Southern Rites

by Stuart Jaffe

  She paused. “Um, that’s one thing I forgot to mention. The stone kind of has to be in the hands of the target.”

  Max’s body slumped against the ladder. With a sigh, he put out his hand and she placed the stone in his palm. He did not welcome the heat radiating from it. Drummond-Stanton saw the stone and moved for it, but his head smacked into a beam.

  “Easy there, big guy,” Max said. “I know you want this. I’m going to give it to you. Okay? Only thing is, I have a feeling that if I just hand it to you, you’re going to bolt for the door and I’ll never see you again. We can’t have that.”

  A low lion growl rumbled from Drummond-Stanton’s throat.

  Sandra struck a match and the light flickered around the small cellar. Bits of white peeked through the red clay walls. Bone?

  “Hey, Stanton.” Max held the stone in front of him like a weapon. “Since you’re doing such a good job of blocking Drummond from talking, maybe you’re the one I should try speaking with. What do you think? Can you hear me?”

  Drummond-Stanton lowered its head, shuffled forward, and swiped for the stone. Max yanked it out of reach. The creature yelped in frustration.

  While Sandra murmured her spell and drew circles with a lit candle, Max pointed to the wall. “See that, Stanton? That’s bone. Might be yours.”

  Drummond-Stanton followed Max’s finger to the wall.

  “That’s right. Probably not that one — you’d be going nuts for it, if it was — but I’m sure we’ll find other bones in these walls. Maybe even the floor. You’ve got to be here somewhere.” Max stepped nearer. “You think maybe we can stop fighting and help you find your remains?”

  But Max had moved too close. Drummond-Stanton lashed out, catching Max in the side. Max bowled over to the wall, his head smacking the hard clay. The stone popped from his hands and onto the floor.

  For a second, neither he nor Drummond-Stanton moved. They both stared at it in shock. But then Drummond-Stanton lunged forward as Max dropped down on top of the stone. Curling into a ball, Max clutched the warm rock against his stomach. And the beating began.

  Like a Neanderthal, Drummond-Stanton pounded Max with his fists. He shouted and punched, shouted and kicked, and shouted more. The creature’s enormous sound doubled in the confined space, but Max could not cover his ears without letting go of the stone. He scrunched his shoulders, but that did nothing to help.

  “Max,” Sandra cried. “I’m ready. Give him the stone.”

  When Max rolled onto his back to hand the stone, Drummond-Stanton scooped him up and tossed him into the wall. Max, the stone, and a loosened bone piled onto the floor.

  Dazed, Max used the wall to get back on his feet. He steadied himself and looked for the stone. No need. Drummond-Stanton had it, and he headed for the ladder.

  “Not yet, big guy,” Max said, wrapping his arms around the creature’s waist. He let his body go limp so that his entire weight dragged on Drummond-Stanton.

  Sandra held the candle up towards the creature’s face. She recited words that meant nothing to Max. Drummond-Stanton pulled back his arm, made a fist, and swung at her.

  Before he could finish the strike, however, the stone in his other hand flashed greenish light. He dropped the stone and jumped back, tripping on Max’s clinging body, and tumbling to the floor. His legs tangled over Max, pining Max to the dirt.

  “Light of ancient wisdom, shine upon us.” Sandra picked up the stone and its green light intensified. “Light of ages past, favor us. Unite what was once parted. Bring soul to stone and stone to bone. Let this man find his home.”

  Like a developed X-ray, the dark wall behind Sandra glowed in three places. Each glow taking on the shape of a human bone — the pelvic bone, a shoulder blade, and a cracked skull. The light from the stone faded as the bones in the wall became more numerous. Soon the entire wall pulsed green with pieces of a skeleton.

  Chester Stanton lifted into the air. Max had expected a painful and slow process similar to what had joined Stanton with Drummond, but this proved to be smoother, easier. He simply rose from the joined creature as he had once been — a ghost. Still elongated and shredded by his previous actions of long ago, Stanton drifted toward the glowing wall.

  The giant body that kept Max down crumbled. It fell apart like wet sand. As Max sat up, Stanton placed one finger against the wall. The glow brightened, flashed, and went dark. Under the amber light of Sandra’s candle, Stanton had gone as well.

  “My head hurts.” The familiar, gruff voice brought a smile to Max’s face.

  “Drummond!”

  “Shhh! That was, by far, the most unpleasant experience of my life and my death.”

  In a hush, Max said, “You did good, partner. Stanton’s gone.”

  “What are you talking about? He’s right here.”

  Max looked at Drummond, then Sandra, then the wall. To answer his confused look, Sandra said, “You were able to see Stanton because of the spell that connected him to Drummond and you can see Drummond. That’s probably why you saw the other ghosts, too. Because through Drummond and Stanton, you were connected to that visual wavelength.”

  “But they’re separated now. The spell is over.” Max got to his feet. “That’s okay with me. Seeing Drummond is more than enough.” Brushing off bits of wet clay, he added, “Are we done here?”

  “I am,” Drummond said. “I need a week or two to rest this off.”

  With his arm over Sandra’s shoulder, Max managed to climb out of the cellar and limp toward the road. Drummond disappeared, presumably, into the Other. As they neared the road, a car flashed its lights. They headed toward J and Mrs. Porter, but then Max stopped.

  Further down the road, a figure stood under a streetlight — Leon Moore. The large man waved his hand in one short motion before turning away, walking out of sight.

  Sandra said, “Guess they wanted to make sure we succeeded.”

  “I think if we hadn’t, he would’ve come in to clean us all up. And I don’t want to know what that would mean.”

  Patting his side, Sandra said, “Come on. Let’s go home.”

  Chapter 30

  Three days later, Max, Sandra, and J took Mrs. Porter to the Piedmont International Airport in Greensboro. While large enough to act as a FedEx hub, the airport had a quaint, small town feel. Amongst the echoing announcements of flight departures, the squeak of luggage wheels, and occasional rumble of a jet taking off, Max hugged his mother and kissed her cheek.

  “You sure you have to go?” he said.

  Sandra added, “We really would like you to stay longer.”

  Mrs. Porter ruffled J’s head. “No, thank you. It’s sweet of you to offer but I have things to get to back home.”

  J wrapped his arms around her. “They don’t say stuff they don’t mean. You should stay.” When he pulled away, Max caught him surreptitiously dabbing at his eyes.

  “Now, Max, you make sure to call me more often,” his mother said. “I don’t like to always have to track you down. You’re here and there and busy, busy, busy. I’m usually at home. So pick up a phone and call your mother.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He escorted her into the check-in line and motioned for Sandra and J to stand back. Lowering his voice so that only she could here, he said, “I overheard you and J talking the other night.”

  “Oh?”

  “I know you don’t have anybody left up there. But we’re here, and we’d love for you to stay.”

  “I doubt that. Your wife and I —”

  “It was her idea. Besides, the two of you are getting along much better now.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, but I suppose it’s not as bad as it was.”

  “See that? And if you were here, you’d have J around, too.”

  “You’re a sweet boy,” she said and patted his cheek. “I appreciate the offer. Had you made it the first few days after I got here, I would have taken you up on it. But after seeing the life you live — well, the Porter Agency life is a bit too c
haotic for me.”

  Max held his mother’s hand as they waited in line. Chaotic. In the days since their experiences at the Alamance Battlefield, that was the closest she had come to acknowledging any of the supernatural aspects. She could talk about Wallace and his cult, she could discuss the dangers they faced at the hands of a madman, but nothing more. She refused to mention Drummond, Stanton, witchcraft, or even the inscribed stone. None of it existed to her.

  J took it all a bit better. At first chance, he hustled over to PB and recounted everything he had seen. But PB had plausible answers for everything — tricks of the moonlight, the cult had probably drugged him, and an overactive imagination that wanted to impress Max.

  By the time they drove to the airport, neither J nor Mrs. Porter believed they had seen a ghost. If his mother had stayed, Max would have worked hard to let her see the reality of his life. She could have made a good asset to the agency. But since she insisted on returning home, he thought it best that she continue to deny the supernatural. It would make her weekly bridge games easier if the other elderly ladies did not have fodder for their sharp tongues.

  Max glanced over at Sandra. After all that had happened, her interest in witchcraft had only strengthened. Rather than curling up with a good mystery or a romance novel, she spent most of her nights reading old tomes and dusty volumes of lore or combing through the hardcore witchcraft websites. He knew they benefited from her knowledge, but he could not shake the thought that nothing good would come of this.

  “You know,” Mrs. Porter said, nudging Max with her shoulder, “there is one thing you could do for me that would make this all much better.”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Get me some grandchildren.”

  Max started to protest but his mother launched into a verbal diatribe of reasons that Sandra needed to start reproducing. His skin prickled, but a smile crept onto his face. The longer she spoke, the happier he became.

  At length, he kissed her head. “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, too, but that’s not the point.”

  He kissed her again. “I got the point. More than you know.”

  She eyed him for a moment and then peeked over at Sandra and J. Biting her lip, she patted her luggage. In a quiet voice, she said, “I’d have to get my own place.”

  “What?” Max said.

  Louder this time, she said, “If I’m going to live here, I would require my own place. Let’s be honest about this — it would never work for me to be under your roof all the time.”

  Max’s gut flipped in an acrobatic mixture of excitement and fear. “But you just said —”

  “And I’ve reconsidered. That boy needs a good parent, somebody who knows what she’s doing. Your office could use some help, too. Now, I’m not saying I want to go traipsing around the woods anymore. I meant it — that’s too chaotic for me. But I’m sure I can find a way to be useful. If you still want me, that is.”

  Wrapping his arms around her, he said, “We do. Always.”

  She hugged him back, and for a fleeting second, Max remembered what it was like to be her little boy. Sniffling, she said, “Then it’s settled. When I get back to Michigan, I’ll sell the house and get my things together and come down here. You start looking for an apartment for me. Nothing too noisy. Check out the neighbors. I’ll call you later and explain the best way to do that.”

  As she rambled on, Max rocked on his heels and smiled.

  “What now?” she said when she noticed his expression.

  “Nothing. I’m happy, that’s all. I don’t know why you changed your mind, but I’m happy.”

  “No big secret. Like you said, there’s nobody up there for me anymore.” She glanced at Sandra. “Besides which, how are you two going to have a baby, if I’m not around to make sure it happens? You’ve had more than enough time on your own to get it done.”

  Max looked over at Sandra. He wondered if she had heard any of the conversation. The roll of her eyes answered his thoughts. The two of them laughed loud and full.

  Afterword

  Well, here we are again, at the end of another Max Porter tale. Thank you for taking the journey with me. I know what you’re looking for here, though, so I’ll get right to it:

  Most of the story surrounding the Battle of Alamance is true. The build up to the battle is also true. Governor Tryon and his cronies abused the land distribution system, and Husband and the Regulators fought back. It all culminated in a battle on a small patch of land in the middle of North Carolina.

  You can visit the battlefield today and see the various positions people fought from, including Pugh’s Rock. They are frighteningly close to each other. The James Allen House that had been moved to the property is still there and you can go step inside the one-room home for a real sense of living conditions of the time.

  You’ll also be able to find the trails leading back into the woods complete with signage along the trail marking where Tryon’s horse fell and other moments. Unless the Parks and Rec Department changes the paths, you should be able to locate the somewhat circular clearing that I used for the midnight rites performed by Wallace. Also, there were, indeed, six men hanged after the battle.

  What you won’t find is any reference to the three men cursed by the witch Abigail. I made them up. The extra coffins were a fiction from my head, too. Other locations such as the bog garden are real, as is the Green Valley Grill in the O. Henry Hotel. It’s delicious, by the way.

  More Max Porter will be coming soon!

  While you wait, try out Stuart Jaffe’s Nathan K series!

  IMMORTAL KILLERS

  Nathan Flynn is trying to get a start in life - law school, internship, and a fiancé. But when he finds himself on the wrong end of a knife, everything changes. He should have died. Instead, he acquires a unique ability - he harbors two souls in his body. If he dies, he loses one soul yet continues on. As long as he replenishes his second soul, he cannot be killed - he's immortal.

  But gaining immortality throws him into a world of government spies, crime syndicate couriers, and elite assassins. A world in which mankind is second class. A world where one has all eternity to master anything, and he is not the only one.

  Nathan wants nothing to do with such a dangerous world. He wants to help people, not destroy them. But when he tries to leave, he learns that freedom will be a lot harder to gain than he thinks.

  AVAILABLE NOW!

  Acknowledgements

  First off, a big, big thank you to Claudia Ianniciello for her stupendous artwork. After the great work of Duncan Long on the blue books and then Jeff Dekal’s equally brilliant work on the red books, Claudia had big shoes to fill. I think she surpassed my expectations, and I look forward to the rest of her work on the green books. Thanks also to Jeremiah DeGennaro of the Alamance Battleground Park. Jeremiah spent quite a bit of time with me, showing me around the battlefield and explaining the details I would come to use for this novel. Of course, any mistakes are mine. I take notes, but sometimes I can’t read them all that well. Endless thanks go to my Launch Team for all their support, and in particular, Toni Shepherd and Lisa Gall for helping to catch the typos the editors missed. As always, thanks to Glory and Gabe.

  Lastly, my thanks to you, my reader. Every day I’m blessed to write these stories knowing that you are out there, eager to find out what my brain came up with for Max, Sandra, and Drummond. Without you, their lives would never have taken off. In many ways, neither would have mine.

  Thank you.

  About the Author

  Stuart Jaffe is the madman behind The Max Porter Paranormal Mysteries, the Nathan K thrillers, The Malja Chronicles, The Bluesman, Founders, Real Magic, and so much more. He trained in martial arts for over a decade until a knee injury ended that practice. Now, he plays lead guitar in a local blues band, The Bootleggers, and enjoys life on a small farm in rural North Carolina. For those who continue to keep count, the animal list is as follows: one dog, two cats, three aquatic turtles,
one albino corn snake, seven chickens, and a horse. As best as he’s been able to manage, Stuart has made sure that the chickens and the horse do not live in the house.

  Copyright Information

  Southern Rites is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  SOUTHERN RITES

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2016 by Stuart Jaffe

  Cover art by Claudia Ianniciello

  First Edition: October, 2016