Red house, p.5
Red House, page 5
I had to get this under control before we really did wind up half naked and sweating in the back seat of his car. Grabbing the tickets, I looked them over. “Hey, it’s fireworks night.”
“It’s always fireworks night with us.” He grasped my arm to lead me down the steps. I managed not to gasp, but he could tell he’d hurt me and that there was a bandage on my arm. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“It’s nothing. Just a little accident.”
He stared at me. “You sure?”
Did I want to talk to him about my explosive experiment? Of course, but at that moment I found myself more curious about the Blake who would take a girl to a baseball game than the Blake who practiced dark magic. A conversation about magic might be a little too welcome, a little too seductive, and I really wanted to keep my head for as long as I could. “I’m fine.” I went down the steps, hoping he would follow and take the cue to not worry about my arm. He did follow me down the steps at least. “So you really like baseball?”
“Hey, I can’t be Master of Darkness all the time.” He opened the passenger door of his car but stopped me before I climbed in. Tilting my chin up, he kissed me slowly, his tongue teasing just past my lips. “I just want to take you out, that’s all.”
“Let’s go, then.”
We had our normal night out, which had a gentle magic of its own. He even bought me a teddy bear in the team gift shop. By the time I fell into bed, alone and exhausted, I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that Blake acted like a perfect gentleman all evening. The content of my dreams suggested parts of me were very disappointed. I didn’t know what to make of this strange new creature, Blake the Sweet Sorcerer. It was interesting to see this side of him but I couldn’t help but wonder, who was he trying to convince that he could be this nice normal guy–me, or himself?
Chapter 5
Maple Hill Bed and Breakfast was twenty minutes southeast of the city. Turning off the highway onto the long driveway felt like slamming into a brick wall, metaphysically speaking. I hit the brakes, glad Mrs. Epps's sedan was in front.
A thick oppressive blanket of dark energy enveloped the property. I followed Mrs. Epps up the drive to the house. The grounds were dotted with tall sugar maples and mimosas and there were two colorful flower beds on either side of the front entrance. We parked at the side of the house and walked to the door. I detoured out into the yard, wanting to take a look at the energy signature of the house. I stowed my glasses in their case and dropped it in my backpack, then took my first good look at Maple Hill.
“Oh…damn.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Epps approached, twisting her keys nervously in her hands. “Are you seeing something?”
“The house, it’s–” I stopped, struggling to both find the words and the calm that had been severely damaged by what I was seeing. “It’s like it’s wrapped in this angry, powerful energy. It’s red. The house is red, Mrs. Epps.”
In my experience it was completely normal for buildings, both public places and private homes, to keep traces of leftover energy from the people and spirits who inhabited them. It could tell someone like me with any kind of psychic sensitivity a lot about the history of the building and the people associated with it. This cloak of shimmering red was telling me whatever spirit had taken up residence in this house was made of hate and would not go quietly.
“What does that mean?”
I didn’t want to tell her. She could read the answer on my face, though. “Well, then.” Her mouth settled into a grim tight line. “Are you ready to go on inside?”
I couldn't very well tell a client I felt the need for a magical bazooka so I lied. “Yes, let’s go in. It’s hot out here.” I wanted to at least walk through the house before I started sharing impressions with her.
As she unlocked the door she said, “Why don’t you call me Julia.” With a wry smile she added, “This just doesn’t seem like an occasion for formalities.”
Crossing the threshold quashed the laughter on my lips. A thin sheen of oily black ectoplasm shone on the walls of the foyer. The floor was littered with broken pieces of antiques and various items, also soiled with ectoplasm.
“What.” Julia paused to take a breath. “What is that?”
I took her arm and guided her to face me, making eye contact. “It’s called ectoplasm. It’s a substance that’s created by high levels of ghost and spirit energy. It’ll have to be cleaned, but it won’t hurt anything.”
She stepped away, staying in the foyer but peering into the connected rooms. “It’s everywhere.” The last of her composure melted. She spread one hand across the top of her blouse, pulling absently at the collar, while the other clutched her keys so tightly I was worried she might hurt herself. “Do you suppose the whole house is this bad?”
Licking my lips, I considered changing my working hours to night only. It sure would be nice to have some vampire backup right now. “Do you mind if I go through the house by myself? You could go wait in your car and when I’m done I’ll let you know what I find.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right in here by yourself?”
I nodded, hoping I looked reassuring. “Yes ma’am. This is what I do.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Looking around one more time, Julia shook her head and strode to the door. “I’ve got my cell if you need me.”
The moment she closed the door, leaving me alone in the house, something very much like a chuckle rippled through the air. I swallowed my nerves, squared my shoulders and went to work.
The place was even bigger than Daniel’s antebellum house, full of antiques and numerous guest rooms. A faint tang of dried blood added another layer of unpleasantness to the heavy air. There was plenty of evidence of ghost activity but nothing seemed to be active at the moment. The level of angry destruction inside the house matched the bands of red circling it.
I found the room where the kitten had been killed. Elegant yet comfortable furniture filled the room and bookshelves lined three walls. The fourth wall held framed photographs, both black and white and sepia-toned. “Get out” was scrawled in blood across the wallpaper and some of the photos in large, erratic letters, just as Julia described. Touching nothing, I walked around the room to survey whatever energy signatures I could make out under the sheen of ectoplasm covering everything. Other than a splash of empty black around the spot where the kitten was killed, there was nothing discernible.
I didn’t stay long as there were plenty of other rooms in the big house to examine. Everywhere I went was the same–red energy, splashes of ectoplasm, cold heavy air and a strong sensation of being watched.
The upstairs guest rooms were dark and cool. Peach fuzz hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood at attention and my breath fogged in the air. A closed door at the end of the hallway pulsed with swaths of red.
That door had a bull’s-eye on it, metaphysically speaking. Whatever was behind it would not be waiting to offer me tea.
The door flew open, releasing a tidal wave of frenzied energy. At least two separate ghosts rushed past and through me, pouring ice in my veins and knocking me to the floor. Struggling to my feet, grabbing at the chair rail on the wall for support, I tried to shake off the cold invasive feeling of ghost. As I took a step toward the stairs, a disembodied force yanked me backward, flinging me into a small room. The door slammed shut as I slumped into a corner wedged between two storage racks. The room looked to be a supply closet.
I had what I needed in the pockets of my cargo pants but I’d neglected to bring any kind of container. I needed something fireproof, and I needed it fast.
Rummaging through the stuff, I discarded towels and sheets, cleaning supplies, toilet paper. I hit paydirt by climbing to check out the top of one of the storage racks. It held a box full of small wicker baskets full of little custom toiletries with the Maple Hill logo. Not fireproof but hopefully I could make it long enough to get out of the house. I grabbed a basket and dumped the contents, reaching into my pockets for supplies.
Crouching on the floor, I laid out the basket and snack baggies. I used a hand towel as a base in the basket, then started spreading the baggie contents. Salt as a general protective element, along with angelica root and a couple of other herbs to give it added power.
The door clattered open and my breath fogged, announcing the arrival of one of the unwanted guests. A force grabbed my ponytail and dragged me away from the basket, throwing me against the storage racks so hard one of them tipped over and crashed into the opposite wall. A cascade of towels and mini toiletries fell on me. Pain bloomed across the back of my head, down my neck and shoulders. I would have bruises later, probably a wicked headache.
I tried to stand and was immediately knocked flat on the floor, agony radiating through my back. A cold weight pressed against me. Kicking and squirming, I struggled to fight it off and get out from under it, using the leg of the fallen storage rack to pull myself a few inches across the floor. Red filled my vision, swirls and streaks of it all over the tiny room and a large mass of it less than a foot above me. I reached through the mess of fallen supplies for the basket, hoping the herbs hadn’t been knocked out.
Pressure on my windpipe cut off my breath. I kicked uselessly, fingers grasping the edge of the basket. I got it close enough to see it out of the corner of my eye. My lungs were beginning to burn from lack of air. I focused my will on the basket, visualizing flame erupting from the herbs until the fire popped to life.
The weight on my throat eased. I let the fire burn long enough to build up a decent amount of smoke to cover my retreat, then quashed the flames with a push of magic. Careening through the house and out the door at a dead run, I nearly collided with Julia as she paced in the yard.
“Are you all right?” The front door slammed of its own accord, making her jump.
Rubbing my throat, I said, “Don’t you worry, I’ve got this under control.”
She gave me a blistering look. Sheepish and coughing, I shrugged. “I will get this under control. It’s just gonna be a little harder than I thought.”
Julia stared at the door balefully. “Let’s go to my daughter’s house.” She gestured at the cars. “You can follow me back and I’ll make us a bite to eat.” I nodded. “Then we can start drinking. Does that sound amenable to you?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.”
As we left I decided I didn’t want Julia going inside her house until this job was done. How I would get this job done, I didn’t yet know.
* * * *
We sat in a bright, airy kitchen that was such a relief after the oppressive darkness of Maple Hill. Julia’s hands shook as she added generous shots of whiskey to our coffee. We’d already had sandwiches, or tried to as neither of us had much appetite.
“You sure you’re all right, dear? I know a doctor or two that might be persuaded to make a house call.” Her smile was genuine but didn’t quite make it to her eyes.
“I’m fine, thanks.” My right elbow rested on an icepack while I awkwardly held another to my left shoulder. I was fine, all right, if battered and bruised and aching all over counted as fine. I took a drink of my coffee, appreciating the warm bite of the whiskey.
“I need to know about the house. It’s history, any stories of strange occurrences in the past. Usually there’s some sort of trigger for this kind of thing. If I can figure out what the trigger was, that might help me figure out how to get rid of the ghosts.”
She took a seat and a sip of coffee, adding more whiskey. “Maple Hill has been in my family since they built it in the eighteen fifties. I guess the most enduring stories about it are about the original family, especially the mistress of the house.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Well, her name was Susan McCrickard. She was born Susan Danvers in South Carolina, I think in the late eighteen twenties, early thirties. I’d have to get out the genealogy files to check for certain. She married John McCrickard and he brought her to Tennessee. He farmed and raised horses. They built the house and raised a family in it.”
“Was he gone during the war?”
“Yes. Most all the men were. She kept the household running and the children cared for with three servants. Well, they were slaves, of course.”
Julia paused for more coffee. The icepacks were simultaneously too cold and too soggy so I took them to the sink.
“The story everyone talked about was a skirmish that took place mostly in the woods behind the house. The woods that used to be behind the house. You have to go back quite a ways these days to get to woodlands. It was November of 1864, around the time of the Battle of Franklin. Susan, the children, the house slaves–they spent the whole night hunkered down in one room while the fighting took place. They could hear the gunfire and the screams. Smell the heavy gun smoke, even. It took weeks to get the smell out of the house.”
“Did she write about it?”
Julia nodded. “She wrote letters to her husband. At first she tried to send them to him but when he was able to come home on leave once, she found out he rarely got them. She kept on writing the letters but saved them instead. He read every one of them when the war ended and he came home for good.”
“Do you still have them? If you could look them over with me, we might find some clues to help us.”
“They’re all in Knoxville. Mother donated them to the University of Tennessee years ago. We had a bad kitchen fire one year and for a while Mother was deathly afraid that things like those letters and old family pictures and bibles might be lost.” She laughed gently. “You wouldn’t believe how many safety deposit boxes that woman had. Of course this was years before you could archive things digitally, in your own home, even. Mother would have loved that.”
I went back to her original story. “Is there anything about the skirmish that might have to do with what’s happening now?”
“That’s what I was beginning to wonder, especially once you asked me about the history of the house. Nothing like what’s happening now has ever happened at any other time I’ve lived there, and there are no stories about anything this bad. But there have always been stories that Susan’s ghost or spirit or whatever word you want to use, still protects the property. And I can tell you exactly where the stories come from.”
I nodded encouragement.
“The skirmish was very bloody. Men from both sides were killed or wounded. By dawn it was over and there were bodies all over the grounds. Susan and the slaves worked with a surgeon to help as many as they could. They basically used the house as a hospital. The children were kept upstairs, the oldest little girl in charge of them. They were terrified. They could hear the men screaming. There were amputations going on in the parlor, where those children played and practiced their piano lessons. I’m sure the screaming and the smells must have been horrifying. In fact, if you lift up the area rug in that room you can still see the bloodstains in the hardwood floor. Can you imagine what it must have been like for those little children?”
I weighed adding another shot of whiskey to my coffee against my ability to drive home and decided against it. “I know it’s got me disturbed.”
“Be thankful it’s me telling this and not my grandfather. Now he could tell a tale. He’d get in trouble for it, too. I’ll never forget the time he told all us grandchildren and some of our friends the story and later got an earful from all our mothers. He claimed he was improving our vocabularies by teaching us words like viscera and gangrene.”
I had to laugh at that.
Julia continued her story. “Anyway, they helped as many as they could. The ones they couldn’t save, the ones that were already dead, were buried in a clearing in the woods. Grandpa told us they buried the amputated limbs there too.”
I grimaced.
“It didn’t take long for everyone to clear out, until there were just a few soldiers left. All except for one were too injured to be any trouble. That one made up for the rest.”
“We’re about to get to it, aren’t we?”
Julia nodded. “Yes. Apparently this one particular soldier was not as injured as he led everyone to believe. The exact details are not known. Susan didn’t go into much detail when she wrote about it in her letters to John. The story that was passed down in the family is that this soldier killed the others and then he went after one of the female slaves. Her name was Ester and she was more or less Susan’s right hand in running the house. I was an adult before I was told that he tried to rape Ester. Susan stopped the attack, with a gun. She killed him, supposedly shot him in the head. They buried him with the rest in the clearing.”
She leaned across the table. “Here’s where it gets into the kind of thing you’re probably looking for. There were stories that his ghost haunted the house, tormenting any woman in the house. There were also stories that Susan and Ester took care of the matter.” She gave me a significant look.
“Are you telling me they used some form of witchcraft to bring the ghost under control?”
“I don’t know what you’d call what they did, and I certainly don’t have any more detail than that. But there was always talk that Ester knew a lot of folk medicine.”
“If she knew folk medicine there’s a good chance she knew some folk magic too.”
“I suppose she may have shared that knowledge with Susan. What I don’t understand is, why now? After all this time, why would this soldier’s ghost suddenly begin to act out?”
“That is a good question,” I agreed. “Has anything happened in the house or on the property that was out of the ordinary? Any deaths, even if they were natural causes?”
