Deadville

By Kate Daniels

Florida may be the land of the nearly dead, but Cat Lovelace's new job as a ghost tour guide is killing her. It may seem like a strange choice of profession, but she has a reemerging talent for the job. For Cat, the ghost stories aren't just legend, she often sees the characters walking around. It's a talent she tries to keep under wraps, lest she become the town's living, breathing, Magic Eight Ball.

A chance encounter in a graveyard sends Cat into the arms of William Harston, a mysterious business man with a secret. When Will's dead wife starts haunting her, Cat soon finds out that her boyfriend has some serious baggage.

Choc full of ghosts, vampires, intrigue, small town politics, werewolves, and homicidal Dutch seafood chefs, Deadville is a hilarious romp through the supernatural South. You won't want to put it down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Daniels
• Release date: Mar 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458053039

Kate Daniels

Kate Daniels is the author of various books, blogs, articles and short stories. She lives in a small town in north Florida with her rifle toting husband, snorting Pug and a demonic Pomeranian. When Kate isn't writing novels, she moonlights as the director of a successful childrens' theatre company.

Book preview

Deadville

by Kate Daniels

Copyright 2011

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Acknowledgements

If it takes a village to raise a child, then it is my true belief that it takes nothing less than an army to publish a book. I may not have had an army, but I've been blessed with a crack team of word addicts and artists alike. Kelly, Rose, and Jami, this blood's for you.

Cover Artist

Shawn Hennessy

www.facebook.com/shawn.hennessey1

Chapter One

You're hired.

What? Really? I knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, or for that matter, a no non-sense fifty-something southern bell. But I hadn't prepared for this. At twenty-five, and fresh off a failed stab as a New York actor, I never expected to move home and land a paying gig.

Were you expecting something a little more in depth? Lorraine glared up at me over her reading glasses. They were hand painted with little pink and aqua flowers.

To be honest, yes. I mean aren't you even going to ask if I believe in ghosts?

Cat, I don't give a shit if you believe in gremlins, ghosts or talking dogs. I'm a business woman sugar. All I care about is if you can read a script and be on time, and maybe, just maybe, give our customers their twenty-five dollars’ worth. So can you do that?

Absolutely. I had been encouraged to apply for a tour guide position at Ghost Town Tours by my friend Javier. For once, my Puerto Rican drag queen barista had been right. They were hiring. More importantly, they were hiring me.

Good. You start training Tuesday. I don't pay for training days. Those are considered rehearsals. You're an actor, you should understand. So, it would behoove you to get off book fast. Lorraine pulled a dogged folder out of a desk drawer and flung it towards me. It contained the twenty five page script for this one woman show. Now, go downstairs and talk to Chrissy on your way out. She'll get you setup with a schedule and take you on a quick tour of the building.

Chrissy looked more like a Hooters girl than tour-guide, and even less like a ghost tour guide. She was tall, blonde, and had tits for days. Her tight black polo and light khaki shorts made her look like the stripper version of a camp counselor. She glanced up from her tabloid looking less than enthused about life. Oh hey. You must be the new hire. she said, before hacking an enormous glob of pink bubble gum into the trash can.

Yeah, I guess I'm it. I was quickly beginning to wonder what in the hell I'd signed on for.

Alright well, come on, I'll give you the nickel tour.

You mean the fifty cent tour?

Oh honey, this place ain't big enough for that. Now then follow me. She slid out from behind the makeshift counter that had been erected in the front room of the building, and marched me back into the room I'd passed through on my way from the offices.

My new place of employment was situated in what had once been a Revolutionary War era military hospital. The building was fairly new by comparison to other structures in town. The walls were whitewashed, and the centuries old wood floors painted dark brown to stand up to the throngs of tourists. August Springs, Florida is by no means a bustling metropolis like Orlando or Daytona Beach, but it boasts an old world charm that harkens back to the 1500s. Ghost Town Tours does a booming business, as it is the only game in town for the throngs of sightseers wanting an evening of paranormal encounters in a city known for all things ancient.

A set of three beds sat against one wall of the room we stood in. The ropes used to keep the eighteenth century mattresses in place were exposed for maximum educational experience. Without preamble, my buxom tutor began her lesson, speaking in twangs and smacks.

Alright. This here's what they call The Ward Room. That's on account of this place being a hospital and this is where they kept the patients. Most of the guides like to tell the creepy stories in here. They're in yer script. I especially like the ones about people fallin' over and the lights flickerin'. Now you make sure to give 'em a little of the history too, like it was a military hospital from the seventeen hundreds and lots a people died here.

It went on in this manner for a riveting half an hour while she paced me from ward room, to apothecary, to morgue, to surgeon’s office, to mourning room and back out into the garden. I could tell I would need to be consulting my script and possibly several other reference materials if I hoped to do a thorough job. Chrissy apparently took the wing it approach.

So what nights do you work Chrissy? I asked, hearing my inner voice yell Please don't say Tuesday.

Oh honey, I'm the day help. She flipped a hand toward me, bejeweled manicure winking in the sunlight. I'm too chicken-shit to work the night tours, and besides, I ain't got a head for all those stories.

Luckily, she didn't need to for day shift. The advent of the cheap MP3 player made the days of museum guides and curators obsolete. All Chrissy had to do was man the desk and thrust a hermetically sealed pair of headphones into patrons hands. We headed back inside so Chrissy could give me a schedule before going back to her trash magazines.

Well, that about concludes our tour. Got any questions?

Um. Not at the moment.

Well, If you do, I'm sure you'll get them answered when you come in Tuesday night. Let's see who's workin. She opened a file folder by the cash register, revealing a scribbled on spreadsheet, Well fuck a duck. She snorted. Tracy is workin' Tuesday.

Should I be worried?

Depends on how, Chrissy paused to find the suitable word and slip another unnaturally colored piece of gum into her mouth, sensitive you are.

So she's a bitch?

On wheels my friend. She thinks she's psychic or some bullshit. Says she screwed a ghost in one of the hospital beds. Here's the schedule. You'll be first up on Tuesday and Thursday. Be ready for Saturday. That's you're first night alone.

I spent the walk back to my apartment trying to scrub the image from my brain of the so called Tracy, writhing atop the ropes of one of the makeshifts beds I'd seen. It was ten thirty in the morning and my shift at the Seafood Station didn't start until one o'clock that afternoon. Deciding on a detour, I picked my way through the masses of tourists with their bags of overpriced souvenirs, and headed down to the Bean and Bun to see Javier.

The local’s coffee shop was little more than a hole in the wall with an espresso machine; a no frills establishment for the serious caffeine addict. My heart was already aflutter with the prospect of a mid-morning fix. Just opening the door and breathing deep was enough to get your blood flowing.

Hey girlfriend. Look what the cat dragged in. Javier my neighborhood barista and good friend, looked up from behind a cloud of steam. He'd nicknamed me in high school and it stuck, much to his satisfaction.

Javier, when are you gonna knock it off with the name puns?

When the novelty wears off Kitty-Cat.

You've known me for twelve years, it's no longer novel.

Ooh snap. Does that mean I need to buy you some jewelry or somethin? What do you get for the twelve year mark?

A Bombay Buzz...Large. The Bombay Buzz was the local drink of choice for coffee addicted neo hippies like myself. A double shot of espresso mixed with chai tea and the right amount of frothy milk.

Nectar of the Gods comin' up. Javier yelled over the grinder. I couldn't tell if it was the steam or something else, but his face was glistening.

You look especially cheerful today.

New face powder honey. I am so sorry when I didn't believe your spiel on the wonders of mineral powders.

Who's the boy? I raised an eyebrow attempting to look extra inquisitive.

Who cares, baby. I'm fabulous, plus one, or not. Javier flipped his imaginary ponytail, a gesture that never ceased to astound me in it's perfection. What's new with you?

I got a job.

Another one? What the hell chica? Please tell me it's something fun like strippin'. Otherwise, you a serious work-a-holic.

Meet August Spring's newest ghost-tour guide. I raised my cup in a toast, while offering my best Shakespearean curtsey.

Oh Jesus child, I was only kidding when I told you about that place. You might as well be strippin.

What's that supposed to mean?

Ain't you heard those ghost girl's talk?

Well, no.

All they do is bitch about how they work all night and can't have a social life, and hate their jobs, but the money is sooo good.

Javier. I already don't have a social life, and I could really use the money.

Chica, I told you, waitin tables at the Seafood Station is a lost cause. All you get is tourists who don't tip and old people who tip like it's 1935. Why don't you go back to New York and make somethin' of yourself?

You know why.

Yeah, I know.

Excuse me. Can I get a cup of coffee here? A nasal Jersey accent rose behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see a portly windbreaker sporting a fanny pack. Shit. The tourists had discovered the last truly locals place in town.

I'll see you later. I toasted Javier again with my coffee cup and headed out onto the brick streets of my historic little town. I took the long way home, sipping my coffee, and trying not to stew over Javier's comments. What did he know anyway? I liked August Springs. It was one of the few places my parents had moved to that I truly enjoyed. The place was one of the oldest cities in the country. Despite its backwater nature, August Springs was teaming with tourists year round, but that is practically anywhere Florida these days.

It wasn't like I'd moved back in with my parents. I couldn't if I wanted to. They'd packed it up and headed north when I started undergrad. It had always struck me as a bass-akwards thing to do. Your kid picks a local college and you move away? It had always been like that. I blamed the trace of gypsy in my mother and the Peter Pan complex my father battled with daily.

So here I was, settling into my home town after flying the coop for two years. Why was it that everyone was supposed to leave town before they could be considered successful?. This wasn't high school. You didn't have to graduate from a place. And besides, I'd done my requisite time in New York. Of course you were frowned upon even more if you left and came back. Whatever.

I knocked back the dregs of my coffee, drowning my sorrows in caffeine, and climbed the stairs to my apartment. The door stood ajar. The sounds of someone ransacking the living room made every hair on my neck stand up. Without thinking, I slowly pushed the door the rest of the way open.

Jesus Christ on a cracker! Kendra spun around. My best friend and roommate was a thickly built girl with auburn hair and wide hips. Perfect Irish stock, she was made for tilling fields and birthing babies. At present, Kendra stood amidst an impressive pile of rubble.

What in God's name are you doing? I asked, tip toeing through the destruction.

I lost my damn keys and I'm late to meet Dylan. Dylan was Kendra's musician boyfriend who blew in and out of town on the breeze. Said breeze being the pungent odor of a Greyhound bus.

Well, at this point I think you're screwed. I don't know how you'll find them in that mess. I managed to take in the full magnitude, and it was quite impressive. What did you do?

I emptied all the drawers in the card catalog. I was sure I put my keys in the top left one We had an old library card catalog in the entryway. An exhilarating dumpster dive piece at the time, it was now relegated for the bits of junk and ephemera that we picked up on our walks through town.

I grabbed my bike water bottle out of the cabinet and opened the freezer for some ice. I am an avid believer in alternating coffee and water so not to overload my system. Found them. I said, pulling the frosty Hello-Kitty keying from the icebox.

Kendra swooped in, hawk like, and was halfway out the door before the first key even rattled.

You're welcome! I called down the steps to her. The squeal and clang of her purple Nissan, rocketing down the street, reported off the balcony door. I set to righting the contents of the card catalog, unable to keep myself from laughing and shaking my head.

* * *

Tuesday came in a hurry. I spent my weekend waiting tables, studying my script and rifling through Kendra's closet. Thankfully, Kendra was currently employed in the costume department of our local theatre, and she'd gone through a brief Goth phase in high-school. With her help, I was able to cobble together a somewhat fetching gypsy after dark ensemble. I stuffed my feet into a pair of decrepit loafers and practically sprinted out of the house.

Tracy was standing in the doorway to the old hospital building when I walked up. Smoking a clove cigarette, and reading a battered copy of The Bell Jar, her face was obscured by a mass of long freshly dyed black hair. Her black broomstick skirt, bell-sleeved blouse and tattered plaid shawl made her look like a meth addict who had who robbed a Hot Topic. She stood up to every stereotype my brain could muster for her, until she opened her mouth.

Good evening. I'm Tweithy. You mutht be Cat.

I bit my lip and tried to exercise the utmost control. I couldn't decide whether her affected British accent disguised the obvious lisp she had, or accentuated it more. In any case, my mother had taught me better than to laugh at those less fortunate, but the whole package was simply too much.

Yes, I'm Cat Lovelace. She hadn't noticed my pause, or my twisted smirk that came out when I tried to smile. The laughter was still bubbling beneath the surface.

We stepped into the building where Tracy promptly grilled me on my mastery of the script, asking me which stories I was comfortable telling and which parts of the tour she needed to lead. Something told me this was just professional courtesy, if not an act altogether. I was pretty intuitive when it came to people, and she was obviously going to take the reins no matter what.

Our tour began promptly at eight o'clock with Tracy waving a dim lantern and ushering a mob of tourists into the ward room. After a brief history lesson, she launched into a story of recent phenomena. It was standard ghost story things like moving objects, disembodied voices, and footsteps from unknown entities. They were entertaining, but too cub-scout campfire time for my liking. The tourists ate the shit up with a spoon. Tracy was nearing the climactic part of an anecdote involving rapid temperature changes when it happened.

The lantern sputtered and went out, bathing the room in a dark I had never before experienced. Everyone uttered a collective gasp which was followed by a large thud. Panic jumped from person to person. Someone had hit the floor. I scrambled for a light switch amidst the chaos, blindly groping overweight tourists and tripping on strollers. A woman lay unconscious in the center of the room. She came to rather quickly and sat up, blinking hard.

You okay? asked her male companion. He was her husband from the looks of his worried face.

I think so. She rolled her head working out some kink in her neck.

Jesus! The man yelped, jumping back away from his wife.

Everyone could see it. We stood agog, as a bruise slowly surfaced on her neck. It was like watching a fleshy mood ring change from pink, to blue, to a purple black. The shape of it was distinct. Bite mark. The woman raised an arm to rub her neck and another bruise began surfacing on her wrist. She screamed and promptly hit the deck once more. After a brief interlude with the paramedics, the group made its way hastily out onto the street, buzzing with fervor and sans the first victim of the night.

Two frat boys stood by, theorizing through their beer buzz. They wore Georgia Bulldogs t-shirts and one bared a marked resemblance to that particular school's mascot.

Dude, what the fuck? he said, straightening his worn out baseball cap.

What do you think did that? Bully Bulldog gaped.

I don't know man, but that weren't no hickey that's fo' sho'!

Maybe it was some sort of vampire ghost?

Easy there Buffy, I don't want you tryin' to stake nobody.

Similar conversations persisted throughout the group, and I must admit, the event had me reeling as well. I had seen some weird shit in my life, but never anything that close to a scene from a horror film. Something had made those marks appear. I had my doubts about the vampire ghost. What it was, I had no earthly idea.

As they say in the biz, the show must go on, and thus, the tour went on. And on. And on. It was an hour and half long death march complete with ghost stories at each of the thousand and one stops we made. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice Tracy's voice, or my inexperience. They shambled, zombie like, up and down the darkened streets and alley-ways, listening intently, and snapping the occasional picture. When we finally made it back to the start point the group applauded and disbursed, bound for one of the many downtown bars catering to tourists.

Good job tonight. Tracy begrudgingly said as she handed me my share of the take. There's a guide meeting tomorrow at nine in the morning. I'll see you then. Get some sleep.

I took home a sizable share of tips. Something I was not used to in my current line of employment at the Seafood Station.

* * *

Ugghh. You're sub human. Kendra grumbled from under a mountainous comforter.

I am merely honoring your request, sweet pea. I tugged at the blob of cotton and she grunted.

What request?

To get you up, and force you to burn some calories today. I was using my best personal trainer voice, but she wasn't budging.

I didn't think you'd be going for a run at seven in the morning Cat. She gathered her dislodged bedclothes and flopped over her belly. It's not even light out. Can't we go at like ten?

No. I have a staff meeting and it will be too hot at ten.

It's fucking January Cat!

It's fucking Florida Kendra!

I retract my request. I'm going back to sleep.

Suit yourself. I'm going. I clicked off the bedroom lamp on Kendra's night table. As I shut the door I heard Kendra yell Sadist! in a groggy voice.

Headphones blaring and legs vacuum sealed in my yoga pants, I set out into the chilly morning. The sun wasn't up yet as I made my way along the back streets of our neighborhood. My route took me down Water Street with its gingerbread houses and manicured lawns. I liked to look up at the houses crammed cheek by jowl and think about the inhabitants they'd sheltered over the years.

Some of the homes were actually named, a quaint tradition that had lasted through the years. Southern Grande dames mingled with stately Victorians, and every now and then your small 1920s cottage sat looking petite and well adorned. The black sheep of the street however, was known as Lady Lillian. She was for all intents and purposes, a painted lady.

It's two story front porches and copious amounts of gingerbread trim were done in alternating patterns of black, gold, fuchsia and purple. Her wood siding had been painted a deep orange. A gilded wood carving of Kali hung on the wall next to an ornate Balinese door. Lady Lillian certainly had a knack for fashion. The black Land Rover that sat in the circular drive sported a bumper sticker proclaiming, coexist, with each letter being made of symbols from world religions. One day I would muster the courage to knock on that carved door and hug the owner of that house. Today was not that day.

I hit my stride as the old fort came into view. Left over from the days of colonies and conquistadors, the castle looking structure was one of several that dotted Florida and the Caribbean. I trudged up the hill and ran along the wall that created a sort of moat around the Castillo. Its parapets were silhouetted against the early morning sky and the gaping mouths of cannons dotted the upper deck. As I rounded the corner, something caught my eye. The shadow of someone standing in one of the parapets. They were deathly still and I got the unsettling feeling I was being watched.

Probably just a worker watching the sunrise, I told myself, knowing it was a lie. My stride had been broken along with my concentration, so I walked onto the ancient seawall, letting the pulse in my legs slow. Walking the sea wall in front of the fort could be a dangerous but rewarding practice. It had been constructed from oyster shells, and coquina stones quarried on nearby barrier islands. Although the park service did an astute job of keeping it restored, it still retained its uneven historical charm.

I picked my way from one enormous block to the next, watching the first sliver of sunlight peek above the horizon. The sailboats in the bay took on a purplish glow. I stepped, and missed. My ankle twisted and I went down, hard. It was the sort of thing that sends your mind into a grinding slow motion play by play. The angle of the sea wall was going to send me rolling straight into the water, where rocks and jagged barnacles waited to slice me to ribbons.

A flash of black and a gust of wind found me sitting in the grass and sweating. I woke disoriented, shaking my head and trying to comprehend what had happened. Had I fainted? How long was I out? Was I having a stroke, or the nervous breakdown I'd been headed for since college?

A faintly sulfuric smell hung on the air, as if someone had just lit a match, and steam was rising from my shoulders, or was it smoke?

Mam, you can't sit here. A tall park ranger was walking toward me in his Smokey The Bear hat. I stood up, getting my bearings, and realized I had been sitting with my back against one of the old shot ovens that sat in the gun mote of the fort. I was sitting some twenty yards from where I'd fallen.

Sorry sir. I managed to stammer. The sun was up now and rangers and reenactors were making their way into work. My watch beeped. eight o'clock. Shit. I was going to be late for my first guide meeting.

As meetings went, it was fairly standard. Lorraine introduced me to the rest of the guide staff. There were twelve of us in all, mostly in our twenties and ranging from the Goth poster child of morbidity Tracy, to Allan, a red headed burgeoning stand-up comic with a penchant for booze and women.

Careful, he'll fuck anything that walks. Roz whispered to me as she leaned over to pull a pen from her oversized purse. We were all signing drug test forms, a practice I was told would never really be enforced, but that Lorraine did for the insurance break.

Thank Christ. Allan said, affirming my belief that his excessive personality didn't stop with women.

She'll never enforce it. She wouldn't have a staff. Chrissy rolled her eyes as she scribbled her John Hancock at the bottom of the page. She had on a T-shirt that was five sizes too small and proclaimed Save a horse, ride a cowboy. Her rack was out of control today. From the looks of it, Allan was mentally ticking off where in town he could buy a Stetson and some leather chaps.

Everyone made their way downstairs, congregating on the sidewalk outside. Roz stood adjusting her bag. She was shorter than me, a feat I hadn't thought possible. Roz's hair made up for it. She had a mass of beautiful chestnut curls that shot out in ribbons and tangles making her look like a gypsy.

Hey, I'm headed your way. You wanna walk together? she asked.

Sure. I could use the company. I could feel a little flutter of excitement in the prospect of making a new friend. She was a writer.

Mostly music reviews and the occasional editorial about the death of true Rock-n-Roll. She explained, positioning a granny chic pair of sunglasses on her nose. I recognized her from the picture above her column in the local arts magazine. She was just the right person to talk to for answers about the incident last night.

Okay, Roz, come clean with me. How much of this business is smoke and mirrors? I launched in. No time like the present.

Smoke and mirrors?

Yeah. You know, like the spiritualist bullshit with the guy making a table raise up and down, or the South American surgeons who do sleight of hand with pig intestines and make you think they are pulling the disease from your body.

Yeah, okay I get it. Roz looked a little pale. Shit Cat, you watch too much Discovery Channel.

Sorry. I said, hoping my outward tone wasn't of the 'please don't think I'm a freak,' variety.

Smoke and mirrors huh? Roz recovered quickly.

Yeah.

What did you see? She asked, giving me a sidelong glance.

I recounted the events in the ward room to her in detail, watching as her eyes grew round and a little watery. She was grinning and shaking her head.

Did you get a picture? She asked, hopeful.

Dude, she was passed out.

I know, but that needs to go into the book! Roz was visibly excited now. I half suspected her to start jumping down the street.

What book?

Lorraine keeps a book on the front counter. It's got pictures of all the creepy shit that happens on these tours. Granted, half of them are fakes. Convincing fakes, but fakes none the less.

So this is a common occurrence? I couldn't believe it. I wanted to turn around and go back to look at this leather bound oddity.

It's not exactly everyday happenings, but yeah. People send us stuff from their tour quite a bit. Most of the time it's dust on the lens, or rain droplets in the air, but a couple of them have me truly stumped. Remind me and I will show you Saturday before you take your group out.

I'd like that. I said smiling and squinting in the mid-morning sunlight. There was something about Roz that made me want to talk to her. She had an air of openness, a kindred spirit perhaps. Part of me wanted to tell her about my stumble at the fort, get her thoughts on the whole escapade.

This is me. She cocked head towards a side street two blocks from my own. As she started towards her house the wind blew, sending her raucous mane swirling in tufts about her face. She turned back around calling down the street to me. Hey. Don't make plans for Saturday night. We are taking you out for a drink after your first tour. It's kind of a tradition.

I was excited. I made it home in record time and bounded up the stairs to tell Kendra about Roz. We were always looking for a third. When your best friends for as long as we were, you realize