The Haunting at Bonaventure Circus

by Jaime Jo Wright

  Dusk setting in made it difficult to see, but the entire group moved at various paces up the hill. A streetlight flickered, buzzed, then flickered again. A bat swooped in its shadow, and the teenage girl from earlier screamed.

  “Shhh!” her father barked.

  Chandler tried to gain speed and get out ahead of the others. Wicked imagery of the murdered Patty Luchent’s corpse flashed like a black-and-white silent film in her mind. Staccato and jerky. Slow motion yet hyperspeed.

  They rounded the corner of the depot. The street was deserted, now serving the town only as a ramshackle side road toward the abandoned rail yards and the farmers’ old feed mill. Chandler could make out the forms of Cru and Hank. They’d both stopped at the depot’s main entrance.

  “Does anyone have a flashlight?” hissed Dereck’s wife, her voice quavering with undisguised fear.

  “I do.” Dereck fumbled for his phone.

  “No, no.” Lottie waved it away. “Wait.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the cops?” The teenager was probably the most sensible of them all.

  Cru waved them over, his arm a black silhouette against the navy-blue sky. Stars were beginning to pop out and twinkle in a mocking merriness. Chandler couldn’t make out his expression, but he didn’t seem as urgent as before. Hank was tense still, she could tell by his body posture. She guessed if she could see his face, it would look menacing and severe, like the day she’d first met him.

  “Was it her?” Lottie’s shoulders were hunched a bit as she half tiptoed toward the men.

  “Who?” Dereck inserted.

  “Shh!” Cru waved at them again.

  The group huddled together, like a horror-filled audience should while on a ghost tour. The door to the depot stood wide open. The innards of the building as dark as night, with whispers of echoes coming from its interior. Fluttering. A chortle. A pigeon flapped its wings in a frantic escape from the inside tomb of memories and long-dead voices.

  Chandler felt for her keys in her pocket. They were there. She vividly recalled having chained and locked the padlock on the depot door.

  “This is crazy. I’m callin’ the cops.” Dereck lifted his phone, and the LED illuminated his face. His eyes were wide and stern. He’d had enough of whatever messing around was happening.

  Hank held up his hand. In that one motion, his imposing figure somehow silenced them all. He crept stealthily toward the open door, tugging at something hooked to his pocket. It must have been a flashlight, for he flicked it on just before entering the cavernous building.

  Chandler searched her memory in case somehow she had forgotten to lock up. But no. She knew the door had been closed. She’d locked it. There was no easy way inside without busting the locks, and she’d given a key only to the contractor’s office who had said they wanted to stop by again early tomorrow morning to assess the roof from the inside.

  Everything was still. Eerily so.

  Chandler pushed through the group and approached Cru. He held his arm out to stop her from following Hank.

  “I don’t see anything.” Hank’s growl came from inside the building.

  “Man . . .” Cru shook his head, almost in awe. He tugged on the brim of his baseball cap and shot them all an incredulous smile. “I—I—wow.”

  “Momma, I’m scared.” The little voice of a child made Chandler irritated that they were all standing here like idiots, unprotected, and annoyed that a parent would bring a young child on a ghost tour to begin with. She thought of Peter and suddenly ached to be with him.

  The necklace in her hand slipped. She forgot she’d been holding it.

  “Dang,” Chandler muttered under her breath. She squatted to feel the grass in hopes of finding it.

  Hank exited the depot just as Chandler’s fingers met with the delicate chain buried among the blades of grass.

  “Well, folks,” Lottie said, finally taking charge, “I believe you have all witnessed a phenomenon tonight.”

  “A phenomenon?” The frightened child’s mother didn’t sound impressed.

  Lottie nodded and glanced at Hank, who drew near again to the group. “In 1928, when Patty Luchent was murdered, there was also the beginning of an investigation into a serial killer who was reported to have followed the circus on the rails, ending here when the train stopped for the winter. Some believe Patty was one of his victims, while others . . . well, no one truly knows whether the Watchman actually existed or not.”

  “What does that have to do with tonight?” Chandler finally spoke up. Lottie had about ten more seconds to explain or she was calling the police herself.

  Lottie lowered her head, almost as one would at a funeral. That slight nod of sympathy, of recognition. Her voice dropped until they had to strain to hear her.

  “The Watchman was merely the whisper of a rumor. But the killer was, in truth, real. As Patty was killed that night, stories have since circulated that shortly after she was last seen at the guesthouse across the street, she indicated she was meeting someone at the depot. Which was odd, since it was already past midnight. No one saw her, but one account says someone heard screaming coming from the depot. A woman, begging for her life. The next morning, some say Patty was found in the costume house, only no one could confirm whether she was killed there—” Lottie stopped abruptly, a pause that was irritatingly and unnervingly dramatic—“or here.”

  “Are you saying what we just heard was Patty Luchent’s ghost?” Dereck’s voice rose in question.

  Cru nodded behind his mother.

  Hank remained motionless.

  Lottie also nodded. “People have reported hearing screaming from inside the depot. Personally I never have—until tonight. But the Watchman’s ghost may like to resurrect the cries of his victims. As sobering remembrances.”

  “That was no ghost screaming,” another group member argued. “I heard a woman plain as day.”

  “I called the police.” Dereck’s wife waved her lit phone in the air. “This is ridiculous, to just stand here and do nothing.”

  The sirens in the distance emphasized her point.

  Chandler felt Hank brush up against her. “Pocket it.” His whisper was harsh in her ear.

  “What?” she asked just as she realized he meant the necklace. Wondering why, Chandler did so.

  “There were only two certainties about Patty Luchent and the night she was murdered,” Lottie continued, as though she’d fully expected the cops to have been called and wasn’t bothered by the action. “One, wherever they found her body, the fact she was violently murdered was never disputed.”

  “And what else?” The teenager was thoroughly enthralled by the tale now, the shock and terror wearing off in exchange for a spine-tingling story.

  “Well . . .” Cru stepped up next to his mother, and Chandler could tell he was once again looking straight at her. “They say she was found wearing a gold necklace with a unique charm of a mermaid with a tiny red ruby for her eye. Twisted into her neck like the angry signature of a violent killer.”

  “And,” Lottie picked up, “it was. It was the handiwork of the Watchman. Patty was his last victim. As the story goes, the necklace went missing shortly after her body was discovered. The Watchman came back for the necklace. Or someone stole it from the crime scene. No one knows why it was important to someone. But it was. Just another mystery in the larger scheme of things.”

  Chandler gaped at Lottie.

  Hank gripped her arm tight, until she was sure her skin would have red marks from his fingers.

  She couldn’t believe it. The story. It was too outrageous. Too supernatural. Too . . . awful to justify as real. That the necklace had been taken from Patty’s cold, dead body . . .

  And now burned a very real hole in Chandler’s pocket.

  Chapter Eighteen

  PIPPA

  Pippa.”

  Her mother’s voice had an edge to it. The shaking, barely controlled sort of edge that demanded Pippa’s full attention. She froze, her hand poised ju
st inside the open door of her mother’s wardrobe. Silk sheaths, linen suits, and voile afternoon dresses pushed aside, Pippa was reaching toward the back of the wardrobe. A place where many women stored private articles. Sometimes in hatboxes or other storage containers. Nothing valuable like jewels or coins, but keepsakes and sentimental items.

  “Whatever are you doing in my things?” Victoria Ripley was a regal woman. Her poise seemed to emphasize the slouch to Pippa’s delicate shoulders as her body compensated for the twist in her leg. Her mother’s raven-black hair and vibrant blue eyes were a stunning canvas of created artistry and proof that God existed. For unlike the rather popular opinion of the day, one would have a difficult time reconciling with the idea that beauty such as Pippa’s mother possessed could simply evolve over time.

  Pippa drew her hand back. She had been caught, and sadly she was not quick to come up with a satisfactory reply. The truth was, she’d been ready to search her mother’s things for the Watchman’s elusive toy. The vague item that linked them, bonded them, and was the next step in uniting them. So far, Pippa had scoured the attic, tiptoed through her father’s study, and even rifled through a trunk in one of the spare bedrooms she’d always been told held linens. It was true. Linens were all she’d found—embroidered dresser scarves, tatted pillowcases, crocheted doilies, and even a tablecloth threaded with gold silk. Beautiful things that smelled fresh with a hint of lemongrass and lavender. But they were not the zebra toy.

  “I asked what you’re doing in my things,” Victoria Ripley repeated, and this time an eyebrow shot upward.

  Pippa closed the wardrobe door in a submissive motion, waiting until she heard the click of the latch. She ran her hand across the scrolled woodwork and the tiny hand-carved wood roses that adorned the door’s front panel.

  “I . . .” The look she sent her mother must have been desperate, and maybe because Pippa had never been one to cause much trouble, it led her mother to have sympathy on her.

  “Oh, never mind.” Victoria waved her hand. Gold bracelets slid down her wrist and clinked together in the gesture. “I need you to accompany me to the parlor. Georgiana Farnsworth has dropped in for a visit. I abhor that young woman.”

  “What am I to do?” Pippa shrank against the wardrobe. Facing Georgiana might be worse than if Jake made Pippa help feed a lion. She’d be ripped to shreds.

  “You stand beside me as a Ripley woman.” Victoria motioned for Pippa to follow. Pippa did, and as she hurried behind the clicking of her mother’s shoes against the polished cherrywood floor, she cast an anxious glance behind her toward her mother’s room. She had been anxious since the afternoon a few days ago when she’d seen the sketch of the Watchman, the sketch Jake’s murdered sister had drawn. Finding the zebra toy—assuming it existed, and the Watchman wasn’t simply leading her on—felt more critical than ever. To exonerate him? She didn’t know how it could, but Pippa wanted to hold on to the belief that the Watchman couldn’t have done something so abominable. That it was someone else. He was too important to Pippa, and her link to who she was meant to be. He simply couldn’t be a cold-blooded—

  “. . . she’s quite the pot-stirrer.” Victoria was still whispering over her shoulder at Pippa as they moved through the upper level of their large house. “Georgiana has indicated that Velma Denver has formed an alliance with Georgiana’s little band of merry women campaigning for the welfare of your father’s circus animals.”

  Velma Denver. She owned the guesthouse that serviced many of the train passengers disembarking from their journeys. There were other rumors too . . . Pippa touched her warm cheek. She wasn’t so naïve as not to understand what the rumors were about.

  The raucous lifestyle and vices of dancing and liquor.

  That had been Victoria’s explanation as to why such a place might or might not exist. Ever since women had won the vote and the Nineteenth Amendment had been written, a new sort of freedom was being tested.

  Pippa was told it was sinful. Certainly, if the rumors were true, a place like Velma Denver’s was just that. Debauchery of a vile sort. Still, there were elements of the “raucous lifestyle” that appealed to Pippa. Not the least of which was the idea of freedom. Freedom to just be and to be seen as a person, with a mind and a spirit.

  “How lovely of you to join us,” Victoria acknowledged Georgiana as they entered the parlor, a tiny quirk to her mouth. Pippa recognized that tip of her lips. It was filled with disguised disapproval.

  “Yes. Yes. We can dispense with the polite chitchat.” Georgiana bullied through all proper etiquette, and while they most likely all shared her sentiment, it was quite startling for her to speak it out loud.

  “Very well.” Victoria didn’t bother to motion for Georgiana to sit. The inference was not lost on Pippa’s equal in both age and height, but certainly not in passion and intent. “I’d prefer you get right to the point of your visit.”

  “That’s berries to me!” Georgiana sat down anyway. “We see eye to eye.”

  “Hardly.” Victoria lowered herself to a stiff high-backed chair in order to level their gazes. She gestured to Pippa, who obediently sat as well, her fingers interlocked and resting in her lap.

  “I’m pleased to let you know that your niece, Franny, has been engaged to join my crusade against the travesty that is Bonaventure Circus. I feel that your family should be quite proud of her endeavors.”

  Pippa could see no reason why Georgiana would have dropped by to announce such a thing about her cousin, daughter of Victoria’s sister, other than to rub their faces in it.

  “What you feel, Miss Farnsworth, and what is are two entirely different things.” Victoria Ripley’s voice could pierce glass, but there was a tremor in it that Pippa heard. The tremor that matched those in her hands when she was forcing herself to be brave when, really, she wasn’t.

  “Do you disagree, Mrs. Ripley, that the animal abuse is appalling?” Georgiana tipped her head and crossed her arms. Her thick auburn hair was carefully waved against her face, framing it in a way that made her eyes seem large and luminescent.

  “I do not believe there is any evidence of mishandling the animals whatsoever,” Victoria stated. “Needless to say, you are better suited to discuss this with my sister, Franny’s mother, rather than myself. I fail to see what purpose has brought you here other than utter vindictiveness.”

  “Mrs. Ripley, I don’t mean to be spiteful. I merely wish to sway your opinion. Yours and Pippa’s.” Georgiana’s eyes swung in Pippa’s direction. Pippa shrank against the back of her chair. “You hold the primary influence on Mr. Ripley’s affections. Should you come to see the reality of the concern for animal welfare, then you both will be exceptional hope for turning the future course of Bonaventure Circus. We all know the circus in Great Britain has long been under criticism for their disregard for the care of the animals and the outright infliction of pain and undue harm.”

  “We are not in Great Britain, Miss Farnsworth. I would remind you of that.” Victoria curled her fingers on the arms of her chair, then flattened them.

  Georgiana plowed ahead. “Evidence shows that animal abuse within circus confines is as prevalent in the United States. Perhaps more so. And I demand that—”

  “You demand?” Victoria’s voice trembled more as her mouth thinned into a barely tolerant smile. “I demand you leave my home, Miss Farnsworth. And you leave my niece out of your little brouhaha. I’ll be speaking with my sister, yes, you may be assured of that. Franny will not be continuing in your little debacle. It’s a shame, and your mother should be the one who is appalled.”

  Georgiana blanched. Straightened. Adjusted the cuffs of her flaming-red dress. “Well.” Georgiana pulled on her gloves and gave Pippa a little smile, coyly glossing over Victoria Ripley’s hospitality given out of etiquette’s necessity. “I appreciate your time. I’ve no intention to upstage and flaunt anything. I merely believe that since Franny is seeing reason and the necessity for reform in these shows of freaks and damaged animal
s, you may also be so inclined. I find the circus utterly repulsive.” She rose, grasping her beaded purse and smoothing out her dress, which fell in a straight line on her figure. “Our first organized display of opposition is tomorrow afternoon at two. I’m to assume, then, I shall not be seeing you there?”

  Her outright defiance impressed Pippa at the same time it offended.

  Any protest Victoria Ripley might have offered was cut short by the entrance of the butler. He hesitated and cleared his throat nervously. “Er, pardon me, madam.”

  So formal. So British. So old-fashioned. It was how Victoria Ripley preferred her household to be run. Or maybe it was how Richard Ripley wanted it run and Victoria merely played the part of the mistress, her chin held high.

  Pippa faltered when the butler’s gaze settled on her.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Ripley, ladies,” he nodded, “but I’ve a missive here for Miss Pippa.”

  Anticipation mixed with clammy cold rippled over Pippa’s skin. He’d never been this bold before.

  “Thank you, Grimson,” Victoria responded, yanking Pippa’s attention back to the butler, who extended the missive to her in a gloved hand. “And please,” Victoria continued, “show Miss Farnsworth to the door.”

  Georgiana brushed past her, leaving behind a whiff of vanilla and sandalwood. She paused at the doorway and looked over her shoulder. “Tomorrow. Two o’clock. If you’re so inclined.” The audacious woman left them with the emotional remnants of her challenging smile.

  Victoria tsked as she stared at the now-empty doorway. Her shoulders drooped as if in relief, then rose again as she seemed to muster strength. “I will be ringing my sister immediately. If Franny thinks she’s going to gallivant around Bluff River with Georgiana Farnsworth and subject herself and our family to the shame of marching like a silly suffragette, Franny is sorely mistaken.”

  Pippa heard her mother like a hollow echo in her ear. She stared at the letter she half pulled from the envelope. Despite its missing a signature, the familiar scrawling, etched words curled around her, squeezing with the ominous feeling of being trapped and helpless. She’d seen these words before, knew them from somewhere. And yet Pippa couldn’t quite place them.