Cassidy Kincaide loves her job...most of the time. She's
inherited Trifles & Folly, an antique/curio store in
Charleston, South Carolina, from her uncle. The store has
been in their family since 1670, and Cassidy is continuing
the tradition of finding beautiful antiques. She's also
continuing the tradition of finding and neutralizing
dangerous magical and supernatural items and getting them
off the market and out of mortal hands.
When normal antiques suddenly become linked to malicious
spirits who go far beyond frightening, Cassidy must find
what is triggering these sudden, deadly hauntings before
Charleston's bloody history comes back with a vengeance.
DEADLY CURIOSITIES by Gail Z. Martin has to be one my new
favorite urban fantasy series. First off, the concept is
amazing. Cassidy is a psychometric. She can see and feel the
history of an object by touching it. Putting her in a job in
which every object comes with an emotional history is simply
amazing, not to mention that Charleston is an old city
steeped in a history of violence. It makes for a
potentially combustible atmosphere.
The cast of characters adds to the charm of this series.
Sorren, Cassidy's business partner and a 500 year old
vampire, is quite mysterious, and I cant wait to learn more
about him as Martin continues with the Deadly
Curiosities series. Teag is a fantastic sidekick for
Cassidy. He keeps her out of trouble, most of the time,
provides humor and support, acts as a bodyguard if need, and
his relationship with his partner Anthony adds a touch of
sweet romance. The varied Charleston residents, from an
aging Southern belle to a powerful Voudon queen, create a
powerful and diverse cast who will surprise and delight.
The plot is surprisingly dark, much more so than the brief
blurb lets on. I don't want to give away any spoilers
because the unexpected direction DEADLY CURIOSITIES takes is
part of the pleasure, and how Gail Z. Martin ties seemingly
random events together to create a frightening story is
simply fantastic.
DEADLY CURIOSITIES is a must read! I can't believe it's
taken me this long to find author Gail Z. Martin. I'm moving
her to my auto-buy list and can't wait to get my hands on
the other books in the Deadly Curiosities series.
Cassidy Kincaide owns Trifles & Folly, an antique/curio
store and high-end pawn shop in Charleston, South Carolina
that is more than what it seems. Dangerous magical and
supernatural items sometimes find their way into mortal
hands or onto the market, and Cassidy is part of a shadowy
Alliance of mortals and mages whose job it is to take those
deadly curiosities out of circulation.
Welcome to Trifles & Folly, an antique and curio shop with a
dark secret. Proprietor Cassidy Kincaide continues a family
tradition begun in 1670—acquiring and neutralizing dangerous
supernatural items. It’s the perfect job for Cassidy, whose
psychic gift lets her touch an object and know its history.
Together with her business partner Sorren, a 500 year-old
vampire and former jewel thief, Cassidy makes it her
business to get infernal objects off the market. When
mundane antiques suddenly become magically malicious, it’s
time for Cassidy and Sorren to get rid of these Deadly
Curiosities before the bodies start piling up.
Excerpt
Chapter Six
Gardenia Landing was a Victorian ‘painted lady’ with a two-
story colonnaded piazza, an intriguing garden wall and an
elaborate, wrought iron gate to a garden with lush greenery
and a fountain. It was exactly the kind of place I would
have picked if I had wanted to indulge and pamper myself.
I parked and hefted my backpack and overnight bag out of the
trunk, along with a small pack filled with some ‘special’
tools to help me tackle whatever was causing the problems at
the B&B. Since I deal better with haunted antiques on a full
stomach, I’d stopped for a quick dinner on my way over. I
was even wearing my favorite agate necklace and earrings,
gemstones I trusted to help protect me from bad supernatural
mojo. With a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and
resolved to take on the worst Gardenia Landing had to throw
at me.
Gardenias were in season, and so was honeysuckle and
Confederate jasmine. The burble of a fountain promised cool
respite from the warm Charleston evening.
As I opened the door into the foyer, the smell of freshly
brewed coffee and warm sugar cookies greeted me and enticed
me inside. I was greeted by a room done in period wallpaper
and antique furniture with a large crystal chandelier. Off
to the left, I got a peek of a dining room, and to the
right, what I guessed was a parlor or library. I’d explore
both later, I vowed.
Straight back the hallway was the kitchen with modern,
stainless steel appliances. A door under the stairs was
likely a powder room. The place managed to feel homey and
upscale without pretension.
“You must be Cassidy!” A trim woman in her mid-forties
rushed from the kitchen at the sound of the door. Her very
wavy brown hair fell shoulder length, setting off tasteful
gold earrings and a discreet—yet expensive, gold necklace.
She wore a blue t-shirt and jeans that looked as if they had
been pressed, over Sperry’s without socks. Everything about
her exuded warmth and welcome, except for the look of worry
in her blue eyes.
I smiled. “Are you Rebecca?”
She nodded. “Yes. And thank you so much for agreeing to
come.”
I still wasn’t convinced it was a great idea, but I was
resolved to see this thing through. “Your B&B is lovely,” I
said sincerely.
Rebecca’s good cheer dimmed. “Thank you. I really love this
place. But if we can’t figure out what’s going on, I don’t
think I can stay here. Maggie said you had a ‘talent’ for
dealing with these things. I don’t have a whiff of ESP, but
unusual abilities do run in my mother’s family, so you’re
not going to shock me.”
“How about if I put my bag in my room and then we sit down
and talk?” I suggested. “I’d love a cup of that coffee; it
smells amazing!” I paused. “Unless you’ve got other guests
waiting.”
“Unfortunately, no.” She gave a sad smile. “It’s just you
and one other couple for the next few days. I’m afraid word
might be getting out about the problem.” She gestured for me
to follow her. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”
I climbed the stairs, looking around at the foyer with its
dark wood, beautiful balustrade, and antique furniture. A
lovely cut glass vase was filled with hydrangea blossoms,
and I recognized it as the ‘funeral’ vase Teag researched. I
resolved to come back for a closer look once I settled in.
Upstairs, I counted four rooms plus another set of stairs.
“I live on the third floor,” Rebecca said as she led me down
the hall. “It was originally the maid’s room.”
She stopped in front of the last door on the right. “This is
your room,” she said, opening the door for me. “Every room
has its own bathroom with a shower. It’s a little tight, but
you don’t have to share.”
The room was charming. The walls were painted a pale blue
with a stenciled border. The large brass bed was the focal
point of the room, with its plump throw pillows and chenille
bedspread. A small white night stand with a lace doily was
on one side, complete with a brass reading lamp with a
stained glass shade. Is that the lamp she bought from
Trifles and Folly? I wondered, suddenly a little disquieted
by the idea of having it next to my bed.
At the foot of the bed was a dresser with a tall mirror and
a marble finish on the top. A fluffy white bathrobe was
draped invitingly over the arm of a comfortable chair with
an ottoman, below a perfectly-angled floor lamp. I loved
every piece, and the combined effect made me wish my stay
was truly for rest and relaxation.
I set down my luggage and turned back to Rebecca. “The room
is beautiful. Can you show me around, please? Then let’s
talk about what’s been going on.”
Rebecca smiled, but I could tell she had a lot on her mind.
I tried to set her at ease. “I always love to hear stories
about old homes like this,” I said warmly. “And if you know
the stories of any of the pieces that aren’t from our shop,
please fill me in!”
“Most of the furniture in this room came from my grandma’s
house near Savannah,” Rebecca replied. “Everything except
the lamp, which is from Trifles and Folly.”
“Your grandmother had good taste,” I said.
Rebecca’s smile grew reflective. “She got a lot of the
furniture from her mother and grandmother, so it’s authentic
Victorian. When I was a little girl, I loved sleeping in the
big brass bed.”
“The linens look period, too,” I said. Later, I would risk
touching pieces, when I was alone. But Rebecca didn’t know
much about my talent, and I didn’t want to give her an
impromptu demonstration.
“Oh yes,” she agreed. “Though the table cloth Debra bought
from you is in the dining room. The bedspread was also my
grandmother’s, as are the pillow shams. But the pillows and
sheets are all brand new!”
I wanted nothing more than to cozy into that inviting bed
with a good book and a cup of tea, but relaxing would have
to wait. “It all goes together perfectly. Do you have a
different theme for each room?”
That was Rebecca’s cue to lead me back into the hallway. She
handed me a key on a pretty keychain, and I recognized the
fob as the handle from an ornate silver plated fork or
spoon. Lovely.
“The house itself was built in the 1850s as a wedding
present from James Harrison to his bride, Clarissa,” Rebecca
told me as we walked down the narrow, dimly-lit hall. “The
light fixtures were originally for gaslights, although of
course, everything was remodeled for electric years ago.”
The wall sconces had bulbs that replicated the warm glow of
gas, which made the hallway a little eerie.
“The Harrisons raised their family in this house,” Rebecca
continued. “They had three sons and a daughter, all of the
sons rose to prominence.” She frowned. “Unfortunately, they
also lost two infants, something that was far too common
back then.”
“Did the house stay in the family?” I prompted. Mindful of
the haunting, I was listening to validate the tragedies Mrs.
Morrissey had mentioned, events that might have primed the
house for paranormal action if the right catalyst was
introduced.
Rebecca paused with her hand on the molded brass door knob
to one of the other guestrooms. “It did, for a while,” she
replied. “The oldest of the Harrison sons, Joseph, took over
the family shipping company, and brought his new wife here.
The other two sons eventually purchased homes nearby.”
“And the daughter?”
“Arabella Harrison did not fare as well as her brothers, I’m
afraid,” Rebecca said. “She had what they called back then a
‘delicate nervous condition’. Today, I guess we’d say she
was given to bouts of depression or worse. She died young.”
“Did she pass away here in the house?” I asked. Rebecca gave
me a startled look. “I’m looking for clues about what might
be going on,” I said apologetically, feeling like a ghoul.
“Actually, she did die in the house,” Rebecca said. “From
consumption—the old name for tuberculosis.”
I shivered. “Do you know where she died?”
Rebecca shook her head. “I’ve never found anything that says
exactly. Family letters just say that she spent most of her
time in the garden, and that she died ‘in bed’.” She pushed
open the door and turned on the light to the second guest
room.
“We do have guests in this room, so I can’t let you do more
than look.” As if she could guess my thoughts, she added,
“None of the items we bought from you are in the room, and
neither this room nor your room have had any problems.”
That was good to know, and it might mean that the lamp
wasn’t supernaturally charged, but I wasn’t taking anything
for granted until I knew more.
From the doorway, I peered into the room. It had a masculine
feel, with a dark walnut bedroom set that had all the
Victorian ornamentation. The bed’s high headboard nearly
reached the ceiling. There was a huge armoire, a comfy chair
and ottoman, and brass lamps with brass shades that reminded
me of ones I’d seen in big city libraries. The dresser was
the same dark walnut, with a white marble counter and an
ornate mirror that must have been almost eight feet tall,
crested with a carved medallion. Small antique pieces gave
the room a lived-in look: old tintype photos in silver
frames, a watercolor of a dog on the wall behind the chair,
and white antimacassars on the back of the chairs.
Two duffle bags lay to one side. Obviously, the other guests
hadn’t unpacked, either. I wondered if I would run into them
later on. The web site said that guests were invited to
gather nightly for cocktails.
“I’ll show you the other two rooms,” Rebecca said, as we
stepped back from the doorway and she locked it up again. We
turned toward the opposite side of the hallway, where the
doorways were staggered so that one room wasn’t directly
across from another.
These doors weren’t locked. The first room was shadowed, and
although I knew that outside, dusk had fallen, something
about the darkened room made the hair on the back of my neck
stand up. Rebecca turned on the light, but the faux gaslight
glow didn’t dispel the feeling that something was not quite
right.
“This room was the first place we got reports of problems,”
Rebecca said. She nodded toward the large, oval mirror with
a broad bronze ribbon-like frame. I was certain it came from
our shop.
“What happened?” I asked.
Rebecca looked chagrinned. “Guests said they felt
uncomfortable in the room, as if they were being watched. A
few reported waking up to see a shadow moving across the
wall.”
Shadow men, again.
“Could it be car headlights from the street?” I asked.
“That’s given me a start now and again.”
“Not up here,” Rebecca replied. “The angle’s wrong.” She
sighed. “This is one of the places guests and cleaning staff
have reported cold spots and small items moving around on
their own.”
“Were there problems before you bought the mirror?”
She shook her head. “We brought all the pieces from Trifles
and Folly in at the same time, so it’s hard to say whether
it’s all of them, or just some of them.” Rebecca gestured
toward the room. “You can see why I don’t want to return the
pieces. They’re just perfect for the décor—if we can get
them to stop scaring the guests.”
The furniture in this room was oak, with a bed, dresser and
old-fashioned washstand. The bed still had the very tall
headboard and footboard, but lacked the ornamentation of the
last room’s furnishings. Other than the troublesome mirror,
there was an oil portrait of a pretty young woman, and a
seascape that seemed a bit moody and dramatic for a bedroom.
A Chinese Foo dog statue and a pewter lamp sat on the
nightstand. The room had the requisite overstuffed chair,
and also boasted a small fireplace.
“Do the fireplaces work?” I asked.
Rebecca nodded. “Several of them were bricked over before we
bought the property, and the contractor advised against
opening those back up. But the ones you see all work, and in
the winter, guests like to cozy up to a fire even though as
you know, it never gets all that cold here.”
I was glad when we left the room. I wondered whether my
imagination was running away with me or whether I really was
picking up the vibe from the mirror, but there was no way I
would have been comfortable sleeping there.
“This is the last guest room,” Rebecca said, opening the
door wide. She turned on the light, and I found myself
looking at an imposing bed that had a small wooden half
canopy protruding from the very high headboard, a detail
that made it look like a throne. A vintage quilt covered the
mattress, along with needlepoint throw pillows which made
the bed only slightly less intimidating.
I spotted another set of silver picture frames on the
dresser, ones I immediately recognized from our store. The
pictures were old tintypes of a man and woman, authentic and
completely unremarkable, yet instinctively, I wanted to draw
back from the frames in unaccountable sadness.
“What happens in this room?” I asked.
“It’s odd,” Rebecca said. “The last room gives guests the
willies, although no one has reported being hurt—thank
heavens! But in this room, it’s almost as if something
gradually drains the happiness out of the guests who stay
here. Guests have cut their trip short, saying that they
just didn’t feel like vacationing anymore. One woman told me
that she broke down sobbing for no reason. My cleaning lady
says the same thing.”
“So the problems have been witnessed by people other than
just guests?” I asked. It had occurred to me that an
unscrupulous guest might be tempted to concoct a story to
get a discount or a refund.
Rebecca nodded. “Since the problems began, I’ve had to
replace the cleaning position twice. The woman I have now,
Cecilia, wears several charms around her neck, but then
again, she’s Gullah, and says her people have ways of making
peace with the spirits.” She drew a deep breath. “Sometimes
when she’s cleaning, I hear her chanting to herself, but
honestly, I don’t care what she does as long as she doesn’t
quit!”
The Gullah people were descended from runaway or freed
slaves who settled in isolated areas along South Carolina’s
coast, the area most people call the Lowcountry. Gullah
folks are known for their distinctive language, a
combination of African and Caribbean languages borrowed from
the cultures of the original settlers. One of their old
traditions involves ‘root work’, a powerful form of folk
magic and healing. The magic is real, and root workers
deserve the high degree of respect—and awe—they are
accorded. If you’re wise, you take root work very seriously.
I looked around the hallway as Rebecca closed the bedroom
door and followed her back downstairs. The parlor had a
magnificent Victorian single-end sofa, with a curving back
that was higher on one side than the other, and rich red
velvet upholstery edged in dark wood. Fringed lampshades
glowed on the table lamps with their elaborate molded bronze
stands. Rebecca laughed as she showed me how the big armoire
hid a large screen TV and stereo system. A pair of
comfortable chairs sat near the fireplace with an end table
between them, inviting me to curl up and read.
“It’s lovely,” I said sincerely. “Any incidents in here?”
Rebecca grimaced. “Now, we seem to have incidents
everywhere. At first, it was just in the bedrooms. Then,
guests and staffers started experiencing strange things down
here as well. And last week, we had a couple of unusual
things go on in the garden.”
“Like?”She sighed. “There was damage to one of the flower
beds, but everyone denied doing it, and frankly, I can’t
really imagine one of our guests tearing out the geraniums.”
I couldn’t either. “How about your room? Do you have any
antiques I should look at up there?”
Rebecca shook her head. “Everything in my room is modern—I
brought it from my old house and I’ve had it for years. I
put all the good pieces where guests could use and enjoy
them.” She looked sheepish. “As much as I love the antiques,
having only modern furniture in my room is a nice break, and
it helps me feel like I’ve left work, if that makes sense.”
I nodded. “It does. Any disturbances up there?”
Rebecca hesitated, and I figured she was deciding just how
much to trust me. “Not at first,” she said quietly. “But
then ‘he’ started showing up.”
She had gone quiet and pale. “He?” I asked gently.
She nodded, and exhaled in a rush, as if summoning her
courage. “I see a black shadow of a man, but it’s too dark
to be a regular shadow.” Her eyes pleaded with me for
understanding. “Imagine if you cut a silhouette out of black
construction paper. That’s how black it is. No light goes
through it. Sometimes, I see him on the stairs. Sometimes, I
wake up in the middle of the night and see the shadow slide
out the door, like he’s been watching me.”
“Has your shadow man actually tried to harm anyone?” I
asked.
Rebecca sighed. “No, but I’m afraid it’s heading that way. A
few days ago, I fell on the steps. Only I didn’t trip. I
definitely felt someone push me from behind, but there was
no one here. One of my guests took an evening walk in the
garden, and she said a vicious black dog growled at her. It
chased her into the house, but of course, when we went
searching for it, the gates were closed and there was no
dog.”
“Have you had any reports of strangers, loitering near the
place?” I asked.
Rebecca frowned. “The day I fell, I happened to look out the
front window and I saw a man in black clothing with a broad-
brimmed hat near the gate. It stuck in my mind because his
clothing seemed odd for the season. I saw him again, the day
the shadow dog chased my guest.”
She paused. “At first, I thought he might be new in the
neighborhood. But I saw him just a few moments before you
arrived, and I tried to catch up with him, but by the time I
reached the sidewalk, he was gone.”
That definitely did not bode well, I thought. Shadow men,
and now the man with the hat. Not to mention the fact that
the incidents seemed to be getting more dangerous. Someone
was going to get hurt. Maybe that was the point.
I followed Rebecca into the dining room, and gasped.
Dominating the room was a massive mahogany table and an
ornate side board that gave the bedroom sets real
competition when it came to carved ornamentation. The table
easily seated sixteen, and the chairs had leather upholstery
and graceful, curved backs.
A huge, heavy server table sat up against one wall. No doubt
many a Thanksgiving turkey and sides of sweet potatoes and
okra had once waited their turn from that fine piece of
furniture. But it was the equally massive sideboard and
matching china cupboard that were the stars of the room.
The china cupboard stood at least seven feet tall, with a
fan-shaped, intricately carved wooden frill at the top that
probably added another foot or so to the height. The back of
the cabinet was mirrored, with glass shelves to set off
treasured china and decorative objects to their best
advantage. The sideboard was probably four feet long and
over five feet high, with a wide counter for holding tureens
and platters. The tea set from Trifles and Folly sat on the
broad counter, ready for use. The sideboard had a mirrored
back above the counter, with carved wooden pillars at each
end and another delicate but big wooden frill at the top.
Drawers below would have held linens, flatware and other
necessities, making it a very solid piece.
“It’s absolutely magnificent,” I whispered.
Rebecca grinned. “We’ve got some nice furniture in the
house, but this is the showstopper,” she acknowledged. “My
father’s great, great-grandfather was a sea captain, and he
did well for himself. When he brought his bride to their new
home, he wanted to make sure its furnishings made a
statement to the neighbors that Captain Harrison and his
wife were people of quality.”
“I imagine this did the trick,” I said. Part of me longed to
run my fingers over the beautiful carvings, but I held back,
unsure what kind of psychic image I might receive.
Rebecca nodded. “By all accounts, the captain and his wife
were very happy for many years.”
“Until?” Something in her voice told me that the Harrisons’s
happiness did not last forever.
She sighed. “Shipping is a dangerous business, especially
back in that time. When Captain Harrison was in his late
fifties, he decided to retire from the sea and planned to
enjoy his later years with his wife. Unfortunately, his ship
was lost on his final voyage, and he never made it home.”
“That’s awful,” I said.
Rebecca ran a hand lovingly over the table’s beautiful wood.
“Mrs. Harrison lived into her nineties and never remarried.
She was twenty years younger than her husband, so it was a
long widowhood. The story that was passed down through the
family was that she set a place for the Captain every night,
just in case fate brought him home to her.” She looked at me
conspiratorially.
“And according to family legend, it did. But not in the way
she expected.”
“Oh?”
Rebecca gave me an impish grin. “According to family legend,
Mrs. Harrison was walking down by the Battery and spotted
something bobbing in the water next to the sea wall. She had
a servant fish it out.” Flotsam wasn’t unusual down by the
harbor, but most of the time it consisted of obvious trash.
“The item turned out to be an oilskin pouch that had been
sealed with wax. That’s what made it float and kept out the
water. Inside were papers from Captain Harrison himself,
along with a fine silver chain necklace. An unfinished
letter in the pouch in the captain’s handwriting indicated
that the necklace was a gift for her, and that he looked
forward to being home as soon as they completed this last
trip, and that he would bring her a fresh pineapple to
celebrate.”
There was a reason so many houses in the Charleston area
used carvings of pineapples in their decorations. Once upon
a time, the fruit had been quite rare, and many a sea
captain brought them home as highly desirable gifts.
Rebecca shook her head. “Of course, his ship never made it
home, but somehow, the sea brought her his last gift and
letter.”
“What a great story!” I said, although as a historian, I had
my doubts about its authenticity.
“Oh, that’s not the end of it,” Rebecca said. “The story
says that great-great Grandma Harrison put the chain around
her neck and went home with the letter. She was giddy with
excitement, and told the servants that the Captain was
coming home that night.”
“The poor old dear,” I murmured.
“In fact, she told the servants to serve dinner for two, and
then leave her uninterrupted, because she and the Captain
had a lot of catching up to do,” Rebecca said with a gleam
in her eye.
My scalp began to prickle. “What happened?” I asked.
“According to the story, they found her dead at the table
later that evening, slumped in her dining chair. But listen
to this: the servants said that the food had been eaten at
both place settings and that the room smelled of Bay Rum and
pipe smoke, as it did when the Captain was in port.” She met
my gaze. “And there was a fresh pineapple in the middle of
the table.”
I eyed the table once more. With all these stories, I’m more
surprised that the inn wasn’t haunted before this. Both the
house and the furnishings are prime spook material. So the
real question is—why now? What set off the haunting?
“Their second son, Benjamin, also went into the shipping
business with his brother, and was also lost at sea,”
Rebecca added. “Good story, huh?”
“Very good.” I paused. “What about the linens from our
shop?” I asked.
Rebecca crossed the room and opened the door beneath the
huge sideboard. She took out a folded tablecloth and
unfurled it over the dining table.
“I fell in love with this as soon as Debra showed it to me,”
Rebecca said wistfully. “For its age, it’s in excellent
condition, and the embroidery is just beautiful,” she said,
caressing the old stitches between her thumb and finger. The
stitching was as white as the cloth itself, but it formed a
complicated tracery border that was a work of art.
“We only use it for show,” Rebecca said. “I don’t serve
meals on it, because I’m afraid of stains. But I enjoyed
putting it out at other times, until she showed up.”
“She?”
Rebecca sighed. “Actually, people have seen two old women in
this room, but not at the same time. One of them seems angry
about something, and the other one has a darkness about her
that has made people uneasy.”
Grumpy old lady ghosts, I thought. “No idea who they are?” I
asked
“I think one of them might be Mrs. Harrison,” Rebecca said.
“I’ve only glimpsed her once or twice, but the way she had
her hair made me think of an old photograph I saw as a
child.” She looked sheepish. “Of course, there were probably
thousands of women in her day who wore their hair like that.
I could be wrong.”
“But no clue as to why one is angry and the other is out of
sorts?”
Rebecca shrugged, turning her hands palm up as if to say
‘who knows?’ “No idea. But one night, I heard a sound like
china breaking, and when I came downstairs to see if
something had fallen, there was nothing broken, but the
doors to the sideboard were both open, and I’m certain I had
shut them before going to bed.”
I followed her to the very modern kitchen, where she poured
us each a cup of coffee and we settled down at the breakfast
nook.
“You’re sure there weren’t any sightings of ghosts or
strange happenings before you bought the items from Trifles
and Folly?” I asked, sipping and savoring my coffee.
Rebecca shook her head. “After everything I’ve told you,
you’d think we’d have had a spook-a-palooza here, right?”
She made a face. “Truth is, I used to envy the inns that
claimed to be haunted. They always get mentioned more in the
tourist brochures, and between the ghost tours and the
annual Halloween Haunt write-up in the Post and Courier, it
seemed to be good for business.”
“If that’s the case, why change it?” I asked. “You’ve got
some great stories to tell, and Andrews Carriage Rides would
probably be thrilled to have some fresh tales.” Some of our
ghosts are famous enough to be celebrities in their own
right. A new story with evidence to back it up could be
valuable marketing.
Rebecca sipped her coffee, staring into the liquid like she
might see an answer in the swirl of her cream. “I thought so
too, at first…” She shivered.
“Tell me,” I urged, reaching out to touch her arm.
“The ‘sad’ bedroom upstairs certainly isn’t good for
business, or staff turnover,” she said with a grim smile.
“The mirror room is unsettling, and the spirit in that room
has a habit of playing pranks that has gone from funny to
creepy.”
“Oh?”
Her dark hair bobbed as she nodded. “At first, it was just
little things like moving a guest’s glasses or sliding a key
from one side of the dresser to another. Then later, items
went missing, even when no one had been in the room.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t a staff person playing a prank?”
Rebecca shook her head. “It’s usually just me and one
assistant who helps out in busy times, plus a part-time cook
and the cleaning lady. At the times guests reported the
incidents, there was no one here but me.”
“Could the guest have staged it themselves for attention—or
a refund?”
She grimaced. “I don’t think so. The guests didn’t ask for
their money back. Two of the others asked for a change of
room. But they were all really spooked by it. I don’t think
they were acting.”
“What else?”
“The ghosts have gotten more vocal,” she said with a sigh.
“We’ve heard children in the hallway when there weren’t any
kids staying here, and a woman’s voice when the room was
empty.”
“Anything else?”
Rebecca met my gaze. “I’m worried, Cassidy. In the last
week, the activity’s gotten worse. Doors slamming and
locking. Damage to the flower beds outside. That incident on
the stairs. And in the mirror room, I found one of the
feather pillows ripped to shreds.” She shivered. “These
aren’t the fun type of ghosts.”
“Do you think the ghosts are angry about something?”
Slowly, Rebecca nodded. “That’s exactly what I think.” She
paused. “I told you about the shadow man in my room. But
there’s someone else up there as well.”
“Who?”
Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t know her name, but I think
she might have worked in the house a long time ago. Maybe
that was her room. She’s a middle-aged woman with her hair
in a top knot, and she looks like she should have a rolling
pin in her hands, if you know what I mean. I think she shows
up to protect me.”
“How?”
A smile touched her lips. “One night when I saw the shadow
man, I thought he was going to come closer. That was the
first time I saw Greta.”
“Greta?”
Again, the sheepish grin. “That’s my name for her. Greta was
standing between the door and the foot of my bed. I could
almost see through her, but her figure was very clear. She
had her hands on her hips, and she looked like she meant
business. The shadow man disappeared, and didn’t come back
for several nights.”
I leaned forward. “Do you know anything about James Harrison
being involved with smugglers?” I asked. “Have you ever
heard of a man named Jeremiah Abernathy?”
Rebecca frowned, thinking. “Smuggling wouldn’t surprise me.
That was practically the official industry in Charleston for
a long while.” She paused. “I don’t know anything about
Jeremiah Abernathy, but there was some talk about the pirate
loot that James Harrison and his crew brought back on their
last trip.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “Their ship, the Lady Jane, was just coming back
from Barbados. Rumor had it, they had picked up some of the
treasure of a pirate ship that had sunk in a freak storm,
and James brought it back to Charleston. A couple of days
later, they sailed out again never to return.” Rebecca
paused.
“Mrs. Harrison’s diary made it sound like the treasure they
had picked up brought trouble. Some of Captain Harrison’s
sailors thought it was cursed, and wanted to throw it
overboard. They were all relieved to set out again and leave
it behind in Charleston. Maybe they should have left it
floating where they found it,” she said with a sigh.
A chime sounded, and Rebecca looked up suddenly, glancing at
the clock on the wall. It was quarter to eight. “Yikes! I’ve
got to get ready,” she said, draining her coffee cup. “I
offer light hors d’oeuvres and cocktails in the dining room
at 8:30, so I’d better get a move on.”
I finished my coffee and stood. “Can I help?”
Rebecca made a ‘tsk-tsk’ sound. “Thanks, but no. You’re my
guest! Relax a little—I think you’ll enjoy meeting the other
couple.”
With that, I left the coffee cup by the sink and headed up
to my room. My room was just as I left it. So far, so good,
I thought.
I had less than an hour before cocktails, so I unpacked my
overnight case and laid out a fresh blouse. Time to see what
kind of a read I’ll get from these pieces, I thought. I
wanted to be able to sleep tonight, so I was hoping none of
the objects in this room were too highly charged with
supernatural juice.
I picked up the kit we used on investigations and pulled out
a small package of salt, and another bag with some charcoal
pieces in it, good for neutralizing negative energy. I
didn’t want to damage any of Rebecca’s lovely antiques, but
I didn’t want to be damaged by any of them, either.
Gingerly, I touched the footboard of the large brass bed,
and waited for my gift to kick in. The images were faint,
but pleasant. I caught a whiff of lemon verbena, and saw an
image in my mind of a plump older woman her gray hair in a
bun and apron strings tied over a work dress. Running my
hand across the chenille bedspread reinforced the same
mental picture. Rebecca’s grandmother? I wondered. Whoever
she was, the old woman was a comforting presence.
I felt a little more hesitation when I approached the lamp.
I remembered handling it in the shop without any strange
effect. This time, I felt a tingle that had nothing to do
with loose wiring. But like the bed and bedspread, the
feelings and images were safe and comforting. A few notes of
a lullaby sounded in the distance, and murmured good-nights.
I pulled my hand away, and the vision disappeared, but not
the sense of being wrapped in a warm embrace.
None of the pieces in my room needed to be cleansed or
neutralized, so I put my items back in the pack and set it
near the door for later that evening. Relieved, I settled
into the chair with my book for the remaining time, figuring
that I’d prowl the inn this evening after my fellow guests
retired for the night. Before I knew it, the time had come
to spruce up for cocktails.
I brushed my hair, washed my face, and then pulled on my new
blouse and put on some lip gloss. Much better, I thought,
appraising my reflection.
As I went down the stairs, I could hear low voices in the
dining room and Rebecca’s laugh. When I reached the doorway,
I stopped in my tracks, and my mouth may have fallen open in
astonishment.
Teag and his partner Anthony stood leaning against the large
sideboard, each holding a glass of wine, with Teag’s arm
draped across Anthony’s shoulders.
“Hello, Cassidy,” Teag said with a cat-that-ate-the-canary
grin. “Fancy meeting you here. Isn’t this a lovely place to
get away for a couple of days?”