“What happened last night, Jimmy?”
“I’m not sure I should even tell you,” he quickly answered, just as I would have done. “You’ll think I’m nuts.” After a short pause he added, “Now that I’ve had time to think about it, maybe I am nuts.” He hung his head and stared at his feet.
“Come on, buddy,” I implored. “We have known each other for a long time. You can tell me anything.” Knowing I would tell him about Billy even if his story was not related, which was unlikely, I added brightly, “I’ll bet you a case of your Blue Ribbon that no matter how crazy your story sounds, I can top it with what happened to me this week!”
Jimmy looked up at me, questioning, at my bold statement and, after a protracted silence, said, “I saw a ghost.” Before going any further he stared at me through narrowed eyes to gauge my reaction.
I tried to sound excited and just a little unbelieving as I exclaimed, “Really?”
He narrowed his eyes even more and peered at me through the slits, accusing me, “You don’t believe me, do you?”
I shrugged and tried to sound supportive as I answered, “This is Savannah, Jimmy. There are many ghost stories. Who’s to say some of them are not true? Don’t forget, you are related to my wife, and she doesn’t have a whimsical bone in her body. You come from the same gene pool, my friend. I can tell just talking about seeing a ghost is embarrassing for you, so why would you make up a story that you knew would only bring you grief? Tell me your story, Jimmy, and then we’ll see if I can top it.”
My apparent belief seemed to relax him so he began the story, slowly at first, but gaining speed as he became excited with the telling. His story of the event was very similar to Billy’s, simply from another perspective. He had been close by, at the Chatham County Courthouse on Montgomery Street, so was in a position to respond quickly when the call came in. The officer stated simply that he was in pursuit of a suspect acting suspiciously and erratically. In this day and age of violent drug crimes, suspicious and erratic were terms that made police protective of each other, and a lone patrolman reporting such action was certain to draw quick support from other cops. Jimmy found the patrol car speeding east on Oglethorpe and followed as he turned left onto MLK, racing past the courthouse he had just left. Other cars joined the pursuit along MLK, then east on Bay Street before making a quick left onto one of the rough ballast stone alleys that led down to River Street. Before stopping in front of the shops on River Street, Jimmy only knew he was following in support of a fellow officer. It was only after the group of patrolmen converged on foot at the entrance to the antique shop that the breathless young policeman who had requested assistance told them he was chasing what he believed to be a ghost. They all laughed, of course, and after several snide remarks were aimed at the youngster, were about to depart for more important duties when Billy appeared on the balcony. All of the officers backed up to stare at the apparition, not fully believing what they were seeing, looking up and down the street and the river bank to make certain they were not the brunt of a joke perpetrated by talented students from the SCAD video department.
Billy had failed to tell me that he had, at one point, leaped from the balcony to the street and jumped through a police car’s windshield, settling into the driver’s seat as if he was about to steal the car from under the group’s collective noses. Just as the young officer had done at the visitor’s center, all of the policemen had drawn their weapons and threatened the ghost with injury if he did not exit the car. He complied with their demands by vanishing in a puff of smoke. Seconds later he slowly emerged from a sewer grate and proceeded to run in and out, among and through, the uniformed assemblage. Jimmy described their ineffectual grabbing, punching, and kicking at the vapor as if it were a Keystone Cops comedy of errors. At the height of the mayhem, a large container ship slowly passed by on its way to the port. Billy flew through the air as the group watched in disbelief and disappeared through the wall of one of the containers on deck. According to Jimmy, the senior officer in the group went to his car and grabbed his radio to call the Port Authority to report…what? He held the radio in his hand while moving his mouth but making no sound. Finally he replaced the microphone in its cradle. Looking at the group with imploring eyes he said, “Look, guys, I’m eligible for promotion in a few months. The last thing I need on my record is a psych review because I reported seeing a ghost! I can’t order you, but I highly recommend we think of our careers and our families, and report that we chased a shady suspect to this point on the river, but lost him when he ducked into an alley. That may make us sound incompetent, but at least we won’t be labeled as crazy.” The group talked among themselves for several minutes, finally arriving at a reasonable story of an escaped suspect each of them could include in his report of the event.
Jimmy finished his story by emphasizing, “I’m still shaking! It really was a ghost! I can’t believe I’m even saying it, but it really was a ghost!” He looked at me expectantly. “And you think you have a story to top that?”
I certainly had a story…but how to present it? I arrived at a plan. “Jimmy, how about getting me that cold beer now?” I suggested. He glared at me momentarily, as if to say, “I’m not your servant! Get it yourself!” But after only a few seconds, he stood without speaking and plodded away to the kitchen. I had no interest whatsoever in a drink, but wanted to get him out of the room so Billy could disentangle his spirit from me without an audience. This story would be tough enough on Jimmy without watching a ghost leap from my chest like an alien in a bad movie.
When he returned I took the beer and placed it unopened on the end table next to the can Jimmy had brought in earlier. He remained standing as he demanded, “Come on, bro,’ let’s hear your story.”
“I saw a ghost, too,” I opened.
“Yeah, you’re just sayin’ that,” Jimmy snapped, but as he watched my face and saw sincerity, his disbelief diminished. “Last night?” he asked. “Do you think it was the same one?”
“I’m sure it was the same one,” I answered. “And yes, I saw it last night, but had seen it several times before. The ghost’s name is Billy…Billy Buckland…and as strange as this may sound, he and I have become good friends.”
“Did you start drinking early this morning?” Jimmy sneered. “That’s crazy, bro’. I hope you know that.”
“Maybe you should sit down, Jimmy,” I suggested. “This story is about to get really crazy.” He watched me suspiciously for a few seconds, but returned to his seat on the sofa.
“Now, get a grip,” I warned. “No matter what you see or hear in the next few minutes, remember everything will be okay.” My brother-in-law gaped at me as if he was certain I was in the throes of dementia. For no good reason I looked at the ceiling as I invited, “Billy, you can come out now.” Jimmy’s eyes widened as he looked up as well, but he quickly lowered his head to rivet his stare onto me with such singular intent that he never saw the ghost materialize in the chair directly across from the sofa.
I probably had a smirk on my lips in anticipation of his reaction as I gestured toward the chair to my right. Jimmy shifted his gaze, his eyes widening to an extent I would not have believed possible. He jerked his head back to stare at me, then back to the ghost, then back to me once more. He started to stand, but thought better of it and fell back into his seat. It may have been a simple friendly gesture, but as Billy raised a hand to wave hello at this new acquaintance, Jimmy screamed, “Ghost!” and lurched from the sofa while grabbing for his sidearm, which he was not wearing. He stood paralyzed in a statuesque rendition of a western marshal in a gunfight at high noon until he heard me shouting his name over and over.
“Jimmy! Jimmy!” Finally he looked at me. “Sit down!” I demanded, still shouting. His eyes were filled with questions and fear and much else, but he slowly sat on the sofa, continuing to shift his gaze from me to Billy and back. Billy sat perfectly still, allowing me to take the lead in this encounter.
His eyes finally settling
on the apparition sitting in his living room, Jimmy whispered very slowly, “You win. Your story is better. Now make the ghost go away.”
“Jimmy, I would like for you to meet my friend, Billy,” I said matter-of-factly. “You are right, Billy is a spirit, the same ghost, in fact, that you and your fellow officers saw last night.” Billy started to rise, but Jimmy immediately tensed, causing the spirit to settle back onto the chair. He sat still, but faded in and out of focus for several seconds before completely disappearing, and then reappearing, as he often did when considering a problem. I assumed the spiritual gyrations in this case were more to prove his ghostly nature to Jimmy, and based on my ‘bro’s’ eyes the gyrations were effective.
I spent the next hour telling Jimmy about everything I had experienced with Billy. He became noticeably calmer as the story progressed, and even asked a few questions about the battle and its locations around modern-day Savannah. He laughed to the point of tears when I told him of Billy’s encounter with the young policeman at the visitor’s center, saying of the young man, “I can believe that! I would have reacted the same way!”
When I finished, a visibly relaxed Jimmy glanced at Billy, who had remained very still throughout the story, and asked, “Does your friend speak?”
Billy answered, “Yes, I do,” in the manner to which I had become accustomed, during which the sound does not come through the ears, but emanates from within the brain as if it were a thought or a dream. Jimmy jerked and closed his eyes for a moment, but finally asked the spirit, “And you actually fought in this battle? In 1779?”
Billy answered again, “Fought only briefly…then died on the battlefield, along with many friends and countrymen.”
Jimmy turned back to me, looking pale but with eyes full of interest. “I’ve gotta tell you, brother, when you come up with a story, you really go over the top!” He thought for a moment before adding, “You obviously didn’t know I was involved in chasing your friend,” he pointed at Billy with his thumb, “until you got here this morning. Topping my ghost story was not the purpose of your visit. So what brought you here in the first place? Did you need something?”
Billy answered before I speak, causing Jimmy to flinch once more at the unexpected method of communication, “Yes, we need your professional help. I need your help, and will be grateful for anything you can do.”
Jimmy looked back at me and I quickly added, “Billy is not familiar with police authority in this day and age, so it is probably best if I explain what we need and let you decide if it is something you can do for us.
“I explained to you how my friend was killed on the battlefield, how his body was literally torn apart by shot from the British cannons. What I didn’t tell you was that, while most of his body was properly buried after the battle, a large part of his skull was lost, probably covered up by dirt and debris from the constant cannon fire at the site. Without getting into details about which we have only speculated, the skull remained buried until recently, when it was discovered, probably by one of the art students at SCAD. As weird as it may sound, it was painted, decorated, and turned into a rather gaudy pirate-themed lamp.”
“And this skull or pirate lamp or whatever is important because…?” Jimmy asked, open ended.
“Ah, yes,” I answered. “That is an important element of the story that I forgot to mention. I also failed to mention that we saw a replica of the skull in one of the antique shops down on River Street.”
“The same shop I entered when you were chasing me by the river,” Billy interrupted, causing Jimmy to jerk and cover his ears with his palms. The ghost continued, “The skull is important because it is a part of my earthly body. It has been disinterred and, worse, desecrated. I cannot rest peacefully in death until it is recovered and reburied.”
“Wow!” he said while shaking his head. “That is so weird. Sound comes from my ears inward when one of you speaks, then explodes outward when the other speaks.” Looking into my eyes he asked, still shaking his head, “Do you get used to it? Talking to a ghost, I mean?”
Billy didn’t react, but I smiled sympathetically, understanding exactly what he was experiencing. “You do get used to it,” I answered, “but it takes a while. You may find this hard to believe, but Billy and I have become rather close friends in the short time we have known each other. I have difficulty thinking of him as a spirit, except, of course,” I added while broadening my smile, “when he is fading in and out of vision or walking through walls.”
Jimmy nodded slowly, still uncertain of the odd situation in which he found himself. Finally he said, “You were telling me a story about a pirate skull. Keep going,” he encouraged.
I thought for a moment to determine a starting place. “As I said, the skull currently in the shop is a replica. The shop owner told us, told me, actually,” I corrected for the sake of simplicity, “that she had sold the original.” Naturally we asked for the name of the customer, but the shopkeeper told a tale of being paid ‘under the table’ and not reporting the sale as part of the shop income. She was cheating on her taxes, in other words.”
Jimmy didn’t look impressed. County police had little interaction with federal law enforcement, and no concern at all about the IRS.
“Here is my suggestion,” I said emphatically. “I don’t want to get the lady in trouble for shaving a few bucks off of her tax bill, but I would like to shake her up enough with the threat of an investigation into tax evasion that she would give up the name of the customer who bought the original skull.”
Jimmy was silent for several minutes, peering back and forth between Billy and me as if he was evaluating whatever it is that policemen assess when interrogating a suspect. He surprised me by asking, “You said the shopkeeper told us, then you changed it to told you. Which was it? Could she see the ghost? Was he even with you during the conversation?”
Billy smiled impishly as he glanced at me as if to ask, “What are you going to tell him now?”
It took a moment to decide whether or not to inform him of Billy’s unique abilities, but finally I decided. “Both,” I answered. Jimmy raised his eyebrows in question, prompting me to continue, “Perhaps Billy should explain this part to you.”
Shifting his gaze to look at Billy, he said, “Wait.” Closing his eyes, he said, “Give me a minute to clear my head…to prepare myself for this, this telepathic speech you use.” After a few seconds he opened his eyes and said, “Okay, I think I’m ready. Let it rip.”
Billy looked questioningly at me, I supposed due to Jimmy’s figure of speech implying he should ‘rip’ something. I nodded my head and said, “Go on, tell him.”
The spirit explained to an obviously skeptical Jimmy how he could inhabit a human body and experience most of what the human being did without being seen by others. It was in that way that we had heard the shopkeeper’s story. It was obvious during parts of the explanation that Jimmy was unconvinced of the veracity of the story, but the very fact that he was listening to a ghost doubtless made the entire experience surreal. All things considered, I thought my brother-in-law tolerated the morning’s strange events very well.
After Billy finished, he said, “My first impulse is to ask for proof that you two can do what you say, but on second thought, I’m not sure I could stand watching such a thing. Let’s say I believe you. Let’s say the two of you did hear the shop lady admit to cheating on her taxes. What do you expect me to do about it? I’m just a county cop.”
Billy and I both smiled broadly, causing Jimmy to smile as well, but he did not know the reason. I answered, “We have discussed what you might be able to do.” I started. “As I said, I really don’t want to get the lady in real trouble. We wondered if you would consider going to the shop with us and explaining to the shopkeeper that you were investigating a wrongful death, that being Billy, and that the skull would be evidence in the case. None of that would really be untrue. Billy was killed at fourteen years of age. That is wrongful by any estimation, even if it was in battle
. The skull is his, and will help us solve the riddle…the case, from your standpoint… of why he has materialized as a ghost in this century. You might be, ah, stretching the truth just a little telling the in lady this, but not really lying about anything.”
“What does this have to do with taxes?” Jimmy asked.
“Nothing so far,” I quickly answered. “If the shopkeeper decides to cooperate and give us the name of her customer, then taxes will never be mentioned. On the other hand, if she still balks at giving up the name, you could mention that I told you of her story about the ‘under the table’ deal for the skull. While you, as a county deputy, have no jurisdiction over income tax evasion, it would be a simple matter for you to turn her name over to the local IRS office for investigation into that crime. You can then agree to forget about the lesser offense of tax evasion if she cooperates in what could be a murder investigation and turns over the name of the person who bought the skull.
“In a worst case scenario,” I continued, “if she refuses to cooperate even when threatened with federal investigations, Billy can materialize in her shop, which will doubtless scare her out of her bloomers. We can then explain to her most of the true story, how the skull is actually part of his slain body, and how he will remain behind with the promise of frightening away all of her customers until the skull is returned. Neither Billy nor I think this will be necessary, for the prospect of an IRS investigation might actually be more frightening that an encounter with an eighteenth century ghost.”
I stared at Jimmy expectantly, and after a protracted silence he said, “Yeah, you’re right. If I was standing on the street and saw a ghost rushing at me from one direction and a frowning IRS agent coming at me from the other, I’d probably run to the ghost and try to enlist its help against the heartless power of government.” He was silent for another long moment before asking, “Do you still buy season tickets to the Jacksonville Jaguars?” When I nodded affirmatively, he said, “If I help you with this, I’m going to need good seats to a few of those games.”
Ghosts of the Siege Page 20