Ghost Town (The Ghost Files Book 6)

by Chanel Smith

  “Pardon me, come inside, you must be burning up.” He had noticed that I was wiping the perspiration from my face.

  The moment we stepped through the doors into the restaurant, I, again, felt the sweet relief of air conditioning and reached into my jacket pocket for a handkerchief. Dabbing at the moisture, I was finally beginning to feel dry, except in the places that seemed to retain the most heat: my pits and my crotch. At least I was wearing cotton. Ignoring Ellen’s disapproving stare, I removed my jacket and allowed the cool air to reach the pits. I did restrain myself from allowing my crotch the same relief and kept my pants on.

  “We are a combination restaurant and event center,” Jean explained. “The mansion actually dates back to the mid-eighteenth century; before the revolution, actually. Whether it was built up on this little rise or the rise had been here and taken advantage of, is uncertain; however, this house has withstood plenty of hurricanes in its time, including Katrina. It was pretty beat up when we took it over, but we’ve managed to get it looking presentable, at least in the parts that we are using for business.”

  We were led through the main hall with the pair of circular staircases arching downward toward the entryway, past a dining room and into a small parlor with late eighteenth century French furniture and the ornate, gold finishes that were typical of the Victorian era and before.

  “Please, make yourselves comfortable.” He motioned toward one of the sofas.

  We sat, taking in the décor and getting a sense of our surroundings. There was no doubt that Jean LaBeaux had paid a pretty penny for the mansion, but he’d spent another fortune making it presentable enough to open for business.

  “We opened last Saturday, or at least we attempted to,” he said. His expression changed to a very uncomfortable one. Though New Orleans had plenty of ghost stories, LaBeaux wasn’t all that comfortable admitting that his restaurant had a ghost problem. “Our kitchen and dining room took significant damage from some unknown entity and our guests were terrified out of their minds. Some of the other restaurants in town might brag about their haunting, but the violence and destruction that we experienced here was far beyond charming.”

  “Was anyone harmed?” Ellen asked.

  “Perhaps some bruises and maybe a scalding from a boiling pot in the kitchen, but otherwise, most of the damage was to china and crystal.”

  “Did anyone see anything or hear anything?”

  “All that anyone saw were dishes flying in the main dining room and then right afterward, some pots and pans being hurled through the air in the kitchen. The band packed up their stuff and left with an oath that hell would freeze over before they came back here. It’s kind of hard to have the atmosphere that we were aiming for without a band. Luckily, New Orleans is the home of jazz and we were able to find another one. I was just helping them get set up when you arrived.”

  “Did anyone have any problems during the remodel? You know, like hammers going missing or flying through the air, et cetera?” Ellen asked.

  “Not a single incident until opening night. Anyway, we’re going to give it another go tonight. Relax for a while and then come to dinner. There is a small apartment adjoining the parlor and it has a modern bathroom if you would like to freshen up. I need to get back to the kitchen and make sure things are ready.”

  Chapter Three

  Our gear and luggage had been brought in while we were waiting for dinner and we were led into the adjoining apartment along with our things.

  We took advantage of the time to freshen up and try to begin to acclimate ourselves to our surroundings. I stripped, took a shower and then dressed much more casually than Ellen approved of, but I wasn’t changing. As far as I was concerned, only an idiot would wear a suit jacket in such suffocating heat. I longed for my shorts and cotton golf shirts.

  “So, our ghost was quite content with the remodel, but not at all happy when the guests arrived,” I commented once I was more comfortable. “What do you make of that?”

  “I can’t be sure until I’ve had a chance to get a better feel for things and maybe have a chance to talk to the spirit himself.”

  “Are you picking up any paranormal energy?”

  “Not at the moment. With the air conditioning, it creates sort of an artificial cooling environment that doesn’t help when it comes to trying to detect distinctions in the cold. We’ll probably have to rely more on your equipment for the time being until I become better in tune with the house.”

  “If I find the cold spot where ghosts are hanging out, I’m staying with them, I guarantee.” The last part of the statement was my best impersonation of Justin Wilson. Ellen hardly acknowledged the effort. Disappointed with her cold shoulder and restless to be doing something, I dug out my equipment and turned it on. “I think I’ll go take a little stroll. When do you want to go to dinner?”

  “I don’t know. Whenever you get back, I’d guess.”

  Ellen was still pretty tired from all of the flying that we’d done in the past few days. Truthfully, I was too, but I was a little too stirred up to be taking a nap and during daylight hours, they tended to make me groggy. I was better off to keep moving and finding something to do. With the EMF in my hands, I started wandering around the apartment and then out into the parlor and into the hallway beyond. The needle on the Trifield meter flickered a little bit, letting me know that it was picking up the normal magnetic, radio and electrical anomalies that were always present in the atmosphere but, for the most part, it had stayed quiet; it definitely wasn’t jumping around and acting crazy like it did whenever we were close to a paranormal anomaly.

  I wandered through a number of smaller, private dining rooms, up and down the halls and in and out of the bathrooms on the first floor. When I arrived in front of the kitchen door, I hesitated. With the chaotic activity that was taking place in the kitchen, it seemed like it might be safer to skip it for the time being and I started toward the main entrance and the grand staircase that I had seen earlier.

  The entryway was beginning to become a great deal more active as I noted through the tall windows that night had fallen and guests were beginning to arrive for dinner. Though their dress was not exactly formal, it was obvious that Madame LaRue’s Restaurant catered to a higher class than your average restaurant. Trying to remain inconspicuous with my rather odd device, I waited until there was a break in the arrival of guests before strolling up the arching staircase to the second floor.

  At the top of the staircase, I discovered a much larger dining room that was dotted with guests and waiters who were dispensing drinks and appetizers – hors’ d’oeuvres, I corrected myself; we were in an area that spoke a great deal of French. At one end of the dining room was a stage with a standup base, a piano and several brass instruments on their stands next to microphones. The guests would be treated to some jazz as they dined.

  I had turned from the dining room and was starting to go down one of the hallways, thinking it was better not to stir up the guests with my Ghostbusters meter in my hands when Ellen, looking refreshed, arrived at the top of the landing.

  “You look well-rested. Ready for dinner?”

  “I’m feeling a little better, actually,” she replied. “Seen anything odd yet?”

  “Just the normal flickers. A beautiful house that has been well-restored. I was afraid to go into the kitchen, but I’m beginning to think that strolling around with this thing might not be a good idea right now.”

  “You’re probably right. Just put it away for now and let’s go enjoy dinner.”

  I had a shoulder bag that had some of my other equipment with me and I folded in the antenna and stowed the EMF inside of it. Then, I entered the main dining room alongside Ellen.

  The band had come onto the stage by the time we were seated and were fumbling around with their equipment and settling themselves in to begin playing. They began with lighter tunes of what is commonly referred to as smooth jazz. It was perfect for dining music, creating an atmosphere in the back
ground that set diners at ease, made them tap their toes a little bit, but still allowed for conversation.

  The hors’ d’oeuvres consisted of bourbon glazed shrimp wrapped in bacon, fried hush puppies with curried honey-mustard sauce and an assortment of gourmet crackers with a crawfish spread that was to die for. Not much of a wine drinker, I asked for a bourbon on ice to sip on as we warmed up our palates to a new set of flavors that took away all memories of the rather bland food that we’d consumed in London.

  Once we had polished off the last of the hush puppies and shrimp, the plates were swept away and replaced with a shrimp and okra gumbo and then a tossed salad of lettuce, grapes, carrot shavings and walnuts and topped with goat cheese and an orange vinaigrette.

  The main course was no less dazzling. It included a choice of either speckled trout with crawfish stuffing and a white wine sauce or a braised chicken breast with pecan sweet potatoes and a golden raisin port sauce. As was our custom, Ellen selected one and I the other; that way, we each got to sample both dishes.

  I was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable from the enormous amount of food that I had consumed up until that point and was pretty certain that I would not be able to eat another bite when the dessert tray arrived. I simply could not turn down the crème brûlée with chocolate praline, which I allowed Ellen to sample, but polished off without any difficulty and ended up eating most of Ellen’s mint chocolate pot de crème. To say the least, when I sat back to sip the strong, dark, Creole coffee to finish the meal, I was stuffed to the gills.

  I noted that many of the diners were in a similar condition as myself and there were uncomfortable stirrings around the room. The band, either sensing the change of atmosphere or having been instructed to do so, suddenly burst into a louder and much livelier number, the brass taking over and the mellower instruments taking a secondary role.

  With my toes beginning to tap and my fingers tempted to start drumming on the table in front of me, the band was halfway through the number when all hell broke loose. In a long stream from one end of the dining room to the other, plates, crystal, cups, silverware and other eating utensils began flying through the air and smashing into the walls or simply shattering as they hit the floor.

  Seeing the commotion, people began scurrying away from their tables and toward the entrance. When the band became the target of a barrage of dishes, they dropped their instruments and scattered from the stage, mingling with the departing guests. Though startled by the sudden change of atmosphere, Ellen and I remained seated and observed what was taking place. There was no doubt that our spirit had arrived for dinner.

  Instantly, I had the EMF in my hands and Ellen was working her way toward the stage. We’d seen nothing up to that point, but I trusted Ellen’s instincts; she was like a Brittany Spaniel on the scent of a pheasant when it came to detecting ghosts. I followed behind her with the needle on my EMF going nuts.

  As the noise in the dining room began to die down, we followed Ellen’s senses and the EMF machine toward the serving area adjacent to the upstairs dining room. Though no dishes were flying in the area, the paranormal entity had to be in that room, because I was getting readings that were off the charts. I whipped out my thermometer and noticed that there was a definite chill, even beyond the air conditioning in the room.

  It was only moments, before Ellen started zeroing in on something in one of the corners.

  “We’re here to help you.” She spoke in an even tone as she moved slowly toward the corner. “He’s very agitated,” she muttered aside to me. “I’m not sure that he’s going to allow us to communicate with him.”

  I never understood how she immediately knew the sexes of the spirits, but in all of the time we had been working cases together, she had never been wrong.

  “What is it that you want or need?” she said, still focused toward the corner of the room.

  I stood perfectly still, glancing at the needles on the EMF and keeping an eye on Ellen.

  “Duck!” she shouted suddenly.

  I reacted quickly and was barely grazed by a stainless steel warming tray as it came sailing toward me. An instant behind it, the opening and closing of the dumbwaiter announced that our spirit had left the room.

  “Come on,” Ellen said, pulling me to my feet. “Let’s go down to the kitchen.”

  Chapter Four

  The sounds of pots and pans being hurled about in the kitchen had begun to assail our ears long before we arrived in the kitchen. It was nearly deserted except for one cowering bus boy trying to hide between the dishwasher and walk-in cooler.

  Again, Ellen had the spirit located in the corner next to a large, empty (thank God) gumbo pot. “We only want to help you,” Ellen pleaded. The bus boy scrambled out of his hiding place and retreated to wherever the rest of the kitchen staff had gone to. They’d seen it a few days before, but they hadn’t yet gotten used to a ghost throwing things in the kitchen.

  The chaos that was taking place in the entryway as guests were asking for their cars and ready to run off into the swamp if need be was continuing, but I kept my eyes focused on the corner where Ellen was focused. I wasn’t going to catch that large pot upside my head. I dabbed at the place where the tray had grazed me before and drew back a small smear of blood. It wasn’t bad, but I could imagine the damage that might have been done if I hadn’t ducked.

  “He’s still agitated, but he seems to be getting calmer,” Ellen informed me. “I don’t see him yet, but I can feel his presence. It’s probably the lights that are making it hard to see him.”

  “The needles on the EMF are going nuts.” I responded. “He’s about as strong as any that we’ve dealt with so far.”

  “It’s his anger level,” she answered.

  We’d noticed before that the anger level greatly affected the readings. Not allowing my eyes to leave the large pot in the corner, I reached for the thermometer and held it up for a quick glance. “Much, much cooler too.” High energy and freezing cold didn’t seem to track together in most physiological cases; the contrast was purely paranormal. Typically, high energy meant heat. It often made me wonder if our physical world and the paranormal world weren’t separated by a mirror.

  “Why are you angry?” Ellen asked. “If you will talk to me, I can help you.”

  A high pitched scream was her response.

  “No. No. Don’t do it! Duck!” Ellen shouted again.

  I was ready that time and the pot sailed harmlessly over my head and scattered another stack of pots and pans like a strike at a bowling alley. Immediately afterward, the outside door to the kitchen opened and shut.

  “I don’t think he wants to talk,” I mentioned to Ellen. “Maybe we should come back when he’s in a better mood.”

  “I have to break through to him, Monty,” she responded. “I can sense his anger is mixed with fear and confusion, but there is something else there. If I can get him to talk about that something else, then we might have a chance to help him.”

  “Is everyone okay in here?” LaBeaux had come rushing into the kitchen, hoping that there wasn’t another scalding like before, but only Ellen and I remained in the room. He looked at them with his wide eyes. “Did you see it?”

  “Not yet,” Ellen responded. “I did feel his energy and Monty recorded some extremely high readings. You have a very angry and agitated spirit here.”

  “Where is he now?” LaBeaux asked in a stage whisper. His eyes scanned the entire room.

  “He went out the back door,” I replied.

  “So he’s gone? You’ve already chased him out?”

  “That’s doubtful,” Ellen responded.

  “What’s out back?” I asked. I knew that we were going out there anyway. I knew Ellen. She was like a bulldog once she got her teeth into something.

  “A lawn, a couple of sheds, some flower gardens, a boat house and dock.”

  “Well, we are going out there. I’m pretty sure your spirit hasn’t left yet.” Ellen started toward the door.
/>   “Are you certain of that?” Jean asked.

  “She’s certain,” I commented as I turned to follow her.

  “Very well, then. I’ll uh, just tend to my guests, and let you do your job,” he called after us as we opened the door.

  “That’s a pretty good idea,” I responded, turning in the doorway to give him a smile and a half-assed salute. “We’ll take care of it.”

  Once outside, we could see the lawn stretching off toward what looked like a large, dark pond. The moon was reflecting off of it, casting an eerie glow in the night as the shadows of the trees along the edge of the swamp closed in around the scene. “Where do you think he went?” I asked.

  We started toward the garden shed, but there was little activity there and we continued on a path that led us toward the boathouse. Boathouses in the darkness always gave me the creeps. I had no logical reason for my aversion, but I could feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck the closer we got to it. The EMF was starting to get active again.

  “I can feel his presence again,” Ellen said. She must have had her own internal set of gauges. “He’s in the boathouse.”

  “Oh great. You know how much I love boathouses.”

  “Seriously? After all that we’ve been through, you still have that silly aversion?”

  “I don’t think it’s that silly.” My aversion had a lot to do with a number of different horror flicks that included a boathouse in the story line. In fact, I couldn’t think of any movies or books that I’d read where pleasant and happy times were found inside of a boathouse. I wonder why? Maybe I’m not the first person to be creeped out by the things.

  As we approached the boathouse quietly – though it didn’t really make much sense to try to sneak up on a ghost – I heard the soft sound of water lapping at the dock, but there was another sound; a steady, rhythmic sound. As we drew nearer, I soon understood the source of the sound. The square bow of a flat, shallow boat – what I’d always referred to as a jon boat, but was called a pirogue in the bayou – began to appear, gliding along the top of the water as it left the boathouse. The rhythm was the long pole that was being used to push it along.