Southern Haunts

Southern Haunts

A Max Porter Paranormal Mystery

by Stuart Jaffe

For Benjamin and Zachary

when you’re old enough to read this series,

I hope you enjoy it

Chapter 1

DAY ONE

Max Porter waited for his name
to be called so he could have the honor of overpaying for coffee and bagels. Not long ago, he would have seriously considered it an honor. He and Sandra had been living in a trailer, unsure of when they would be dead broke. But after successfully handling a job for Cecily Hull, the Porters had more money than ever — enough to have bought a new home in the upper-middle-class housing developments surrounding Wake Forest University, and enough to rent a second floor office in the less posh section of downtown Winston-Salem.

The little coffee shop on the corner of Liberty and 6th smelled comfortable, and every morning that Max strolled in for a quick breakfast reminded him that such comfort could not be enjoyed by everyone. Losing almost everything certainly filled him with greater appreciation for what he had. And that even included Drummond.

“Morning, Max. Getting your usual crap, I see.” Marshall Drummond, the ghost of a 1940s detective and the only ghost Max could see, had a personality that required patience and subtle appreciation. He floated next to the barista and snarled at each coffee concoction handed out. “A cup o’ joe should be a cup o’ joe. A little sugar or cream, if you have to, but this is ridiculous.” The man always appeared as he had when he died — classic 1940s detective, with a beaten Fedora, a long coat, and plenty of attitude. Despite decades of observation, he accepted little of the changing ways of the world. Still, Max valued him greatly.

Heck, I’d probably be dead if not for the old, dead guy.

“How’s Sandra?” Drummond asked, lowering his voice as if those around him could actually hear a word he said.

“The same,” Max said under his breath. After the initial weeks of having money again, of not worrying if they wanted to eat ice cream, see a movie, or buy overpriced coffee, the euphoria had worn off. Then they bought the house and rented the office and another joyous wave splashed over them. But as the months crept onward, Sandra had become distant — not just to Max; Drummond had noticed, too.

“Maxine Poster,” the barista called out.

In one hand, Max balanced the cardboard carrier with two coffees and three bagels and paid with his other hand. Once outside, he headed across 6th, away from the bus station, police department, and courthouse. His office was just up from the coffee shop on Liberty, but Drummond said nothing. Max had been taking this detour for a few weeks now.

“Look,” Drummond said, “I don’t mean to be a nag, but you’ve got to do something. Sandra’s got a problem.”

Max shook his head. “You’ve never really understood marriage. We’re just in a down swing, that’s all. Every marriage goes through it. There are ups and downs. Times you’re really close and times you hardly speak. Nothing has to be wrong for it to happen. It’s like a natural cycle.”

“More like a rollercoaster.”

“You can’t press these things. If there’s a problem, she’ll tell me when she’s ready. Until then, I’ve got to trust that whatever it is, if there’s anything at all, it isn’t going to harm us. We’ve gotten past the idea of keeping secrets to protect each other.”

“You better be right. I can’t abide anything happening to that sweet gal.”

“You and me both. Go check on her, if it’ll make you feel better. Let her know I’ll be right up with breakfast.”

“Sure thing. You’re going to see the kid, right?”

“Yeah. If he’s still around.”

As Max turned the corner, Drummond disappeared. Max pressed on, crossing the parking lot behind the Liberty Street buildings and heading north. Soon, the parking lots ended and a long stretch of dilapidated buildings took over for a few blocks. Max had no idea what they had been — Sandra had told him she saw several ghosts dressed like warehouse laborers in the area — but he knew if it ever mattered, he could find out with ease. Years of researching Winston-Salem had its benefits. What did matter, however, was the kid living under a tarp stretched off the remains of a brick wall.

The kid went by PB. He wouldn’t say what it stood for, so Max called him Peanut Butter, but Drummond continued to call him
Kid
. He looked about fourteen, kept his hair buzzed short, and often had the long distance stare of a combat veteran. Max had first met him when PB was begging for change outside the coffee shop. Something about this young man struck Max, and he followed PB to this squat. Since then, every few days, Max brought him a bagel or some other food.

“Hey, Ghostman,” PB said as Max approached. He had once caught Max talking with Drummond, and when Max said he spoke with a ghost, PB laughed and gave him the name.

Max handed over one of the bagels. As PB stretched out from under the tarp, Max noticed a bruise darkening the boy’s eye. “You got trouble?”

“I’m living on the streets. I always got trouble. How about you? You getting laid yet?”

“Excuse me? I get laid plenty.”

“Sure you do. Every married couple going through a fight always keeps having sex.”

Max looked in the boy’s bruised eyes, trying to figure out why PB tried to pick a fight. Only problem — he wasn’t wrong. Max and Sandra hadn’t slept together in three weeks. Sex and money — the two deadliest issues in any marriage. Whenever things went downhill, sex disappeared first. If they start fighting about money, Max knew they had hit rock bottom.

“We’re not going to talk about my sex life.”

“Whatever,” PB said around a chunk of bagel.

“That shiner looks fresh. You need any help?”

“From you? What are you gonna do, huh? Call your pet ghost to fight?”

From behind, a sleazy voice call out. “Well, well. Is this the famous Ghostman?”

PB’s eyes bugged out as he stashed the half-eaten bagel in his shirt. Three men sauntered up. They were an odd bunch — tough, clearly, but dressed like slime from the 70s. The leader stood in the middle with a brown, leather jacket draped over one shoulder and a toothpick jutting from the corner of his mouth. His two muscular buddies each sported aviator shades.

The leader set one foot atop a pile of rubble and leaned his elbow on his knee. “Is that you, man? You the guy Punching Bag here says can see ghosts?”

Punching Bag? PB?
Max glanced down and PB shied back. To the leader, Max said, “Who’re you?”

“I’m the one in charge of these blocks. Nothing goes on around here without my saying it does. I see everything and I protect this turf. That’s why I’m called the Wolf.”

Max chuckled. “The Wolf of Winston-Salem.”

“That’s right,” the leader said, as his two men spread out in opposite directions. “And you better show some respect or we’ll turn you into a punching bag, too.”

A few years ago, Max would have been confused by the situation. He would have still seen the danger, but he would have missed the subtler aspects of Wolf’s behavior — the darting eyes, the constant chewing of the toothpick, the excess bravado in his body posture. Years of hard-earned experience informed Max that this guy did not own the block as he claimed. More likely, Wolf had been making a play to take over the area. That’s why he was beating up the runaways like PB. He started on the bottom and hoped to either gain the notice of those higher up, or he would simply have to take it all by force.

Max had no clue who those higher ups were or what they valued in this particular block, but his mind leaned toward the most obvious — drugs. That seemed to fit. Wolf was a low-level drug dealer who wanted to expand his territory and gain some power. Unless the other possibility proved true.

“Amateurs,” Max muttered.

“What now? Ghostman’s got something stupid to say?”

“I’ve always got something to say. Stupid or otherwise. I was just trying to figure out why you think beating me up would help you at all. I’m not a druggie and I don’t come around here other than to give PB a hand once-in-a-while. Beating me up won’t send a message to anybody because I’m not connected with anyone you want to send a message to.”

Wolf’s lips pulled back to show a gold tooth. “Who said anything about sending a message? Maybe I just want to beat on some rich prick.”

That was the other possibility. Wolf led a gang of three that were as lost and hopeless as PB. They simply scrounged around the area to survive and took out their aggressions on the nearest target.

Hard to believe that only a block over, the civilized world existed.

“Only one thing can save you, Ghostman. You know that, right?”

“What’s that?”

“Ain’t it obvious? We want to see some ghosts. PB told us all about it, so we want to see you in action.”

Max didn’t need to look at PB to know shame blushed across the boy’s face. “I don’t know why you’d believe such a thing. I can’t summon a ghost. I only —”

“That’s not good for you. Or PB. I don’t like being lied to.”

Max set his coffee carrier down. “Let’s get something clear here. You don’t give a crap about me or ghosts or anything like that. You want an excuse to fight.”

“Oh, I see. We got a smart guy here.”

“Problem for you is that you’re a weakling.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. That’s why you got these two muscleheads with you. You’re afraid to fight on your own.” Max made sure to lock eyes with each of Wolf’s wingmen. “You do know that he’s using you, right? I mean, I hope at some point, he’s really shown you that he’s tough enough. Otherwise, either one of you could beat him to a pulp and take over. Though I don’t know why you’d want this crappy block, but that’s your business.”

Wolf must have seen the doubt creeping into his men. He jutted a finger at Max. “You shut up. You can’t talk yourself out of this. And I don’t need these guys to destroy you.”

As Wolf tossed his jacket aside, Max stepped forward. He figured he wouldn’t be getting out of this with ease, so at least this way, he only had to fight one guy. He had a chance.

Wolf jumped toward Max with a fist pulled back. Max cinched up his shoulder, deflecting the punch from his face. With Wolf standing over him, he had the perfect position to throw an elbow to the gut. He followed with two kicks to the shins and a crack on the side of the head.

“Whoa, there, Max.” Drummond appeared behind PB. “What’re you pounding on some kids for?”

“Look around you,” Max spat out.

PB’s eyes widened. “He’s doing it. He’s talking to a ghost.”

Wolf’s men started at the accusation. Despite their shades, Max could tell they were looking in every direction as if a ghost would suddenly appear.

“Little gang thing going here,” Drummond said. “Need any help?”

Max shook his head. He picked up the coffee carrier and headed toward the street. One of the muscleheads stepped toward Max, but Drummond passed a chilling hand across the guy’s back. That stopped him. Instead of pursuing Max, he rushed to Wolf’s aid, and the three hurried off. Max looked for PB, but he had slipped away.

Probably for the best.

Drummond floated up beside Max. “Boy, I leave you alone for a few minutes and you start taking on the whole city.”

“I don’t know what that was all about. Maybe just punks fighting for their little bit, but I don’t know.”

“Maybe you should give PB a little distance for now.”

“Maybe.”

“Well then, I got the perfect thing for you.”

Max arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“That’s why I came to fetch you. We got new clients waiting in the office. Looks like a ghost is trying to hurt a woman’s baby.”

“Oh.”

Chapter 2

For Max, tales of ghosts, witches, and curses
no longer held the same sense of fear, foreboding, or intrigue they once held. He had heard more than he cared to consider and had experienced more than he dared to remember. Besides, if he really wanted to get in touch with the supernatural, he simply had to talk with Drummond. If that wasn’t enough, he could ask his wife to list all the dead people hanging around. Sandra saw ghosts with ease.