Kathy Reichs - Seizure

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.