Haunted on the Gulf Coast (Gulf Coast Paranormal Trilogy Book 2)

by M. L. Bullock

  Haunted on the Gulf Coast

  Gulf Coast Paranormal Trilogy volume 2

  By M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2017 Monica L. Bullock

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  The Legend of the Ghost Queen

  A Haunting at Dixie House

  The Ghost Lights of Forrest Field

  The Legend of the Ghost Queen

  Book Four

  Gulf Coast Paranormal Series

  By M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2017 Monica L. Bullock

  All rights reserved

  Dedication

  For Jesse, a Rubik’s Cube whiz and all-around good guy.

  Prologue—Carla Trapper

  Carla giggled in the dark as Chris fumbled with the flashlight. He swore under his breath while he beat the cheap plastic thing into submission. After several whacks with the butt of his palm, the flashlight produced a wimpy beam, and they traveled down the gloomy pathway to catch up with the rest of the tour group. Fog rolled in off the nearby lake, and the effect set a creepier tone than Carla had expected. It might make it difficult to get the photos she hoped to take, but she’d still give it a shot.

  Taking the Eight Mile Cemetery Tour had been all Carla’s idea—it was her fortieth birthday, and her husband asked her what she’d like to do to celebrate the milestone. This cemetery tour had been it. It seemed edgy…or as edgy as a forty-year-old grocery store clerk could expect. The tour had been cheap too, only twenty bucks a piece, much cheaper than a Biloxi casino trip. Since Chris’ cheapness was far greater than his ridiculous fear of cemeteries, her tour idea had been a clear winner.

  Carla hadn’t been impressed with the first stop on this tour. Gethsemane Cemetery didn’t have much to offer in the way of neat statuary or old grave markers, but she kept her disappointment to herself. If Chris knew she wasn’t enjoying the experience, he’d want to head back home, or at least sit in the van until it was time to ride back to their vehicle. Nope, she wasn’t going to give up just yet. Now they were at Valhalla Cemetery, and there was one more stop after this one.

  “Damn! This thing is useless.” Chris slid the flashlight in his jacket pocket, giving up on the temperamental light. “Can you see the others? Why the hell wouldn’t they wait for us?”

  Bob, their tour guide, had given each couple a flashlight but apparently hadn’t bothered to check the batteries in them. Carla quickly tapped the flashlight app on her phone, and it cast a bright white light in front of them. Chris grumbled, “You might have said something. Let’s catch up, or they’ll be back to the van without us. I wouldn’t be surprised if they forgot about us.”

  “No one is going to forget about us, Chris.” She slid her arm through his. Chris was a few inches shorter than she was and at least twenty pounds lighter, but she didn’t care. She never had. She kissed his cheek and snuggled up to him as they walked down the gravel path. “Hey, look at that. That’s beautiful.” She waved her phone toward an old live oak with a weirdly twisted branch formation. The intertwined branches looked like some giant had woven them together centuries ago. “Let’s take a picture. You go stand by it.”

  “A picture of a tree? In this light? I thought you wanted to see old gravestones.” Chris didn’t like being here. He was a superstitious kind of guy and believed visiting graveyards might invite bad luck. His mother, Cat Trapper, had some strange ideas about cemeteries, and she shared them with Carla when she found out about their planned tour.

  “Don’t whistle in any graveyard, and steer clear of anyone who does. You might call up something unholy. And don’t take anything home with you. Ghosts are mighty possessive of their things. Removing even small things, natural things like rocks and leaves, might be offensive to a territorial spirit.”

  “You’re joking, Cat,” Carla had said with a good-natured smile. “Where you and your son get this stuff from, I’ll never know.”

  “From the bayou, of course. I don’t forget what I know, and you’d do well to listen, Carla Trapper.” Cat was usually jovial and kind, but her warning had a menacing tone. “Attitudes like that bring bad luck to your doorstep.” Cat had refused to say any more about it, but Carla was sure Chris had received similar admonishments. Yet here he was, braving the “ghosts” of Valhalla just to please his wife. They’d been married for ten years, and Carla loved him more than ever tonight. It took a real man to face up to his fears—and his Momma—for the woman he loved.

  “Come on, Chris. I want to get a picture.” She tugged at his hand, but he had tensed up and his wiry frame bristled.

  “Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  “I thought I saw someone over there. Peeking out from behind that tree.”

  Carla waved her phone in the direction he pointed but didn’t see a thing. “It was probably an animal, maybe a cat or a squirrel.”

  “It was too big to be a cat or a squirrel; I can promise you that.” Chris always added that when he wanted you to know he was serious about something.

  “Sweetie, we’re in a cemetery. The only things here are dead, except us, and not likely to lurk behind any trees.” But still, Chris wouldn’t waver. He paled as he stared at the live oak. With a sigh, Carla called out, “Is somebody there? Bob?” When no one answered, she whistled, just for fun.

  “Hey! Cut that out, or I’m going back to the van,” Chris growled as he walked a few steps back from the tree.

  Nobody responded to her call or her whistle, but suddenly Carla heard the sound of footsteps retreating from the area where Chris said he had spotted the figure. The fine hairs on her neck crept up as if she were standing in a lightning storm.

  “That didn’t sound like any cat to me, Carla, and don’t tell me you didn’t hear those footsteps. Might have been a cat of the two-legged variety.” The growing haze clouded Chris’ face, and the effect chilled Carla to the bone. She tugged her jacket collar up around her neck and then shone the light one last time toward the tree. Nobody appeared, but she could feel eyes watching her.

  “There’s no telling who’s out here, Chris. Might be other folks on the tour. Let’s get going.” She handed him the phone so he would feel more comfortable about finishing the tour. She hoped that would appease him, but the truth was her confidence was waning too.

  A cheery voice chased off her heebie-jeebies, and Carla was relieved to see Bob’s assistant and daughter, Amy, waving at them a few feet away. “There you are. Dad sent me back to find you guys. We’re about to walk over to the Three Crosses and didn’t want you to miss it. You ready to move on?”

  “Yes. We got a little sidetracked with the flashlight, but we’re ready now. Sorry.”

  “No problem.” Amy smiled, and the three of them headed toward the gathering. “It’s a shame it’s so foggy tonight. Usually, you can see the moon bouncing off the lake, and it makes for an excellent photo op. But then again, I guess a little fog boosts the creepy factor. Most people like that.”

  “Yeah,” Carla replied as she looked over her shoulder. She couldn’t shake the feeling someone was following them. In fact, she thought she heard soft footsteps a few feet behind her.

  “We thought we saw somebody back there, behind that big oak tree, the one with the twisted branches,” Chris added, laughing awkwardly.

  Amy shrugged but didn’t slow her pace. Hearing that people might be lurking in Valhalla apparently didn’t surprise her, and she didn’t seem to hear the footsteps. Chris cast a concerned glance in Carla’s direction. Was he hearing them too?

  “I wouldn’t d
oubt that. This place is pretty popular with high school kids. You know how it is…they think it’s cool to make out in the cemetery.” Amy flashed a grin and shook her head. “What some people won’t do for a few thrills. Present company excluded, of course. You guys don’t look like the thrill-seeking type.”

  Chris answered, “Don’t judge a book by its cover, right?” Was he flirting with her? Carla rolled her eyes in the dark. She was surprised at his playful tone but didn’t take it too personally. It was probably his nerves making him act stupid—or his age. Fifty-year-old men were supposed to have a mid-life crisis or two, weren’t they? If the current examples of his flirting were the best he could muster, they’d be just fine.

  “Hey, you left your flashlight on.” Amy pointed at Chris’ jacket pocket, which illuminated the ground beside him with a warm amber light.

  “How did that happen? I couldn’t get it to work worth a sh… I mean, worth a crap earlier.” He pulled the red flashlight out of his pocket and waved it at his wife. “Can you believe this?” he asked Carla, who truly couldn’t.

  “Probably all this moisture,” Amy said, shoving her hands in her hot pink jacket pockets. “The contact button might be damp, and it’s a cheap flashlight. Leave it to my dad,” she said, smiling at the two of them. Chris turned the flashlight off, opened the bottom and removed the dead batteries, which he put in the pocket of his jeans. He zipped up the empty flashlight inside his jacket this time as if he were daring it to work now.

  “Snug as a bug in a rug.” He patted the faulty flashlight, pretending it didn’t bother him a bit.

  Carla said, “We missed some of the details about the cemetery. Can you tell me when it was established?”

  Amy answered, “In 1835, or at least that’s the oldest grave we’ve found. Many of the records for this place burned in the fire of 1888, but the first bodies must have been laid here not long after the establishment of Eight Mile. I guess you guys know why some people left Mobile and came here? Y’all know how it got the name?”

  They began to walk again, and Chris said, “Uh…something about the Catholics, right? There was a religious crackdown, and anyone not subscribing to that particular faith was asked to move out of the city. Or told to move, depending on who you ask. Protestants couldn’t live inside the city limits; they had to live eight miles outside the city proper.” Chris smiled proudly, as if he’d won a round on Jeopardy. Carla rolled her eyes again. At least the footsteps had ceased during their conversation, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the other eight tourists and Bob waiting impatiently for them.

  “Hey guys,” Bob greeted them. “I know you two brave explorers like to wander off the beaten path, but for the rest of the tour you’ll have to stay with the group,” the lanky tour guide with the Abraham Lincoln hat warned them as if they were schoolchildren. “There are a few tripping hazards that I need to point out to you; I wouldn’t want you guys to get hurt out here. We don’t need to dig any new graves tonight.” Carla didn’t take offense at Bob’s public scolding, but she felt like his joke about graves had crossed some line with her husband. She could sense Chris bristling again. Bob didn’t appear to care or notice. “As you can see, this is the Three Crosses monument. Lots of cemeteries have displays like this, and to the casual observer this memorial represents Christ and the two thieves—but there is a secret here.” Bob waved his flashlight at the three white wooden markers and then shone it on his grinning face. Even though it was a gimmicky move, it gave the older man an eerie appearance. Carla heard Amy chuckle beside her. She’d seen this before—probably at least a hundred times. Imagine having “Top Hat” Bob as a father.

  Halloween must be a real riot at their house.

  “These crosses were placed here for a particular reason—to keep the spirit of Mobile’s most notorious voodoo queen, Ettawa Maybee, out of Valhalla.”

  “Did she like to steal skulls? I’ve seen that on a television show, the one with the detectives who solve the creepy crimes down in Louisiana. People pay top dollar for skulls and such.” That was Perry, the friendliest guy in the van. Carla had never seen him before, but he was the kind of guy who never met a stranger. He’d introduced himself and shaken hands with everyone as they boarded. Perry had taken this tour before but liked to come back from time to time. According to him, this cemetery had more ghost stories surrounding it than the Magnolia Cemetery in downtown Mobile.

  “Before the tragedy, yes, she had been accused of grave-robbing and plundering corpses for their jewelry and bones, but that was never proven. And there was another reason why they hated her. She dared to be independent; she was kind of ahead of her time,” Amy answered with a tinge of admiration in her voice. “You see, Ettawa was a member of a small yet powerful section of society here in lower Alabama. She was free, she had capital and she had brains. An attractive combination, at least for a while.”

  Bob coughed and said, “Ettawa’s son is buried somewhere in this cemetery. The boy was only eight, and he died under questionable circumstances. He was never given a proper gravestone. They say Ettawa comes searching for him every night.” He smiled and added, “At least on foggy nights like this.”

  “Why would these crosses keep her out?” This question came from the youngest tourist in the group. She couldn’t be much out of high school, and she had her camera phone going constantly. Pam was her name, or was it Tammy?

  “That’s a great question,” Bob replied, smiling for the camera as he tipped his shiny hat. “Hidden inside the crosses are specially sanctified nails—they were anointed with olive oil and blessed by Reverend Gosling, an influential and powerful minister of the time. According to the lore, Ettawa couldn’t even take a step on the property. If she did, her soul would be nailed to these crosses forever.”

  “Sounds like the reverend was practicing a little magic of his own. How can people believe stuff like that?” The girl crinkled her nose as she tapped on her cell phone. A text had apparently interrupted her video session.

  Bob excitedly continued his recitation. “Ettawa’s power would no longer be allowed to wreak havoc here, but she must have sensed the danger because as far as anyone knows, she never found her son’s grave and never came close to these crosses.”

  Carla swallowed the lump in her throat. This monologue had to be a bunch of malarkey.

  “Keep in mind that what you currently see, or would see if there wasn’t so much fog, is a much larger property than the original cemetery. The various owners over the years have purchased the surrounding grounds, so it’s much broader now. Ettawa’s son must rest back here somewhere.” Bob waved his hand to the back of the crosses. “At least that’s my guess. No one knows for sure.”

  “Geesh. That’s horrible. Who’d Ettawa tick off?” The young woman went back to filming and cracked her gum as she turned the camera phone from Bob to all of us.

  “Quincy Justice, to be specific, although I think it’s fair to say nobody much cared for Ettawa, except those who snuck down to the other side of the lake to ask for her help. At one time, she and Quincy were lovers, and there were rumors that he was the father of her child, Leo.”

  “So, it’s a case of love gone wrong?” Carla licked her lips. She needed a drink, a stiff one, and the cold kept increasing. It must have been rising off the lake. Or somewhere.

  Amy answered this time. “Ettawa and Quincy ran a very profitable whiskey business, but when they fell out, Quincy wanted her gone. Given the times, when it was frowned upon for women to run businesses, she didn’t have any recourse, but Ettawa wouldn’t be driven out at all. They say she made the finest whiskey you’d ever want to drink because she cast a spell on every barrel. I doubt that’s true, but you know how superstitious folks can be.”

  Carla felt tempted to nudge Chris, but she decided to let this one go.

  Bob continued, “Frustrated at Ettawa’s refusal to slink away into the night, Quincy began his own solo business. But it didn’t hold a candle to Ettawa’s booze, and sh
e had faithful and fearful customers. When Quincy realized he couldn’t compete with her and couldn’t force her to leave the county, he decided to use the only leverage he had—her son. Their son! When the boy went missing, Ettawa took her vengeance on her ex-lover and Reverend Gosling, her mortal enemy. One interesting thing before we move on…they say Ettawa always left a calling card when she exacted her revenge.”

  “What was that?” Carla asked apprehensively. Did she want to know? Why would she ask that?

  He gave her a creepy smile. “A handprint. By all accounts, a small handprint. Ettawa was a petite woman, but she had a fierce, unique look. She liked to wear her hair in wild styles and often went about with a painted face when she was working her mojo, or whatever you want to call it. They used to find her victims with her handprint on the side of their face.”

  That seemed a bit far-fetched. Carla began to doubt the historical accuracy of Bob’s spiel. She moved to elbow Chris playfully, but he wasn’t there. “Chris?” She spun around to see where he’d gone. Nobody else seemed to notice his absence, and the tour had moved on to another cross, a neon blue one closer to the lake. The strange landmark shone like a holy police light through the fog.

  “Chris?” What the heck? He’d better not be peeing in the cemetery; that would just be rude. But he wouldn’t do that, would he? No way. Chris wouldn’t even whistle in a graveyard, much less relieve himself on a dead man’s grave. He had to be close by. Carla decided to whistle for him. If he could hear her, that would bring him running—to shut her up, if nothing else. She let out a long whistle this time, like the kind she used to call her childhood dog, Bowie.

  Immediately she heard a raspy voice whispering in her direction. She froze and tried to make out the words but wasn’t successful. Not at first. Another lightning storm moment hit her, only this time it was the hair on her arms that stood up—and she was wearing a jacket! Another whisper filled her ears. She heard the words clearly now but didn’t understand them at all.