Of The Ashes: A 'So Fell The Sparrow' Sequel Novella

by Katie Jennings

  Ian’s father had lost most of his humor, apprehension replacing it. “Sounds pretty dangerous, boys.”

  Grace heard Caroline snicker and saw her shaking her head in disbelief. She approached the older woman, curiosity getting the better of her.

  “You really don’t believe in it, do you?” she asked, keeping her voice down so the others wouldn’t hear.

  Caroline shrugged, meeting Grace’s eyes. “No, I don’t.”

  “What do you think is causing it, then?”

  “They’re probably making it up,” Caroline replied, scooping scrambled eggs onto a platter. “One person claims to see or feel something, and it amps up the others until they all start seeing and hearing things that aren’t really there.”

  It stung to hear it put so bluntly, and hurt worse to know she had at one time been just as skeptical. Grace frowned. “Do you think I’m making it up?”

  Caroline bristled, her lips pressed into a firm line. She avoided looking at Grace. “I know you were in an emotional state at the time, having just lost your parents. You were alone in a strange old house miles away from home, with nothing but creaking floorboards to keep you company. I don’t know if you actually saw a ghost or not, but I certainly have my doubts.”

  Grace thought of Sally touching her hair, playing with the strings on the cello, and appearing before her in broad daylight, solid and real. None of that was a lie, and no one’s skepticism could take away how experiencing Sally’s presence had changed her. She knew there was no amount of convincing she could do to persuade Caroline to believe her—the woman would simply have to witness it for herself someday.

  “And Ian? Do you think your own son is lying or delusional?” Grace asked, frustrated.

  Caroline sighed. “I think my son was a talented chef who passed up on a noble career to pursue a hobby chasing after something that doesn’t exist.”

  Grace snorted. “According to you.”

  Jackie came up beside Grace, resting a hand on her shoulder. Her smile was kind as she addressed Caroline. “I think we can all agree there are things in this world we don’t understand. How we choose to define them in our own minds is unique to us all.”

  Caroline nodded, gathering platters of food to bring to the breakfast table. “Agreed. Ready to eat, ladies?”

  Grace stared after Caroline as she delivered food to Cassie and the boys, an odd mix of regret and anger in her heart. She leaned into Jackie, seeking comfort.

  “Damn skeptics,” she muttered, though her lips curved in a wry smile at the irony of it.

  Jackie giggled. “Now you see why you frustrated Ian so much.”

  I still frustrate him, Grace thought, her mood souring again. She sighed and grabbed a plate of biscuits, mentally kicking herself for being a fool.

  * * *

  The day passed by in a whirlwind of planning and preparation for the investigation. Grace stayed out of everyone’s way and wandered around the garden, lost in her own thoughts. It bothered her to know how Caroline felt regarding Ian, even if the woman wasn’t technically wrong.

  Ian had given up a respectable career as a chef to pursue ghost hunting. Most people would scoff at that. Hell, even she had made fun of him for his chosen profession when they’d first met. But he’d taken it in stride, because he knew the truth and had enough conviction to stand firmly behind it.

  Grace wished she felt the same; wished she could face the naysayers back in Chicago and boldly justify her decision. While she couldn’t deny the spirit world existed, she did feel the occasional doubt over her choices. She was a good surgeon; had it been the right choice to give that up? Or did Caroline and everyone else think she was a fool, too?

  She spotted Ian as he stepped out onto the back patio. They met eyes across the garden, and the sight of his smile sparked a yearning in her heart.

  She watched him approach, desperately wishing he could be enough. Maybe she would just have to start acting like it until it became reality.

  “Doing okay?” he asked, eyeing her in that intense, questioning way he had. She could tell he was worried about her.

  Great, she thought. He thinks I’m on the verge of another breakdown.

  She nodded. “What time are we leaving tomorrow?”

  “First thing in the morning.” He cupped her face in his hands, drawing her in for a slow, tender kiss. She exhaled slowly, feeling the tension in her shoulders fade. When he eased away, his smile was electric. “This investigation is going to be insane, Grace. If this location is half as active as the owner says it is, then we’re going to get some incredible evidence.”

  “That’s great.” Her hands trailed up his forearms, coming to rest at his wrists, keeping him close. “We should drag your mom along. Maybe then she’d start believing in ghosts.”

  He let out a cynical laugh. “Fat chance. I’ve never met a more stubborn skeptic. Except maybe you.”

  Her lips curved as one eyebrow arched. “You managed to convince me, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” he corrected. His hands fell and he led her back toward the house, one arm wrapped around her shoulders. “That was all Sally.”

  Grace leaned into him as they walked down the brick path, tears pricking her eyes. “I miss her.”

  “I know you do.”

  * * *

  After saying their goodbyes to Ian’s parents and Cassie, the team climbed into the black Great American Paranormal van. The sun had yet to rise, but a soft yellow glow to the east hinted its arrival. Grace yawned and settled into the passenger seat beside Ian, a thermos filled with coffee warming her hands.

  In the backseat, Alex kicked up his feet and went back to sleep, while Jackie stroked Gatsby’s fur with a melancholy look on her face.

  Grace twisted around, eyeing Jackie curiously. “Is everything okay?”

  Jackie gave a slow nod, but her eyes remained glassy and unseeing. Grace wondered if her friend was having some kind of vision when Jackie’s gaze solidly met her own.

  “I have a bad feeling about where we’re going,” she said softly.

  Grace’s brows furrowed. “Bad how?”

  Jackie released a long, unsteady breath. “Whatever awaits us is dangerous. It’s looking for someone to latch onto.”

  Real fear shivered through Grace at the thought. She turned back around, wishing she hadn’t asked.

  Ian reached for her hand and briefly met her eyes. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Doc.”

  She wanted to believe him, but the memory of Ray’s ghostly hands locked around her neck back at The Sparrow House flashed in her mind. There were certain dangers even Ian couldn’t save her from.

  Days later, they arrived in Georgia. Grace felt Ian nudge her awake, and saw him pointing to a sign announcing their approach to Savannah. She stretched her arms and yawned, a sense of anticipation coming over her as she stared out the window.

  They soon left the highway and entered the historic district, down a road lined with live oaks dripping with Spanish moss. Late-afternoon sunlight poured through the branches, giving the moss a hazy glow.

  Tall buildings flanked either side of the road, some made of rust-red brick and others of white plaster. Black shutters framed rows of picture windows, adding a stately charm to otherwise square structures.

  When they turned down a smaller street, then hooked a left, they came upon an estate house that seemed to jump out at her with its very presence.

  It rose three stories into the air and was made of solid brick. Unlike the surrounding buildings, the house was crafted in the Queen Anne style, with graceful curves and angles and an arched roof, all lined with decorative white trim. A grouping of Corinthian columns gathered around the front door, supported by a sweeping set of stairs that spilled onto the sidewalk.

  A hand-crafted sign above the entrance read, The Abby Ford House.

  Ian parked the van out front and cut the engine. He leaned over Grace to see out the window, then met her eyes with a grin.
/>   “This is it.”

  She fumbled with the seatbelt, eager to step outside and witness the house first hand. As she did, a cloud moved over the sun, drowning out the light.

  Ian and Alex shuffled around in the back of the van while Jackie came to stand beside Grace, Gatsby cradled in the hook of one of her arms. Her free hand slipped into Grace’s, squeezing gently.

  “What do you see?” Grace asked, a shiver passing over her that had little to do with the brisk autumn wind.

  Jackie stared up at the house for a long moment before speaking. “A darkness hangs over this place. I don’t know what’s causing it, but it feels evil.”

  Alex approached, carrying a video recorder in his hands. He gave Jackie a quick kiss on the cheek and ruffled Gatsby’s fur, then turned on the camera and began shooting footage of the house and surrounding street.

  “Ready to go inside?” Ian asked, nodding toward the house.

  They followed him up the front steps and into the home, which functioned as a popular bed and breakfast. An elderly man with tired eyes sat at a desk immediately to the right as they walked in. He glanced up at them, recognition passing over his face.

  “Thank God you’re here,” he mumbled in a deep, southern lilt, rising to his feet to shake Ian’s hand. He was balding, with wisps of gray and white hair around his head. He appeared unsteady, nervous. Maybe even a little frightened. “I’m Shep Barton. I own The Abby Ford House.”

  “Ian Black. This is Dr. Grace Sullivan, psychic medium Jackie Hart, and my partner Alex Gallagher is taking some footage of the outside. You’re okay with us filming while we’re here?”

  “Yes, of course.” Barton waved off the comment with a small smile. “Whatever it takes to set things right again. I just want whatever’s causing all this ruckus to get out. This may be America’s most haunted city, but this thing’s been bad for business.”

  Grace crossed her arms, sensing a chill. Jackie must have felt it, too, as she held Gatsby closer and gazed around the high-ceilinged parlor with eyes that perceived more than anyone else in the room. Just what she saw now, Grace couldn’t be sure. But whatever it was, it cast a heavy tension over everyone present.

  The walls of the parlor were covered in pale yellow wallpaper with subtle floral details, with mahogany trim and floor. The furniture was classy but looked comfortable and inviting; portraits of previous owners and famous guests decorated the walls.

  It certainly didn’t look haunted; but, then, Grace had learned in her year of investigating with Ian that things were rarely as safe as they appeared.

  Alex came in, camera tucked under his arm. He held out a hand to greet Barton. “Some place you got here.”

  Barton accepted the handshake with a nod as Alex went back to filming. “It was built in 1859 by the Ford family. They owned a cotton mill in town. It’s been passed down through the family ever since. My wife was the last heir to inherit it. She passed away a few years back.”

  “Our researcher mentioned that you’ve experienced paranormal activity here in the past. But it wasn’t like what’s happening now?” Ian asked, hands tucked into the pockets of his black jeans. Though Grace could sense his impatience to explore the house, he kept his focus on the interview at hand.

  “There was the occasional bump in the night, but nothing unfriendly,” Barton explained, shrugging it off. “It’s an old house; you expect some of that energy to linger. But whatever’s here now is plain evil.”

  “Do you have any idea on how it got here?”

  Barton shook his head. “I can’t say for sure. We get dozens of guests per week, people from all over the country. The world, even. Who knows what’s passed through these doors.”

  “Do you mind if I wander around a bit, Mr. Barton?” Jackie cut in, smiling politely.

  “Please.” Barton motioned for her to go ahead, then turned his attention back to Ian. “There’s no guests here this week so you can do your investigation. I had seven employees, now I only have four. They’re available to talk to you tomorrow.”

  “What happened to the other three employees?” Alex asked curiously.

  “Quit,” Barton grumbled, his voice heavy with guilt. “I suppose I don’t blame them.”

  Ian shifted his weight, looking uneasy. “We were told one suffered an injury to her hand?”

  “Stabbed herself with a kitchen knife,” Barton replied. “Never seen anything like it, and I’ve known the woman damn near twenty years. She says something made her do it, like she wasn’t in control of her own body at the time.”

  Grace caught Ian’s eyes, and she knew he was silently asking if she had any input from a medical perspective. She cleared her throat, facing Barton. “It’s possible this can be explained medically…genetic conditions like Huntington’s disease can lead to jerky, involuntary movements of the limbs, usually accompanied by behavioral changes like mood swings and acts of aggression. Have you noticed her acting strangely in any other scenario?”

  “Not at all. Except that she’s been terrified out of her wits since it happened.”

  “Understandable,” Grace nodded thoughtfully. “Has she ever experienced hallucinations in the past that you know of?”

  “No.” He sighed. “Believe me, the doctors checked her over thoroughly. They couldn’t find a damn thing wrong with her.”

  “Could we see the rest of the house?” Ian asked, gesturing toward the stairs.

  While Barton showed Ian and Alex around, Grace sought out Jackie. Her friend had wandered through a large seating area with a brick fireplace and historic furniture and into the dining room, where she stood silently in the doorway to the kitchen.

  Grace came up beside her. “You okay?”

  Jackie’s shoulders rose and fell on a long breath. “The air is thick in here; it’s difficult to breathe. My pulse is racing…”

  Gatsby growled at nothing in particular. The hairs on the back of Grace’s neck rose at the sound. “Do you see anything?”

  “I see the spirits Mr. Barton talked about, the ones who’ve been here a long time. There’s a man and a woman. Former slaves, I think. They’re frightened by this darkness I can’t seem to pinpoint—it’s hiding from me. Though I did catch a glimpse of a tall shadow figure out of the corner of my eye…”

  Grace shuddered involuntarily, rubbing her arms. “Maybe we should go outside. This place gives me the creeps.”

  Jackie offered her a sad smile. “Now you see why Mr. Barton looks so afraid.”

  “Yeah,” Grace sniffed cynically. “I can also see why he’s pissed. You couldn’t pay me a million dollars to sleep in this house.”

  Concern shadowed Jackie’s features. “I don’t see the little girl a witness claimed to hear, though. It makes me wonder if it was really a child at all.”

  Grace frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Jackie held Gatsby closer, rubbing her cheek against his soft tan and white fur. “It’s not uncommon for spirits and demons to trick the living into believing they’re something more innocent than they are.”

  “Wait, a demon?” Grace stammered, caught off guard. “Like, devil horns and cloven hooves kind of demon?”

  Ian and Alex entered the room, interrupting her question.

  “This place is insane,” Alex declared, an amazed grin on his face. “We did a quick EVP session on the third floor by one of the bedrooms and caught what sounded like a man screaming. I haven’t gotten chills like that in a long time.”

  Ian nodded. “Whatever it is, it’s strong and wants to make its presence known.”

  “Right, well, I’m gonna go get some air,” Grace decided, steering around the others toward the front door. They continued their discussion after she left, and she hated that part of her wished Ian would follow her. Hated that she needed him to.

  Once outside, the oppressive feeling she’d felt before lifted like a veil cast away by the wind. She sucked in a deep, filling breath, relieved.

  Sitting on the front steps, she rested her
arms on her knees and watched people walk by on the street, laughing and talking and enjoying the brisk autumn day. It was, as always, startling to her the way the world continued on like normal outside a haunted location. Regardless, she was grateful for the reprieve. There was only so much ghost stuff she could handle on any given day.

  The thought brought a question to her heart that couldn’t be shaken—was she even capable of belonging in Ian’s world? Was she strong enough, brave enough, to face it all without fear the way the others did?

  If the answer was no, then did she have any business standing by Ian’s side?

  * * *

  CHAPTER THREE

  Later that evening they checked into a nearby hotel. Though Grace was exhausted, the others were itching to get dinner and drinks and to discuss all they’d seen at The Abby Ford House. She tagged along, deciding a glass of wine wouldn’t hurt. She felt she’d earned one after spending even five minutes in that crazy house.

  The four of them walked down the street to a busy bar and grill that had a live band. The singer belted out a convincing cover of Chris Stapleton’s “Parachute,” and several people sang along on the outdoor patio, holding beers and cocktails in their hands.

  Ian lead the way inside, his hand entwined with Grace’s. She took in the atmosphere of the restaurant—outlaw country meets quirky hipster with deer heads on the concrete walls wearing mustaches and fedoras—and found herself amused by it. Her mood perked up even more as they found a bar table and ordered a round of drinks and some food.

  With a glass of wine in her hand, Grace felt the urge to smile for the first time that day.

  “Should we toast to something?” she asked, raising her glass.

  Ian lifted his beer and grinned. “To Savannah, the most haunted city in America.”

  Alex cheered with his glass of whiskey, and Jackie tapped her sangria to their drinks in turn.

  “It’s going to be a challenge, this location,” Jackie told them, attempting a smile. Grace could see the effort her friend put into it, though, and wondered if the darkness of the house was still affecting her.

  Alex reached for her hand on the table. “We like challenges. It gives us a chance to prove ourselves.”