Castle
The Vampire Who Knew Too Much
Ghost Town
Copyright © 2015 Chanel Smith
Based on characters created by J.R. Rain and Scott Nicholson
Published by J.R. Rain Press
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved by the authors. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for reading us.
Ghost Town
Chapter One
The bonus week in London that Ellen and I received wasn’t nearly as comfortable as our stay had been up until that point.
Initially, it was downright frightening. With Dr. Henry Agness Wandsworth missing and Ellen and me the last to have seen him alive, we were invited off the plane by representatives of Scotland Yard in order to answer some questions. My mind raced forward to Sherlock Holmes and Watson grilling us and discovering that we were certifiably nuts.
To be sure, we were thoroughly grilled, especially since we had been seen in the company of Henry by a very large number of people. Explaining what we had been doing in London and why Henry was accompanying us didn’t help matters and I was pretty certain that we would be permanent residents of London’s psych ward until our employer, Transport for London, stepped in on our behalf and gave the police an explanation of the service that we had provided and our innocence in the matter.
Though for police officers, they were very polite, Scotland Yard wasn’t as concerned about our comfort as Transport For London had been, though we did take advantage of the time to tour a little bit more of the adjacent areas that we had missed. Eventually satisfied that we were not directly involved in Henry’s disappearance, we were finally allowed to board a plane and return home.
Heading home was certainly a relief, but I was beginning to wonder about our status of wealthy international ghost hunters being in jeopardy. The sum that TFL paid for our services had boosted us into wealthy ghost hunter status for a moment, but we’d already had to dip into some of it to cover airline change fees and extra days in the hotel.
“It feels so good to finally be home in our own bed,” Ellen muttered and then sighed heavily as she arranged the pillows behind her back to prop herself up and take the mug of coffee that I offered her. “Thank you, sweetie.”
It was much later in the morning than we were used to getting up and having our coffee. The jet lag was horrible after such a long trip and though we had tried our best to sleep on the plane, in reality, there was no way to get any real sleep on a plane.
“So, got any plans for the day?” I asked. There was really only one thing on my mind, but I needed to feel out her state of mind first.
“Let me guess, you want some chocolate pancakes.” She smiled.
Ellen’s talent communicating with ghosts was second only to her ability to read my mind. I often wondered if the two went hand in hand. “But only if you’re up for it,” I responded.
“Let’s finish our coffee first and then we’ll see how we feel about it.”
That was a pretty good signal that Ellen really wasn’t up for it, but I was still hopeful and settled in beside her, sipping from the steaming cup. I’d no more than gotten a good taste of the American brew – so much different than what we’d had in England – before Ellen’s cell phone rang.
She looked at the caller ID, wrinkled her brow and then glanced over at me. I knew it was either bad or another job.
“This is Ellen,” she said after pressing the button to answer the call. There was a long pause as she listened. “No, we haven’t dealt much with that sort of thing, but we have plenty of experience with spirits of all sorts.”
“Tonight?” she asked after a long pause. “We just returned from London yesterday evening and we don’t exactly have our bearings just yet.” There was another long pause while she listened.
“How much?” Her eyes widened and I knew that it was either a very low number or a very high one. I was hoping for the higher one. “That’s certainly generous, but I don’t even know if we can get a flight out early enough to…” She rolled her eyes at me and then mouthed something that I didn’t catch.
“Okay, then,” she responded finally. “We’ll see you this evening then.”
“Where are we headed?” I could hardly wait to hear the details.
“How does New Orleans sound?” she asked.
“Jazzy,” I replied, rather proud of my witty response. “When?”
“They are sending a private jet to pick us up at two this afternoon.”
“Why so soon?”
“Because they offered three times our usual rate if we could get there tonight.”
“Then, I guess we dump out the cold weather clothes and pack for hot and steamy.”
“You will probably want to test your equipment and make sure we’ve got everything. God only knows what bumps and jolts it took while traveling the world without us.”
The entire time that we were in London, our luggage was seeing the world without us. It wasn’t until we were ready to come home that it arrived at the airport, just in time to be placed back on a plane to travel home with us. By some great miracle, it arrived along with us when we got home. Checking the equipment, unpacking one set of clothing and repacking another was going to cut into my prospects of getting some chocolate pancakes. For the moment, however, I was going to at least enjoy the steaming mug of coffee between my palms.
Even my enjoyment of the coffee was soon interrupted as Ellen, whose wheels had begun to spin the moment that she got off the phone, downed the last of hers and announced that we had absolutely no time to sit around and drink coffee.
“So, what is their rush anyway?” I asked.
“A very wealthy and influential family has booked the entire restaurant for Saturday night and we have to have the spirits out before then.” She spoke of it so casually, like we had been hired to perform a janitorial service. In a way, it was, at least, most of our contracts had been little more than removing particularly nasty spirits that were viewed as a mess by whoever hired us.
“So what’s the twist this time?” I asked.
“The owner is suspicious that there is some voodoo involved,” she replied. “We’ll need to do a little bit of research on that.”
“You do that voodoo that you do so well.” I sang the line from the old Cole Porter song that Ella Fitzgerald and Frank Sinatra, to name a few, had later recorded. The prospect of New Orleans and the jazz scene was beginning to work through the jet lag and I was b
eginning to get a little excited about the idea.
Ellen leaned over and kissed me softly and then slipped out of bed, going straight to the luggage that was scattered in the den where we had dropped it when we’d arrived home. Before I had swallowed the last bit of coffee in my mug, she returned with a suitcase and plopped it unceremoniously on the bed. The rapid, unmistakable sound of the zippers being undone was a signal that I had better get moving as well.
Slipping out of bed, I followed her lead and went to get my suitcase, humming an Ella Fitzgerald tune and dropping it onto the bed, nearly launching Ellen’s empty suitcase off of her side of the bed as I did so.
“Easy, now,” she said, reaching out to steady the bag.
Though New Orleans, jazz and the thought of Cajun cuisine had started to take root in my mind, I still hadn’t forgotten the craving that I’d had since we were stranded in London. “Do you suppose they have chocolate pancakes in New Orleans?”
“Are you kidding me? They probably invented them.” Her voice was muffled as she replied from inside the closet where she was selecting whatever clothing she thought she would need in New Orleans.
It was more likely that they would be crepes, knowing the French, but since it was Cajun country and Cajuns loved to eat good food, I was satisfied that we’d probably be treated to some delicious food and maybe even the best chocolate pancakes I’d ever tasted. I could live with that.
The equipment checked out and I made sure that we had several extra sets of fresh batteries for everything. I had learned long before that, occasionally, we got a hold of a particularly powerful spirit that could deplete battery life very quickly and actually used my machines to become stronger. I’d figured out a way around that, but because of my initial experiences, extra batteries had become the norm.
The temperature differences between London and New Orleans actually did us a favor. Our bags had been packed for Northern Europe, so we simply tossed the cool weather clothing into the hamper or hung them to go to the dry cleaners and put in clothing that wouldn’t be quite as uncomfortable in the boiling heat of the bayou city. When Ellen inspected what I had packed, she wasn’t exactly pleased with the large pile of shorts and golf shirts that I had managed to collect and put into the bag.
“Monty, you can’t wear shorts and golf shirts; we are professionals.” She had all except a couple of pairs of my comfy clothing pressed between her hands and was returning them to the dresser.
“You do understand that New Orleans is hot and humid, right?”
“Yes, I know it is. We were there last April, remember? You still can’t wear shorts the whole time.”
“So, basically you’re saying that you don’t want me to do anything?” I was a bit grumpy about the battle that I was about to lose.
“Don’t be overdramatic,” she cautioned. “You’ll get used to it and you’ll be fine.”
“That’s easy for you to say, you can always put on a skirt and let the wind blow up it.” Ellen also had a heat regulating system when it came to hot weather. Likely it was related to the same ability that she had for giving me a chilly stare. Remembering the numerous times that she had stuck her frozen feet on me in bed, I was beginning to develop a theory as to where the heat went. Nevertheless, I did as I was told and repacked my bag.
Chapter Two
We’d flown into New Orleans and landed at the Louis Armstrong International Airport on our previous visit, but since we were on a private jet, we came directly over the top of Lake Pontchartrain. I already had plenty of Cajun and jazz tunes swirling around in my head, not to mention one line from a George Strait song, oddly enough. I sang the chorus for Ellen, who, oddly enough, wasn’t all that impressed.
“Adalida, pretty little Cajun queen, sweet Dixie flower, the belle of the bayou; you're every young man's dream. Adalida, I'd walk through a hurricane. To stand beside you, sweet Adalida, I'd swim the Pontchartrain.”
A straightening of her lips into a tolerant smile was the only response I received for my efforts. I continued a combination of humming and whistling the tune all the way through our landing, down the taxiway and as we moved down the aisle to disembark from the plane. My lighthearted mood was suddenly sucked out of me as I stepped through the door of the plane and took my first breath in New Orleans. Just like I’d remembered it.
“We’ve certainly crossed into a new extreme now,” I complained, feeling the choking heat of New Orleans’s special combination of heat, humidity and swamp hitting me like someone had thrown a mildewed wool blanket over my head.
“You’ll get used to it.” Ellen smiled. She was a great deal more adaptable than I was. The warm smile was covering up a hint of irritation from our morning conversation.
Luckily, we weren’t in the suffocating heat for very long. A long, dark limousine was waiting only a few dozen yards away and we were quickly escorted into the back seat and the sweet feeling of air conditioning began to wash over me. I leaned toward the a/c vent, closed my eyes, turned my head from side to side and even opened up my collar to let at least a portion of the air down inside.
“Monty, sit back,” she snapped. “You look like a dog hanging his head out of a pickup window.”
“Oh, if only that were true,” I mused, but I sat back in my seat and behaved myself. No doubt, Miss Cool was already pushing all of the heat out through her feet and preparing them for an instant freeze later. At the moment, it would have been a dream come true.
“You were doing plenty of reading on the plane; did you come up with anything useful?” That was Ellen’s signal that it was time to get down to business.
“Mostly just background information. I’m not sure how useful it’s going to be when we get in the ring with a particularly nasty ghost.”
“Better to have the background, even in that situation.”
“Voodoo has its origins in Western Africa from a religion known as Dahomeyan Vodun. Its liturgical language is Creole French, a local dialect of French. It has been mixed with the Catholic religion enough for it to sometimes blend right in and go completely unnoticed. It is a close relative of Haitian Vodou and Hoodoo. Voodoo typically used a lot of paraphernalia in its practice; one of the most common items, of course, being the voodoo doll. The use of charms, mostly for protection, are made out of the ground up roots of the figuier maudit tree and mixed with bones, nails, roots, holy water, holy candles, holy incense, holy bread or crucifixes. The priests or priestesses of voodoo do not command the spirits, but rather think of themselves as servants of the spirits and therefore work with them. Oddly enough, the practice of voodoo is a recognized form of practicing Catholicism.”
Ellen listened quietly as I gave her the rundown and then she sat back and let it all sink in. In many ways, the practice of voodoo was not a great deal unlike what she and I did. Mostly, what she did; I was typically just another tool in her arsenal. That wasn’t entirely true, I’d gotten to be pretty adept at maneuvering in the spirit world too, but I still needed a lifeline back to Ellen, who had the ancient gift.
If we were to believe all that we learned in London, she was connected to the ancient Druid order by birth. If we took it one step further, given the theory that Stonehenge was a landing pad for alien spaceships, she might even have had alien blood in her. Maybe that was why she could regulate her body temperature and then freeze me with her feet. I smiled at my witty discovery and drew a glance from her.
“What’s so funny?”
“It’s probably better if I don’t tell you.”
“That never stopped you before.”
“No, but I’m learning to keep things to myself.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes at me.
Evidently, she didn’t believe that I could keep things to myself. I’d show her. Mentally buttoning my lips, I watched the city of New Orleans pass outside the tinted windows, remembering the case that we’d been involved in there before. After passing by the edge of downtown and crossing the Mississippi River, we traveled along t
he eastern bank of the river along a highway that continued to get narrower and passed through several small towns that survived out in the swamps.
I was a little bit baffled about where we could possibly be going and wondered if the driver had gotten lost as we seemed to be disappearing deeper into the swamps. When the driver eventually turned onto a gravel road and passed through an ancient pair of wrought-iron gates, I felt like I was being transported back in time, except for the freshly painted sign arched above letting us know that we were approaching La Madame LaRue, boasting fine Creole cuisine and event hosting. The mansion that was coming into view from atop the rise ahead did little to bring me back to a sense of being within the right century.
Though we’d seen some fantastic buildings and houses in London, the location of the house that we approached in the limousine and the somber way in which it looked down upon the swamps surrounding it, made it seem larger and grander than anything I’d experienced to date. The grounds surrounding the mansion were immaculate, seeming to hold the surrounding swamp at bay in a dignified manner.
We were barely out of the car and once again being overtaken by the choking humidity of the surrounding swamps when we were greeted by a well-dressed man with a perfectly round face and a portly form to match it.
“Ellen, Monty, welcome to La Madame LaRue. I’m Jean LaBeaux; I believe I spoke to you on the phone.” He turned his attention to Ellen as he said the last. “You came highly recommended by General Renshaw.”
“Thank you,” Ellen replied with her typical graceful manner.
I shook his hand, acknowledged his greeting and then turned to peer out across the lawn toward the swamp, which was surrounding us on every side. I wiped several thick beads of sweat from my brow and cheeks; it had been a while since I’d been in a sauna, but I was suddenly remembering the experience, minus the factor of relaxing on a towel on a redwood bench.
