Randy White - Haunted

That gave me a start because I was standing between two fresh dig sites where signs warned Federal Antiquities Site. Access Prohibited .

I grabbed my bag, bundled the tripod under my arm, and ducked beneath the rope in a hurry. When I’d put some distance between myself and an arrest citation, I stopped to reorganize. As I did, it dawned on me to hide the camera’s memory card. If police had arrived, I didn’t want to provide them with easy proof I had been trespassing. I also didn’t want to lose the hour’s work I’d just finished. Work I had enjoyed, true, but still intense and draining because of the subject matter.

I had been photographing mass graves.

I ejected the memory card with care. It contained more than two hundred images of the dig site we’d seen earlier, plus another site that Dr. Babbs had claimed he was too busy to visit. By carefully placing the tripod inside the excavations, I’d been able to shoot close-ups without risk of damaging artifacts that lay exposed or just beneath the surface.

I felt good about that. Further penance was the opportunity to whisper a prayer for those whose lives had ended here in violence. No fewer than ten human skulls lay exposed, maybe more. Most had been shattered and burned, so it was difficult to be sure. Three had been pierced by bullet holes.

According to Capt. Summerlin’s journal, five men had been guilty of attacking the Brazilian’s wife. But twice that number of bodies had been tumbled into these holes. Members of the Cow Cavalry would not have treated their own with such disrespect, so I knew these were the remains of their enemy.

The bones told a story: what had started as a quest for revenge had turned into a bloodbath. The question nagging at me was answered when I understood that. Yes, the shallow graves were haphazard and chaotic. Yes, they contained the remains of Union soldiers. But, in fact, these were not Civil War graves. What the archaeologist was actually excavating was a crime scene- victims whom killers had tried to cover in haste.

I had dozens of photos of other artifacts that, to me, proved the theory was valid: two rusty cannon with four-inch bores, two bayonets with Union markings, a gold pocket watch with a Masonic emblem on it. Soldiers would have taken these valuable spoils of war. Only murderers would have buried them.

A second prayer was offered on behalf of Capt. Ben Summerlin, a solid man who had given in to his darkest instincts- if I was right. And feared I was. Once again, understanding such brutality failed me. What had driven my great-uncle to cross the line?

The Gerillas has been loosed & hells flames is ready. His words, written a century and a half earlier, hinted at an explanation. Guerrilla warfare was unconventional. Jungle tactics had no rules or moral boundaries. Survival demanded that the beast within a man be unleashed. Once victory was secured, the beast could be returned to its cage. But only then.

The beast within. Better than any other, the term fit. It could be blamed for every savagery and sin I could think of-a disturbing concept to linger on, so I shoved it aside.

It was a little after seven. I ejected the memory card, which I slipped into a change pocket. I was going through the camera bag, looking for a card to substitute, when I heard a second shriek-but this was no rabbit. It was a response to terror. And unmistakably female.

Instantly, my brain associated the sound with dust rising from the gravel road. What if Birdy, in her BMW, had returned and surprised the occupants of another car? Theo and Lucia, possibly. That’s what I feared.

I dropped the tripod but hung on to the camera bag and ran toward the trees, the old house hidden just beyond. A sustained scream caused me to slow, but only long enough to dial 911.

The dispatcher who answered was dubious. After I had repeated my name, repeated the address, and twice explained why I was breathing so heavily, she said, “This is the third call we’ve gotten, ma’am, and the officers didn’t find anything earlier. Are you sure it’s not just kids having fun?”

I asked, “Are you talking about the old Cadence house?”

“This time of year, we get two or three calls a night. High school kids like to go there and scare each other. Did you actually see something?”

I was on a weedy footpath that led through the trees. “I told you, a woman was screaming. I’m not making this up.”

“Are you in the house?”

“No, but-”

“Do you see anyone inside?”

“I’m not close enough. Look, the woman I heard wasn’t having fun.”

“Then how do you know she’s inside? Unless this is an emergency, ma’am, Saturday nights we’re spread pretty thin. Where are you exactly ?”

I was exiting the path from the southwest, the house’s tin roof and cupola silver in sunset’s last light. There were no cars outside the gate except for my SUV. No one on the balcony either. The front door was still chained, no sign of light or movement inside. I said, “I wasn’t imagining things. Someone is inside that house and she’s in trouble.”

“Do you still hear her?”

“Well… no.”

“Let’s give it a few seconds. I’m not doubting your word, ma’am. You said your name is Hannah Smith?”

I continued toward my car and opened the door, phone to my ear. While I waited, I hid the memory card in the glove box. Soon she asked, “Still nothing? Then it was probably kids in a passing car. That’s usually what it turns out to be. Are you in any personal danger, Miz Smith?”

I said, “Could you please send a deputy just to check it out? I’ll stick around. And you have my number.”

“As soon as one’s available, I’ll get a car there,” the dispatcher assured me.

Of course the moment I hung up, I heard another scream from somewhere beyond the balcony. I looked at the phone, then shoved it in my pocket and ran toward the house. The screaming did not stop until I had managed to open the padlock.

It seemed to take forever, the way my hands refused to cooperate.

IN THE PARLOR, with its chandelier, the fire was out, but the room was still smoky when I entered. Not thick, but enough to swirl aside when I crossed to the stairs and called, “Who’s up there?”

No response.

I shifted the bag on my shoulder and tried again. “If you’re in trouble, I’ll help. Say something.”

This time I heard a click and muffled thump as if someone had closed a door.

I fanned the air to get a clean breath, unsure what to do. A woman didn’t make the sounds I had heard unless she was at her wits’ end. I couldn’t go off and leave her. But I also didn’t want to climb those stairs.

It wasn’t dark, but windows were dimming, so I opened the bag and chose my little flashlight, not the pistol. Smoke tunneled the beam when I switched it on. In a way, what I saw was comforting. Someone had been very busy here during the last hour. The broken banister had been moved and the stairs were draped with toilet paper. White streamers hung from the landing and chandelier. Oh… and a crushed Budweiser can was balanced between the horns of a hat rack. Several scorpions smashed flat on the floor, too.

Theo and Lucia hadn’t done this. The dispatcher had been right about teenagers. They had broken in and had fun decorating as if for a prom. I hadn’t heard their vehicles coming or going, had seen just the dusty signature of a car that hadn’t stopped… or had stopped just long enough to gather a few artistic vandals.

At least one young woman, though, had been left behind.

I tilted my head toward the upstairs. “I know you’re up there. I already called the police, so you might as well come down and explain.”