If You've Got It, Haunt It: A ghost romance (The Peyton Clark Series Book 4)

by H. P. Mallory

  “Or…” He drew the word out slowly, his Southern drawl deepening. “We could order another one, and split it too.”

  “Ryan, I am seriously considering how to permanently dispose of you because of a piece of pie.”

  “It’s that good.”

  “Next time you see our waiter, will you ask him to bring the check and a butcher knife?” I asked with a sweet smile.

  Ryan rolled his eyes. “You’re so exasperating today.” Then he speared the last bite and ate it with a showy flourish. “Oh, man, Pey, that was the best bite of the whole damned pie!” he said with his mouth full.

  I stuck my tongue out at him, and an old woman in a short floral dress, seated at an adjoining table, smiled at us. It occurred to me that we probably sounded insufferable to anyone sitting within earshot.

  Ryan and I got along so well that sometimes we had to invent things to argue about—pecan pie for example. He leaned back in his chair with a contented look, obviously relishing the argument.

  The stillness was shattered by a loud crash coming from the kitchen—dishes and breaking glass. Ryan’s smile faded. One reason we’d been drawn to this hotel was due to its alleged history of poltergeist activity: wax candles flying across bedrooms, ink stands leaving their desks, windows opening and shutting of their own accord.

  Usually, I was skeptical about any rumors of hauntings. That’s because most business owners in New Orleans want people to believe their hotels or restaurants are haunted. Hauntings are good for tourism, at least they are in New Orleans.

  As for the Place D’Armes? I was convinced it was haunted after having had some experiences, myself…

  One night while out for a walk in the garden, Ryan and I glanced down at the dirt path in front of us, only to see footprints magically appearing in the flowerbed, seemingly from nowhere. I was more than sure the gardener wouldn’t be happy in the morning when he found all his freshly planted daffodils flattened.

  Later that same night, we heard ghostly voices coming through the walls of our bedroom. The voices slowly gave way to what sounded like doleful crying.

  The ghostly history must have been foremost in the minds of the other guests also, because at the sound of the breaking glass, four patrons nearly jumped out of their shoes while the rest looked around nervously. Maybe sensing their unease, a shyly smiling waiter suddenly emerged through the French doors.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he said in a Southern drawl. “One of the crew had a slight accident—slippery floors, just mopped—but we’re taking care of it. Sorry to rattle you folks.”

  “You sure it wasn’t a ghost?” said the old woman in the floral skirt, looking a little disappointed. The waiter smiled uneasily but didn’t respond.

  “My heart is still racing,” I said to Ryan as I resumed drinking my sweet tea. Unlike Southern folk, I like my sweet tea watered down with regular tea. I guess you can take the girl out of California, but you can’t take California out of the girl?

  “Probably did it on purpose,” said Ryan.

  “On purpose?”

  He nodded. “It lends credence to the ghost stories if they plan an accident every now and again—gives the tourists something to talk about when they go home.”

  “And shattering hundreds of dollars’ worth of dishes just to keep us on edge?” I asked skeptically. “Why go through the trouble?”

  “This place brings in enough money that a few broken dishes every other day won’t kill their profit margins,” Ryan replied.

  “I guess not.”

  “You ready to go?” he asked as he eyed me impatiently.

  “Go?”

  “Home,” he said quickly. “Remember, the handyman is coming over to look at the ceiling?”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. “The ceiling?”

  “Peyton, have you forgotten the two leaks in your ceiling?”

  “I… I guess so,” I said, feeling completely delirious.

  Paying for our meal, we returned to our room, just long enough to finish packing our bags before heading out. Ryan prattled on about this and that, but I didn’t share his affable mood. I couldn’t understand how I completely forgot about the handyman. And hadn’t we just literally checked into the hotel? As in, an hour or so ago?

  Starting to get frustrated, I figured I’d just push the thoughts to the back of my mind and revisit them later.

  It was an oppressively humid March afternoon and a wall of steam rose like a curtain from the road leading out of the French Quarter. We passed an elderly man leaning against a tree with his golden retriever sitting next to him. He gave us a yellow smile, and I caught a glimpse of the battered wooden crutch underneath his right arm. I tightened my hand around Ryan’s arm.

  Sometimes I just liked having an excuse to feel him up. The guy has some biceps and then some.

  When we reached Ryan’s truck, he unlocked the door for me and opened it, giving me a little swat on the butt as I crawled up into my seat. I shook my head and laughed as I watched him hurry around to his side and jump in. He cranked on the engine, buckled himself and then reached over to squeeze my upper thigh.

  We were crossing Dumaine Street when I realized I’d left my purse and keys at the hotel.

  “Ryan,” I said, as my heart dropped down to my toes, “we need to go back.”

  “Did you forget something?”

  “Yeah, my purse. I think I left it on the chair in our room.”

  “One of the staff members probably found it when they were cleaning up.” Ryan’s tone was officious and reassuring. Pulling into the parking lot of a pastry shop, he turned the truck around. It wasn’t an easy operation, given the size of his truck and the narrow lip of the parking lot. Three-point turn? More like an eight-point turn.

  “We’ll get it in a second.”

  I didn’t say anything, just continued gazing through the window at the heat rising off the sidewalk. Truth be told, I was worried I wouldn’t see my purse again. This was New Orleans, where you could drop a dollar bill in the street and it would be gone by the time you turned around to pick it up again. But it wasn’t just the prospect of losing my purse that bothered me. I’d been feeling a sense of foreboding about the hotel, as if something dreadful were about to happen. It was hard to explain, but I felt a malicious presence there—one I’d never felt before. I mean, what ghost would stomp on a bed of daffodils?

  “Pey, you good?” Ryan asked as he glanced over at me with an expression of concern.

  I wasn’t the sort of person who scared easily, and we’d been together long enough that Ryan knew when something was upsetting me. “Yeah. I just feel… nervous.”

  “What are you nervous about? Your purse?”

  I shook my head. “I know this sounds weird but I really don’t want to go back to the hotel.”

  He looked at me in a puzzled sort of way. “Don’t you want to get your purse back?”

  “Well, yeah,” I answered in a “duh” tone.

  “Um….”

  “I can’t explain it, but the energy in that place doesn’t feel right.”

  I hated to admit it, because I sounded like a teenager afraid of her own shadow. And I was soooo not like that.

  “We’ll be in and out in a few minutes.” Ryan placed a firm hand on my knee and smiled over at me with that boyish smile of his that always makes me want to kiss him. “If you want, I can go in and you can stay in the truck.”

  But of course I wouldn’t agree to that. I’ve never allowed fear get the better of me—especially a nameless, irrational fear like this one. “No, I’ll go too. I’ll check our room if you check the courtyard. I’m sure I can convince the staff to let me back in.”

  “Deal.” Ryan smiled at me and I suddenly noticed he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of over-sized cargo pants. I felt myself frowning as I shook my head, wondering how he managed to be wearing a totally different outfit than he was when we left. And, furthermore: how did I allow him to leave the hotel dressed lik
e that?

  Egad.

  “Peyton?”

  “Did you change clothes?” I asked as I frowned at him.

  He looked at me like I sprouted another head. “Change clothes? When? You’ve been with me all day. When would I have changed clothes?”

  “Um, I’m fairly sure you weren’t wearing that outfit before we got in the truck.”

  He continued to study me, his eyes narrowing. “Pey, this is the same outfit I’ve had on since this morning.”

  I didn’t say anything, but swallowed hard. The seconds ticked by like dripping molasses. I shook my head as I wondered what was wrong with me. First, I lose my purse and now I can’t remember Ryan changing his clothes?

  Was this what it felt like to totally lose your mind?

  When Ryan pulled up in front of the hotel, I opened my door and jumped down from the truck, all the while wondering what in the hell was wrong with me. It was like I was drugged or something. I followed Ryan into the lobby, watching him disappear into the courtyard as I turned and started for the front desk.

  “Hi, I need your help,” I said to the woman seated there. She was young, probably a college student. “I think I left my purse in my room but I’ve already checked out.” Figuratively and literally.

  The girl asked for my room number and I gave it to her.

  “We’ve already cleaned the room,” she said with an unconcerned shrug. “Nothing was turned in.”

  “Already cleaned it?” I repeated, frowning. “That’s impossible because my boyfriend and I just checked out less than ten minutes ago.” The woman didn’t seem convinced. “Please, could you double-check?”

  With a grunt of exasperation, she flagged down a uniformed member of the staff and explained the situation. He nodded and motioned for me to follow him. We walked up the staircase and down a perfumed corridor. I was having trouble remembering why I ever thought vacationing in a haunted hotel would be a good idea in the first place. I wasn’t sure if a building could be full of regrets, but they seemed to linger in the air of this place like an unpleasant smell.

  “Here you are,” said the bellman, unlocking the door. “I’ll be outside.” He waited in the doorway, clearly expecting me to enter alone.

  I stepped into the room, wishing Ryan was with me. Of course the thought made no sense but I couldn’t help feeling uneasy all the same. And Ryan, being so big and beefy and overall manly, had a way of making me feel safe.

  As I glanced around, I couldn’t even be sure it was the same room we just vacated. I mean, the furniture and art were similar enough, but how was it possible to clean the bathroom and the bedroom, changing all the linens in less than ten minutes?

  I whirled around again, just to make sure my eyes weren’t tricking me. But, no, the bed was made and the towels we’d left on the floor were nowhere in sight. “Are you sure this is—” I turned to ask the bellman, but he was gone and nothing but the empty hallway greeted me.

  With a disquieting feeling, I closed the door and heard the clicking sound of the automatic lock. My sense of disquiet notwithstanding, I started for the bathroom and found Ryan’s traveling kit and a miniature bottle of shaving lotion on the counter but nothing else.

  Hmm, I thought to myself. That’s weird. Ryan never forgets anything.

  Picking up both, I pulled my phone out of my skirt pocket and texted him to ask if he had any luck with the dining staff. I waited for a minute or two but he didn’t respond.

  Cursing my bad luck, I shoved the phone back into my skirt and started thinking about all the credit cards I had to cancel.

  In the bedroom, someone coughed.

  My heart dropped to my toes before it started racing.

  Someone else was here! Inside the room!

  Yet, I’d been positive the bellman and I were the only ones who came up the stairs. And the hallway was also clear. But the bellman already left! Maybe it was just Ryan coming up to get me? But the cough wasn’t his; it was a woman’s. Which meant…

  It’s probably someone coming to check on me, I told myself. Or it’s the next hotel guest…

  Figuring the visitor was the new occupant, I opened the bathroom door and cautiously walked out. When I did, I immediately noticed a woman sitting in a chair next to the bed, smoking a thick cigar. She was wearing a black veil over her eyes and a long, flowing, silk cloak, the kind a third-rate magician might wear. She also wore a single black, lace glove on her right hand. Beside her and on the bed sat a long rectangular white box. In my presently disoriented state, it took me a moment to realize what it was.

  A coffin?

  “You were supposed to check out,” she said coolly, drawing another long puff of her cigar.

  “I did. I just forgot my purse and came back to get it,” I explained.

  “You might try looking in the box,” the woman replied.

  I surveyed the coffin warily, not really sure why she thought my purse would be inside a coffin she obviously brought with her. She must have been some kind of traveling magician… or maybe a vampire? New Orleans was rumored to have their fair share.

  “Yeah, I doubt it’s in there,” I said.

  The woman shrugged, then stood up and walked around the perimeter of the room, curls of her cigar smoke swirling behind her. With her black veil and outfit, she looked like she belonged in film noir detective movie.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, “but if I were you, I’d want to know what was inside the box.”

  That was when it dawned on me. How weird to see a coffin on the bed in the first place. I mean, how in the world did the woman get it up here? Coffins are heavy and she was smaller than I was.

  “Do you usually travel with coffins?” I asked.

  “No,” she answered in a bored tone, inhaling her cigar again.

  “You know you aren’t supposed to smoke inside the hotel?”

  Searching for an ashtray without finding one, she stamped the cigar on the nightstand and gave me a pointed look. “No one is going to stop me.”

  “Good luck,” I said, deciding I had my fill of her, the coffin, the room, and the hotel for the day. I started for the door but she grabbed my attention again.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to look inside the box?” she asked. I didn’t understand why she kept referring to it as a “box” when it was clearly a coffin.

  There was something in the tone of her voice—an apparent familiarity, as if we’d known each other for years, and it chilled me.

  “I don’t want to look at it.”

  “Why?” she asked, her veil raising along with her eyebrows. “The two of you are going to be spending a lot of time together.”

  That was when I decided I really had enough. My heart in my throat, I hurried towards the door. The last thing I wanted to do was spend any more time with Ms. Looney Tunes.

  “You never struck me as someone who scared easily, Peyton.”

  That got me. I slowly turned around. “How do you know my name?”

  There was an odd buzzing coming from somewhere in the room, like a fly was trapped against the pane of the window. The woman started laughing, throwing her head back as the wafting smoke encircled her. I faced forward again and reached for the door, but my feet wouldn’t move. It was like they were stuck in dried concrete.

  “I know all things in your silly mortal world,” the woman answered.

  I couldn’t remember her opening the coffin, but somehow, the casket now lay face-open on the bed.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to look?” she asked again, smirking in an annoying way. Like she was daring me.

  Annoyed by her spooky theatrics and wanting to prove something to myself, I lifted my foot and noticed the carpet was no longer anchoring me. With my heart jackhammering, I took the few steps that separated me from the coffin and peered over the side.

  A body of a woman lay there, her hands folded in repose, her skin shrunken and waxy like cheese that was sitting too long on a countertop.

  For a minute o
r two, I stared at the figure with a curious sense of detachment, unable to feel much of anything toward her, despite the fact that she shared my face.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she?” the woman asked, lighting another cigar.

  The longer I looked, the woman’s face began to shift away from mine, taking on the countenance of an old woman with bright yellow ringlets. Soon, that image shifted again and I was faced with Guarda, the old voodoo priestess who had assisted me on a few paranormal cases. Soon Guarda’s face faded into another one altogether—that of Baron Samedi, the Loa or God of Death.

  His skin was as black as night and he appeared in the casket wearing his trademark sunglasses and cotton plugs in his nostrils. I’d had a few runins with the God of Death who was known for his obscenity, debauchery and fondness for tobacco, rum and mortal women.

  As I watched, his lips parted into a wide grin and he turned his face to look at me. His eyes glowed white underneath his sunglasses.

  “Peyton Clark,” he started, his voice deeply accented. “I want inside you.”

  I awoke with a start.

  Chapter Three

  “Peyton?” Ryan asked as he sat upright and rubbed his sleep-swollen eyes. “What’s going on? Why did you yell?”

  “I… I had a nightmare.” The dream was still so fresh that if I shut my eyes, I knew I’d go right back to that hotel room and Baron Samedi in the coffin, which was the last thing I wanted to do. I glanced at the clock beside the TV and noticed it was three a.m.

  “That’s the third nightmare you’ve had in the past week.”

  “Maybe I need to lay off the late-night horror movies?” I replied with a smile I didn’t feel.

  Ryan sighed. He knew I didn’t watch horror movies. “What’s going on, Pey?”

  Maybe I was being overly sensitive, but I thought I sensed a mild reproach in his voice, as if he resented being woken up night after night. Not that I could blame him. Neither one of us had gotten any sleep and it was getting old, to say the least.

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m just feeling anxious lately.”

  “About what?”

  I didn’t respond right away. I was trying to formulate my answer. What was I nervous about? It could have been any number of things: the fact that my cousin was coming to visit, the damage to the roof from the recent storm, that I’d woken up now twice with mud all over the bottom of my feet and no plausible explanation as to why…and, finally, because I missed Drake. Yes, I could still talk to him and see him in his spirit form, but it wasn’t the same as having him inside my head. I missed our conversations, his confusion over things from the twenty-first century, his witticisms, our shared laughs, and the list went on. I mostly missed traveling back in time to solve mysteries with him—when we could coexist in the same space and time—when he was as real as I was.