The Rising: A Badlands Novel

by Morgan Brice

  Simon looked rumpled and vulnerable, making Vic’s heart squeeze. God, he loved this man. He’d fallen for Simon harder than he ever thought he could.

  “I’m not—”

  “Tracey’s going to whip my ass if I don’t get you to eat,” Vic said, hands on hips. “You know it’s true. She’s gonna call me and be all ‘did Simon eat dinner’? And I’ll have to say, ‘no, I let him sleep,’ and then she’s gonna come over here and we’re gonna have a come-to-Jesus moment, and I’ll get my ass whupped.”

  Despite everything, Simon had to chuckle. Vic hid a smile. Tracey was unquestionably fierce, and she had no problem telling Vic when she thought he was off base when it came to Simon. She was also Simon’s second-biggest supporter, after Vic, and Simon’s oldest friend in Myrtle Beach. That counted for a lot in Vic’s book.

  “We wouldn’t want that.” Simon looked utterly exhausted but dug into the lasagna with determination. The dish was one of Simon’s favorites, made from Vic’s mother’s recipe, so Vic trusted the tasty pasta would win out, even over an adrenaline crash.

  “How are you feeling?” Vic asked after they had finished their food.

  Simon drank the last of his sweet tea and leaned back. “Like someone played tug of war with my brain—and I lost.”

  “We weren’t really sure what was going on.” Vic tried to keep his voice level. “One minute you were talking with Katarina, and then you went stiff and started shouting about killing us.”

  Simon winced. “Yeah. About that. I need to check my notes, but the glimpse I got of the spirit made me think it was Jamie Dunwood, the guy who built the place. He’d be the right time period for Marilee and Katarina.”

  “Why did he come after you? You said he wasn’t the same spirit who’s been killing the descendants of the Gallows Nine officials.”

  “Think about it,” Simon replied. “Dunwood sided against the Gallows Nine. So he backed the side that hanged them. But there’ve always been rumors that Dunwood actually hired the Annabelle to do some of his smuggling.” He shut his eyes, and Vic could tell the day’s activities were catching up to Simon.

  “Dunwood wanted us out of the house. I think there’s something hidden that he doesn’t want anyone to find—something that might prove the smuggling accusations.”

  “Why would he care? He’s been dead for two hundred years.”

  Simon shrugged. “Jamie Dunwood was obsessed with gaining respectability with the plantation class. He earned the money, but never got the respect.”

  “Maybe that explains Platz, the groundskeeper, but what about the diver? And who held the knife?”

  “I’m working on it,” Simon mumbled in a sleepy voice. “Also…how likely are criminals to change the way they do things?”

  Vic raised an eyebrow. “Not very. That’s what makes most of them easy to catch.”

  Simon nodded. “So we’ve got criminal ghosts. Why would the same ghost stab some people and possess others to make them hang themselves?”

  “He wouldn’t—at least a live perp wouldn’t.”

  “Two ghosts, different sides, they want different things. Now we just have to figure out who and what.”

  Simon’s voice faded as he fell asleep. Vic eased him onto his side so he could lie down, and carried the dishes out to the kitchen. He thought about what Simon had told him as he loaded the dishwasher and cleaned up. Vic had overlooked something basic, because he forgot that the ghosts involved were just dead criminals. He replayed that in his mind and shook his head, deciding that was an insight he might not share with Ross—at least, not worded quite that way.

  Still, Simon was right. The methods were too different to be the same perp. And since he didn’t share Simon’s ability to talk to ghosts, Vic was sidelined on that track until Simon recovered. But when it came to living suspects, Vic felt certain that Jonah Camden and Josh Williams were tangled up in this somehow. And tomorrow, he intended to figure out how.

  But tonight, he had a hurt partner to take care of. Simon might not have taken visible damage from the séance, but he’d been wounded nonetheless.

  Vic checked the wardings the way Simon had taught him and made sure all the doors were locked. He turned off the television and put the trays away. Simon didn’t really wake up when Vic got him to his feet, but he sleepwalked to the bedroom, and collapsed bonelessly onto their bed, making it easy for Vic to strip him down to his underwear.

  Vic thought about trying to get Simon to brush his teeth, then decided he’d probably end up falling and hurting himself even more. Vic got ready for bed, put his phone on the nightstand and turned out the lights, managing to get both of them under the covers.

  “I love you,” Vic whispered, snuggling up against Simon’s back with an arm over his chest. “I’m here. You were badass. But you can rest now. I’ll keep watch. Gonna protect you. I promise.” But as he drifted into restless sleep, Vic wasn’t sure how he was going to be able to make good on that vow.

  13

  SIMON

  Simon dragged himself out of bed the next morning, more from sheer stubbornness and the need for coffee than because he felt up for dealing with the world. He’d never been much of a party animal, and the splitting headache reminded him of his worst freshman hangover. Vic made sure he could manage by himself, made coffee, and fixed him breakfast, then headed to the precinct—after Simon promised to call if he needed help.

  With the storm rolling in, Grand Strand Ghost Tours and most of the rest of Myrtle Beach was closed for business, except for hotels and a few gas stations and grocery stores. Pete was happy to stay at the store, assuring Simon that not only was the shop better warded against supernatural threats but also better made than his apartment to withstand the weather.

  The weather forecast droned on as Simon finished his coffee, calling for heavy rain and very high winds. Not a hurricane, but bad enough that there would likely be plenty of downed trees, damaged roofs, and power outages once it hit. He was glad that Vic had helped him sandbag the bungalow, just in case.

  Simon checked in once more with his Skeleton Crew contacts, making sure they had somewhere safe to hunker down, and asking them to call if they found out anything about a ghost coaxing people to kill themselves. Text messages began to flow in, assuring Simon that the senders had a place to stay, but no one had a lead on either the ghost or the next victim.

  He poured himself another cup and settled down at the table with the list of names he’d sent to Vic, the potential victims he’d identified from the information on the Gallows Nine trial from the museum. He agreed with Vic—there was no good way to warn any of these people, not without being reported as a suspect. He sipped his coffee and thought about what he’d learned from the museum, from Cassidy, and from the séance.

  The Gallows Nine were the crew of the Annabelle, ruthless smugglers and pirates, hardened criminals who very likely might have been sometimes employed by the Dunwoods for secret projects. And who, in their time of need, were abandoned by their patron. The Dunwoods viciously protected their family’s reputation with duels and lawyers. So what were the odds that the proceedings were rigged against the Gallows Nine, despite their guilt?

  The Annabelle’s crew weren’t angels, but they deserved a fair trial—and fairness would have also damned their patron with them. Instead, they’d been rushed to justice at the end of a noose, so that they couldn’t implicate the Dunwoods. And now, two hundred years later, with the storm disturbing the ship’s wreckage and the renovations disturbing Socastee Manor, ghosts on both sides had risen, one for revenge and the other to protect a legacy.

  What a mess. Simon combed his fingers back through his hair and tried to figure out a way to come at the rat’s nest of clues. He’d barely made it through the list when his phone rang.

  “Sebastian. I need you to come to my house. Right away.” Miss Eppie didn’t mince words.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I have someone here you need to meet. And Gabriella and I th
ink you should try to talk to the ghost who helped you last night. There isn’t much time left.”

  Simon knew better than to argue. “Okay,” he said, since he was at a standstill following his own leads. “I’ll head right over.” He’d promised to help at the shelter, so he wouldn’t stay at Eppie’s long.

  He finished his coffee, then texted Vic to let him know where he was heading. Miss Eppie’s house was down toward Socastee Manor, in Murrells Inlet. Simon glanced at the forecast again. With the storm’s predicted route, he had time to get down to Miss Eppie’s and spend a few hours, before the worst of the weather hit. Just in case, Simon grabbed a pair of Wellington boots and his best rain slicker, then headed out.

  Miss Eppie’s home was a tidy ranch house down a sandy lane, away from the bustle of tourist traffic. While she had her shop in town, many of her hoodoo customers in dire need found their way to her home in the off hours, and she obliged them, taking her responsibility as a root worker very seriously. Simon wasn’t surprised to see Gabriella’s car parked in front, although he did not recognize the late-model Honda sedan next to it.

  He sprinted through the rain to the front door and felt a frisson of magic as he passed through the protective wardings. Simon and Vic had visited here before, and he knew that if he wasn’t welcome, the wards would have deterred him from entering.

  “Leave those boots in the mudroom and come inside before you catch your death,” Miss Eppie called as Simon let himself in. He left his wet boots on the mat and hung his dripping coat from a peg, then headed into the cozy living room. Comfortably worn furnishings combined with a color scheme of muted oranges, reds, and yellows made the room feel warm, cozy, and safe. Simon knew that some of that had to do with the protection spells Miss Eppie laid over everything, nurtured and reinforced over time. He caught the scent of gumbo, perhaps left over from last night’s dinner, and the tang of sage.

  “Sit down, Sebastian. We need to talk about a few things.” Miss Eppie already had a pitcher of sweet tea and four glasses ready on her coffee table. Gabriella gave Simon a welcoming nod. A man Simon didn’t know sat stiffly in an armchair near the fireplace with a slightly glazed look in his eyes.

  “I’d like you to meet Reggie Henderson,” Miss Eppie said, and Simon stepped toward the chair and shook the stranger’s hand. “He’s come here for protection. I think you’ll want to hear what he has to say.” She turned her attention to Reggie. “Go on.”

  Reggie looked to be in his early forties, with dishwater blond hair and a receding hairline. He had a doughy build that suggested a desk job and wore a pair of glasses that looked more functional than hipster accessory. The poor fellow also looked like he would rather be anywhere else.

  “I came to ask Miss Eppie for help because something is trying to kill me,” Reggie said, so quietly that Simon had to strain to hear him. But he clearly caught the key word—“something,” not “someone.” And the name registered immediately. Reggie Henderson was on Simon’s list of descendants from the Gallows Nine incident—and a potential victim of the vengeful ghost.

  “What kind of thing?” Simon asked, giving Reggie an encouraging smile. “I’m a psychic medium. Maybe I can help.”

  Reggie looked only partly reassured. “I’m not sure. Twice now it’s come at me, just in the last couple of days. There’s a dark shadow, but it’s not normal darkness. Something’s in the shadow, but I can’t see it. It knows where I am, and it wants me. I realized what was happening when I was outside, and this awful sadness came over me.”

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a nervous gesture. “All of a sudden, it’s like I didn’t want to live anymore. I thought about every mistake I’ve made, everything I’ve done wrong, and I just couldn’t bear it. So I got thinking, maybe the world would be better off without me, and I went in my house, not sure yet how I meant to do it.” He swallowed. “And as soon as I went across the threshold, the sadness went away, like flicking a switch. That’s when I knew, something had tried to get to me.”

  Simon exchanged a look with Miss Eppie, who wore a triumphant little smile. “What was special about going into your house?” Simon asked, as his thoughts raced.

  “I’ve been a good customer of Miss Eppie’s,” Reggie said. “Grew up in these parts, and so did all my family. My mama swore by Miss Eppie’s charms, and when I got my place, first thing I did was wash down the entrances with red brick dust and Four Thieves vinegar, just like mama told me.”

  Simon opened his Gift, trying to get a read on Reggie. He suspected that, like his Skeleton Crew misfits, Reggie had an untrained psychic gift. That made him more susceptible to supernatural attacks, but it also meant that he might sense danger that those without a gift would not.

  “You said the…entity…attacked you more than once?”

  Reggie nodded. He seemed to loosen up once he realized that Simon believed him. “The first time, I was walking home from the grocery store, and all of a sudden this bleak mood just came over me, like nothing would ever go right and no one would ever want me…it was awful.” His voice caught, and Simon guessed the vengeful ghost knew how to exploit its targets’ weaknesses.

  “How did you get away that time?” Simon asked.

  “I felt so upset that I ducked into the first church I came to,” Reggie confessed. “I don’t even know what kind of church it was. I’m not real religious, but I just felt the need to be there. And like at home, as soon as I stepped inside, whatever came over me let me go.”

  Sacred spaces often deterred dark entities, Simon thought. Either Reggie had very good instincts, or he’d been exceptionally lucky. “And it wasn’t waiting for you when you went back out?”

  Reggie shrugged. “I stayed inside for about half an hour, said a prayer, and sort of soaked up the atmosphere. You know what I mean? Then when I went out, nothing.”

  “When did all this happen?” Simon didn’t know whether Miss Eppie and Gabriella had already questioned Reggie, or if they were just letting him take the lead.

  “The first time, with the church, was two days ago. The second time, earlier today. Only when it happened the second time, it was a lot worse. So when I could go back outside and it wasn’t waiting for me, I got myself here to beg Miss Eppie for help.”

  Two days, Simon thought. It’s been three since the last suicide hanging. Which meant Reggie was intended to be the ghost’s next victim.

  “You did the right thing, coming here,” Miss Eppie told Reggie. “We can help.”

  Simon sat back and turned to Miss Eppie and Gabriella. “What did you have in mind?”

  “The spirit who came to you at the end of the séance last night, the one who helped drive off the bad ghost. I think we need to talk more to him,” Gabriella replied. “He might be able to give us some answers.”

  “His name is Dante. He was a privateer back around the time of the Revolution, and his ship scuttled the Annabelle and led to the capture of its crew—the Gallows Nine,” Simon told them. “He’s a distant relative of mine. I’ve seen visions of him before. There’s an occult object that went down with the Annabelle, the Wilton Stone. Having the wreck wash closer to shore woke up the stone—and the vengeful ghost that was attached to it.”

  “You’re related?” Gabriella asked. “That’s very interesting. It makes your bond with Dante stronger, and might make you a target for the Annabelle’s ghost.”

  Simon had spent some time reading up on the Annabelle and its doomed pirates. Little was known about seven of the men, but the ship’s captain and first mate were infamous in their time. William “Red Hands” Beecher, the captain, earned his nickname from his fondness for slitting throats. Hastings “Dog” Anders, the first mate, was said to be as loyal and ferocious as an attack dog. From what Simon could find in newspaper accounts from the period, Anders was a follower, though no less guilty for his crimes. Beecher, on the other hand, sounded like a sociopath, someone who enjoyed killing, even when it could have been avoided. Simon’s money was on Beec
her as their vengeful ghost. The others listened intently as Simon filled them in on what he had discovered.

  “Why me?” Reggie asked, looking from one of them to the others. “Why did this thing pick me?”

  Simon explained his theory about Reggie’s connection to the townsfolk involved in the hanging of the Gallows Nine. When Simon finished, Reggie nodded.

  “I’d heard something about that from my grandfather, only a little different,” Reggie said. “He said that his grandfather claimed that our ancestor, Ronald Henderson, was a judge. He sentenced the Gallows Nine to hang. But on his deathbed, he supposedly told his son a secret that he needed to get off his chest.”

  Simon had a good idea of what that secret might be. “Do you know what he said?”

  Reggie shook his head. “It was a warning, but the message has been lost over time. My grandfather thought there was a curse to go with the Gallows Nine because it seemed like there’d been bad luck in the family ever since.”

  Simon told them his theory about the connection between the Annabelle and the Dunwoods of Socastee Manor. “I think your ancestor may have confessed to presiding over an unjust trial,” Simon added. “Not that Beecher and his crew didn’t deserve to hang, but Dunwood should have been on the gallows with them, and the town protected him because they were afraid of what he could do with his wealth and power. And now, I think the storm and the renovation brought both ghosts back for a showdown.”

  “Is it after me because my ancestor was the judge?” Reggie looked worried.

  “It’s come after people whose families were involved in the trial,” Simon told him. “The ghost takes over the person and forces him to kill himself.”

  Reggie’s eyes grew wide. “Oh my God. That’s what it tried to do to me, what I was thinking of doing before I went into the house and broke the connection.”

  “I know what happened last night went hard on you,” Gabriella said to Simon. “But I think the only way we’re going to get to the bottom of this is by contacting Dante’s ghost. And when I read the omens, they pointed to tonight’s storm as the critical event.”