The Summoning, Page 2

  Soft gasps went around the table.

  “The spirits are among us!” Shelley proclaimed. “Monty—you’re here, you’re with us.”

  Shelley had the habits of the house down pat; she’d timed her words to go with the flow of a whispery breeze that arrived each time the air conditioner kicked in. Naturally, the lights in the parlor were turned off, and the candles that were set on the table and the mantel flickered with that tiny bit of air.

  Kristi heard a quiet voice—it was coming from the kitchen, from the computer she kept there.

  She quickly hurried over, ready to turn off the screen. She’d left a local news website open, and a video had started playing automatically. An anchorman was talking, his face grave. “The police have reported no new leads on the disappearance of Simon Drake, last seen before a meeting with a number of his supporters. They are asking anyone with any information to call the number on your screen. The situation is reminiscent of the disappearance of prominent businesswoman Eliza Malone, who disappeared without a trace two years ago, a case that remains open on the books today. Any help...”

  “Another one!”

  Startled, Kristi turned. Jonah Whitney, her great-uncle’s old friend who had stayed on to manage the house, was in the room, holding a paper cup of coffee—he could drink coffee day and night without missing a wink of sleep.

  “Jonah,” she said and smiled.

  “Sorry, I was about to turn off the news and head up to my room.”

  “You don’t want to come to the séance?” she teased. Jonah hated the séances, and always had; he was delighted that now that she was the owner, he was no longer obliged to be around for them in any way, shape or form.

  “Heard them saying that man was missing. Don’t know what the hell is going on around this place, people disappearing.” He shook his head.

  “I’m going to turn off the sound, okay? Don’t want it to disturb Shelley. They’re dumb and ridiculous, yes, but hey, you’re the one who told me the séances are the bread and butter around here.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m out of here!” He grinned, heading for the back stairs.

  Shaking her head, Kristi turned off the computer and walked back to the archway separating the rooms to watch over the séance. It seemed especially silly to her, pretending to dredge up past wrongdoings when bad things were happening in their world now. Savannah was not without its crime, but it was a good city with good police, and she prayed their most recent problem would be quickly solved.

  Shelley was calling out, “Spirits of the McLane house, I summon you!”

  “Oh!” One of the guests, Lacey Knox, the teenaged daughter of a contractor from Ohio—gave out a soft little gasp. “Yes, I can feel...a presence!”

  “Something, yes!” her mom, Janet, wife of the contractor, agreed.

  Yes, you feel air-conditioning! Kristi thought.

  Shelley’s eyes were closed, and she was muttering something of a chant. “Keep holding hands, close your eyes. I must feel... I must feel the spirits!” she said. And then, after several seconds of closed-eyed silence, she murmured, “It isn’t Monty. I believe that it’s...Trinity, Monty’s poor wife, doomed to roam the house!”

  Kristi wasn’t supposed to speak during the séance—she wasn’t even at the table. She couldn’t help herself, though. She kept her voice a hushed and eerie whisper. “Monty,” she said, “was blamed because Trinity was a Yankee, and at that time, North-South relations were so tense that it didn’t matter that they’d been married for a long time. Monty had met her in New York—he had been there years before with Jefferson Davis, future president of the Confederacy, who had been giving a speech against secession at Cooper Union.”

  Other eyes remained closed. Shelley looked over at Kristi, shooting her a very evil glance.

  “Sorry,” Kristi mouthed.

  “Yes, Trinity! We are here, we are seeking the truth! We wish to know the truth. History says that you tried to return home, that you longed to meet with the Union soldiers and to have them get you back to New York City. Some say you sneaked out at night when you knew that the Union troops were near, that you were falling in love with Colonel Huntington. That you led them here. You were a patriot—or a traitor—depending on point of view. But the war is long over... Is it true? Did you bring Colonel Huntington to McLane House? I know this is hard for you...but please, give us a sign! One rap for yes, two raps for no.”

  Once again, Kristi saw Shelley’s leg move. A single knocking sound rocked the table again, drawing gasps from the assembled group.

  Again, Kristi groaned inwardly. Eyes around the table had opened.

  Carl Brentwood seemed genuinely surprised and awed. At his side, pretty Lacey Knox, eighteen years old and, apparently, an object of the young actor’s attention, was equally amazed.

  Even Granger Knox, the older bulldog-faced, no-nonsense contractor from Brunswick, a smaller city south of Savannah, seemed impressed. His wife, Janet, plump and sweet-looking, was clutching his hand tightly and glancing nervously around the darkened room.

  Attractive, thirtyish Claire Danson and white-haired, dignified Murray Meyer, Carl Brentwood’s media manager and agent, respectively—the only other two guests at the table—were visibly shaken, as well.

  They had appeared far too sophisticated to be so taken. Claire had such a chic appearance with her short, very fashionable red hair, perfect makeup and mile-long nails. Murray, too—always dressed immaculately, even when casual, his silver-white hair brushed back smoothly as if he had been a star of the distant past himself.

  “You simply couldn’t turn your back on your beliefs!” Shelley said.

  Another rap sounded. Carl Brentwood let out a gasp.

  Okay, he was young—maybe twenty, an up-and-coming young heartthrob. But the parental Knox duo and either Claire or Murray had to have seen that jerk of the knee!

  And Kristi found herself speaking again. “Trinity never embraced the Southern cause. She believed, always, in the sanctity of the Union and she was a die-hard abolitionist, but she kept to herself in Savannah, and she loved her husband dearly. The McLane family were into business, not agriculture, and they owned no slaves.”

  She saw Shelley’s jaw tighten as the woman clenched her teeth.

  But before anyone could react, it seemed that the entire house shook.

  Kristi frowned, but she saw Shelley smiling—and she realized that a large tram, bearing tourists on one of the city’s many ghost tours, had just rattled on by, hitting one of the potholes in the old road outside the house.

  “Dearest Trinity!” Shelley proclaimed, “you were innocent—your evil husband simply suspected you of infidelity and, in his mind, treason! I can see him, now, Trinity, such a handsome man, tall and dark-haired and light-eyed. I can see him so clearly.”

  Well, of course Shelley could see him; they were in the back parlor, by the stairway to the second floor and a photograph of Monty—possibly taken by the Matthew Brady—held a place along the stairway wall with other McLane men and women who had lived in the house. Though the room was dark, a night-light offered a pale illumination of the stairway, and Kristi could see Monty McLane easily enough herself.

  The light seemed to waver; it was almost as if the man moved in the photograph, almost as if he tightened his jaw with anger.

  “Dear Trinity, yes! I feel you!” Shelley cried dramatically.

  Again, as if on cue, the house rattled.

  Let it end! Kristi thought.

  Shelley let out an exhausted sigh, as if communing with Trinity had drained her of all possible energy.

  “She’s gone now. Trinity is gone,” Shelley said. “Poor thing, she tried so hard to tell us the truth, she can no longer manifest. But, oh, she was so strong for several minutes!” Shelley turned and looked at Kristi. “You may hit the lights now, Kristi.”

  Kristi was
more than happy to oblige.

  Light flooded the room.

  “That’s it?” Granger Knox said. He looked at his wife. “I thought we were going to try to contact my mother?”

  “Mr. Knox,” Shelley said, “the ghosts in this house are strong—and territorial. I’d be delighted to contact your mother for you, but I’ll need you to come to my shop. It’s right down on the riverfront. I’ll give you my card. Please let me know when you’d like an appointment.”

  Janet Knox reached out to accept the card.

  “Wow! That was amazing!” Carl Brentwood said. He saw Kristi across the room and smiled. “Thank you—thank you for setting this up.” He turned to Claire and Murray. “See—we can sell this! I can host a show, and we can hire Shelley again and...oh, Kristi, we’ll naturally book the entire house for a few days, and we’ll make you famous!”

  Kristi smiled weakly and said, “I’m so glad you all enjoyed yourselves.”

  She excused herself and escaped into the kitchen, heading for the coffeepot.

  Her guests, she knew, would continue talking, all certain they had really spoken with one of the ghosts of the house.

  Shelley came into the kitchen, seeing that the door that separated the kitchen from the rear parlor was closed.

  “Kristi!” she said. “What were you trying to do to me out there?”

  “Sorry—I just don’t like to see the poor woman condemned for something I don’t think she did.”

  “Well, I have to change my story now. She spoke! She really spoke.”

  “Shelley, a tram went by,” Kristi said.

  Shelley shook her head. “You never have believed I really contact the dead. But that—that shake of the house? I really didn’t do that.”

  “Sure,” Kristi murmured. She offered Shelley a forced smile.

  “You’re new here,” Shelley said. “But you’ve been working with tourists forever—you have to know that the city and this house are really haunted. I mean, it was your great-uncle who left it to you, right?”

  “That’s right,” Kristi agreed. She’d always loved the house—she’d never expected to own it. Her family tree was complicated. Josiah McLane had survived the war and even regained his house after the Union troops had left the city and the era of Reconstruction had begun. But he, in turn, had fallen in love with a New Yorker, and she’d come with the funds to restore the house. Josiah and his bride had two children, a son and a daughter, and the daughter had married a Scottish immigrant, Ian Stewart, and he’d left three sons, and through the following years, they’d procreated a lot. But her great-uncle, who had inherited the house through the family line, hadn’t had any offspring.

  There were other nephews and nieces, scattered around the country.

  Kristi, however, had been the one who had fallen in love with Savannah. And Kristi had been the one who had hung on to every word of Uncle Jed’s stories. Eventually it was she who had seen to his care at the assisted living facility where he’d spent his last days.

  She’d imagined the house would have been put up for sale at his death, and he’d have left all his earthly treasures to a home for cats—he’d adored cats. Jedidiah had in fact left everything except the house to a facility just outside the historic district that cared for abandoned pets. It was fitting, she had thought.

  The house had been a bed-and-breakfast for years, hanging on with the help of Jonah Whitney as manager—who, being just twenty years younger than her great-uncle Jedidiah, had basically determined on retiring, but remained now to help Kristi out. He’d been delighted that Kristi had inherited the house. And while he still maintained his apartment in the attic, and was a great help, he was pleased that she was taking over most of the management.

  Running and maintaining the house was expensive, and she was keeping her business as a designer and media consultant to make sure that the bills always got paid, including those for the house and Jonah Whitney’s small salary.

  It was Jonah who had told her that she had to keep up with the séances. He was glad that she loved Savannah so much, and that she was fond of facts. “But don’t you go being a snob,” Jonah had warned her. “We need the income! Shelley gives us twenty percent of the take, so while you may not think it’s much, those hundreds come in handy.”

  Kristi knew he was right, and she thanked his wisdom again as Shelley handed her a small stack of cash.

  “Anyway,” Shelley told Kristi happily. “It was a great night. I do believe we summoned someone. Not only that, the actor guy—sweet kid, surprisingly—gave me a hundred-dollar tip!”

  “Nice,” Kristi said. She smiled again, hoping Shelley was leaving. “The actor guy” had asked that they have the séance at midnight, and so it was very late, and she needed to be awake at six in the morning to let her breakfast staff in and get going for the day.

  “Well, good night, and thank you for calling on me,” Shelley told her.

  “You’re welcome, and thank you,” Kristi said.

  Shelley waved and headed down the little hall that went by the narrow back stairway and to the old servants’ entrance. An old Savannah gray brick walkway led out to the sidewalk and the street.

  The path also led to the backyard—which was a nice size, considering just how close the houses were in the historic district, many of them flush to one another. The McLane house had a patio courtyard directly behind the house, accessed by a third door, one that was kept locked from midnight to sunrise, and beyond that there were two structures that were once the stables and the smokehouse; today they housed all manner of supplies that might be needed for the business. The old buildings were well-maintained as they were the backdrop for the courtyard. Right behind them were flower beds and the memorials erected by Josiah McLane for his family members in 1901, when, at last, some of the fury, hatred and bitterness of the Civil War and the era of Reconstruction were finally beginning to become a part of the past.

  Some people said an earlier McLane—Lieutenant Justin McLane, Revolutionary spy, who had actually been the first to own the property—was buried out there, on the grounds where he’d been hanged for his activities against the British.

  No one knew if he’d actually died there—they only knew he’d been hanged by the British, having surrendered out in the nearby swamps so that others could disappear.

  Kristi was proud that in a long-distant way the man had been her ancestor.

  She didn’t believe for a minute that anyone was buried in the back of the house. A few years back, Jonah had caught two “ghost-hunters” digging up the backyard in hopes of discovering the patriot’s bones, and he’d seen to it that they had been arrested. Jonah was a good guy—he hadn’t continued to prosecute the pair; he had asked that they be let off with a stern warning after their initial night in jail.

  Kristi locked the door behind Shelley and walked through the house, picking up the last cups and glasses left about by the guests. She paused in the front parlor. Back in the day, the large room at the front of the house had been where the family greeted guests; the rear parlor, where they’d had the séance, would have been the family room. They were extremely lucky that ownership of the property had come down with the family through the decades. The old McLane piano, a Duncan Fife sofa and a period daybed remained in the back parlor. Refurbishing had been done now and then during various times in the years gone by, but much was original—including the portraits of the family that lined the grand stairway that led up to the second floor and the eight bedrooms that graced the house.

  When he’d built the house, McLane had thought he’d have many children, and his children would have many children.

  He hadn’t imagined war would tear his world apart.

  Cups and other leftovers from the evening all tidied up, Kristi passed through the back parlor one more time, then went through to the small, now-screened back porch that led to the courtyard. She che
cked the door; it was securely locked. Outside, Spanish moss dripped from old oaks that skirted the courtyard. The moon wasn’t quite full, but the glow it cast down on the yard gave the space an aura of nostalgic beauty.

  Climbing the stairs, Kristi couldn’t help but look at the portraits of the McLane family that lined the stairway.

  She paused in front of the Civil War–era photograph of Monty McLane—he of infamy, who had supposedly slain his family when they had so traitorously welcomed Union injured into the house and allowed it to become the headquarters for a Federal colonel.

  He’d been a striking young man. While someone in the family had seen to it that all the old photographs in the house had been properly preserved and maintained with special preservation materials, they hadn’t added color. But through the black-and-white contrast of the photograph, it seemed that his eyes had been light and his hair dark. He made a handsome figure, not smiling, but staring seriously into the lens. He had been cut down in a hail of bullets from the Union troops who had discovered him after the alleged murders.

  “Well, good night, old boy,” she told him. “Until later. Thank you, of course, for being here.”

  She went on up the stairs, almost forgetting the séance.

  Jonah’s apartment was up in the attic; despite the many stairs, the septuagenarian preferred the relative quiet of the attic space. He had a small fridge and a microwave up there, and loved his quarters in the house. He had a large-screen TV and soaked up certain programs in his free time. He was a huge fan of old sitcoms and sometimes—when she was in her own room, working on various flyers, radio spots and ad scripts—she could hear him laughing at the same I Love Lucy shows he had watched a dozen times over.

  She smiled. Jonah was a great guy—spry, and all there. If he loved “Lucy,” more power to him. She was of a mind herself that Lucille Ball had been one of the greatest comediennes the country had ever produced.

  Her room was at the end of the second-floor hallway—the largest room, once the master quarters, and it stretched from the front of the house to the back, allowing her a large work space by a window overlooking the square, and a bedroom area, where she had her bed, an old wardrobe and a dresser set, all to the side of the hearth corresponding with that in the back parlor. She glanced over at her worktable. She needed to finish a mailing with an advertisement for a chain hotel’s local Christmas activities. She’d get to it right after breakfast in the morning. It might be barely summer, hot and humid in Savannah, but winter was always on the way—in advertising, at least.