by JL Bryan
“Oh, no, no. Things are better than ever. Crane’s back to his old self now that his invisible friends are gone. Gord’s emphysema has dropped to levels where they can’t even detect it. He’s even working at his old company again.”
“Is the house staying dry?”
“Oh, yes. Not a leak since you left. Even the back yard is staying dry.” Toolie’s house had been haunted by a few ghosts who had drowned, and they’d manifested themselves in ways that reflected it—including plumbing trouble, an unwanted pond in the backyard, and Gord’s emphysema. “Are you just calling to follow up? Or are you in the market for a new mattress? Because I think you could really benefit from one of these pillow-top models.”
“Thanks, but actually neither. I have a new case that involves the GC&R railroad company—the one that caused your ghost to go bankrupt just before he died—and I remember we found some paperwork and records in your attic. Would you mind if we stop by there and visit your attic again?”
“Goodness, no. You’re lucky it’s all still up there. I’ve been meaning to remove every trace of those awful ghosts from the house, but things have been so busy, with Gord working again and the new fall line-up of mattresses, and the kids going back to school--”
“I understand.”
“Anyway, good thing we never put ‘em in the trash. You’re welcome to take as much as you want, because we’re throwing out the rest.”
“Would you mind donating them to the Savannah Historical Association?” I asked. “I’m sure they’d love anything related to one of Savannah’s first railroads.”
“Ellie, if you know somebody wants to come haul away all them papers, they can take it. His old desk, too. We don’t want anything of his in our house.”
“Would today be okay?”
“I don’t know. Gord’s at a fried-pie convention until Sunday—I think Pink Fairy cupcakes is looking into manufacturing them—and I’ll be working until the store closes at nine, because it’s all heating up for our big Oktoberfest sale. Can you come Sunday afternoon?”
“I was kind of hoping for much sooner. Like before the sun sets today, so I can get to my client’s house before dark.”
“Oh, that’s a pickle. Tell you what, Junie should be home from school by four o’clock. I can text her and let her know to expect you. She’s watching her brother until I get home, so she’s stuck there anyway.”
“I’d really appreciate it.”
“Too bad I’m going to miss you,” Toolie said. “You should come over and eat a fried chicken sometime. Maybe after Gord’s back in town. He likes the dark meat, I like the white, that’s why we get along so well.”
“Thanks so much,” I said.
“Is your new family in a lot of danger?” Toolie asked, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper.
“It’s always a possibility.”
“All right, I have to go. Oktoberfest decorations just arrived.”
I was mildly curious to learn exactly how one decorated a mattress store for a Bavarian festival, but she hung up.
My next call was to Grant Patterson, semi-practicing attorney, skillful collector of art and gossip, and devoted Fellow of the Savannah Historical Association.
“The most exciting number in my entire contact list,” Grant answered. “You’re fortunate that I’m awake at this disturbingly bright hour of the morning.”
“You told me you only sleep five or six hours a night.”
“Five or six entire hours? I’d miss out on too much reading time. How are you? Eating well? Still dating the fireman?”
“I’m fine.”
“And how’s your family?” he asked.
“Still dead.”
“Ah...I meant, of course, your extended--”
“I know, forget it. I have a problem with a haunted stretch of railroad track.”
“I am instantly fascinated, dear. Which particular stretch?”
“It’s an old Georgia Canal and Railroad line. Iron, not steel. It used to run through Silkgrove Plantation, those old ruins right on the river by the paper plant, about twelve miles north of--”
“I know all about it. That bit of rail must have been abandoned ages ago.”
“It looks that way to me. We’re trying to find any history of--”
“Tragedy and death,” Grant said. “Suffering and murder. The usual?”
“The usual, thanks. Train crashes, especially. There was also a family farm in that area.” I gave him what I knew about the Whalens, who’d lived there during the nineteenth century. I mentioned Rose Whalen, one of my suspects for the banshee, mainly because she’d been young and had something to grieve about since she’d left small children behind. It would be fairly convenient for me if she’d been a part of some tragedy on those tracks, or perhaps had witnessed some major event like a train wreck there.
Another possibility was one of her daughters. Ember, during or after her assault by the ghost, had dreamed of being alone on a train. She’d talked about her mother growing ill and dying. Maybe that had been the banshee’s memory, seeping into Ember while the banshee oppressed her.
“All has been carefully noted,” Grant said.
“I actually have something to offer in exchange,” I said.
“Knowing that I’ve helped rid the city of its less pleasant ghosts is compensation enough.”
“A former client is looking to offload a batch of paperwork surrounding the creation of the Georgia Canal and Railroad Company.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? What a treasure. I was, of course, referring to you, as much as I was speaking of that wonderful trove of old documents.”
“If I knew you cared that much, I would’ve grabbed them sooner,” I said. “The owner was about to throw them in the trash.”
“That’s as horrific as one of your ghost stories, Ellie. Is there anything else?”
“Haven’t I given you enough homework?”
“I’m simply trying to earn my junior ghost hunter badge.”
“You’ve earned it. Thanks, Grant.”
“I will be in touch once I’ve assembled the most gruesome train stories in Savannah’s history.”
“I can’t wait.”
Finally, I could pull my blackout curtains tight, stretch out on my bed, and close my eyes. Not even my cat’s relentless desire to use my face as a punching pillow could keep me awake.
In the afternoon, I woke up still unnerved from the night before. I made some strong truck-driver coffee and called Stacey.
“I want you to get on Google Earth and follow every inch of that old rail line you can see. Figure out where it begins and ends, and anything interesting along the way. Then comb through all the audio and video we took, see what you find.”
“Good morning back at ya,” Stacey replied with a yawn. “What will you be doing?”
“Kickboxing,” I said. “Then I’ll swing by the Paulding house to look through Isaiah Ridley’s old papers about the railroad. Of course, if you’d rather do that while I analyze the audio and video--”
“Oh, gosh, thanks,” Stacey said. “But I’ll leave the dusty old papers to you. I know how much you like dust.”
“I love it.”
After I finished talking to Stacey, I got dressed and went to the gym a few blocks away, just in time for the kickboxing class. Forty-five minutes of punching and kicking later, my head felt clear and calm, my mood spiked up with fresh, sweet endorphins and serotonin.
I ran home for a quick shower, then over to the old Georgian mansion where the Paulding family lived. I parked the blue van out front and looked up at the half-circle balcony above the front door. A powerful old poltergeist, wearing the shape of the girl who’d created it more than a century and a half earlier, had nearly thrown me to my death from that balcony.
Following the brick walkway to the front door, I noticed that the front gardens seemed to have sprung back to life. They’d been half-dead before, from a malfunctioning sprinkler system that nobody seemed able to
repair.
I rang the front doorbell. A pulsing crash of loud industrial music washed over me as Juniper opened the door, beaming. She startled me with a big ferocious hug.
“Ellie!” she shouted.
“Hi, Juniper.” I recovered from the surprise and hugged her back. “How’s my favorite poltergeist-smasher?”
“Pretty good. Except school.” She made a face. Her dyed-black hair had grown out a little, revealing brown roots. A long braid hung in front of her face with a skull bead the size of my thumb at the end, swinging like a pendulum every time she moved her head. “Eighth grade. It’s going to take forever to get to high school.”
“It’ll all blow by faster than you expect,” I said. “The good and the bad.”
“I wanted to start a paranormal investigation group at school, so we could hunt ghosts like you and Stacey, but they wouldn’t let me.” Juniper returned inside, and I followed her into the high but narrow entrance hall, cluttered with furniture on both sides, the three flights of the staircase rising in a squarish spiral near the back. “Do you think the high school would let me?”
“You have to be careful,” I said. “Remember what we talked about?”
“No Ouija boards.” We started up the stairs.
“Avoid all the occult stuff. You don’t know what doors you might open.”
“I know. I already kind of learned that the hard way. So I should just stick to video cameras and stuff, right?” She gave me an earnest look. She looked so innocent, I couldn’t imagine her growing up just to get dragged into my world, the dark side.
“There are much better careers than this,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Almost anything. It’s better to do something where you help people.”
“Don’t you help people?” she asked. “You helped us. A lot.”
“It’s dangerous and the pay is pretty bad,” I said.
“Then why do you do it?”
“Maybe I’m thinking about changing careers.” This wasn’t true at all. I’d still do this even if there were no pay, because I hate the ghosts who terrorize and harm the living. It’s personal. I didn’t want to get into that. I just didn’t want to steer her down the wrong course in life.
“Seriously? What else would you do?” Juniper asked.
“Something where I don’t get thrown out of windows and down stairs every day. I don’t know. Maybe be a nurse?”
“That sounds way less fun.” Juniper sighed and opened the door to the attic. “So what are you looking for?”
As we climbed the steep stairs up to the enormous, badly cluttered attic, I told her about the haunted railroad track.
“Oh, awesome! Can I help?”
“You can help right now.” I clicked on my flashlight. The attic was dim as ever, lit only by three bare bulbs spaced very widely from each other along the ceiling. “Where’s your brother?”
“Playing Minecraft in his room.” Juniper spoke in a much lower voice in the attic, as though quieted by the memories of the spirits who’d once dwelled here. She activated the flashlight she’d brought with her. “He didn’t want you here. I mean, not you, but he didn’t want to think about...you know, all that.”
“Right. How’s he doing?”
“He’s okay. He misses his imaginary friends sometimes.”
“Even though they tried to talk him into killing himself?”
“Some friends are bad influences, I guess,” Juniper said. “That’s what Mom always says about Dayton.”
“Are you still seeing him?”
“Some. He’s okay but he’s getting annoying.” Juniper shrugged as we approached the antique bureau, full of dusty cubbyholes, the leather writing panel built into the top long since cracked and crumbled. “Mom said you wanted some of Isaiah’s stuff?”
“I’m taking all of it,” I said. “But first, you can help me look through it...”
We sat on the warped old floorboards and spread out files and documents around us.
“We’re looking for details about the railroad’s construction,” I said. “Maps would be great. Also accidents, death notices...”
“Cool.” She flipped open an old file folder, and a cloud of dust swirled in her flashlight beam.
“Where’d you get that flashlight?” I asked. It looked like a cheaper version of the tactical flashlight I carried as my anti-ghost sidearm.
“I found it on the internet,” she said. “It’s just two hundred and eighty lumens, but it’s aircraft-grade aluminum like yours.” Juniper blushed. “I wanted to get the same one but it cost too much.”
It was silly how much that touched me—that she’d spent time looking for a flashlight like mine, and that she remembered details from all the questions she’d asked about our methods and gear.
Our search of the paperwork turned up some interesting details, including a hand-drawn map of the rail line built in 1851. It showed the numerous buildings and river docks of the old Silkgrove plantation, almost a small town within itself. The Georgia Canal and Railroad line had crossed the river there, at the same time crossing the state line from Georgia to South Carolina.
The rail line had originated at the Central of Georgia terminal, where lines already extended westward to inland cities like Albany and Macon, but nothing reaching north along the coast.
Isaiah Ridley and pals had decided to gamble on a coastal line, creating a direct connection between the cities of Savannah and Charleston. There was money to be made in linking the two largest ports in the region.
Unfortunately, the railroad had gone bankrupt instead. The reason why was probably in these papers somewhere.
We found some evidence of a few workers dying from disease and drowning while laying supports in the marshy river islands, and I set those aside for later study. We didn’t find any other major ghost-related red flags, no signs that the rails had been laid through, for instance, an old burial ground or graveyard. That didn’t mean it hadn’t happened, though—Savannah is filled with unmarked graves from earlier generations, not to mention native burial grounds, which are everywhere. The area’s been inhabited for more than ten thousand years.
“This is so much fun!” Juniper said, expressing the exact opposite of Stacey’s opinion about sifting through crumbling paperwork in search of historical details. Too bad I couldn’t hire her as my research assistant.
“I’ll have to carry this stuff away,” I said. “Any chance you could help me load it into the van?”
“Of course!” She jumped to her feet.
We carted up a few plastic storage bins and packed them with the contents of the old desk. Crane stepped outside to watch us lift them into the van. The boy remained on the porch, half-concealed behind a thin marble column.
“Hi, Crane,” I said. “How’s it going?”
“It’s been really quiet,” he said.
“No ghosts?” I smiled, but he didn’t smile back.
“Where did Noah and Luke go?” he asked. Those were the two ghost boys, his invisible friends who’d kept trying to lure him to his death.
“Wherever they’re supposed to be,” I said.
“Do you think they’re happy?”
“I’m sure they are.”
Crane wore a solemn frown as he returned inside.
“He’s getting better,” Juniper whispered, with a confident nod. “He’s always been kind of a weirdo.”
“He’s a nice kid. And so are you, Juniper. Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime. I can come help you with your new ghost if you want.”
“I doubt your parents would be in favor of that.”
“Yeah. But you think when I’m older I could come work with you?”
“We’ll talk after you’re in college.”
Juniper rolled her eyes, then gave me another hug. I’m not much of a hugger, but I like that kid. I hope she comes up with better career options for herself, though.
As I drove away, I felt unsettled. I’d been hop
ing for clues to the identity of the banshee, but no females had died in the construction of the railway. I wanted to trap that ghost before she could attack my client again. So far, though, I had almost nothing to go on. I could feel the minutes slipping away and the night ahead waiting for me. I stepped on the gas.
Chapter Eight
At the office, I pulled Stacey away from her video-editing station, where she’d been reviewing all the raw footage she’d gathered. We heaped the plastic storage bins full of documents next to my desk.
“A little light reading?” Stacey asked.
“There’s a lot of homework,” I said. “Did you find anything?”
“Sobbing in the basement last night,” Stacey said. “That’s what drew Ember down there. We caught partials of the banshee. A small, cold little figure.”
“Anything from the railroad?”
“Just that weird red light. We’ll have to put up thermals and everything out by the tracks.”
“Have you seen Calvin?” I glanced around the cluttered workshop.
“He went up to his apartment a little while after I got here,” Stacey said. Calvin occupied the loft level of the old industrial warehouse building, which he accessed with a small cage elevator.
“How did he look?”
“Like something was on his mind and he didn’t want to tell me about it. You think those people were back, spying on our office?”
“Just keep watch for any black Acuras,” I said.
“You sure there’s nothing else going on with him?” Stacey whispered.
“I’m sure of nothing,” I whispered back, a little over-dramatically. “Did you study the satellite images of the rail line?”
“There’s not much to see. The woods obscure most of the tracks, or did whenever Google took its pictures. I can see one end of the line at the river, running through the Silkgrove Plantation ruins. It’s concealed by woods most of the way. It looks like it ends at the big north-south CSX line.”
“It connects to the modern railway?” I asked.
“I’m not sure it really connects, but it definitely ends there.”
“We’ll have to go walk the tracks,” I said.
“Today?”