by Lyla Payne
“I was kind of hoping you might enlighten me.”
“Told yah everthin’ I know the other night. Curse is broken when yah break it.”
“Yeah. That doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense.”
“Does if yah use yer fool head instead of yer sassy mouth.” Her dry lips twitch. “’Course if yah got summore money, could be I know sumthin.”
The first of her statements makes me pause. She’s saying that I’m not thinking hard enough about how to break a curse. So what’s the actual curse? It’s that no boy from Anne Bonny’s bloodline will live past the age of thirteen. It doesn’t say how or when they’ll actually die. A lightbulb goes off in my brain and Odette watches me, her huge brown eyes squinted in approval.
“Yeah, you gots it. Din’t think yah were as dumb as yah look.”
“That’s debatable,” I inform her, my mind still turning over the wording and what it might mean in reality as I fish the twenty bucks from my pocket and hand it over. “So, if the curse on my family—”
“No! Yah don’t talk ’bout it, not ever. Give it power, you will. Shape. The ’bility to slink through tha streets like it has a life on its own.” She shakes her head, violently, and crosses herself. “Stupid girl.”
The fear on her face sets my teeth on edge. It might sound ridiculous to most people, the idea that a curse could grow legs and use them to dance all over my future grave, but the things that have happened to me over the past few months … I’m not willing to disregard any advice offered in good faith.
“Okay …” Even if she doesn’t want to come along, I can tiptoe along Odette’s logic. The curse won’t be broken until it is … until a male heir lives past his thirteenth birthday.
In some way it’s a comfort; in other ways not so much. The bottom line is if that’s the only way to accomplish it we aren’t going to be able to relax for over a decade. If half of what Mrs. LaBadie told us is the truth—which is a rocky premise—even if we get rid of her there will just be another voodoo witch to take her place.
While I’ve been silently clicking through all the ins and outs of this thing—the ones I can see, at least—Odette’s started packing up her things. The sun is settling into its cradle on the horizon and spilling the last rays of its warm blanket over the city. I look up to the skyline—nothing but church steeple— and smile at the aura of it all. Charleston is glowing.
Maybe I am inclined to buy into all of this new-age shit.
“Yah takin’ care of yer friend? Blondie?” Odessa’s expression wrinkles with blatant concern.
Just like that, my fear is back. “I’m trying.”
“She in a heap o’ trouble, that one. Curse stickin’ ta her good. It’ll get in and yah won’t even notice.”
She shuffles off, arms full of sweetgrass and pockets full of my money, but what she dumped in my stubborn head is well worth it. Knowledge is power. That’s one of the few sayings to live by that isn’t total crap. Even if we have to wait thirteen years, it’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and that’s not nothing.
Not to Amelia, who’s looking for something—anything—to grab on to.
The sun holds on, peering over the crosses and tops of buildings, but my stomach doesn’t feel any better. A walk at least has a shot at calming my nerves so I head down Church Street, sort of following the path Brian took through the city on our tour but staying as far away from buried humans as possible.
Will was right about that. With the way my life has been going, visiting places crammed with the dead is asking for trouble. But in a town with over two hundred and fifty churches, avoiding them is easier said than done.
I take a few shortcuts and realize I’m near Philadelphia Alley, where the Whistling Doctor and I first met. I step into the cool shadows, the uneven bricks shaded by trees and buildings, and shiver at the dampness that crawls over my skin. This place isn’t creepy, not usually, and maybe it’s just getting to know Dr. Ladd that makes the story darker for me now. Sadder, somehow, though it’s always been that.
I stop outside a low-arched doorway and sit on the chilly, half-crumbled step to stare down the alley. The scene, the one all the tour guides describe, plays in my mind. Two men, two friends, dressed in trousers and long socks, loose-fitting shirts under vests, their hair perhaps tied back into ponytails. They pick up guns and start to pace off. In my mind, Dr. Ladd comes my direction and his friend goes the other.
Then it’s no longer in my mind.
My heart slams against my ribs as real, solid images flicker into existence. Nothing but evening air one moment, and the next, hazy outlines of people that quickly solidify in front of my eyes. I stand up too fast, my foot slipping and a cascade of pebbles washing into the alley. In the next instant I’m back on my butt, wide-eyed and holding my breath. Trying to be invisible.
None of the “people” hear or look my direction. For some reason, the fact that they can’t seem to see me takes my panic down a notch or two and I’m able to focus on what’s happening.
I recognize Dr. Ladd as he takes a pistol from a box, anxiety creasing his face. He looks up at the other man—Ralph Isaacs, based on my research—but Isaacs mouth is set in a hard line, his eyes downcast, and Dr. Ladd turns my direction, ready to begin the duel without a last chance to try to resolve this peacefully.
Fog rolls into the alley, the evening fading into a damp, cold dawn. By the time the men have turned to face each other at opposite ends of the alley there have gathered groups of … onlookers? Cheering sections? Witnesses? I don’t know the proper term for people who show up to watch two guys try to pump each other full of lead.
They look like they’re holding their breath the same way I am, though, as they count off Dr. Ladd’s opportunity to fire. Panic glitters in his eyes and is evident in his too-tight grip on the gun. The sound of his teeth grinding carries over the heavy breathing and slight scuffing of boots on the brick alleyway.
My lungs burn and my legs ache. I want to run over to stop this, because he’s clearly upset, but I can’t. This has already happened, and for some reason I’m seeing it reenacted.
Why am I seeing this? Why am I here? I swallow my own panic.
I’m just getting used to my life the way it is, spirit visitors and all. If it’s going to change again … I’m not ready.
Dr. Ladd points the old pistol down the alley toward his first friend in Charles Towne, the man who helped him out, who showed him the ropes. His hand shakes. He studies the pavement, then lifts his gaze to the sky before squinting into the fog. At the last moment, he sucks in a deep breath, a whisper tangling with a gust of wind.
“I can’t.”
With that, he aims the weapon toward the thickening clouds and fires. In the seconds that follow, Ralph Isaacs experiences no such qualms, at least not visible ones. He’s almost impossible to see through the haze, but the crack of a second bullet shatters the quiet morning. Then everything happens fast: there’s a thunk of metal into flesh, Dr. Ladd slumps to the ground, and the leg of his pants, right around his knee, blooms red with blood.
He’s on the ground, writhing, agony twisting his face. His team or posse or whatever gather him up, supporting him. His feet drag through the pebbles I dislodged as they lug him past me and out the alley, headed toward the Thomas Rose House. The scene starts to waver on the edges, then fade, but before it disappears, the expression of devastated regret on Isaacs’s face slams into my chest.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.
No matter how many times I peer into Charleston’s deepening shadows on my stroll to the Thomas Rose House, the ghostly form of the Whistling Doctor never appears. I sat on that crumbling curb in that alley for way too long, my hands shaking and my brain struggling to make sense of what happened. It’s as though whatever allows me to see the ghosts just opened up into something brand new, an ability that let me see the whole scene the way it actually went down centuries ago.
It’s dark now, and even if the Thomas Rose H
ouse were open for tourists, the staff would have closed its doors over an hour ago. The longer I sat in the twilight, the more I became convinced that the whole scene had been an impression of some kind, the lingering energy left behind by a series of tragic events. According to a mixture of legend and history, Dr. Ladd hadn’t been the only person to meet his doom in Philadelphia Alley, so why only his death became visible to me in those moments, it’s impossible to say. It makes me wonder what else I might be capable of, because it clearly has to do with my presence here.
Until three months ago I wasn’t even sure I believed in ghosts. Not really. I’d spent enough time in the South, heard enough stories, to make even the academic in me wonder, but this? Nothing could have prepared me for becoming one of those people everyone makes fun of on television, the ones who claim to see dead people, to somehow know what happened to them in years long past.
Ghosts, I might have been unsure about, but those people? I thought they were full of shit.
What if they’re not? What if I’m not the only one, what if there is some kind of protocol for what I’ve been dealing with, ways to get rid of these people or help them move on or whatever without being bullied into things like breaking and entering and almost dying at the hands of ancient marital feuds come back from the grave?
My heart rebels at the thought of sending ghosts on without truly resolving their business. With the knowledge of what would have been left in the past had I ignored Anne Bonny, at the very least, I know that the way I’m doing this is the only way. At least for me.
The gardens of the Thomas Rose House are silent as I slip a hairpin from my pocket, unbend it, and make quick work of the mostly for show lock. No lights shine from the myriad windows, and nothing breathes around me but the night. I slip into the garden, shutting the gate behind me and sticking to the shadows close to the house. The stillness doesn’t change, doesn’t shift, but there’s no mistaking the tremor in the surrounding energy when Dr. Ladd’s ghost pops up to keep me company. It’s nice that he arrived without me having to berate him like I did with Glinda, since I am off running his fool’s errand.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell him, waiting for his face to betray that he knows what happened earlier in the alley. I’m trying my best to be calm about the whole thing, but later, when there’s not a house to break into and a doctor to help, I’ll stop long enough to wonder if it’s going to happen all the time now. If anytime I step somewhere a violent death has occurred, it’s going to activate a gruesome, unwanted film reel.
The doctor gives me a slight, nervous smile, looking up at the house he called home for too short a time. By all accounts he was happy here, the owners of the house—his landlords—doting upon him in the same fashion as most everyone in Charles Towne society.
It was the same adoration that had sparked jealousy in Ralph Isaacs and eventually led to the events in that alley.
The ladies at the Thomas Rose House had cared for him in the days after the shooting, had prayed for him, I imagine. They’d remarked on how he contented himself with his whistling when the people or conversations around him overflowed with stress or anger. It was a habit he picked up during a childhood spent living with a father who thought everything that interested his son was a waste of time.
And perhaps a bit of passive-aggressive resistance, since the whistling annoyed his father to no end. They say.
A light, airy tune fills the air now. It baffles me that the ghost can’t talk—they can never talk—but that the whistling echoes in my ears, just as hundreds of guests in the Thomas Rose House and visitors to Philadelphia Alley have heard it over the years.
It diffuses in my blood, spreading calm like some of those essential oils that are all the rage among the people who call themselves my friends on Facebook.
I shake my head, clearing it of thoughts that don’t matter. What does matter is that Joseph Ladd wants to take me into that house and show me something, and I’ve got to find a way to do it without getting us caught.
It’s pretty clear at this point that there are no alarms on the gate we passed through, and a careful sweep of the perimeter and several of the bigger trees convince me there are no cameras, either, at least not out here. Even so, I rummage around in my bag and pull out a well-worn Atlanta Braves cap, yanking it low on my forehead and pulling my hair back into a bun at the nape of my neck. It will at least disguise the length on what’s likely a cheap security system, if they have one at all—because let’s face it, even if they’ve done up the inside just as it was when it was built, the only thing worth much would be the art and furniture, two things that aren’t going to be moved without people noticing, no matter what time of day or night.
I cast a glance at Dr. Ladd, raising my eyebrows. “You don’t want me to boost an antique armoire or anything, do you? Because I’m not as strong as I look.”
He rolls his eyes, an air of exasperation about him, and jerks his chin toward the house with more than a little impatience. I have the odd feeling that Joseph Ladd and I would have been friends had we lived in the same time and place, but by all accounts, most everyone felt that way about him. Nice man who got the short end of the stick his entire life.
Sadness wriggles into my chest and settles, heavy like a sleeping dog curled up in front of a fire. It would be nice to have a happy ghost for a change, but maybe that’s not a thing. Maybe people who are happy with the way things turned out for them the first time don’t come around for a second viewing.
My heart drags as I follow Dr. Ladd around to what used to be a separate kitchen entrance. I’d read up a bit on the previous renovations to the house, and the kitchen had been moved into the main house during an antebellum remodel. The old kitchen had been retained for servants’ quarters, and now some of them are used as offices of sorts for the staff.
“You know this isn’t the kitchen anymore,” I hiss at him. He furrows his brow, seeming a tad disconcerted, but then points at the door anyway. If he haunts this place as people say, then he must be aware of the changes that have been made.
It makes sense, but sense doesn’t usually apply in situations like this.
I mean, I’m talking to a dead guy.
Instead of arguing, I take one more look around, wishing the moon weren’t quite so close to being full. The skies have cleared up, all traces of storms swept out to sea, and moonlight so pale it’s almost fluorescent illuminates my impending lawbreaking.
The doctor points again at the door. I suppose we have come this far. No point in backing down now, and apparently the man has no way to tell me what I need to know about the mysterious Amanda without getting me inside this house.
It takes two hairpins this time, and a credit card besides, to spring the lock. I say a quick thank-you to days spent wasted—according to my mother—on teaching myself the skills necessary to be an amateur detective and slip into the still darkness, shutting the door behind me. The empty feel of the place promises we’re alone. There might not even be anyone here during the day besides contractors, at least at the moment. One can hope. Running into the snappish woman from last week is near the top of my not-to-do list.
The whitish glow around Dr. Ladd disappears into the room, which is set up like nineteenth-century servants’ quarters. I use the light on my phone on its lowest setting to follow him, not bothering to spend time perusing my surroundings. There are some benefits to having a guide, even if some people would have the nerve to suggest he’s a figment of my imagination.
We use a narrow hallway to skirt what looks like a group of offices or filing rooms, and he leads me through the added-on connection to the original colonial home. The main floor, where we came in, consists of a new kitchen that’s tucked away from tourists’ eyes and an entryway, a sitting room, and a parlor, all decorated in the style in which the home was built.
Maybe even the way it was when Dr. Ladd lived and died here, though he doesn’t stop long enough to confirm or deny.
He floats up the stair
s, his silent steps making my sneakered ones sound like thunderclaps. I pull my cap lower and keep my head down, hoping that’s enough to thwart any well-meaning camera angles, and shimmy up the steps behind him. The upper floors are also restored pretty convincingly. If renovations are still going on as the mean lady said, they must be finished in every part of the house we’ve traipsed through tonight.
One of the rooms on the right side of the hall attracts his attention, and since the door isn’t locked—or shut—I cross the threshold after him. It’s staged as a bedroom and that, by the forlorn, nostalgic expression on Dr. Ladd’s face, might have been its original purpose.
Which means it might be the room where he died. The room where he wrote letters to his love, where he counted his money at the end of every week to determine how much longer he must wait before sending for her, before he could see her again and they could have the life they dreamed of together.
The room where he sat those nights when it all started to fall apart again, and probably raged as he wondered, Why me?
What did God or whoever have against his happiness? His flourishing?
Or maybe I’m seeing too much of myself in this man who just couldn’t catch a goddamn break.
I pull my mind out of my ass and watch his ghost lingering near the large, south-facing window. It’s closed, of course, but I imagine that, back in the day, it allowed for a pleasant cross breeze coming off the water. He’s staring at the floor, squinting as if he’s concentrating. His lips move and he seems to be … counting? Then he starts pacing off, stomping silently from the wall to the small table beside the massive four-poster.
Dr. Ladd sits on the bed, toeing a wide oak board that runs underneath the bed. It’s set perpendicular to the rest of the hardwoods, which are the more traditional cypress. The cypress planks are also skinnier than the oak one.
When I meet his eyes, he leans forward to peer under the bed, then extends a finger and runs it along the board in the center. It’s clear what he wants and I don’t stop to think before getting down on my knees and aiming the flashlight from my phone into the dark space. The holdover from being a kid, that there’s going to be some demonic monster crouched underneath, speeds up my heart, but in real Grownup Land there’s nothing but a strange collection of boards that don’t match in size or material and a patch of dust bunnies that leave me wondering if whoever runs this place pays anyone to clean.