Ghosted on the Gulf Coast (Gulf Coast Paranormal Trilogy Book 1)

by M. L. Bullock

  Suddenly a ghostly light appeared in the hallway about three feet off the ground. It was like a white flame, burning away. Then it expanded suddenly, and a man was standing there, or the outline of a man. It was Cope! I gasped to see him looking so frightened and so alive. Even though it was just his outline, I could see the dark skin on his face and his expressive chocolate brown eyes. Joshua swore under his breath, and Midas stood so stiffly that he must have been an inch taller.

  “I am Aurelia’s friend. She told me to give you a message. May I give you that message, Cope?”

  He didn’t speak or nod, but the light at the center of him bounced once and he hovered and waited.

  With nervous fingers, Sierra played the audio clip, turning it up as loud as possible. Aurelia’s voice filled the room.

  “Over the bridge!”

  He opened his mouth to laugh, but I couldn’t hear him. It was like he was stuck inside a soundproof box. He said something to me, but I couldn’t make it out. Then he vanished, leaving behind a trace of smoke or an unearthly fog.

  I cried, Sierra cried with me and Midas hugged us both. Joshua continued to mutter curse words while Sara and Peter sat in stunned silence. It was a good way to end my first investigation.

  Epilogue—Cassidy

  Sliding my feet into fluffy pink slippers I sauntered over to Kylie’s painting and touched it with my fingers. If only you’d speak to me, baby girl. She didn’t. I flipped on a nearby lamp to get a better view of the painting that I’d already seen at least ten thousand times now.

  While I pondered the photo, I thought about the case. On the news last night Ranger Shaw was reported dead, killed by the same man who killed Melissa Hendricks, Beau Whisenhunt. Some kind of love triangle, only Ranger never knew that Melissa was stepping out on him. It had come to its full conclusion now. His son was a wreck, but at least he had answers. His father had been no murderer.

  A memorial stone for Cope would go up soon, and Aurelia? Who knew where she ended up, but at least she had lived and made it across the bridge and never had to deal with Bernard again.

  We didn’t learn much else about the bird. Was the black owl really an evil animal or just a bird of prey that found a great opportunity to grab an unusual snack the night Melissa was killed on Kali Oka Road? But then again, if it wasn’t a spirit animal, how could it scratch me all to pieces?

  These were questions I’d have to think about a while. The Harlens were glad we’d cleared the house, but they asked us to keep it quiet. The people who came to their bed-and-breakfast later this summer would expect a ghost or two. They were happy we’d done what we did, though.

  And now it’s just you and me again, kiddo. I miss you, Kylie.

  I’d memorized every square inch of the painting, but for the first time since the day I’d finished it, I felt like something was missing.

  Yes, there was something missing! I hurried to blend the paints I would need and began tapping on the shape. Yes, just there! In the right-hand corner.

  With a blend of blues, grays and bright white, I smoothed on the long spindly legs of a water tower. It had a wide umbrella tub and a few other small details like a rusting ladder and handrails. How had I missed that?

  An hour later I was somewhat satisfied, except there was no name on the water tower. If only I could grab that name, snatch it out of my subconscious or wherever these things came from. I stood waiting, hoping. Nothing came. Eventually, I put the brush down and sat on the stool staring at the painting.

  Yes, this was right. I had another clue. After all this time. Why? Why was I getting fresh information now?

  Could it be because of my new association with Gulf Coast Paranormal? Was Kylie leading me to find her? If I ever stood a chance of doing that, it would be now with Sierra, Midas and the rest of the team. I didn’t want my sister to be gone; I wanted her to be alive. With all my heart, I wanted that and believed it. But if she wasn’t, if something had happened, I wanted to at least bring her home.

  The phone rang and jostled me out of my reverie. I glanced at the clock. It was early but not too early. Almost eight o’clock.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Cassidy.”

  “Good morning, Midas.”

  “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No. I was up. I’ve been painting.”

  “Oh, anything I should know about?” he asked hopefully.

  “Not yet, but I’ll keep you posted. What’s up?”

  “How about meeting us at Demeter’s? If you’re up for it. We’ve got another case, and I think we could use your help.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. It was nice to be needed somewhere. I hadn’t quite made up my mind whether I would stay with Gulf Coast Paranormal. At least not until now. Now I knew the answer as plainly as I knew my name.

  “Sure. I’m game. What time?”

  “Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  “Won’t be.” I paused as I chewed my bottom lip thoughtfully. “And Midas?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for the invite.”

  Without waiting for his answer to my hokey comment, I hung up the phone. With one last look at Kylie’s pretty face, I swirled the brush in the water and set it in a jar to dry.

  “Someday, little sister, I’m going to bring you home.”

  I reached out to touch the paint but drew my hand back. Midas had asked me not to be late. I’d tackle this later tonight. I could see where I’d missed a few things. There was a small building that needed to go there, just below the tower.

  As I walked away to take my shower I whispered, “See you tonight, Kylie.”

  For the first time in a long time, I believed that I would.

  Author’s Note

  Here I am again, with a new series featuring places I love. I am so excited about Gulf Coast Paranormal. It’s going to be my vehicle for bringing all of you some fabulous ghost stories. At least, that’s my hope. In doing so, it is not my wish to malign anyone’s ancestors or put a place I love in a bad light. I love Mobile!

  If you’ve ever visited Mobile County for any length of time, and you’re a fan of the supernatural, chances are you’ve heard about Kali Oka Road. From teenagers putting baby powder on Crybaby Bridge (to track ghostly baby footprints) to reports of being chased out of the Oak Grove Plantation cemetery by orb lights and a shadowy figure, it’s an area with a rich history. No matter which ghost stories you believe, you have to admit that parts of Kali Oka Road have a wild, forgotten feeling to them. Enough to inspire this book.

  If you’re familiar with the area, remember this is a work of fiction. I couldn’t possibly work every ghostly encounter in here. I’ll leave it for you to tell those stories. Although some of The Ghosts of Kali Oka Road is based on a few of those old stories, I wanted to retell them and give the “ghosts” a somewhat happy ending.

  At least some of them.

  For paranormal investigators, just a reminder. Much of the property in the area I write about is private property, so always seek permission before you begin investigating. You know how to conduct yourself. Obey the law. Most paranormal investigators I know always do, but just in case we have any rogues out there, I thought I’d mention it. Please preserve the beauty of the place and show respect to any graves you may come across.

  And if a bright light bounces toward you or an unexpected shadow passes over you, don’t look up. Don’t look around.

  Just run. Or at least snap a decent photo.

  The Ghosts of the Crescent Theater

  Book Two

  Gulf Coast Paranormal Series

  By M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2017 Monica L. Bullock

  All rights reserved

  Dedication

  For you, my dear.

  You have the hands of an artist and the heart of a poet.

  Don’t get me started on the rest of you.

  Prologue—Ginger Perry

  I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and began to plu
ck at the violin strings. Again and again, I played through the most difficult passages from Fortunato’s Spring, knowing that this was just a mere formality, for I had memorized this score from beginning to end. I’d spent long hours on it before I’d ever landed the solo; before I even took the first chair from Dallas Hancock. That had been an excellent day. Cocky bastard. Dallas and I had a remotely friendly relationship before the competition, but that friendliness vanished completely after my victory. We no longer exchanged pleasantries before practice, but I supposed that was the price I had to pay.

  It didn’t bother me, not really. I didn’t need friends. I needed to be the best. And now that I had the coveted position, I planned on keeping it.

  However, it’s one thing to compete for a position; it’s quite another to hold on to it. There were already rumors swirling about Yuni Akira playing with us this summer. If that turned out to be true and not merely idle orchestra gossip, if the legendary violinist graced us with her presence, I had mere months to prove that I deserved to be the star of the Port City Orchestra. Forget about Dallas. Yuni was the real master.

  My fingers fumbled as I let my mind wander. “Come on, Ginger! Get it together!” I scolded myself aloud. Then I heard a voice, a barely audible whisper just off stage.

  “Who’s there? Mr. Kendall?” It wasn’t time to leave, was it? “Hello?”

  Nobody answered. I must have been hearing things. It was easy to do in this empty theater. I slumped in the chair and with tired eyes glanced at the sheet music again. Reviewing the music was a formality that comforted me.

  Yes, I knew that passage. Why was I being so clumsy? Stay focused!

  I laid my instrument in my lap and rubbed my hands together; they felt stiff and achy. They hurt, but only a little—apparently not enough, for I hadn’t mastered this section yet. Glancing at my watch, I felt a renewed sense of urgency. In thirty minutes the theater manager would return and I would no longer be alone. Mr. Kendall had been kind enough to allow me my solitude, and the two hours had hurried by.

  All of Mobile would come to hear me play next weekend. I couldn’t disappoint them. The warm lights beamed down upon me and blinded me to the empty rows of seats in front of me, but just knowing they would be filled with my fans thrilled me to no end.

  For a moment I imagined them watching and listening with bated breath. I imagined them rising to their feet and clapping furiously at the end of the night. Who would have guessed that small-town girl Ginger Perry would have made it this far? And now I was playing at the legendary Crescent Theater! It was certainly a dream come true.

  I took a sip of water from my bottle and repositioned my instrument. This time I stood on my feet, just as I would during the performance. I closed my eyes and began to play the most challenging passages. My bow slid across the violin, and the music cascaded from the strings. First, the notes were smooth and slow as the character represented here, Fortunato, searches for his missing lover in the alpine forest. The bow went sliding up, up, up and then down again as I began to pluck out the frantic pacing of Fortunato as he finds only his lover’s magical shoes.

  Such a passionate piece! I paced the wooden floor of the stage and kept my arms in perfect position.

  Nearing the end now.

  More frantic, Ginger, but keep the notes crisp. Faster, Ginger! Faster!

  I tugged at the last note, and the sound hung in the air, just as I commanded it to. I lowered the violin and the bow and hung my head, feeling satisfied that I had, at last, achieved the level of performance that I’d hoped for.

  A sound of sharp applause startled me. At first, it was one pair of hands clapping, and then two, and then a multitude.

  Was this some kind of joke?

  My skin crawled as I lifted my hand to shield my eyes from the lights. I had to get a look at who was spying on me.

  “Who’s there? Dallas?” It couldn’t be a recording; the soundboard wasn’t on, and the applause was definitely coming from the seats, not from the speakers. I had a finely trained ear, and I knew audio like some girls knew makeup.

  I stepped closer to the floodlights as the applause continued. “Hello?” I asked awkwardly. Perhaps it was my fellow orchestra members, come to listen to me practice? Maybe our conductor and his assistant? But no, there were definitely more than a couple of happy listeners. My mind could hardly figure it out. The logical thing to do would be to walk out to the edge of the stage, out past the lights, so I could actually see who it was that cheered me on. Yes, that would be the logical thing to do. That’s what my mind instructed, but a wave of fear washed over me. I couldn’t make myself take those last few steps. Something was very wrong here.

  Then as quickly as it began, the applause faded until there was only one pair of hands clapping. Slow and lifeless hands.

  Why would I think that?

  And now I absolutely had to see. Still clutching my violin I said angrily, “Who’s there? This is a private practice!” I jutted out my chin and let anger override my fear. I walked through the narrow gap in the footlights and stood to blink into the darkened theater.

  I glanced around and saw no one in the balconies above. The left and right wings were empty. But no, that wasn’t right. I wasn’t alone after all. A woman sat in the center section only two rows from the stage. How had I missed her? She was thin and wore a black veil on her head just as if she were attending an old-fashioned funeral. Did people wear veils nowadays?

  No, that wasn’t a veil. That was her hair. It hung in damp locks around her head. As if she’d stepped right out of the shower or stood in the rain all night before she came inside. It wasn’t raining out, was it?

  “This is a closed practice. You’ll have to leave,” I said to the dark figure.

  She didn’t answer me but sat perfectly still; her face remained obscure, and that disturbed me to no end.

  “Did you hear me? Ma’am? You’ll have to leave.”

  Without a word, she rose from the chair and slowly lifted her head. As her dark hair moved away from her face, I gasped. Her skin was a mottled gray color, her lips pale, her eyes dark and empty. She was so gray she couldn’t be alive—I had to be looking at a ghost! And she was looking back at me! I took a step away, hoping to hide from whatever she was.

  This can’t be real!

  “You’ll have to leave…” I whispered, unwilling to believe what my own mind told me.

  But it’s my turn…

  “Oh my God!” I moved further back on the stage, hoping whatever it was would disappear. I nearly tripped over my violin case. I reached down to grab it, but as I did I realized I wasn’t alone here either. Somehow she’d cleared the stage without my detecting her because she was standing near me.

  It’s my turn!

  With a scream, I dropped my violin, something I would never have dreamed of doing, and ran as fast as I could to the theater’s side entrance. I didn’t have a key. I was locked in! I glanced at my watch. I had fifteen more minutes of practice. Fifteen minutes until Mr. Kendall arrived to let me out. Fifteen minutes with her!

  I banged on the door with all my might. “Please! Someone! Is anyone there?” Nobody answered, and I swallowed a sob.

  I leaned my back against the door, wondering what to do next. Should I try the other door? Would I run into that thing? I was breathing so hard I felt as if the entire world could hear me. I put my hand over my mouth and stood still. Until I heard the sound of my own violin playing.

  It wasn’t me plucking the strings or moving the bow, but I knew it was my violin. I knew the sound of my own instrument, and whoever now commanded it played Fortunato’s Spring as perfectly as I could ever have imagined. With horror, I listened to the ghostly perfection. Yes, that was the piece I had just practiced. It was full of life, though it now came forth from dead hands.

  A blur of notes echoed from the theater, and I could hear a crowd of ghostly hands clapping.

  I couldn’t stay here! Not for fifteen minutes, not even five more! I decided t
o make a run for the theater office. There was a phone in there. I’d left my cell phone in the dressing room—no way would I go back to the stage area. With a quick glance, I ran down the carpeted hallway toward the office. What were the chances it would be open? I made the turn holding my breath, praying to God that I didn’t see her again. I never wanted to see her again! Ever!

  The door stood ajar, but it was dark inside. And still the music played from the stage, but the crowd began to hush. What was happening? Was it over? Did that mean the ghosts would descend upon the hallways? I rushed into the office and stood behind the door. I heard a sound in the hallway like someone was jangling keys.

  Please, God, let that be Mr. Kendall!

  Footsteps approached, but I could not discern whether they belonged to someone living—or dead. I clung to the door handle, the door shaking as I did.

  Oh no! Someone was coming! I stepped back into the darkness and waited. I counted the footsteps and waited for the door to open. It was then that I felt a hand grip my shoulder. I froze, unwilling to move either forward or backward. This can’t be happening! After a paralyzing moment, I spun around to see who was in the darkened office with me.

  “Mr. Kendall?” I whispered.

  It wasn’t Mr. Kendall. It was the gray woman. I could see the details of her dress a bit more clearly now. A touch of moldy lace encircled her neck; the dress had a high collar. She wore a dingy cameo at her throat, and on her bony hand, a hand that reached for me, was a gold ring.

  Her thin lips pulled up in a proud, deathly grimace as she whispered.

  Your turn.

  I screamed until I could scream no more and everything went black.

  Chapter One—Cassidy Wright

  “Are you sure you want to tackle this?”

  I answered Sierra’s question with a bemused smile. Although our friendship was new, I liked Sierra a lot and, surprisingly, trusted her. We’d become fast friends during our investigation on Kali Oka Road. I had very few of those, so keeping her on that short list was important to me.