Teag and I exchanged a glance. If it came to a fight, he and I had the skills and the weapons to do some damage. I hoped it wouldn’t get that far. “Do you think they heard me?”
Just then, the darkness rolled back like the tide, away from the rental car and back toward the edges of the lot. “Thank you,” I said. “We will find an answer.”
Hurry…
KELL HAD INVITED Teag and me to come out with his group and see the havoc the ghosts were causing, so here we were at the place everyone called the ‘murder house’.
The big white house on the outskirts of the city was stunning in its day. Teag and I had called up everything we could online. It didn’t take us long to find details. The Blake house was built in 1936, and the white-columned mansion was large and impressive. A brick and wrought iron fence faced the street, opening onto a long curved driveway. Even now, after years of neglect and vandalism, I could imagine what the old place must have looked like in its heyday.
“Given the nickname,” Teag said, “I guess restless ghosts aren’t surprising.”
Kell grinned. “Nobody’s surprised that the Blake house has ghosts. We’re surprised how much the ghosts have changed.”
I had the floor plan to the house in a pocket of my jacket. The Blake house had been on and off the market for a long time, so details were easy to find. Once I read the house’s history, it didn’t surprise me that the house hadn’t sold. Some stains don’t wash clean.
“I’m surprised the place is still standing,” I commented. The front door and the large French doors on the first floor were boarded up. Upstairs, some of the windows were broken and the rest were filthy. Knee-high weeds and overgrown bushes nearly hid the house from the road.
“Must have been amazing when it was built,” Kell said, looking up at the big home.
“I heard it had its own movie room, back in the 1930s.” Pete was a short, wiry ginger with the look of a welter-weight wrestler.
“I heard it had air conditioning, even way back then,” Calista added. She was rocking a goth librarian vibe, even dressed to explore.
Tarleton, as the Blakes called their new home, was once a showpiece. Magnolias flanked the wide front porch, an old live oak graced the front yard and there was a swimming pool in the back. The mansion was meant to impress.
“They bombed with the name,” Kell sniffed. “The only worse thing they could have called it would have been ‘Sherman’s Acres’.”
I couldn’t resist chuckling. Kell was right. Charleston has a long memory, and doesn’t forgive easily. Banastre Tarleton was a British general who laid siege to Charleston during the Revolutionary War and tried to burn Middleburg Plantation, a local historic treasure. That made him about as popular as Civil War General William Tecumseh Sherman, who burned his way through the South on his march to the sea. Folks are still a mite touchy about all that, even now.
“You ready to go in?” Drew, a tall skinny young man with black hair tied back in a ponytail looked around, bobbing up and down on his toes with nervous energy. “I don’t like standing around out here.”
“For all the bucks the Blakes sunk into this place, they didn’t live here long,” Teag observed.
We had found out a lot about Manfred and Bethanne Blake, and the information ranged from sad to sordid. The Blakes made their money selling automobiles and managed to hang onto it despite the Great Depression. They were new in Charleston and eager to earn a place in the local social register. That’s easier said than done.
Charleston’s old money families have been around since Blackbeard sailed the seas. They know each other, marry each other and see each other for golf and benefit dances. It’s clubby and close-knit, so breaking in to that crowd, even with a wad of cash, takes patience and finesse. The Blakes were short on those two traits. They didn’t even know that the natural habitat of Charleston blue-bloods is South of Broad Street. The Blakes were screwed before they ever set foot in their new dream house.
“Before we go in,” I said, rummaging in my messenger bag, “I have something for each of you.” I pulled out four agate necklaces and four smooth pieces of onyx, one for each of them. “And once we’re done, I have those charms to help calm down the ghosts that I promised we’d get for you,” I said to Kell. Teag patted his messenger bag.
“Take these,” I said, distributing the onyx and agate pieces to the team. Kell and Pete put their necklaces on immediately and tucked the loose piece of onyx into their pockets. Calista looked at the stones skeptically. Drew shoved his in his pocket without a second glance.
“What are they?” Calista asked, examining the stones in the moonlight.
“Agate and onyx are good for protective energy,” I said, and lifted my right hand to the necklace at my throat, while fluttering the fingers of my left hand to show my bracelet. Teag held up his hand to show a silver and onyx ring as well.
“Just for good measure, I had the pieces blessed by a Voudon mambo – and an Episcopalian priest,” I added. “They aren’t a bullet-proof vest, but they should have enough juice to make most ghosts want to give you some space.”Drew’s expression let me know he didn’t believe a word I said. Calista looked like she was debating the idea, then slipped the stone into her pocket and put on the necklace.
“You read about the murder?” Kell asked as we walked toward Tarleton. Long ago, when lights blazed through its windows and the grounds were manicured, it must have been a beautiful place. Now, the ruined home was silent and brooding.
“Yeah,” Teag replied. Houses have personalities. Some houses have a personality disorder, especially when the house is the site of a tragedy or horrific crime. Tarleton was one of them.
“It didn’t happen right away, did it?” I asked. “The Blakes owned the house for fifteen years, but they traveled a lot. Then he retired and they decided to get to know the neighbors.”
Kell nodded. “Fancy society dinner, lots of local big-wigs invited, caterers brought in from Columbia, even some famous movie stars were supposed to show up,” Teag continued. “Then everything went wrong in a big way.”
That was an understatement. The technical term is clusterfuck.
“The swing band from Atlanta that they booked didn’t show up. Claimed they got a telegram cancelling the gig,” Teag said.
“And then the movie stars backed out at the last minute,” I added. “The caterers came, so there was a mountain of expensive food, a full bar for a crowd of people, plus flowers and waiters. But two hours before the big event, the Blakes got one phone call after another from the guests expressing their regrets at not being able to attend.”
“In other words, after it was too late to get out of paying for all that food,” Teag said.
“Which is where the stories start to differ,” I jumped in. “Most accounts suggest that one of the Blakes’ guests was catty enough to sabotage the party by cancelling the entertainment and getting the other guests to accept and then back out.”
“Other people blamed it on a streak of bad luck. Maybe even a curse,” Teag added.
“And it went downhill from there,” I said. “It looks like Manfred Blake’s mistress picked that night to confront him, probably intending to make a scene at his fancy party. Instead, both of the Blakes were stinking drunk and mean as skunks, having a roaring fight over who was to blame. Bethanne shot the mistress, and then Manfred shot Bethanne and later, when he sobered up, put a bullet in his own head.”
“The house sat empty while the whole sordid story played out in the courts,” Kell said. “Relatives didn’t want the place, and neither did anyone else. It changed hands twice since the Blakes, both times to out-of-towners. Nobody stayed long.”
“The last buyer got the place at a fire sale price hoping the land might be worth something,” Teag said. “I don’t think the current owner ever meant to live in it.”
Kell nodded. “It’s been vacant for at least ten years, to the point where the cops threatened the owners if they didn’t keep the vandals
and the vagrants out.”
“Do we actually have permission to be here, or is this on the downlow?” I asked.
Kell grinned. “Actually, I’m friends with the real estate agent who got saddled with this place. He had some weird experiences out here, and asked us to look into it. So I’ve got the key to the back door and a note in my pocket giving us permission in case the cops come by.”
From the look of the place, the cops didn’t go out of their way to come around. The grand pillars were marred with graffiti, and the weeds around the front porch were littered with trash. I was glad I had worn hiking boots.
The back yard was worse. Old papers and plastic bags were strewn all over, along with the rusted remains of lawn furniture, and the burned remains of a broken picnic table. Two empty garage bays stood like eye sockets. Vandals had stripped the outside light fixtures. It was a shame to see a grand old house like this.
We all came armed with really big flashlights, and everyone had cans of pepper spray. Teag brought his staff, and I had the dog collar on my left wrist, my athame up my right sleeve where it could be in my hand with the flick of my wrist, and the agate Viking spindle whorl in my pocket. It amplified my power, and if Kell was right about the spirits being juiced up, then I wanted an edge of my own. I left Alard’s walking stick at home, because I didn’t think burning down the house would help.
“What’s that smell?” My nose wrinkled as the breeze brought a whiff of something dead.
Kell grimaced. “That’s the swimming pool, or what’s left of it,” he replied. “You can imagine – or maybe it’s better if you can’t. It’s full of rain water and debris, so it blooms with algae all summer and there’s no telling what kind of trash is in there. Perfect place to hide a body or two, if you ask me.”
Unfortunately, Kell probably wasn’t the only person who had ever thought of that. I had no desire to go closer.
“Where are the hot spots?” Teag asked. He was wearing his agimat and hamsa amulets, and the hand-made vest into which he and Mrs. Teller had woven magical protections. I was sure he had a few other surprises hidden away, just in case.
“Don’t worry. You can’t miss them,” Kell said with a nervous chuckle. He led us inside. No one spoke as we walked into the kitchen. What was left of the décor screamed 1980s. The appliances had been torn out and so had some of the custom-made cabinets. Dirt and mildew covered the tile floor. Kell played his light across the walls. It was a commercial kitchen designed for people with servants.
“According to the stories, the mistress, Karla Waters, came in through the kitchen,” Kell said. We followed him from the kitchen into the dining room. Even without furniture, I could imagine a grand banquet set with candles and crystal for guests who never came. Paint peeled from the walls, and the ceiling was discolored.
“She found the Blakes in the dining room, drunk and having a food fight,” Kell continued. “Bethanne Blake went after Karla with her nails and a dinner fork. But Karla had a gun.”
“So why didn’t Karla just shoot Bethanne?” I asked. Drew, Pete, and Calista had moved away from us, wandering the room with their ghost hunting equipment in hand. Drew had an EMF reader, looking for electro-magnetic frequency spikes. Pete wore a pair of smart-glasses that could capture video, and another small camera attached to his hat. Calista set out microphones and a tablet computer to run all her devices.
“No one knows,” Kell replied. “But the theory is that Karla came to speak her mind, and she wanted them both to hear her out. Don’t forget – she expected to show up when everyone would be on good behavior in front of the rich neighbors. I don’t think Karla ever expected two surly drunks.”
“So there was a struggle,” I filled in. Kell nodded. “And the gun went off when it was pointed at Karla. End of mistress.”
“Yep,” Kell confirmed. He led us out of the dining room into a dilapidated grand foyer. Overhead, a huge crystal chandelier hung amid layers of cobwebs.
“Problem was, Manfred Blake was fond of Karla, in fact, fonder than he was of Bethanne,” Kell said. “When the police got here, it looked like a war zone. Ming vases shattered. Bullet holes in the walls. Apparently the Blakes threw everything they could pick up and heave at each other, with some shooting in between.”
“And when the dust settled, Bethanne was dead, too, with a hole in her chest,” Teag supplied.
“Uh huh. So Manfred Blake goes and finishes off a bottle of his best whiskey and eats more of the party food and falls asleep in a drunken stupor,” Kell said. “And when he remembered what had happened, he went out to the garage, put his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. That was the end of the Blakes’ assault on Charleston society.”
My footsteps echoed as I walked slowly around the perimeter of the foyer. It didn’t take much psychic wattage to know bad energy had never left Tarleton. I wondered if the people who had purchased the house had actually visited it, or just taken a broker’s word for its condition. Anyone with the paranormal sensitivity of a turnip could have felt the resonance. Anger. Jealousy. Betrayal. Shame.
“Out of curiosity,” I asked, “did anyone ever find out who cancelled the entertainment?”
Kell shook his head. “No. But if you get some of the old guard talking – and liquored up with good Glenfiddich – the name Lillian Heath comes up.”
The Heath family was Charleston royalty. They were the equivalent of the Mayflower settlers for the Holy City, and they had done well for themselves. Sorren had hinted on more than one occasion it was because the women in the family were witches who had an edge when it came to financial investment. Because of their blue blood, wealth, and social position, the Heaths would be formidable enemies. Even now, a word from the current Heath brothers could make or break business ventures, and their wives were equally influential. Lillian Heath would have been the Heath brothers’ grandmother.
“What do you know about the other owners?” I asked as we climbed the broad, curving staircase. The carpet was mildewed and rotting. Grime covered the carved teak balustrade.
“The first couple talked about making it a bed and breakfast,” Kell said as he led us up the stairs. “But there were problems from the start.”
We all gathered at the top of the stairs overlooking the foyer. For just a second, I could see the foyer as it had been in Tarleton’s heyday. When I blinked, the vision was gone, but it was far too detailed and real to have just been my imagination. I removed my hand from the railing and promised myself I wasn’t going to touch anything else. Hell, this place was so haunted I was picking up the resonance through the soles of my shoes.
“What kind of problems?” Teag asked. The upstairs hallway stretched into darkness to my left, with closed doors all the way down. A shorter hallway ended in a few steps up and a closed door.
“Lights that went on and off on their own,” Kell replied. “Cold spots. Foggy windows. Drafts even when doors were shut. Strange noises.”
“Did these people not watch any horror movies?” I asked. “Those aren’t construction issues. Those are exorcist issues.”
Kell shrugged. “Not everyone believes,” he replied. “So the first new owners sank a lot of money into trying to fix the place. Then the wife had a nervous breakdown and ended up in a psychiatric hospital because she was hearing voices.”
“And the husband?” Teag asked.
“A series of business failures ruined him financially. A year later, he shot himself.”
“Score two for the house,” I muttered.
Kell led us down the long hallway. “What’s in the other direction?” Teag asked.
“Those stairs go to the attic,” Kell replied. “The house has a full attic and full basement, plus a detached garage. It’s cavernous.”
“And your group has been everywhere?” I asked.
Kell gave a bark of a laugh. “No. We never get that far.”
I looked down the dark hallway. “What’s down here?” I asked.
“Bedrooms,” Kell
replied. “All but one of them are ‘hot’, supernaturally.” He stopped at the first room and opened the door. The furniture was gone, but draperies still hung forlornly from rods above the filthy windows. It was easy to tell where pictures once hung because of the rectangular spots on the wallpaper.
“We think this was the master bedroom,” Kell said.
An overwhelming sadness came over me, along with a seething rage that I knew was not my own. Instinctively, I backed up toward the doorway. “I can’t imagine trying to spend the night in there,” I murmured.
“We’ve spotted a woman’s ghost by the windows,” Kell reported. “This is also one of the rooms that the new owners had problems heating.”
It was cold as a freezer. “Let’s keep going,” I urged, running my hands up and down my arms. I clasped one hand around the agate necklace, and the coldness receded.
“This next room might have been a guest room,” Kell continued as we moved down the hallway. Faint moonlight straggled into the corridor from the windows. “We haven’t seen as much supernatural activity in it.”
“How soon did the house sell after the first owners lived here?” Teag asked. I noticed that he touched the agimat charm that hung around his neck.
“The house sat vacant but maintained for about ten years,” Kell replied. “A caretaker visited occasionally to check on things. Apparently, they needed a new caretaker just about every year. No one wanted to stick around.”
“I’m getting some weird jumps in the EMF readings,” Drew said, turning in a slow one-eighty from just inside the doorway. None of Kell’s team ventured far from the group upstairs.
“I’m getting some weird flashes in the photo stream,” Pete said. His wearable technology gave him a slightly unfocused expression as he looked at and not through his lenses. “The camera snaps shots every twenty seconds, and I see them on my glasses. It’s picking up sparkly things in the air that we’re not seeing live.”
Vendetta (Deadly Curiosities Book 2) Page 12