The Crawling Darkness (Ellie Jordan, Ghost Trapper Book 3)

by JL Bryan

  “Her husband and children, hating her from beyond the grave,” I said. “That must have been her fear.”

  “Survivor’s guilt. I’m pretty sure Jacob has that from the plane crash,” Stacey said.

  “So we’ve learned all about our boogeyman,” I said. “Now we just have to trap him.”

  “How?” Stacey asked. “His house was torn down, and that old asylum was torn down, so we can’t go there, which is a total shame. Where are we going to search for ghost bait?”

  I thought about it for a minute. “Grant, where is Edgar Barrington buried?”

  “I believe I ran across...” He shuffled through papers for a few minutes. Stacey stared at me with a very disturbed look on her face. I tried not to laugh at her reaction. “It would be Laurel Grove North.”

  “Can we track down his exact plot?”

  “I have the bill of sale for it here,” Grant said.

  “Um...” Stacey cleared her throat. “Just to be clear, so I don’t feel like I’m going crazy. We’re not talking about robbing this guy’s grave, are we?”

  “Do you have a problem with that?” I asked her, keeping my face stoic.

  “Well...there could be jail time involved. Among many, many other considerations,” she said.

  “That’s why it’s best to wait until after nightfall,” I told her. “We’re less likely to get caught that way.”

  Stacey gaped at me. All the color had drained from her face.

  “It sounds like an adventurous evening,” Grant said. “I would volunteer to wield a shovel and help to excavate your evil friend, but honestly, I’d rather be doing...just about anything else tonight.”

  Stacey remained speechless, a rare thing for her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Laurel Park Cemetery lies on the west side of Savannah, over a hundred and fifty acres of huge old trees, statues, crypts, and gravestones mostly dating from the middle to late nineteenth century. Roads and paths curve out of sight under the shady canopy.

  It was gloomy when Stacey and I arrived, the evening approaching us quickly under a dark and overcast sky. Great conditions for grave robbing.

  We walked up one of the foot paths, past massive granite markers and dark marble obelisks, toward the oldest area of the cemetery. I carried a ridiculously oversized purse, more like a small suitcase, with a few flowers sticking out the top.

  “Hey, I didn’t really want to mention it, but we totally forgot to bring any shovels,” Stacey said. She scanned the footpaths and the shadows under the trees, as if looking for someone, but the graveyard appeared deserted. We were the only living people in sight.

  “We don’t need them.”

  “So we aren’t digging up the boogeyman’s bones,” Stacey said, looking relieved. “Right?”

  “It would be nice if we could, but like you said, there could be jail time involved.”

  “Yeah. It would be...nice.” Stacey shook her head.

  We found the Barrington family plot, enclosed by stone and wrought iron. I opened the little gate and let myself in.

  “My skin’s already crawling,” Stacey whispered.

  “You’re not helping the mood by saying that,” I whispered back. I felt a little nervous, too. A monster lay under these stones.

  We found Joseph Barrington’s grave. 1795-1825. Beloved husband and father. I rejoice in thy salvation -1 Samuel 2:1.

  His brother Edgar lay nearby. 1795-1856. No plaudits or Bible verses for him.

  Rebecca Barrington lay directly in between the brothers, her headstone a little more ornate. A granite cherub perched on top of it, one hand extended downward as if to help Rebecca up out of her grave, the other pointing skyward as if to indicate their destination.

  Nothing commemorated the two missing children. As far as we’d been able to determine, their bodies had never been found.

  “Edgar’s buried right in the middle of the family he destroyed,” Stacey said. “Makes you think.”

  “What does it make you think?”

  “Uh...it’s just an expression. So what’s the plan, ma’am?”

  I knelt in front of Edgar’s grave and brought an empty ghost trap out of my silly-sized giant purse, scattering the handful of flowers that I’d thrown on top of it.

  “You really think we can trap him here?” Stacey asked. “With no stamper or anything? Are we just going to ask him nicely to step inside it for us?”

  “Nope.” It was a standard trap, a two-foot plastic cylinder with a leaded-glass jar inside. A layer of copper mesh was fitted between the glass and the plastic to create an electromagnetic barrier when the battery pack was activated.

  I took a little steel trowel from the purse and scooped up a heap of dark earth and a few weeds from in front of Edgar’s headstone. I dumped it all into the trap.

  “Interesting...” Stacey said, watching me closely.

  “Earth from the ghost’s grave,” I said. “It automatically reminds them of their true condition, and offers rest and peace. A ghost looking to escape its miserable existence can find it very attractive and sink right in.”

  “So that’s our bait? Edgar’s grave dirt?”

  “Best bait we can manage.”

  “What if he’s not looking to escape or move on or whatever?” she asked.

  “Then he’ll avoid this soil like the plague, making it completely useless as bait.”

  “Great. So...fifty-fifty chance, right?” she asked.

  “I don’t get the sense that Edgar is really trying to give up his role as boogeyman,” I said. “So I’d put the odds at closer to ninety-ten. Not in our favor.”

  “That’s comforting.” Stacey looked up at the dark clouds ahead. “Is it about to rain?”

  “Just watch out for other people,” I said, shoveling more dirt, rocks, and small weeds into the trap. “I don’t want to try explaining this to a judge.”

  Stacey paced around, looking nervous, watching the growing shadows while I filled up on nice, fresh grave dirt.

  “Someone’s coming,” she whispered.

  I glanced up, hoping to see an elderly pedestrian type taking an evening stroll and visiting the ancestors. Instead, I saw headlights cutting through the gloom. It was a golf cart, probably a maintenance or security person, and it was turning toward us.

  I capped the trap and stashed it into my giant purse before standing up.

  “Just wait for him to pass,” I whispered.

  The cart didn’t pass, though. It slowed to a halt as it reached the portion of the path closest to us. A man stepped out—white beard, tan coveralls. I could see a dirty shovel and hoe propped upright on the back of the cart.

  “Cemetery’s closed,” he said, walking toward us. He wore a hard, suspicious look on his wrinkled face.

  “Already?” Stacey gave her best innocent, rapidly-blinking girl look. “I thought it closed at sunset.”

  “Naw, we close at five each day. It’s posted right up front.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry, sir!” she said, covering her mouth as if horrified while doing the most honeyed Alabama accent I’d ever heard. “My aunt told me this cemetery had the most beautiful angel statues she’d ever seen, and I just had to go and see them for myself. And she’s right, but she didn’t tell me how lovely the gardens were. We’ll just skedaddle on out of here, I am so embarrassed.”

  The gruff-looking maintenance man had slowly begun to smile as the words gushed out of Stacey’s cute blond head. She was doing a good job charming him, which meant I didn’t have to deal with the situation. I appreciated that.

  “Looks like rain,” the man said, pointing his thumb at the dark, overcast sky. “You might get caught out in the weather. I’d better give you ladies a ride back to your car.”

  “Oh, goodness, you don’t need to do all that, sir,” Stacey replied. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

  “I insist,” he said. “You’ll look like a couple of wet cats if you walk all the way back.”

  “Well, if you insis
t...” Stacey started toward the golf cart, and I trailed behind, feeling mildly annoyed. I’d wanted to get away from the guy as soon as possible, but I suppose we’d have looked more suspicious if we’d actually turned down a free ride so we could walk in the rain.

  I rode on the back, facing backwards next to a dirty shovel, my now-heavy purse in my lap.

  Stacey sat up front while the man told her all about the history of the cemetery, soaking up her attention while he puttered us forward at about five miles an hour.

  A light, misty rain was drizzling by the time we reached the van.

  We got ahead of the slow-moving rainclouds, which obscured the setting sun and brought an early nightfall as we drove downtown. After parking at the curb in front of our client’s house, I led Stacey around back. I wanted to try again to speak with Mr. Gray.

  I knocked on the slanted door marked with the brass D. The little windows near the ground were dark, so I didn’t have much hope. Raindrops splatted my hair and face. I knocked again.

  “I think he’s out,” Stacey said.

  “Or he’s doing a great job of avoiding us.” I sighed. “Let’s get inside.”

  Melissa was babysitting Kalil and Mia again. The kids were in the kitchen, eating peanut butter and jelly.

  “My brother said you can call him if you need help again,” Melissa told me, while Stacey and I started on the heap of gear that we needed to lug down and set up in the basement all over again.

  “I think we’ll be okay,” I said. I didn’t want Michael thinking I needed help and protection all the time. I was a ghost-hunting private detective, after all, who’d just recently kicked a boogeyman until it bled spiders.

  “Are you serious?” Stacey asked. “You’re not going to let that guy carry the heavy stuff for us, Ellie?”

  “We can manage,” I told her.

  It took a few trips to move everything down, and we set up with the portable floodlight on again, since the overhead fluorescents were so poor. The room was already cold, and we could feel hidden eyes watching us from every corner.

  We ran into problems—the thermal was stubborn about booting up, the microphone battery kept dying.

  We were working on sorting those out when more problems arrived.

  The basement door opened, and a tall man, easily six-four or six-five, charged down the steps. He had a square jaw and a comb-over that generally failed to hide his bald spot, and he wore a big brown-striped tie with a short-sleeve shirt.

  “There they are!” he said, pointing at us.

  He was followed by a shorter man, hefty with a black Elvis-esque pompadour and sideburns to match, his sizable stomach draped in a bowling shirt. The man squinted in confusion through his purple-rimmed glasses.

  Then Lulinda Fielding followed right behind them, and the picture snapped into place. I wondered which of the two men were her husband, the elusive Hoss.

  “I told you! My boy saw them down here yesterday,” Lulinda said.

  Falcon. The little turncoat.

  “Just what is going on in here? Who are you people?” asked the Elvis wannabe. His voice was unexpectedly high and nasal.

  “We’re private investigators,” I replied.

  “They’re rip-off artists,” Lulinda said. “Talking about ghosts. They told my boy the monster in his closet is real.”

  “Kid just whines and cries all the time,” said the man with the combover. “Scared of dinosaurs. What kind of kid is scared of dinosaurs?”

  “I’m gonna have to call the police,” Elvis Guy said as he reached the basement floor. “What is all this mess?”

  “We’re studying paranormal disturbances on behalf of several of your tenants,” I told him. “I’m Ellie Jordan, from Eckhart Investigations—” I reached for a business card.

  “Well, I’m the property manager for this here house,” Elvis Guy said. “Zayne Plunket. And I need all this mess taken out right now.”

  “Your own tenants wanted us here,” I said.

  “The only tenants I see are Hoss and Lulinda Fielding, and they want you gone.”

  “Just give me a second.” Since Alicia hadn’t been home the last time I was upstairs, I called Michael.

  “Did you find any ghosts?” he asked when he answered.

  “I found some of your neighbors. They called in your property manager,” I said. “Want to come vouch for us?”

  “Sure. Just tell Zayne to sing ‘Hunka Hunka Burning Love’ until I get there.”

  I snickered as I hung up the phone. “Michael’s coming down,” I told them.

  Hoss, of the combover and ugly tie, snorted and shook his head.

  “You still need permission from the property owner to do...whatever this is.” Zayne adjusted his purple glasses as he leaned over to inspect the thermal camera on its tripod.

  “Careful, that’s expensive,” Stacey said, moving closer to him. “And fragile.”

  “What does it do?” Zayne asked.

  “It’s a thermal imaging camera. It shows us cold spots indicative of active revenants or other noncorporeal entities,” I said.

  “What’s that, now?” Zayne asked. The words rushed together to sound like Whussat, nah? I couldn’t quite place his accent. Maybe it was Late Pilled-Out Elvis.

  “Ghosts,” Stacey said. “We’re looking for ghosts.”

  “They’re crazy! Call the police already!” Lulinda said.

  “Leave them alone,” Michael said, walking in through the door. He’d arrived so fast that he must have run the whole way, but he didn’t show any sign of being winded or anything less than calm and relaxed. “They’re supposed to be here.”

  “Says who? You?” Hoss asked, glaring while Michael descended the steps.

  “Alicia and I want her here,” Michael said. He walked over to stand beside me, a nice show of solidarity. He glared at Zayne while he spoke. “This house is haunted. I’ve seen it, my sister’s seen it, Alicia and her kids have seen it.”

  “And your child has seen it,” I said, looking at Lulinda. She gave me an oversized pink-lipstick clown-frown and looked at the floor. I turned to Zayne. “We tried to speak with Mr. Gray, too, but he never answered his door.”

  Zayne looked from us to the Fieldings as if puzzled, scratching his big King of Rock and Roll belly.

  “Who’s Mr. Gray?” he finally asked.

  “Over in apartment D.” Hoss pointed to the door to Mr. Gray’s apartment, his forehead bunching up over his eyes as he studied Zayne like he was the world’s biggest idiot, maybe on display at the circus freak show. “Scrawny old guy. Always dressed sharp, wearing that same old-fashioned gray suit and bowtie. Pays you rent every month. You might have heard of him.”

  “Nobody’s lived in apartment D for years,” Zayne said, returning Hoss’s scrutiny with his own you’re-an-idiot look.

  “We see Mr. Gray all the time,” Michael said.

  “You might want to go collect some back rent,” Hoss said, pointing to the door. “I hate freeloaders.”

  “No, there’s no tenant,” Zayne said.

  “You’re out of your mind, Elvis,” Hoss said, striding on his long, bird-stalk legs toward the closed door at the far end of the laundry room. He knocked on it.

  Zayne looked around at the rest of us, an expression of disbelief on his face. Then he walked over to the door, took out a thick wad of keys on a keyring, and shuffled through them...slowly, as if he had hours to kill. Hoss watched him impatiently, arms crossed, toe tapping.

  “Put some fire under that mule!” Hoss finally snapped.

  Zayne didn’t reply. He finally found the right key, slid it into the lock, and turned it.

  The door to apartment D creaked open.

  I walked over to see it, along with everybody else.

  We looked into a small room with eggshell-bland walls, the floor made of cheap, warped hardwood. Cardboard boxes, paint cans, and a small pile of old lumber sat along one wall.

  I flipped on my flashlight and walked inside. N
o furniture, just assorted old junk. It was all one room, except for a bathroom in the corner. I saw the short flight of concrete stairs leading up to the slanted doors where I’d knocked earlier.

  “Nobody’s lived here in a while,” Stacey said, following me in.

  “I don’t get it. Where did Mr. Gray go?” Hoss asked, standing in the doorway.

  “How many times do I have to say it? There’s nobody named Mr. Gray, nor Miss Scarlet or any other color, living down here.” Zayne stepped into the apartment. “There was trouble with water leakage, and people kept breaking their leases, saying the place was...” He closed his mouth.

  “The place was what?” Michael stepped close to Zayne, who looked at the floor, scratching his stomach. “Haunted?”

  “Well...” Zayne shrugged. “People will say anything, I guess.”

  “You know about this!” Michael said. “You and everybody at your company. That’s why the rent’s so low but the lease is expensive to break. You should be paying for the ghostbusters.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense...” Hoss grumbled, kicking a piece of crumpled waste paper across the floor.

  “We’re not paying for anything!” Zayne snapped. “Y’all need to get out of here.” He waved his arm as if directing traffic back to the laundry room. “Come on, now.”

  “You’re all messing with me,” Hoss said, with a glare for Zayne especially. “This is some kind of joke. Come on, Lu.” He stomped out of the room, and Lulinda followed, with a dismissive glance at the lot of us.

  Michael was still glaring at Zayne, who seemed to slump under the weight of Michael’s look.

  “I guess that settles that,” Zayne mumbled, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

  “And you’re not going to give these investigators any more trouble?” Michael asked. He was certainly thorough about standing up for us.

  Zayne mumbled something and wandered out of the apartment. I gave Michael a smile as we left. His return smile was warm and inviting.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Upstairs, Calvin had arrived and was waiting for us outside. The drizzling rain had passed, leaving the night smelling fresh and new. Michael walked over there with Stacey and me, since he’d agreed to help lug the big stamper into the basement, thankfully.