Ghost Walk Page 3

  Except everyone exchanged sideways glances, like they’d missed something.

  Captain Kidd stepped closer to her, his slightly-hysterical laughter fading. His head tilted like he still didn’t believe this was actually happening. “Can you see me, woman?” He asked in an intense tone. “Really see me?”

  Wasn’t that a typical question? “Yes, I really see you.” She rolled her eyes at his conceit. “You’re very handsome, alright? Maybe that works with some girls, but not with me. You’re being a jerk and I won’t tolerate it, I don’t care what you look like.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And stop calling me ‘woman’ or ‘lass’ or anything aside from my name. It’s Grace Rivera.”

  He let out a shaky breath, bending forward to brace his hands on his knees. “She can see me.” He wheezed out. “Holy Mother of God, someone can finally see me. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” He actually crossed himself in prayer. “I’ll never be doubting again.”

  What in the world…? Grace’s eyebrows compressed at his theatrics, looking over at the rest of the group for guidance. She could tell from their baffled reactions that she was missing something, but she had no idea what. “What’s going on here?” She demanded.

  “I don’t get it. Is this --like-- part of the tour?” The teenager asked.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Bermuda Shorts smiled at the girl, ignoring Grace’s confusion. “Don’t you see? She acts like some invisible guy in a hat has been with us this whole time and we all get freaked out thinking a ghost is following us. It’s a nice touch. Finally, this damn tour is picking up.”

  Everyone else was nodding, like they understood, but Grace was totally lost. Was this some kind of practical joke? If it was, she didn’t understand the punchline. “Invisible? The man in the hat is right there.”

  Everyone smiled humoring and nodded at her. A few of them snapped pictures of some random spot to her left, even though the guy was clearly standing on her right.

  “They can’t see me. No one’s been able to see me for nearly two-hundred and fifty years. Except you, Grace Rivera.” The guy sounded manically happy, now his words coming out way too fast. “It’s a miracle. You’re a miracle. I thought the Good Lord had forsaken me, but here you are! You have no idea how much I’ve missed having someone to talk to, lass. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I can’t believe this is really happening.”

  Neither could she.

  “What?” Grace asked again, fainter this time. No one else was even looking at the guy. Wasn’t it human nature to look at someone when they were talking? The stress she wasn’t supposed to feel began to redline. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t…

  Then, from out of nowhere, she suddenly remembered where she’d seen this man before.

  He wasn’t on a pirate TV show. His obscenely handsome face was straight off the pages of Horror in Harrisonburg. Aunt Serenity owned the large tome on Virginia history and Grace had loved it as a girl. The portrait of Captain James Riordan, painted the year before he died, had always stuck in her mind, because of his eyes. The color of the minutemen’s blue coats, they’d sparkled with secrets and mischief. Like he knew some wonderful joke and he was just dying to let you in on the fun.

  As a bookish fifteen year old, she’d spent countless hours daydreaming about James Riordan. Knife-wielding lunatic or not, he’d fascinated her. It helped that Jamie didn’t look like a murderer. He looked like the kind of guy who sailed through life on his extraordinary charm and staggeringly good looks. A scoundrel, who, after two drinks at a bar, could somehow convince a nice woman to quit her steady job and travel around the world with him. A pirate, who evaded capture by being just a little bit more daring than all the stodgy people he robbed. A free spirit, who stood at the helm of his ship, the wind in his amazing hair, and just loved being Jamie Riordan.

  Even a normal girl like Grace had been taken in by the charisma of the man. His eyes in that picture had glinted with adventure and charm. They promised that he was Robin Hood. Jack Sparrow. Dean Moriarty.

  …And those same eyes were staring at her right now.

  Oh God.

  This wasn’t happening again. She wasn’t going to lose her mind again. No way. If she just told herself that he wasn’t real and willed him away, he’d disappear.

  Except the guy didn’t disappear.

  Grace’s vision waivered in panic and she began to hyperventilate. Was she going crazy? She had to be. For the past year, she’d been terrified of this and now it was finally happening. Insanity. She took a staggering step backwards, her mind racing. The stress had finally fried her circuits and now she was hallucinating infamous historical figures.

  “I see ya are becoming vexed, but you must listen to me.” The guy who looked waaay too much like Jamie Riordan stepped closer to her, quickly closing the distance she’d created. His gaze was frantic now, like he was afraid to even blink for fear she’d disappear. “You’re the one I’ve been waiting for. You can’t be leaving me, lass. I need your help.”

  She gave her head a frenzied shake. “You aren’t real.” She whispered, her eyes locked on his way-too-real-seeming face. “This isn’t happening. I just need to think about peaceful green cornfields and you’ll go away.” Her parents’ farm was still the place she returned to in her mind when she was stressed. Her therapist had told her it was all about “centering” herself, but mostly it was about Grace wanting to recapture an elusive feeling of safety.

  “Cornfields? Are ya mad?”

  “Apparently, yes! I am! I’m seeing you and you’re not really here!”

  Blackbeard waved that aside. “Of course I’m here. Donea be daft. We must talk. Well, I must talk and you must listen. I have been screaming for someone to listen to me for centuries.”

  “Peaceful green cornfields. Peaceful green cornfields. Peaceful green… Why aren’t you going away!”

  “I’m not going anywhere!” He loomed over Grace, like he was instinctively trying to get as close to her as he could. “Two hundred years I’ve waited in this dismal place. I need help and you’re here to provide it. I’m not leaving your side, woman.”

  Grace squeezed her eyes shut and tried harder to find her calm place. The pressure of not finding it just added to her growing anxiety and made it all the more impossible find. “Peacefulgreencornfields, peacefulgreencornfields, peacefulgreencornfields.”

  “Would you bloody stop that?!”

  “Are we sure this is part of the tour?” The frat guy’s girlfriend asked no one in particular. “The guide lady is acting kinda wiggy.”

  The rest of the group clearly agreed with that diagnoses, edging away from Grace like she might be contagious. Their wary looks weren’t helping her feel frigging peaceful!

  “I’m not insane.” She snapped at them, mostly trying to convince herself. “I just can’t be around stress. That’s what this is about. I’m under too much stress and it’s manifesting in some kind of Colonial-era delusion.”

  “You’re feeling stressed? Try being dead, woman!”

  “You’re not even real! I told you, you’re just a delusion. And don’t call me ‘woman!’”

  The tour group exchanged nervous looks, wondering if they should make a run for it.

  “Listen to me.” The delusion laid a hand against his chest, obviously trying to appear sincere. “This is really happening. It is. I’ll explain it to you, alright?” He nodded like he had some magic words that would suddenly make everything logical and clear. If the real Jamie Riordan had been half so convincingly earnest, the lynch-mob never would have executed him in the first place. “I’m not a delusion. I’m a ghost.”

  Grace gave a high-pitched laugh at that lunacy. “Oh, of course you are!”

  “It’s true. My name is Captain James MacCleef Riordan. I was hanged in this accursed town on July 4, 1789, for crimes I didn’t commit.” He gestured towards the oak tree stump. “I was framed for killing those girls and I’ve been stuck here ever since. I swear it.
Ya have to assist me in finally clearing my name.”

  “No, no, no, no, no.” Grace kept backing away from him. “I don’t have to do anything, except my deep breathing exercises. This is all inside my head. You’re a manifestation of my anxiety and my weird fixation with that stupid picture.”

  She should have known her obsession with that painting would lead to badness. Her first sex dreams had been about a murderer. No wonder she was so screwed up.

  Jamie Riordan (No, not Jamie Riordan!) moved closer again. “Mistress Rivera, please. You were clearly sent to me for a reason. I’m not going to hurt you. I couldn’t, even if wanted to. Regain your equilibrium and everything will begin to… watch out!”

  Grace was passed the point of even hearing him. She had to get out of there before she had a complete meltdown. As she retreated, the heel of her old time-y shoe wedged between two of the street’s cobblestones. Caught off-guard, Grace toppled backwards, her arms pin-wheeling for purchase.

  “Shit!” The-delusion-who-maybe-wasn’t-a-delusion reached out to try and grab her as she fell. Instead of catching hold of Grace and steadying her, his fingers passed right through her wrist with a strange jolt of energy. She hit the ground, her skull whacking against the pavement. Stars flashed in front of her eyes.

  The very last thing she saw before the world went dark was Jamie Riordan’s stunning face hovering over hers, his patriot blue eyes bright with concern. “Donea leave me, lass.” He said very clearly. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you.”

  Chapter Two

  June 20, 1789- HC snuck in to see me last night, after the Ball. I woke up with my hands tied to the bedposts and his mouth between my thighs. He seemed intent on punishing me for dancing with JMR (He quite detests the Pirate!) and I was begging him for forgiveness by the end. I cannot even write all the wicked things he did to my body while I was helpless. I’m sure Eugenia knows what we did and the gloomy little prude knows that I know that she knows, which makes it all the more delicious.

  It was quite a marvelous evening!

  From the Journal of Miss Lucinda Wentworth

  “I wish you’d let the ambulance take you to the hospital, just to check you out.” Mrs. Anita Beauregard-Smythe frowned, visions of lawsuits dancing in her head. “You really don’t look well and our insurance provider is very clear about getting timely doctors’ reports.”

  As head of Harrisonburg’s tour office, Anita was visibly worried about what the guests’ comment cards would say if one of her guides had a psychotic break. With lacquered blonde hair fixed in a permeant bubble and a face that never lost its empty smile, Anita had probably been born in her middle-aged pants suit. She couldn’t care less about the welfare of her employees, although she tried to cover that bean-counting callousness with Southern manners. Under the phony empathy and flawless make-up, her only real focus was ruling her office fiefdom with an iron fist.

  “I don’t need to go to the hospital.” Grace assured her. “I’m fine.” She pointedly refused to look at the delusion of Jamie Riordan, who was now lounging in the corner of the Harrisonburg Guest Relations Center.

  Housed in a two hundred year old building, the inside of the space was a modern mess, filled with computers and overflowing files. At nine o’clock in the evening, Anita and Grace were the only ones left in the office, which was a block from the center of town. The delusion of Jamie Riordan had smugly informed her that it used to be a brothel.

  Not that she was listening to him.

  Since she’d regained consciousness, Grace had done her best to ignore the big, handsome evidence of her insanity and it was clearly pissing him off. His gorgeous face was set in an irritated expression, as if she was the one being unreasonable. The man wanted to talk. He loved to talk. Since she seemed to be the only person who could hear his constant talking, he kept up a running commentary to her, whether she responded to him or not.

  And she wasn’t responding to him.

  No way.

  “How much longer do you plan to tolerate this horrible woman, lass?” He demanded as Anita subtly mentioned that she’d had to give refunds to everyone on the Ghost Walk and didn’t Grace think it was just a little unfair to expect Harrisonburg to pay for Grace’s mistakes.

  Grace pretended that he wasn’t there. If she just ignored him, Thomas Payne-in-the-ass (minus the Common Sense) would just go away. He had to. Darn it, she refused to go crazy, again. “I can reimburse you for the tour admissions, Anita.”

  “Well, I do think that would be the right thing to do. But the guests were also saying that you were talking to yourself.” Anita continued in a disapproving tone that she tried to pass off as worry over Grace’s wellbeing. “That’s very troubling, in light of your history. Were you seeing things, Grace?”

  “No. Of course not. I think my electrolytes were just low.”

  “That’s it, lass. Donea tell her anything that will get you locked up. You’ll be of no help to me trapped in an asylum.”

  Grace’s lips compressed into a line, but she still didn’t acknowledge him.

  Anita made an “umm” sound, not convinced by Grace’s denials. “Are you sure you weren’t experiencing anything… odd? You’ve been under a lot of stress this past year. And then there’s your family’s… business. No one would blame you if you’re having a few… problems.”

  Faux-Jamie scoffed at all the pointed pauses. “See?” He waved a dismissive (but beautifully shaped) hand at Anita’s faux-concern and faux-sympathy. “She thinks you’re off your head. Convince her everything’s alright so we can be going.”

  “I’m fine, Anita.” Grace adjusted her icepack with a bit more force than necessary. Visualizing a safe and happy place was supposed to help with anxiety, but no amount of peaceful green cornfields could stop the throbbing in her skull. “I just need to drink more water.”

  “I’m sure that’s it.” Anita obviously wasn’t sure that was it. “It’s shaping up to be a sweltering Independence Day, isn’t it?” She patted Grace’s arm. “Things will be so hectic here over the holiday. Take tomorrow off and recuperate. You can come back for the weekend, rested and ready to go. I think that would be best, don’t you?” It wasn’t a question.

  Grace ground her teeth together at the loss of a day’s pay. “Of course.”

  Her answer was totally unnecessary. Anita was already moving on to her real priorities. “And you have a point. With the temperatures so high, we’ll sell record amounts of bottled water this weekend on the tours. I’ll just go make a note to order even more.” She headed for her private office. “You can get home on your own, can’t you, Grace?” She called over her shoulder and then shut the door after her, without waiting for an answer.

  Grace sighed.

  “Do you truly plan to stay working for that harridan, lass? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’d rather be dead and I am dead. You should grow a backbone. Walk out of this place and never come back.”

  On some level, she agreed with his disapproving analysis. This job wasn’t for her. She was terrible at it and very, very bad at confrontations. Everyone knew that. Great-Uncle Devotion once told her she could lose an argument with a stuffed jackalope.

  As a crypto-taxidermist, Devotion had a lot of time on his hands to think up witticisms like that. Most of them involved some kind of non-existent animal he was just waiting to discover, hunt down, and pose with on National Geographic’s cover. Dev’s fondest wish was to shoot a unicorn. In this case, though, her crazy uncle was probably right. Grace was stuck in a life that didn’t quite fit. Not a single part of it made her happy.

  Unfortunately, after Grace’s breakdown, Anita had been the only normal person willing to hire her.

  She couldn’t go back to being a crime scene tech. It had nearly cost Grace her sanity. And she sure couldn’t go work with her family. They were a surefire ticket back to the crazy house. Not only were her relatives insane, but their potion shop somehow lost money even though they could literally make money with their sp
ells. As much a Grace hated to admit it, their magic could actually do --well-- magical things. There was no logical explanation for their powers. So how on God’s green earth could they have spent three hundred years dead broke?

  It was enough to drive even a really normal person bonkers.

  “Why do you let her speak to you so?” The delusion continued, gesturing towards Anita’s office door. “You should stand up for yourself!”

  Grace looked up at the ugly dropped ceiling and let out a long breath. He was actually right. Was that a bad sign? An even worse sign than seeing a delusion, in the first place?

  Maybe she should’ve gone to hospital. Grace just couldn’t shake the feeling that if she stepped foot into that sterile, cold space, she wouldn’t be able to get back out, again. It would be like a year ago, only worse. Just thinking about it triggered claustrophobia and had her doing her deep breathing exercises to calm down.

  What she really needed was to just be normal. Normal people didn’t see visions of Revolutionary War era criminals. Normal people didn’t have relatives who hunted unicorns and spent every free moment trying to recreate the family’s long-lost recipe for “troll powder.” Normal people didn’t visit crime scenes and relive the murders. Normal people were boring and stable and… normal.

  Normal was the key to happiness.

  She was sure of it, no matter what her family thought. If she could just figure out the secret of normalcy, everything else would fall into place. Her whole life would go back to not sucking. All she had to do was focus on reality and tune out the amazingly attractive invisible man following her around.

  Think normal.

  Speaking of which, she was late for her date. Grace checked her watch. Yes, a nice, normal dinner with nice, normal Robert would make everything fine again. No one was more relentlessly normal than her boyfriend.

  Hopefully, he could bore the delusion away.