“Yes m– ah.” What the hell else was I supposed to say? “Yes, Ms. Catherine.” Eighteen years of growing up in the South screamed against me calling a woman old enough to be my mother by her first name. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to start now, even if there was a “Ms.” in front of it.
“Good.” Her smile was back in a flash. “Now. The kitchen staff have all but taken over the carriage house, so I’m putting you upstairs. There’s no objection, I take it?”
Ms. Eyre’s offer caught me by surprise. “No, ma–.” I bit my tongue and took a breath. “No, Ms. Catherine. Thank you.”
She eyeballed me, the laugh she obviously held back fairly making her mouth twitch.
“This way.”
Ms. Eyre—Ms. Catherine—walked through the halls with me at her heels. I couldn’t help but stare at Eyre House as we went. We passed a fairly large dining room with dark wood floors and the kitchen on the other side. The walls were all white, I realized, and it added a nice bright feel to the building that belied the dimmer and more worn staff areas. I didn’t want to say dingy, but they needed a new coat of paint something fierce. The whole house screamed old. The way the floor creaked under our feet, the detail in the doorways and windows. The closeness, and the tall ceilings. The chandeliers and carved crown molding and long elegant bannisters that were worn smooth with all the hands that had touched them. I shook my head slightly and wondered again how I’d ended up here. Another part of me wondered what it would’ve been like to grow up here.
We walked together up what I guessed was the back staircase—judging by its closeness to the kitchen and general lack of fanciness—past the second floor, and onto a third floor with a comfortable hall that I guess hosted the servants’ rooms back in the day. The wood floor creaked a lot more up here, and the thunder sounded much closer.
“This section is family and staff. My bedroom is across the hall over there, and my daughter’s is there. A few of the other staff have rooms here and here. And this one,” she added, turning a doorknob, “is yours.”
The door opened onto a room bigger than any I’d ever had before. Which wasn’t really saying a lot, but still.
Ms. Catherine must’ve seen me staring. “We remodeled years ago, combined a number of the servant rooms so they were bigger. Now, get yourself cleaned up and dry, and come back down to the kitchen.”
I nodded, still gaping at the room. “Yes, ma’am.”
I stared at the light blue walls of my new room and wondered. New rooms weren’t exactly new territory for me. Rooms this nice were. The nautical-themed bed wasn’t some cheap twin. It was a queen-size, and, judging by the height, looked like it had one of those extra-tall mattresses with the additional cushioning. It also looked like I might actually fit on it. At six feet and a little, that didn’t happen often. And the room wasn’t even crowded by the larger bed. My backpack and duffle bag looked a little forlorn sitting in the big closet by themselves. I’d never had a closet big enough to walk inside, before.
The window to the right of my bed was new. No surprise there. Ambiance is one thing, but horribly drafty hundred-year-old windows in hurricane country was just asking for trouble, and constant expense. The slightly warped frame though—that was original. Complete with deep grooves in the grain of the wood. It matched the slightly warped floorboards beneath my feet.
No overhead light. The walls had sconces, instead, that made the light paler. Ambiance, there. Made the room look older. It was probably just easier to do it that way, since a lot of places like this had been old enough to have had gas lighting way back when. Electric in these old houses was messed up, and keeping them on the historical register was tough. I’d heard, anyway.
A huge part of me wanted to sink into the bed and just fall asleep. But a glance at the bathroom reminded me I was still soaking wet, and the thought of a hot shower seemed like heaven about now. Then my stomach growled, loud enough that I knew going to bed without food wasn’t an option.
I grabbed my bags and started pulling things out. The lights dimmed again, almost browning out as the thunder echoed around the house. Slithering, scratching sounds rasped through the walls and ceiling. I made a mental note to ask about the attic and rats, and tried to ignore the noise and focus on my things. My battered copy of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. The picture of seven-year-old me and my first foster sister. The leather-strung shark tooth my best friend Jake had given me before he’d moved away to Colorado. Lucky bastard got adopted. The original half-broken badge to my 1947 Indian Chief. My whole life spread out on the top of a too-fancy dresser in a too-fancy room in a too-fancy bed and breakfast on a too-fancy island.
None of it fit. Just like me. But right now, I didn’t really care. I was cold, wet, tired and hungry, and wanted to be warm, dry and fed. And I wanted to sleep for about a week.
I grabbed some dry clothes, grateful my bags had held up to the rain and my near-miss crash, and headed for the comfort of hot, streaming water. The bathroom the lights flickered again as I dropped my wet shirt in the corner. I paused at the mirror long enough to examine my side. The skin beneath the black fingers of the tattoo that twisted across my back and around my side and arm already had a purplish color to it. Fortunately, it only felt like a bruise. Broken ribs’d be hell to start work with. I shook my head, knowing I’d just stepped into another world, and cranked up the hot water.
The shower felt good. Dry clothes felt even better. I wandered downstairs in a clean shirt and jeans, my stomach growling like a mongrel pup at the smell of food. True to her word, Ms. Catherine had set food aside for me. And not just any food, but a spicy smelling homemade gumbo. The same scent that had greeted me at the door spilled out into the hall to permeate the house. The few kitchen staff were happy to let me eat with them and the wait-staff. They introduced themselves around, names I forgot instantly because there were too many, and we talked about where each of us was from while I shoveled shrimp and rice and vegetables in my mouth. Seemed as though most of them had been there for years.
Ms. Catherine drifted back in as I was finishing up a handful of benne seed cookies, reclaiming me from the others. She crooked her finger, and I followed her back into the hall.
“Now, I have plenty of work for you come tomorrow, but I don’t want you to worry about any of it until then. Tom’s moved your bike into the garage, but let me know if you need time to work on it. He said it sounded like something was loose.”
I rubbed at the back of my neck. “Yeah, it died on me about two miles out.”
“Really, darlin’, why ever didn’t you call? I could have sent Tom out to pick you up.”
“It wasn’t exactly the first impression I was hoping to make.”
Ms. Catherine laughed. “Pride goeth before a fall, honey. But I understand. Still, if it ever happens again, I expect you to pick up a phone.”
I gave a chagrined look. “Yes ma’am.”
“Evan.”
I sighed. “Ms. Catherine.”
“That’s better. Now, if you’ve eaten enough, go get some sleep. I’ll give you the grand tour and fill you in on everythin’ tomorrow.”
She turned away, leaving me standing at the bottom of the back stairs. I shook my head and went up. This place seemed unnatural. Too nice. Miles from the life I’d grown up with, and I wasn’t sure how to react. The fact that I was dog-ass tired from the day sure as hell didn’t help.
I pulled off my shirt and jeans without bothering with the light. The storm still blew outside, lightning cutting jagged ridges and streaks across the sky. The house and the trees groaned in the wind. I glanced out the window as I climbed in bed, watching the white fingers as they stuttered across the sky. The Spanish moss hung heavy in the rain, but the wind still blew it through the oaks like heavy green ghosts.
I was just about to glance away when a big black shape caught my eye. The same big black shape I’d swerved to miss on the bridge. My heart hammered as I jumped off the mattress and over to the window, just as
a long, low howl joined the thunder.
But when the lightning struck again, all I saw were trees.
Chapter Two
I woke up to find Edisto Island fogged in. The storm last night had worn itself out, but it seemed like the ocean was laying its own claim today. Late May meant it could easily burn itself off later. Still, this batch didn’t look like it was going anywhere. There was an ocean-bound chill to it that said it was likely to be around all day, soaking everything with the scent of salt and marsh and wet.
The kitchen, on the other hand, was warm and bustling. The cook happily reintroduced herself as Mrs. Millcote as she shoved a plate stacked with warm bread, eggs, sausage and a bowl of breakfast shrimp and grits at me. I smiled and shook my head as she shooed me over to the table in the back where a few other staff lingered. I hadn’t eaten this well in a long time. Ever, maybe.
“You must be the kid with the bike that wandered in out of the storm last night.” The guy next to me folded his newspaper and tossed it on the table, sticking out his dark brown hand before I even had a chance to sit down. Super short hair, eyes that matched his dark skin, probably early twenties. He had an easy grin, though, in a wide mouth that looked like it laughed a lot. “I’m Tom. I do the drivin’ around here. Tours, airport runs n’ such.”
“Ah. You’re Tom.” I shook his hand and sat. “Evan. Thanks for taking my bike inside last night.”
“Sure. You’ve got a real classic there. You don’t see many of them old Indian bikes ‘round much.”
I nodded, my mouth too full of shrimp and buttery grits to respond.
“So what’s got you out on the island for the summer?”
I swallowed. “Just work.”
Tom laughed. “Well, there’s enough of that to go ‘round. Not here for the ghosts?”
I stuffed another forkful of eggs in my mouth and raised an eyebrow. Tom grinned while I chewed. “Ghosts?”
“Come on now—don’t play like you don’t know.”
I shook my head. “Haven’t got a clue.”
Tom slapped my shoulder. “Hoo boy, are you in for the summer of your life. This whole place is haunted! That’s the big attraction of a place like this.” He leaned forward. “History.”
“And here I thought it was the beach and the quiet.”
He laughed. “Well, there’s that too, but we have a very specific group of guests that come for the ghosts. And boy, do we have ghosts.”
I rolled my eyes. Every town on the East Coast that had been around before the twentieth century swore they had ghosts. Charleston was full of them, if people were to be believed. I’d been on the ghost tours. They were fun, but nothing special.
“I’m not funnin’ you, boy! This is one of the oldest standin’ plantations on the island. It’s full of ghost stories and wanderin’ spirits that’ll raise your hackles.”
I shook my head and mopped up my plate with my last bite of Mrs. Millcote’s bread. “All right, I’ll bite. Got any stories about big black dogs that appear in storms on the Dawhoo bridge?”
Tom’s face froze. “That what happened to you last night?”
I grimaced. I hadn’t thought he’d take me seriously. “I just hydroplaned is all. It was a hell of a storm.”
“Yeah, it was. But the dog…”
“Don’t tell me there is actually some bullshit story about a big black dog.”
“Black dogs are some of the oldest ghost stories in the world, sweetie.” I turned, startled at the sound of Ms. Eyre’s voice. “They’re supposed to herald death.”
I turned ‘round in my chair. Ms. Eyre stood in the door, grinning. “Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t actually see one, then.” No way I did. Ghosts and phantom dogs weren’t real.
“A very good thing. I can’t afford to lose another caretaker this summer. The season’s only just startin’. Did you get enough breakfast?”
“Yes ma’am.”
She glared at me.
“Ms. Catherine.”
Her face softened into a smile again. “Good. Now—”
She was interrupted by an angry scream from Mrs. Millcote, and an even angrier sound from the dishwasher.
Ms. Catherine raised her eyebrow and then turned back to me. “Looks like I have your first job, sugar. See what you can do with that, will you, hon?”
I nodded as she walked away. Tom slapped me on the shoulder in passing. “I’ll catch up with you later. Got all kinds of stories to tell you about this place.”
Afternoon found me acquainting myself with the garage, and staring at the scratches on my bike. The fog hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it had gotten heavier and wetter, closing in around the house and the island. Surrounded by the salty smell of the pluff mud and the shrill sound of very happy tree frogs, I could almost believe Tom’s ghost stories.
Staring at my bike, I definitely could.
The smart part of my brain told me it must have been some trick of the light, that the black shape I’d seen had to be nothing more than a mix of raw animal tiredness and burnt out afterimages from the storm.
Still, I jumped when a hand slapped my back. Tom’s laugh made me feel like an idiot.
“Fog’s messin’ with your head, isn’t it? Love that about this place.”
I glared at him. “You and your damn ghost stories.”
“They’re not my stories. They belong to Eyre House and the island, the Edisto Indians, the Gullah, the Spanish pirates, and every war up to the twentieth century. We’ve got history you wouldn’t believe, and ghosts to go along with it. Hell, the Eyre family alone has enough to make your hair stand on end.”
I wasn’t about to mention that it already was. I tried to ignore him while I worked on my bike, but he just pulled up a chair and kept on talking.
“There’s even a ghost from this generation, y’know.”
I sighed. “All right, fine. You’re obviously dying to tell me.” I didn’t even have to look at him to know he was grinning from ear to ear.
“You remember how I told you this morning that this was one of the oldest plantations on the island?”
I nodded, only half paying attention. Aside from the scratches, the repairs to my bike didn’t look too bad.
“Well, this place has ruins running all over it. Not that you’d know to look at it. But only a few of the old buildings survived, and there’s this whole network of cellars and rooms from the old outbuildings and such. When Ms. Catherine’s kids were young—”
I looked up. “Ms. Catherine has kids?” I vaguely remembered her saying something about a daughter, but she didn’t seem like someone with multiple kids.
Tom grinned even wider. “Her daughter Ginny is a freshman at UNC. She’s a former Ashley Prep student, like most of the other girls on the island. Watch out for her.”
I turned back to my bike with a wince. An Ashley Prep girl, even a former one, was the last thing I needed to deal with. I’d had the occasional run-in with her kind before. Stuck-up, privileged snobs, all of them. “You said kids.”
“Yeah, well.” He hesitated, and it made me look up. His grin kinda half-slid off his face.
“Look, Tom…”
“Nah, you should know. Her brother Jaime was a cool kid. Always gettin’ in trouble, those two.”
“You knew him?”
“Yeah. I grew up around here. My family has a place on the north side of the island, even though they’re hardly here anymore. Anyway, this’d be ten years or so ago, when the twins were seven or eight, and before Old Man Eyre died.
“A lot of the ruins were open, and Old Man Eyre—that’s Ms. Catherine’s daddy—he’d spent years closing them up. He didn’t want to fill them in because of their historical value, so he’d basically been puttin’ a roof on all of ‘em. Was just about finished, too.”
“Let me guess. The two of them got lost down there.”
“You’d think, wouldn’t you? But that wasn’t at all how it went down. Jaime fell into a whole new set nobody’d even
known about. The two of them had been runnin’ around clear on the far end of the property, and I hear tell the ground just opened up ‘neath his feet. And Ginny, well she screamed until she lost her voice, but nobody heard her.”
He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. I waited, curious despite myself.
“Why didn’t she just go for help?”
“She was a kid. She didn’t want to leave her twin brother. He was hurt, and they were both crying.”
I grunted and stared at the innards of my bike. I guess that should’ve made sense, but I’d never really been close enough to anyone to have felt that. “So what happened?”
“They didn’t find ‘em until after dark, and even then they almost didn’t. Ginny was draped over the side of the hole, her pretty little dress all covered in mud, and her arm as far in as she could reach without falling. Poor little Jaime was dead. He’d shattered his leg clean through the skin and smashed his head. The doctors said he’d probably been dead for a few hours, by then.”
“And Ginny?” I couldn’t help myself now. He had me sucked into the story.
“She was in the hospital for a week. Exposure, shock, all that. It was ugly. She didn’t make a single sound for a year. It was a bad for everyone. Old Man Eyre filled in the ruins Jaime died in, and finished coverin’ the rest. Ms. Catherine got divorced.”
“What made her start talking again? Ginny, I mean.”
Tom shrugged. “Old Man Eyre died a bit later, but he closeted himself up with her before he passed. Dunno what he said, but she started talkin’ again after that. She just wasn’t ever the same.”
“I bet.”
“Don’t get me wrong, now. She’s a great person, and we all love her. But she carries Jaime’s ghost around with her, I think.”
“So why did you say I should watch out for her?”
Tom cocked his head and gave me an appraising look. “How old are you, Evan?”
“Eighteen.”
“About the same age as her, then. Yeah, definitely watch out. Ginny Eyre goes through guys like tissue. She don’t take no for an answer, and she’ll rip your heart out when she’s through. I think Jaime’s death cut such a big hole in her, she doesn’t know how to fill it.”
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