“If the limbic system is the brain’s emotional seat,” Hi said, “and our noses are hardwired directly to it …”
I nodded rapidly. “Then my ability makes sense. An ultra-sensitive nose could conceivably detect emotions.”
Hi grinned. “And your schnoz is the king.”
“Thanks.”
I finished reading the article, found something near the bottom. “Pheromones?”
“I’ll run the term.”
“Interesting,” Hi said. “Pheromones are chemical factors secreted by the body to trigger social responses in members of the same species.”
“I know you’ll explain that.”
“They’re scents. Pheromones act outside the body of the secreting individual by impacting the behavior of the receiving individual.” He thought a moment. “Smell instructions. Bizarre.”
“What do they do?”
“There are alarm pheromones, sex pheromones, lots of others. Insects use them.”
“How so?”
“Here’s an example.” Hi clicked the mouse. “If an ant finds lunch, it secretes a smell trail for his bros to follow to the food source. When certain animals are looking to mate, they do the same.”
“Humans?”
“Not so much, unless you believe Axe Body Spray commercials.”
“Not so much.”
Hi checked his watch. “Snacky time?”
“Ugh, I’m still stuffed. But help yourself.”
We headed for the kitchen. Hi located a pair of Hot Pockets. Ham and cheddar.
“Awesome.” He popped them in the microwave. “We never have anything good in our kitchen.”
“Your mom would kill me for corrupting your diet. Consider this a bribe to keep quiet about my nose.”
Hi’s brows rose. “Even with Ben and Shelton?”
“For now.” I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t want to share just yet.
We waited while the microwave counted down.
Hi spoke abruptly. “Do you ever wonder why our powers aren’t the same?”
“What do you mean?”
“Yesterday, Shelton and I compared what our flares feel like,” Hi said. “His experience is different from mine. And our strengths aren’t the same either. Shelton can hear better than me, and my eyesight easily beats his. But we all caught the same virus.”
“I wish I knew. My guess is that since everyone has a distinct genetic code, the canine DNA affects each of us differently.”
The microwave beeped. Hi deftly scooped his snack onto a paper towel.
“Do you think our powers will ever go away?”
“What?” A shocking thought.
“The flare ability. Think it’s permanent?”
“I … I don’t know.” The thought had never occurred to me.
To my surprise, I wasn’t sure what I wanted. My powers would forever brand me as an outcast, but they also made me special.
Coop barged between my legs. Cocking his head, he let out a yip that morphed into a growl.
“What’s with you today?”
I reached down to stroke his head, but he danced away. Barked twice.
“Suit yourself. Hi, watch him. I need to grab the mail.”
“Get over here, mutt!” Hi ordered. “You can lick my toasting sleeves.”
Grabbing my keys, I bounced down the steps, through the garage, and outside. The mailbox stood twenty feet away. All junk, except for a letter to Kit with a Buffalo return address. I debated tossing it out with the credit card offers.
Suddenly, I had the sensation of being watched. Stiff neck hairs. Ice on the spine. You know the one.
I waited, but it didn’t pass.
My feet spun a quick three-sixty. Nothing.
Coop was at the kitchen window, barking frantically.
Freaky.
Reverse spin. There was no one in sight. Nothing moved.
“Shake it off, Brennan.”
I hurried back inside. Foolish perhaps, but so what?
I hate that feeling, like being a bug in a jar.
The creepy tickle of eyes on my back.
Feeling like a target.
WE ARRIVED ON Market Street fifteen minutes early.
The tour was scheduled for eight, but we couldn’t risk being tardy. The flyer warned that cancellation was possible if there weren’t enough guests.
“There they are.” I pointed.
Sallie and Chris Fletcher stood on a street corner across from the market entrance, a clapboard sign propped between them. The heavy wood was painted black. Garish red letters screamed out their offering:
CHARLESTON GHOST TOURS
Meet local ghouls on the scariest walk in downtown Charleston!
All tours include exclusive access to the Provost Dungeon.
$10.00. Not for the faint of heart!
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shelton tugged an earlobe. “I thought the tour was informational. I don’t like people trying to scare me.”
“Quit being a wuss,” Hi said. “This is the easiest way into the Provost Dungeon.”
“It’s a freaking ghost tour.” Ben snorted. “What’d you expect?”
“Exactly.” I shot Ben a get-a-load-of-this-guy look.
Ben pointedly turned away.
Still not forgiven. Fine. Rome wasn’t built in a day.
“The hottie just spotted us,” Hi said. “She’s waving.”
When we joined the Fletchers, they both smiled warmly.
“Hey guys!” Sallie gestured to the clapboard. “Here for the show?”
“You bet,” I said. “It sounded too good to miss.”
“Fantastic!” Sallie’s eyes glittered in the lamplight. “I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“I better get to work,” Chris said. “We need at least one more person.”
“We’ll take you guys regardless,” Sallie confided. “But let’s wait a few more minutes. I’m feeling lucky, maybe we can get a big group tonight.”
“No rush,” I said. “Please, do your thing.”
“Chris can handle sales,” Sallie said. “It’s his turn anyway.”
We waited on the corner as Chris worked the crowd. A pair of seniors laughed at his jokes, but ultimately passed. The clock ticked closer to eight.
I chatted with Sallie. The boys ogled her, pretending not to.
“How’d you get into the ghost business?” I asked.
“Bills,” Sallie laughed. “Chris and I are grad students in archaeology. The Charleston Museum is great, but it doesn’t pay much. So we work the streets.”
“This makes money?” Shelton glanced around. “We’re the only ones here.”
“Hey, don’t jinx it,” Sallie joked. “There’s still time.”
We smiled politely.
“Seriously! On a good summer night, we make a killing. The rest of the year can be hit or miss, but overall, we do pretty well. Tourists love ghosts.”
As if on cue, a hefty couple approached wearing matching Packers jerseys and munching waffle cones. Chris’s pitch hit the mark. The couple bought tickets, then wandered into the market.
“It’s a great idea,” I said. “How’d you get permission to visit the Provost Dungeon?”
“That’s our ace,” Sallie said. “The director is a CU alum. Chris schmoozed him and got us access in exchange for cross-promotion at the museum.”
Two more couples approached. The men wore polos and linen shorts, the women sundresses and strappy little sandals. Chris beamed as he doled out four tickets.
“See?” Sallie winked. “Money in the bank.”
“You’ll be rocking a penthouse soon,” Hi quipped. “Platinum watches.”
“Not likely. Every extra dollar goes to our expedition fund.”
She read the question on my face.
“Egypt. Next summer. Chris and I plan to join a new excavation at Deir el-Bahri, unearthing a temple complex built by the pharaoh Hatshepsut in the fifteenth century BC.”
“Sounds wonderful.” I felt some hero worship kick in.
“We’re super excited,” Sallie said. “The temple sits among the cliffs at the entrance to the Valley of Kings, on the west bank of the Nile. There’s nowhere more beautiful in the world.”
“I’m officially jealous.” I was.
“We have to foot the bill first,” she said. “It’s a two-year commitment, so that means hawking a whole lot of ghost stories on Market Street.”
Over Sallie’s shoulder, I noticed two young African American men amble toward Chris.
The first was maybe eighteen, with a shaved head, deep-set eyes, and a Z-shaped scar cutting across his left check. His oversized white tee and weathered jeans hung loose on his slender frame.
The second guy was older, perhaps twenty-five, and larger. Much larger. Well over six feet, he towered over his companion. Muscles bulged beneath his authentic Kobe Bryant Lakers jersey.
Shelton whistled softly. “Look at the size of that guy.”
Baggy Jeans handed Chris a bill. Chris said something. Baggy Jeans shook his head. Nodding quickly, Chris signaled to Sallie. She joined the pair, then hustled back to us.
“Can you guys pay now?” she asked. “That kid only has a hundred dollar bill, and Chris is short on change.”
“No problem.” Hi produced two twenties. “It’s all about the Benjamins.”
“Thanks.” Sallie scurried back to Chris. Transaction complete, the newcomers strolled to a nearby wall, leaned back, and waited.
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.
“But that’s not why we’re here, is it?” Smiling wickedly, Chris pointed to steps descending the building’s side. “We came to see … the dungeons.”
Sallie lit and distributed candles, then, single file, we trooped down the narrow staircase. At the bottom, a door led into a gloomy basement with a low ceiling constructed of barrel-vaulted brick. Archways divided the space into murky, shadow-filled alcoves.
The sundress ladies tittered as their husbands exchanged jokes. The Packers couple snapped shots with their Nikons. Brincefield scouted the room, excited, a kid at Disneyland. Marlo and Tree Trunk stood at the back of the group, silent and still.
Sallie spoke in hushed tones, candlelight dancing shadows across her features. “The Provost Dungeon served a sinister function during the Revolutionary War. Beneath the beautiful façade of the Exchange above lurked this nightmare.” Sallie swept her free hand in a wide arc.
“Cruel men converted these cellars into a ghastly prison.” Sallie’s whisper forced us to draw close. “Dark. Dank. Without heat or light. Those caged within these walls faced sickness, despair, even death. The British used this
hole to jail American patriots.” The flickering light distorted her face, Halloween style. “Brave Charlestonians were clapped in irons, locked underground, and forgotten.”
Chris’s voice sounded dull in the subterranean gloom. “Deserters. Women. Slaves. Highborn sons. All those suspected of aiding the rebel patriots were crowded into cages and left to die.”
Chris told the story of Isaac Hayne, an American war hero captured and hanged by the British.
“Hayne refused to surrender,” he whispered. “His ghost now haunts these dungeons, searching for enemy redcoats, even in death unable to lay down his arms.
“So.” Chris smiled. “Shall we proceed?”
Huddled close, our little band tiptoed through the cellar and eventually descended a second staircase, steeper than the first.
At the bottom was a wide, dark chamber, older than the room above. Clammy, bare-earth floor. Low, claustrophobic ceiling. Stale, fetid air.
Shelton fiddled an earlobe, face tense in the glow of his candle. I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, knowing how much he hated tight spaces.
“We’ve traveled further back in history,” Sallie whispered, “to a time before the Exchange existed.”
My heart threw in a few extra beats. This was what we wanted.
“For you see,” Sallie intoned, “the Exchange was constructed atop an even older fortification, one dating to the town’s founding.” She paused for effect. “That bastion, too, had a dungeon.”
Chris picked up the narrative. “Half-Moon Battery.”
My elbow found Hi. Just as his found me. We listened intently.
“You are standing in the linchpin of Charles Town’s original defense system,” Chris said. “Half-Moon Battery was so named because it jutted into the harbor in a half circle. This vault was discovered during a renovation in 1965. Rumors persist of older, deeper spaces yet to be discovered.
“Every town needs a prison. Long before the Provost Dungeon was established, dangerous criminals harried the streets and waters of old Charles Town.”
“Pirates,” Sallie whispered.
“From its founding, pirates plagued the city,” Chris said. “Blackbeard. Stede Bonnet. Ruthless marauders captured dozens of Charles Town vessels and held their occupants for ransom.