Pennies for the Ferryman - 01

by Jim Bernheimer

  I hoped one of my buddies from my weekly poker game would be able to give me a lift. Sadly, no one was available and I was reluctant to reveal my new found talents anyway, so that left the irrepressible Jenny Goodman.

  Riding with her was the best advertisement for life insurance that I’ve ever sat through. Coming from a recent combat vet that was saying something!

  I spent the better part of the previous week emailing and calling several of the “ghost tour” businesses in Gettysburg. I pretended to be a former customer of Darren Porter’s Ghostly Sightings Tour, who was disappointed that he was no longer in business.

  One thing that immediately became apparent to me is that the ghost tours were a rather competitive business. The first one I talked to politely mentioned that Mr. Porter had “passed on” and immediately launched into their spiel on how they go to the same sites and began naming the magazines and travel specials they’d been featured in.

  By the third call, I struck a small nugget of gold. That company hired one of Darren’s former tour guides, Ian Wells. We were signed up for a tour that evening. Once again, I wasn’t nearly as excited as Ms. Goodman.

  “How many ghosts do you think you’ll see, Mike? Thousands of people died there, they’ll probably be all over the place!”

  “And something strange happened to Darren Porter. He died rather mysteriously. Either way, I don’t know if it will be as many as you think. From what I’ve seen, most don’t hang around for a long time, and there were only a few in the cemeteries I’ve been to since my operation.”

  We ended up parking off of Steinwehr Avenue. For a change, I was actually early getting somewhere. We found the wooden sign indicating where the tour groups form and went inside the nearby tavern to pick up our tickets.

  The barkeep was nice enough to point out Mr. Wells, who was reading a copy of USA Today at one of the tables. He was an older and somewhat heavyset, balding man with a striking handlebar mustache, wearing a Union Officer’s uniform. Well, they did promise period dress…

  “Good evening.”

  “You’re a bit early for the tour. Most won’t show up for another thirty minutes.” He gestured for us to sit down. Jenny slipped away to use the bathroom.

  “I was actually wondering about Darren Porter. You used to work for him.”

  He set his paper down and sipped at his coffee while looking me over. “Darren died back in March. What would you like to know about him?”

  “Was he really a psychic?”

  “Yes, I believe he was. I worked for him for a couple of years – nice guy, damn shame too. He’d walk into a room with only a brass divining rod and within thirty seconds he could tell you if something was there. Darren never cared for all the fancy gadgets. He really knew his local history, too.”

  “How did he die?” Divining rods? I always thought that was something to do with finding water. Suffice to say, there were some holes in my knowledge.

  “They said it was a heart attack, but he was in pretty good shape. He drank a little, probably didn’t exercise as much as he should. Now, why are you asking so many questions?”

  Pointing to my eye, I said, “He was an organ donor. I got one of his corneas in a transplant and wanted to know a bit more about him, what he did for a living? Who his friends were and all that jazz?”

  Ian paused for a moment to digest all of it. After a moment, he shook his head, “Well, that’s something you don’t hear every day! I reckon you couldn’t make that up, if you tried. I was mostly just an employee. You might try looking up Karla Thompson. She was his girlfriend.”

  “Do you know where I can find her?”

  “Afraid not, Karla left town right after the funeral. I’m not really sure where she went.”

  My face likely didn’t hide my disappointment. “Did you see him much right before he died?”

  “He was talking about how much he’d been enjoying his vacation and that he’d spent it working on a book. I had lunch with him about ten days before and he was fine. Darren seemed really excited too. He said it was going to be a great tour year, but wouldn’t give me any details.”

  Jenny came back and she listened to a few Darren Porter stories with me and we learned where he was buried and that one of the local book shops on Baltimore Avenue still sells episodes of his old public access show on DVD and VHS.

  I sent Jenny off to buy the videos and then headed off to Evergreen Cemetery while there was still daylight. I’d told Jenny to go ahead and join the walking tour and I’d meet up with her later.

  Walking past the imposing archway-shaped gatehouse, I flinched in surprise. The few cemeteries I’d been in were mostly empty with only a few ghosts. That wasn’t the case here.

  I saw quite a few ghosts. It was disconcerting, almost like I had stumbled into a reenactment or something. I headed over towards the area where Ian said that Darren was buried.

  Closing my right eye periodically, I separated the few living visitors from the ghosts. I acted casual enough and started looking for the grave while pretending not to look at the ghosts. There were three ghosts gathered in this one spot. One of them was actually pacing like he was on guard duty.

  A quick look at the headstone confirmed my fears – Darren Austin Porter. I opted to pass by the grave and pretend I was looking for an adjacent one. A fourth ghost rose out of the ground and went to the one with a saber and actually saluted the officer while another one sank into the ground.

  I’d have to come back later tonight. There were still too many people around, so I headed back and lucked into the walking tour that was just getting started.

  Jenny immediately grabbed me, “Well, what did you find out?”

  “His grave is being guarded by some Civil War ghosts.”

  “Really?”

  That required some kind of smart-ass response, “Jenny, why would I make that up?”

  “Um, yeah. I guess you wouldn’t. So what are we going to do?”

  “There were too many people and too many ghosts for me to do anything, so I’m going to go back later on tonight.”

  “I’m coming too!”

  “No. I need you to keep the car nearby so we can get out of here. I’m guessing that even in Gettysburg there are laws against trespassing.”

  We rejoined Mr. Well’s tour and followed the route. It was somewhat odd that I could see some ghosts actively watching the tour group. In a weird sort of way, it was like being at the zoo. I was trying to figure out which side of the bars I was on.

  Waiting until the lights in the caretaker’s house went off, I slipped back into the graveyard. I needed to find out why there were ghosts guarding Darren, so I crouched behind one of the larger nearby markers and watched them for awhile. Once again, one climbed out of the ground and was replaced. As the ghost walked off, I followed him with my pipe wrench in hand. One thing working for me was that this ghost was shorter than me. Of course, Abe Lincoln was considered a giant during that era and nowadays, he’d have been lucky to land a spot as a shooting guard in the NBA.

  We were walking behind one of those mini-mausoleum type crypts and out of sight of his colleagues when I grabbed him.

  “What the hell!” I pushed him against the stonework and I could tell that he was shocked that he wasn’t passing through it.

  “Keep quiet! Why are you guarding Darren Porter?”

  “You can see me! Ow! Ow! My arm!” He could still feel pain and I pulled his arm higher into his back.

  I repeated myself, “I can hurt you too. Why are you guarding Darren Porter?”

  “Orders. We got orders to guard the prisoner.”

  “Who’s giving the orders?”

  “Colonel Vincent. Let me go!”

  This was a problem. “Is he the one with the sword back there?”

  “Yes, now let me go. I’m not telling you no more!”

  I tried asking him a few more questions, but he started struggling and raising his voice, so I whacked him with the pipe wrench, several times, un
til he dropped to the ground. Mitch, back in Roanoke, told me that I knocked him unconscious for several hours. I made certain this soldier didn’t get back up anytime soon.

  It was now or never. I was committed to finding out what was going on, so I simply started walking towards Colonel Vincent. I wish I knew more about Civil War history; he was probably someone important.

  I slid the wrench into my pocket. They watched me as I approached. Fortunately, they didn’t seem to react. They were complacent. I stood at the headstone. Vincent was on the other side looking at me appraisingly.

  “Hello, Darren. I’ve come a long way to see you. I’ve got some questions for a psychic like you to answer if you’ve got the time.”

  There was a strange feeling, kind of like a violent chill passing through my body as a guy in a suit burst out of the ground with a soldier hanging on to him. I pulled the wrench out of my pocket and hammered the gawking soldier next to me in the gut and kicked the one holding Darren’s leg in the face.

  Drawing his saber, Colonel Vincent stepped through the headstone. My kick smacked into his kneecap and I spun him away before turning to the “man” that I freed.

  Darren was a lanky white man in his mid-thirties. Ian described him as soft spoken and somewhat bookish. I’d seen prisoner of war pictures as part of training for the Iraq war. He looked like he’d gotten the crap kicked out of him on a routine basis. I helped him finish off the two that I’d beaten and grabbed his hand.

  “Darren, let’s get out of here.” I started dragging him, pain and a sudden weakness coursed up and down my arm. Struggling with his weight, I realized that if a ghost could have an adrenaline rush, Darren just crashed.

  “Too weak…I can’t… do it. Ross, I’ve been waiting for you… This is huge… You have to be careful. Get some protections! They’ll come after you like they did me. Find Karla, she has all my notes.”

  “Come on! You can tell me all about it later.” Darren shouted something and pushed me to the side. Looking up, I saw the point of the sword coming out of his back as he sagged to the ground.

  Darren moaned before releasing my arm, “Find Karla!”

  I scrambled back up to see the wild, angry eyes of Colonel Vincent. He tried to pull his sword back, but Darren rolled away from him. I didn’t need to be touching him to see that he was mouthing “run.”

  Screw that! I was angry. Darren was trying to warn me about something. I came at Vincent swinging. The first blow caught him on the shoulder and sent him to the ground where I kicked him. He rolled away from my kick, pulling my leg with him.

  We struggled to our feet and grappled. I did some of that kickboxing crap that Hodges and Porkchop used to do in my prior life and drove my knee into his gut.

  “Intruder! Send reinforcements!” he roared after he got his breath back. In a way, it was ironic that a ghost still needed to breathe.

  I could hear him screaming for help. I wound up, planning to finish him, but he caught my wrist on the downswing.

  “Do you think me beaten? Never!” He punched me in the gut, forcing air out of my lungs and sending me tottering backwards. I lost my grip on the wrench which he easily held in the air.

  I knew he wasn’t a run of the mill ghost. He was just as dangerous as Jenny’s mom. I could see shapes moving in the distance. I bumped into Darren’s body and could see it completely fading. There was a look of profound sorrow on his face. A second later only Vincent’s saber remained.

  He held my wrench, so I figured that turnabout was fair play. I scooped up the saber in my hands. It felt real enough, and even in the dim light, his eyes widened. I slashed at him and he blocked with the wrench, causing actual sparks where sword met tool. Vincent quickly tried to get close enough to grapple, but I smashed the pommel guard into his face. With a downward slash, I sliced his leg. He fell backwards and turned, diving into the ground like a swimmer.

  Snatching the wrench from the ground, I saw others running towards me. Army doctrine says that in these situations, the soldier is to calmly evaluate the situation and determine the best course of action. Yeah, I ran like hell. One came close enough to me to make me worry. I ran him through with the blade and then cracked him in the skull with the wrench.

  Vincent came back out of the ground ahead of me, blocking my path. He was glowing brighter than the rest. Almost like the special effects in those Star Wars movies, he hurled a heavy flowerpot at me. It was about at this moment that the stray thought intruded that maybe he was more dangerous than Jenny’s mom. I could admit when I was wrong.

  Fortunately, I was also the best in my gym class at dodgeball – good thing too. Vincent’s glow diminished, but his anger was still there. He dodged my sword slash. I ran right past him. He was just trying to slow me down.

  My big problem was that I needed to run around objects and they could just run through them. On the bright side, I had a sword and no one else seemed to. It made me wonder if there were any soldiers who were buried with muskets; would the guns still fire?

  One fast little bugger got close enough and I cut his hand off. By then I was running flat out. I could see Jenny’s car in the distance. She was leaning on side of the car looking bored.

  “Jenny! Let’s go! Let’s go!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Graveyard full of ghosts chasing me! We need to leave!” I dived into the car as she started the engine. I didn’t calm down until we were ten miles down the road.

  Jenny couldn’t see the saber, but she felt cool when I sat it on her leg. She thought the idea of wielding a ghost’s sword was “utterly cool.” The whole stabbing people thing didn’t seem to bother her.

  “Well, they’re already dead, aren’t they? They can’t get any deader, right?”

  “I think we need to stay away from Gettysburg for now. The less they know about me the better.”

  Jenny got quiet – extremely quiet.

  “Jenny? What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “You know that dramatic writing assignment for English? I wrote the story of our adventure like a news article. Professor Weathers told me to send it off to the Weekly World News. I got their acceptance letter and a check yesterday.”

  “What!”

  “How was I supposed to know that you were going to run into some ghost conspiracy? I was planning on splitting the money with you. It’s going in the next issue. Ghosts probably don’t read that thing anyway.”

  Somehow her reassurances weren’t all that comforting.

  It was a long, cold drive back to Maryland.

  Episode 3: Looking for Death in all the Wrong Places

  “Mrs. Rosemont,” I said, trying not to sound annoyed, “I really can’t find anything. Are you certain that your furniture is moving around at night?”

  “Young man, I may be quite old, but I do know what I see: that paper with the article about you saving that girl keeps turning up near my telephone.”

  Megan Rosemont was an eighty-three year old widow, whom I had already visited twice before. I almost didn’t come back this time, but she was adamant that things were happening in her home in Rockville, Maryland. Thus, I found myself standing in the doorway of her meticulously clean house once more.

  I grimaced at the sight of the clipping from The Weekly World News. It featured Jenny Goodman’s hard-to-believe story of how I sort of broke a ghostly curse in her life as an assignment in her English class. She then had the brass to send the story to one of those supermarket tabloid papers, and they bought it!

  Despite her offer of a cut of the money, I’d been giving her the silent treatment for about a week now. She didn’t have to answer the phones at the Ross household from the numerous nut jobs. She didn’t have to explain my new-found ability to see, hear and touch spirits to my skeptical mother. She didn’t get a wonderful lecture from that same mother about how I was following in the footsteps of my deadbeat, insurance-selling father, David Michael Ross Senior, who’d made his living by conning people out of their hard-earned money
and giving them precious little in return.

  At least I knew why our English teacher kept looking at me funny.

  Most importantly, Jenny Goodman didn’t have to worry about the cryptic warning I’d received from Darren Porter, the psychic whose donated cornea dragged me kicking and screaming into a world that I never wanted to believe in. Whoever the “they” were that frightened Darren, I sincerely hoped that “they” don’t read the magazines while standing in line for their groceries!

  Instead, Jenny kept saying how I needed to set up a website and go into the “paranormal investigation” business!

  Needless to say, I was annoyed at her for the moment. She was cute, curvy and exuberant, but at times she displayed an annoying habit of leaping long before looking. Although, to be honest, while I was peeved at all the whack-job phone calls I’d received since publication of the article, a few of the phone calls brought some much-needed cash into my wallet.

  Money was always tight around the Ross household, ever since I could remember and more things were breaking around the house than were getting fixed. The furnace barely made it through last winter and until there was enough money to get a transmission fixed, Mom’s car was a four door paperweight in our driveway. The only reason I hadn’t taken Jenny’s offer of splitting the money was because I was just as stubborn as I’m poor – not a spectacular combination if you ask me.

  Closing my ‘normal’ left eye, I scanned the room for any signs of a ghost and found none. At least, I didn’t need to wear the eye patch as much and my vision was improving. Either someone was messing with Mrs. Rosemont or she was clinging to the hope that a spirit was trying to contact her. Taking her money made me feel guilty.

  I didn’t have anything to do that afternoon, so I tried to make myself useful to the pleasant, but possibly batty woman offering me too sweet tea. “No, nothing in here, either – who do you believe is trying to contact you?”