The Voodoo Cult's Treasure

By Paul Ferrante

After a disastrous run-in with a vindictive 1600s witch leaves him wanting to ditch his ghost hunting career forever, T.J. Jackson and his mates are drawn back into the paranormal world to investigate the mysterious disappearance of their friend and mentor, Mike Weinstein, in the Voodoo Capital of America: New Orleans. Along the way, T.J., Bortnicker and LouAnne — with an assist from their Bermudian friend Ronnie Goodwin — must explore the strange world of New Orleans Voodoo, as well as the crazy gumbo of cultures that make Southern Louisiana a place like no other. Their quest will take them from the bright lights of Bourbon Street to the steamy backwaters of the bayou, and test their courage at every turn. It looks like this trip to NOLA will provide the Junior Gonzo Ghost Chasers with their most dangerous case yet!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Aug 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781680465501

Paul Ferrante

Paul Ferrante is originally from the Bronx and grew up in the town of Pelham, NY. He received his undergraduate and Masters degrees in English from Iona College, where he was also a halfback on the Gaels' undefeated 1977 football team. Paul has been an award-winning secondary school English teacher and coach for over 30 years, as well as a columnist for Sports Collector's Digest since 1993 on the subject of baseball ballpark history. Many of his works can be found in the archives of the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. His writings have led to numerous radio and television appearances related to baseball history. Paul lives in Connecticut with his wife Maria and daughter Caroline, a film screenwriter/director. Last Ghost at Gettysburg: a T.J. Jackson Mystery is his first novel.

Book preview

Prologue

It had to be a nightmare .

His eyelids, swollen and gummy from mosquito bites, creaked open to an inky wet darkness. He knew he was inside some kind of structure because he couldn’t see the moon or the foliage from which all sorts of nearby sounds emanated—owls and other shrieking nocturnal birds of prey, animals that crept or slithered through the thick underbrush, insects that sang and whined. The hard-packed dirt beneath him was cool and sticky and reeked of decay.

Slowly, painfully, he moved his hands and bare feet and was somewhat encouraged to find them unbound. But even these simple motions were excruciatingly taxing, and he had to close his eyes and gather himself before he attempted any further exertion.

And then he heard it—a steady, rhythmic beat whose vibration was felt as he lay on his back in the dirt:

Boom, boom, ba-doom

Boom, boom, ba-doom

---

Over and over, the cadence thrummed hypnotically exact, almost as if it were computer generated. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he could make out a glassless window frame set in the wall not far from his splayed feet. Some kind of flickering outside light had illuminated the outline of the dilapidated frame, and he wondered what its origin could be.

Boom, boom, ba-doom

Boom, boom, ba-doom

---

He made the decision to crawl to the wall.

First, he tucked in an elbow and rolled over onto his stomach, his face in the dirt, and then pushed himself up onto his elbows, spitting metallic grit. Dizzy, he inched himself forward, until he practically head-butted the rough wood of the dwelling’s wall. If he could just raise himself to his knees he might be able to reach up and grab the windowsill, but it would take a Herculean effort, and he was fading in and out.

Boom, boom, ba-doom

Boom, boom, ba-doom

---

Ever so slowly, his left hand felt its way up the slatted wall until it curled over the splintered wooden sill. Then, taking a deep breath, he brought his other hand up, grabbed on, and pulled. Thankfully, the opening was set low in the wall. Hanging on for dear life, he peered over the edge.

The tumbledown shack he was in appeared to be on the edge of a clearing. Lush overhanging trees and other dripping vegetation created a formidable canopy that nearly blotted out the moon. But the clearing, lit by torches around its perimeter, was eerily bright, and he had to shut his eyes to refocus. When he slowly opened them again, he wondered if he was looking into the portal of Hell itself.

At least 50 people, mostly but not all dark-skinned, were engaged in some kind of counter-clockwise dance/march as they circled a blazing fire pit. Off to the side a squatting drummer maintained the steady beat he had heard on an animal skin-covered cask, using what looked like the leg bones of some large mammal. The dancing women, some of whom had rags tied around their foreheads, were clad in loose, one-piece white garments, while the men wore nothing more than white loincloths. All of them were barefoot, many with ribbons tied around their ankles to which tiny bells were attached.

Boom, boom, ba-doom

Boom, boom, ba-doom

Then, at the far end he spied an altar covered in some kind of white silk and decorated with a jumble of multicolored candles, liquor bottles, and statues, some of which looked primitive, while others appeared to be Christian in nature. The highest tier of the altar was dominated by a large ornamented wooden box with bars set into one side.

Flanking the altar were a man and a woman, both of apparent African descent, though the woman was lighter in color. The man, who was quite tall and wearing white face paint, wore a purple top hat and matching flowing robe that was cinched at the waist with a blue cord. The woman was costumed in a blue turban, with what appeared to be a body covering comprised of numerous sewn-together blue handkerchiefs. A blue waist-cord completed the striking ensemble. She clapped in time to the beat, acknowledging the members of the circle as they shuffled by the altar and waved or bowed toward her.

Finally, the king began a chant in a rich baritone: Eh Eh! Bomba hen hen! The queen and then the congregation members joined in, and their dancing became more fevered.

The king then took his queen’s hand, and helped her up and onto the altar where she climbed atop the slatted box and began a sensual, undulating dance, her arms swinging wildly, her head lolling to and fro as if she had severed all the muscles in her neck.

With a deft movement, the king removed a long, squirming golden snake from the box and began a chant:

"L’Appé vivi, le grand serpent,

L’Appévini, fov fe gris-gris!"

---

He handed the python to the queen, who held its head and tail aloft as the chanting celebrants became more frenzied in their movements. Within seconds they were on the ground, writhing in the dirt of the clearing, contorting themselves grotesquely and wailing in a cacophony of tongues. The energy kept ratcheting upward, obviously leading to some sort of crescendo.

Then, to his horror, he saw a young goat, bleating with terror, being dragged before the altar as the cries of the congregation reached a keening pitch, and the king pulling the screaming animal’s head back while brandishing a dagger whose blade caught the glint of the firelight—just as the rotted windowsill disintegrated in his fingers and he fell backwards into the blackness.

1

Fortunate Son

Five Months Earlier

---

It’s not your fault, LouAnne Darcy said as she looked into the eyes of T.J., her cousin by way of adoption, while they sat atop the low stone wall on Cemetery Ridge. The spot, called The Angle, was considered the high-water mark of the Confederacy during the Civil War. On July 3, 1863, Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia had staged a daring frontal assault on Union forces massed along the ridge, throwing everything they had to try to break the Union line on the climactic third day of the bloodiest battle to ever occur on North American soil. But Lee’s gamble at Gettysburg was to be a costly failure, and began a slow downward spiral that would culminate in the South’s surrender at Appomattox two bloody years later.

As T.J. Jackson looked across the farm fields to Seminary Ridge a mile away, from where the combined units of Generals George Pickett and J. Johnston Pettigrew had stepped off with colors flying, their tattered butternut and gray uniforms soaked with sweat in the midsummer heat, he couldn’t help but squeeze her hand and sigh. I know, Cuz, he replied resignedly, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

The pair had come a long way on a journey that had begun in this very place. At the time, T.J., a recent middle school graduate, had been dropped off for an extended summer vacation stay with his uncle Mike and aunt Terri, LouAnne’s adopted parents, while his widowed dad flew to Paris with his then-girlfriend to work on an architectural project he was overseeing. The younger Jackson had thought his stay in the historic small central Pennsylvania town would be a colossal bore, but he was dead wrong.

First, for reasons that would become much clearer to him in subsequent years, he was drawn into a mystery that had the local police and park rangers—which included his uncle Mike—baffled. The ghost of a Confederate cavalier was terrorizing the National Battlefield at night, and had blown away three trespassers with his Colt .44 cavalry pistol. A seeming chance encounter with the specter had convinced T.J. to enlist the aid of his adopted cousin—for whom he’d immediately fallen head over heels. He also contacted his quirky best friend, Bortnicker, who’d come down from the boys’ hometown of Fairfield, Connecticut, to lend his historical and technical expertise to what would turn out to be a life-changing experience for all of them. Through on-site research and some questionable risk-taking the trio was able to not only ascertain the identity of the ghost, but send him—with some last-minute help from Uncle Mike—to the hereafter. The adventure had forged an unbreakable bond among the teens, despite some early conflict between the boys over their shared affections for the lovely LouAnne. It had also brought the novice ghost hunters in contact with Mike Weinstein, the dashing host of the Adventure Channel’s hit series Gonzo Ghost Chasers. Weinstein had been so impressed with the youngsters’ handling of the case that he had recommended them to the network when the suits in charge had pitched to him the idea of a Gonzo spinoff featuring a teen cast.

After that, the last two years had been a blur. Under Weinstein’s supervision, the team, christened the Junior Gonzo Ghost Chasers, first traveled to the idyllic island of Bermuda to investigate the haunting of an historic plantation home by its former inhabitant, a 1700’s buccaneer. It was there they would become familiar with the modern technology of paranormal investigation, employing everything from computers with split screens that monitored remote video cameras to handheld gadgets that could track an area’s temperature fluctuation and capture previously undetectable voices from the beyond. Along with their growing confidence came a deepening in the relationship of T.J., who had assumed the leadership role in the group, with LouAnne; meanwhile Bortnicker, despite his nerdy persona, found himself entranced by a sultry Bermudian island girl whose father had piloted the boys on their historic scuba diving search of the pirate’s wreck. The subsequent television special that chronicled their investigation—during which they again had made full contact with a spirit from the past before managing to get themselves thrown off the island by the Bermudian National Trust—was a smash hit.

It was here that T.J. felt the kids were starting to lose control of their situation, despite the constant concern and support from their parents. Some eight months later T.J. was contacted by the president of the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum in Cooperstown, New York, where the hallowed facility was apparently being haunted by the ghost of the great Roberto Clemente. The Hall’s request had been based solely upon the team’s growing fame, and although T.J. was somewhat reluctant, Bortnicker, who was relishing the attention at school that his newfound celebrity was creating, was all in on any new adventure. Likewise, LouAnne, despite a rocky time at her own school (due to that same celebrity) welcomed the extra income with an eye towards college. And so, they found themselves spending Spring Break in the Catskill Mountains, chaperoned by the boys’ J.V. baseball coach.

And what a trip it was. Not only did they solve the mystery and interact with the legendary Clemente—which would produce another successful Junior Gonzo special—T.J. gained a deeper appreciation of what he was beginning to perceive was a gift of spiritual sensitivity, if one could call it that. When Clemente’s ghost, upon his departure, told T.J. that his long-dead mother was proud of him, it validated the boy’s belief that he was somewhat tuned in to the paranormal realm. This led to his seeking out a sensitive named Jill Rogere, who explained his ability to connect with the spirit world, and the responsibility it entailed. T.J.’s newfound understanding alternately calmed and frightened him. On the other hand, he knew he wasn’t crazy—just a regular high school student/athlete with an odd gift.

But with the TV deal going it seemed now that people were always pulling at him. Although his father, best buddy, and loving cousin were always looking out for him, he experienced dark periods like the one he was stuck in now, which had been brought about by what had happened three months earlier in the first days of August.

It seemed that the spirit of a witch from the 1600’s had been awakened by a hurricane named Irene that had blown through his home town of Fairfield, and again T.J. and his mates had been pressed into service to avert the carrying out of a long-ago curse that the girl—ironically named Charity Blessing—had leveled upon the town at her hanging in 1662. But though they tried mightily, the Junior Gonzos could not accomplish the task with which they were charged: to clear her name with the state of Connecticut. More importantly, when the alluring witch offered T.J. a chance to experience the other side by accompanying her to the hereafter, only an impassioned talking-to by LouAnne, augmented by a stinging slap across the face, had kept him from leaving the real world for parts unknown. Of course, he was later glad he’d stayed behind, bolstered by what he believed was his mother’s voice imploring him to do so, but he still felt responsible for the calamity that did then befall Fairfield—in the form of Superstorm Sandy, which had hit not long after Charity Blessing’s fiery exit that had left the threesome holding onto each other for dear life in the town’s Old Burial Ground. Of course, Sandy’s destruction was not exclusive to Fairfield—the entire Northeast was pummeled by the unprecedented natural disaster—but the feeling of this defeat had left a sour taste in his mouth, and the sometimes-wish that he’d never gone to Gettysburg in the first place. But whenever those thoughts would creep in, usually in the false dawn of early morning, he’d combat them with the rationalization that had it not been for that first trip, he would never have come to know the love of his life.

He looked at the girl who sat beside him, holding his hand, her blue eyes deep and reassuring, her cheeks red in the late afternoon November chill as a light breeze blew her blonde tresses about her face, and knew this was the person he’d marry someday. Yes, it was improbable. Jeez Louise, who in today’s America ever married his cousin, even if she was adopted? But T.J. just knew. Yeah, he’d had girls follow him around at Bridgefield High for a variety of reasons. Not only was he considered a hottie who resembled a circa-1964 Paul McCartney, with doe eyes and lush Beatle-like brown hair, he was also a two-sport athlete in track and baseball, and he was on TV. Furthermore, his humble manner and steadfast avoidance of the typical high school cliques and their inherent drama had kept any jealousy over his newfound fame at a minimum. Teachers considered him a respectful, inquisitive student who glided along in the B+/A- range, and his sports teammates admired his unselfish, quiet leadership. In short, if you had a daughter, you’d want her bringing home young Mr. Jackson.

His best buddy, on the other hand, welcomed the measure of fame the TV gig had provided. As a social outcast for his elementary and middle school years, Bortnicker—the product of a flighty mom and mostly absent dad—had been universally shunned by the kids at school, who poked fun at his wild, bushy hair, Coke bottle glasses, and quirky hobbies like model railroading, addiction to the History Channel, and now cooking. Academically, he just got by, due mostly to his photographic memory, and had long exasperated teachers with his elliptical questions and ruminations. But his eccentric demeanor belied a fierce sense of loyalty and unquestioned bravery, which had exhibited itself time and time again during the team’s adventures. In the old days T.J. had been his constant protector, but now their partnership played to both their strengths; few brothers could claim the closeness they exhibited. It was this sense of love and respect that had made Bortnicker back off on LouAnne, for which T.J. was quietly grateful.

You know, she said, breaking his reverie, I sometimes wonder who I’d be without the whole ghost hunting experience. I mean, I got past the being adopted thing, thanks to Mom and Dad, who are awesome, but I was a pretty confused kid for a while there. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you.

T.J. chuckled. His earliest memories of her were as a geeky, mousy child who annoyed the heck out of him at infrequent family gatherings. Of course, that had all changed by the time they’d become reacquainted in Gettysburg. In the interim his adopted cousin had lost the bad attitude and committed herself to a self-improvement program that included a training regimen which had seen her blossom into an All-County caliber cross country runner and honor student who could have her pick of any boy she chose. But the emotional scars of her early experiences at the hands of classmate bullies and the like had given her a distinct sense of perspective, and the success of the TV show had failed to turn her head, even when it had indirectly prompted a harrowing assault at the hands of her high school’s superstar quarterback the previous year. Thankfully, the love and support of her parents and friends, especially T.J., had pulled her through. Now midway through her senior year, her thoughts of college, athletic scholarships, and a future career mingled with the here and now of chasing ghosts and being with the boy she adored.

So, how’re things going lately? he asked. Though the couple talked, emailed or texted every other day at least, face-to-face conversation always seemed like a fresh experience because of the distance between them.

Well, school’s okay, more or less. I did well the first quarter, and I’m running an A so far this time. How about you?

Pretty similar, he replied. Did you take the college SATs again? You said you didn’t do so well last time.

Yeah. I didn’t get the results yet, but I’m pretty confident I broke 1600. Eighteen or more would be ideal.

T.J. nodded. He was an above average student, but numbers like that on his college entrance exams seemed a lofty goal. And cross country was a success?

Uh-huh, she said modestly. Coach Morgan says I’m a lock for All-County. I didn’t break any records, but I was consistently in the top finishers at all my meets.

Any scholarship action?

Not yet. I’m kind of on the bubble, at least for the big schools. Not that I’d necessarily want to go to one. I put enough pressure on myself as it is.

Do you have any schools in mind at the moment? he asked gently, knowing full well that a scholarship to a school far away would impose a further strain on their relationship. He wished she hadn’t skipped a year of pre-k, which put her a year ahead of him academically.

Well, I’ve gotten letters from a bunch, mostly the ‘we’ve noticed your achievements, keep up the good work’ kind. No concrete offers. I’m going to visit some schools during my school breaks. The ones that jump out are Boston College, Northeastern, Tulane and Vanderbilt, but those are fairly big schools. There’s also Villanova and Penn here, and smaller schools in the Northeast.

Any near me? he asked, adopting a casual tone.

As a matter of fact, there’s Iona, in Westchester County, just below Connecticut, and Sacred Heart.

That’s only on the other side of Fairfield, he said, trying to mask his excitement.

Yes, it is, she said, but T.J., remember that I have to do what’s best for me and my parents, who will be footing at least some of the bill. Sensing his disappointment, she added, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy being close to you guys. Then she asked, "So what about your fall season?"

Cross country was okay, he said offhandedly. I mean, I don’t see myself as a great competitive runner like you. I just like the feeling of challenging myself to get better. And it gives me a chance to think. Believe me, there won’t be any track scholarships coming my way next year.

How about baseball?

Right now, we’re lifting weights and such for this season. Coach Pisseri got the varsity head coach job, so we’ll be moving up together, which is cool. We’ll start hitting in the cages after Christmas break. He thinks I can be the starting centerfielder as a junior, but I’m not so sure. The curveball still gives me trouble —

Will you stop selling yourself short? she said admonishingly. You’re a good athlete, T.J. Nobody said you have to be a superstar.

I know, you’re right, he relented.

You still thinking about journalism as a college major? You mentioned that last summer.

Yeah. And are you still interested in sports medicine?

I’m like 90% sure. What about Bortnicker? Does he still want a culinary arts career?

More than ever. Did he tell you about his latest obsession? He’s become a chili connoisseur. It’s like creating the ultimate bowl of chili is his major goal in life. Every weekend he comes by the house with a batch of some new blend he wants my dad and me to try out. He’s even entered us in some chili cookoff in Westport in the spring.

What do you mean, ‘us’?

Oh. Well, apparently, I get to be his assistant, or as he calls it, his ‘sous chef’. There’s trophies and prize money and everything. Supposedly we’ll be going up against real chefs who own restaurants, as well as amateurs. It sounds pretty intense.

He needs a girlfriend, said LouAnne. Or does he think that girl over in Bermuda is just sitting there pining over him? She was referring to Ronnie Goodwin, the vivacious Afro-Bermudian girl who had assisted in their second case and had become attached to their buddy during their stay. Bortnicker, who had been a nonentity socially during his elementary and middle school years, had his strange world turned upside down by an attractive young lady who seemed to look beyond his scraggly appearance and flakiness and appreciate his innate qualities of loyalty and compassion.

I think he’s realistic about her, said T.J. I mean, they email and Skype and all that, but it would be cool if he could actually get himself back over there for a visit, or vice versa. You know, to see if there’s really anything there. ’Cause even with the TV show, the girls at Bridgefield High aren’t exactly chasing him.

Well, maybe you can hook him up with someone.

"Me? T.J. laughed. I’m having a tough enough time just trying to keep in touch with you. He took a deep breath and blew it out. The battlefield looks so different in November, he said. Last time I was here the fields were green."

Well, it is Thanksgiving, after all, she reminded him. I’m so glad it’s pretty mild, though. I can’t believe we were able to pull this weekend together. You guys haven’t made it down here since the investigation.

Doesn’t matter. We’re here now, and you’ve got us for three days—for better or worse.

Are you kidding? she countered. Do you know how thrilled Mom was to cook with your buddy again?

That’s for sure, said T.J. "We had to leave extra early yesterday morning so he could