Seizure(44)

The next customer was a shocker.

Rodney Brincefield. Minus his yacht club butler’s uniform.

Today Brincefield wore a khaki shirt-and-shorts combo with a matching Bushmaster hat. Tan socks, brown sandals. No kidding.

Shifting a sixty-ounce lemonade, Brincefield shook hands with Chris and bought a ticket. Below the bushy white brows, his bright eyes roved to our little troop.

And lit on me. A toothy grin spread Brincefield’s face.

“Miss Brennan, what a delight!” Closing in like a charging rhino.

“Who’s Father Time?” Shelton spoke sideways to me. “He looks crazy.”

“He’s fine,” I whispered. “Harmless.”

But Brincefield worried me. The old guy was charming, but a chatterbox. Once inside the Provost Dungeon, we Virals planned to snoop around. Alone. We had to locate the older, deeper places where Bonny might’ve been imprisoned. Brincefield’s presence could complicate things.

“Good to see you, sir.” I gestured to the others. “These are my friends. Ben, Shelton, and Hiram.”

“A pleasure.” Firm handshakes, then a mischievous rubbing of hands. “So we’re all off in search of spirits?”

I nodded. “Sounds like fun.”

“It’s an extraordinary program!” Brincefield exclaimed. “This is my second time.”

“Can I have everyone’s attention?” Sallie had climbed onto a plastic crate, which brought her to about eye level.

“Hello to everyone!” she shouted. “Welcome to the world-famous Fletcher Ghost Tour!”

There was a smattering of applause.

“We’ll begin in a few minutes,” Chris said. “Please take a moment to introduce yourselves. We’ll be spending the next ninety minutes together, communing with restless ghouls and dangerous specters. So remember—” dramatic voice quaver, “—there’s safety in numbers!”

Laughter. Chris was a born showman.

Brincefield began pressing palms, making introductions. Not my style, so I slipped outside his orbit.

And bumped square into Baggy Jeans’s chest.

The young man glared at me, clearly irritated. His tree-sized buddy smirked.

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t see you there.”

Without a word, Baggy Jeans stepped aside. Feeling awkward, I introduced myself.

“I’m Tory.” I held out a hand. Neither took it.

“Marlo,” said the smaller guy. Tree Trunk remained mute. Without another word, the pair turned and walked away.

“Al-righty then.”

“Making friends?” Hi asked.

“Shut it.”

“It’s amazing how so many folks instantly dislike you,” Hi continued. “You have a gift.”

“It’s amazing that any—”

“Everybody ready?” Sallie cut short my clever retort. “Here we go!”





THE FIRST HOUR was fantastic.

Sallie and Chris led us along dark streets, dispensing trivia and funny bits of city lore. The group would stop and gather close while the duo spun tales of famous hauntings, poltergeists, and unexplained occurrences.

We learned about the Lowcountry’s notorious pantheon of spirits. Haints—dead souls who take the form of ghosts or people. Boo-hags—beings who shed their skins and roam the marshes by moonlight. Plat-eyes—one-eyed phantoms who creep inside houses on hot summer evenings.

Sallie talked of the protective powers of boo-daddies, tiny figures made of marsh mud, Spanish moss, sweet grass, and salt water, then incubated inside large marsh oysters.

“If you fear the local baddies,” Sallie warned, “keep a boo-daddy in your pocket.”

She waggled her personal model above her head. “A good boo-daddy protects you from night creatures. The more boo-daddies, the better.”

Our route hit several well-known spectral hot spots. South End Brewery. The Rutledge Victorian Guest House. Circular Congregational Church.

Passing the Dock Street Theatre, we craned for a glimpse of Junius Brutus Booth, father of the man who killed Abe Lincoln. No luck. Then we cruised by Battery Carriage House Inn, where a male presence is said to slip into the beds of female guests.

Our path traversed an ancient graveyard, where the ghost of Sue Howard Hardy has been photographed weeping beside her child’s grave. Our snack break was at Poogan’s Porch, where Zoe St. Amand, a one-time resident, is occasionally spotted waving from a second-floor window.

Finally, the tour reached the old Exchange Building at the intersection of East Bay and Broad.

Stone steps ascended to a porch where porticos adorned three sets of white double doors. Above, imposing two-story windows were flanked by large arching casements. The building’s exterior was faced with gray-and-white stone, once dull with age, now restored to its colonial glory.

The group gathered at the base of the steps.

“In 1771,” Chris explained, “with trade booming, Charles Town’s elite decided their city needed a modern customs house. The new Exchange would stand for more than mere economic prosperity. It would symbolize optimism for a glorious future.

“The city fathers chose a site on the Broad Street waterfront, where the biggest docks and streets converged,” Chris continued. “Construction took two years. When completed, the Exchange was one of the first landmark buildings constructed in colonial America.