Authors: Stuart Jaffe
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Horror, #Occult, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Paranormal & Urban, #Mystery, #Magic, #winston salem, #Paranormal, #North Carolina, #korners folly, #Ghosts
Southern Charm
SOUTHERN CHARM
by Stuart Jaffe
For Dave, Val, and Vaughn
Max Porter stared at the red number on his computer screen. It taunted him like a tiny, red devil daring him to quit, daring him to run away. His stomach gurgled in discomfort. "It's not fair," he said.
Sandra, his wife, glanced up from her desk. "What's that?"
The office was small, so he knew she had heard him. Just another example of how things had gone wrong. When they had first moved to North Carolina, she worked in a bakery, and though they struggled, they managed to get by — enjoying each other in the process. Since she had joined in the office, though, tension surrounded him. He could never just go home. Work always followed.
Pointing at the devilish number, he said, "I've been so careful, but we're still losing money. It's crazy. Heck, we don't even have to pay rent on this place, and we're still in the red."
Max could feel his frustration rising and tried to hide it. Sandra had been after him lately not to let every unsettling detail rip into him, but being self-employed came with a lot of unsettling details — the health insurance costs alone could send him to a hospital he couldn't afford. Though she didn't say a word, he could feel her thoughts as if they were jagged rocks pressing into his neck.
He rose from behind his huge oak desk and headed toward the office bookcase — a gorgeous built-in case filled with books on the area, its history, as well as a few on witchcraft and other oddities. A bottle of whiskey had been hidden in one of the books, and Max thought a little numbing might be in order. Before he could locate the book, though, Drummond stuck his head through the wall.
"It's a bit early in the morning for that," he said. The ghost slid further into the office, wearing the suit he had died in during the 1940s. Marshall Drummond was tall, well-built, and handsome, but since the office once had belonged to him, his in-house manners were less desirable.
"Good morning, Marshall," Sandra said.
"Morning, Sugar."
Max detoured from the bookshelf and gazed out the window. Though early fog covered Winston-Salem, he could still make out the old YMCA across the street. The office was only three stories up, yet the people heading to work looked small and humble.
"Sometimes," Max said, sitting back in his leather chair and rubbing his face, "I hate to admit it, but I actually think working for Hull hadn't been so bad."
Sandra glanced at Max with her eyebrow raised. "Sure, it was wonderful. Lots of fun and smiles every day — except for the way they threatened us, beat and kidnapped you, and then had their witch try to curse you."
"Yeah, other than that. Really the money's what I miss."
"Patience, honey. It takes a lot to get a business going, and this isn't the kind you can effectively advertise for. It's all word of mouth for us."
Drummond clapped his hands together making a singular, firm noise, and pointed to Sandra. "You listen to her. That gal of yours knows what she's saying. She's got a good head on her shoulders. Beautiful, charming head at that."
"Not interested," Sandra said as Drummond playfully scowled.
Max wished he could be as light-hearted as they were. None of these troubles seemed to bother them. Drummond was right about one thing though — Sandra looked extra beautiful that morning. Shaking his head to refocus, he said, "The problem is nobody knows what to make of us. We're not a detective agency, we're not a research firm doing polls — we're just researchers."
Sandra frowned. "Don't say it like that. You're gifted at this. You find things nobody else can."
"Everybody can. I'm just willing to put in the work."
"Well, that's why people hire us. They don't want to put in the work. And this kind of in-depth research requires waiting for word to get out about us. And look here —" Sandra said, pointing to the empty client chair.
"I know, I know. Let's get back to work. Fill that chair."
"No, Max, I —"
Max raised a hand, his eyes on the accounting program on his screen, the income/expense graphs, the blazing red number, and let out a long sigh. "It's the ghosts," he said.
Drummond perked up. "You're going to blame me?"
"Not you. The clients."
Sandra tried to shush him with her hands. "I don't think you —"
"I don't care if Drummond gets all ruffled. The fact is that we're the only investigative body that will deal with ghosts. Heck, we're probably the only ones that can even see them, and yet they don't really pay, do they? I mean, gratitude only goes so far."
Drummond slid forward, snatching a peek at the client chair. "It's more interesting than looking up somebody's genealogy."
"At least that pays."
Sandra glared at Drummond. "Honey, stop —"
Max's mouth tightened. "You're going to take his side?"
"I'm not taking his side."
Drummond stepped behind her with a sly wink. "Sure she is. The kid knows when I'm right, and I'm rarely wrong."
"You know what?" Max said. "I don't care. This is my business. These are my bills. My name is on it all. So from now on, no ghosts unless they prove to us they can pay."
Crossing her arms, Sandra said, "You are making —"
"Biggest mistake of my life, I know. But, honey, you're not seeing the numbers. You're not the one fretting over the mortgage on our house. And I do understand that you like the ghosts. I mean, for me, I just see Drummond and that's it — which ain't always a picnic. But you've been seeing them your whole life. You see them everywhere. You have a different perspective and all that. A different relationship with all of it. I do understand. But you've got to understand that I'm not going back to the way things were in Michigan. I won't do it. I don't want us to be that desperate for money ever again. Okay? So that's that. No more ghosts unless the damn things pay."
"Are you finished?" Sandra asked in a calm tone that worried Max.
"Um ... yeah."
"Good. Because I've been trying to tell you that there's another ghost sitting in our client chair."
"Oh." Max pushed out a grin toward the empty chair and tried to ignore Drummond's stifled giggles. "Hi, there."
Drummond walked next to the chair and said, "This is Max Porter. Max, meet Howard Corkille, our new client."
From his desk, Max pulled out a notebook and a pen. Despite the previous outburst, he managed a somewhat responsible pose and said, "I apologize for what you heard."
"He says, 'It's okay.' He understands the pressures you face and wants you to know that he can and will pay for your services," Drummond said, settling on the edge of Max's desk. "Besides, Corkille here has nowhere else to go."
"Perhaps we shouldn't insult the client anymore than we already have today."
"All I'm saying is that we ghosts sometimes have limited choices, and Howard here understands that."
Max held back from further comment. Experience had taught him that to say anything would only provoke Drummond further. Instead, he looked straight at the empty chair and said, "Mr. Corkille, I'm afraid I can't see or hear you. Apparently, I'm only tuned in to Mr. Drummond. My wife, however, can see and hear you just fine. She can act as our interpreter, if that's okay with you."
Sandra smiled at Corkille, listened, and then repeated his words for Max. "'There are ways for you to see me. I could reach into you and —"
"Experiencing that once was enough for a lifetime," Max said. He'd never forget the icy pain he had endured at the Old Salem cemetery when a ghost reached into his head. "Besides, the pain is so severe that I wouldn't be able to listen clearly to anything you say. Trust us. This is the best way to handle this."
Sandra touched the back of the client chair. "It's okay. You can talk with us."
"Did you forget why you're here?" Drummond said. "You asked me to help you out. I brought you to the guy that'll do it. Now out with your story."
Intending to ease over Drummond's harsh approach, Max pushed back in his chair, but Sandra repeated for Corkille, "'Wait. I'm sorry. Please, don't get up. I'm just a little nervous.'"
Max played along and pulled closer. "What can we do for you?"
"Slow down, Mr. Corkille," Sandra said. Then after a moment, she continued. "'It's all about my granddaughter. Well, her and a painting. I am ... I was ... an artist. My specialty was in replicating the styles of well-known personages and providing those newer artworks to museums and collectors.'"
Drummond laughed. "He's an art forger."
"'Don't be so dismissive. It takes training, skill, and knowledge to successfully mimic the great artists. In many ways, it's more difficult than what the Masters have accomplished themselves.'"
Max pretended to write in his notebook, a touch he'd picked up over the last year — clients liked to believe that every detail was deemed important. "Go on," he said.
"'Yes, well, you see, back in 1930 things were very difficult for me and my wife. The Depression hit us early on. Others we knew managed to survive for another year or so, but we didn't have much to begin with. Before, I had been doing artwork for advertising and such, you see, but the Crash ruined the company I worked for — the owner had been borrowing money to buy equipment but instead invested it in the stock market. One day, they just closed up. After that, I couldn't get work. I tried, but nobody wanted to hire me. And then my darling wife got pregnant.
"'I panicked. I do that. I don't handle that kind of pressure too well. That is, I didn't. I put out the word that I was an artist for hire. I tried everywhere. Mostly, I just got laughed at. I'm not a big man.' He wants me to tell you what I see."
"Okay."
Sandra pointed to parts of the empty chair as she spoke. "He's thin, probably was a bit lanky when he was alive. He's got a mustache ... what? ... he says that he only grew the mustache a few months before he died. Thick glasses, bony fingers." She chuckled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Corkille, I'm just doing what you asked."
Max bristled but wrote down the description. "If you're done flirting with my wife, can we continue?"
A comforting gaze from Sandra relaxed Max a bit. Then she said, "He apologizes. He says, 'The point is that I could never do any of the hard labor that was left to most men. Even if I could've done the work, the brutal fights just to get the jobs — I had heard enough to know that was not the route for me.
"'I was ready to give up. You see, I even stole a steak and traded it for a small handgun. I planned to kill myself and let what little money I had help Clara, that's my wife, but that was not meant to be the way of things.
"'The day I chose to do it — I can see it so clearly — I went out into the tobacco fields and had my gun and I had drunk a bottle of cheap wine to prepare myself. But then a man I had never seen before grabbed the gun from my hand.
"'I asked him what he thought he was doing. I really yelled at him, and I remember thinking how drunk I must be to speak so boldly.
"'He introduced himself — I don't see that his name is important to this, so I'll just call him Mr. Smith.'"
Max put his pen down, making sure the action created a sharp snap. "It's best if you let us decide which details are important and which are not."
"'Oh, I understand that, but you see, in this case, the man has been dead longer than me, so you cannot possibly —'"
"I can't force you, but just know that any details you omit will only make our job harder."
"'Well, Mr. Smith,'" Sandra said, and Max imagined Corkille straightening his back and jutting out his chin, "'asked me if I was the artist looking for work. I was astonished, of course, and I told him so. He said that he'd been looking for me for some time, checking out as much as he could on me, because he had a sensitive job he needed my skills for.
"'I had done some forgeries before but mostly for my own amusement and study. It never occurred to me to try to make serious money off of it. I feared jail too much. But my wife was expecting, we had no money, and by this time my resolve toward suicide had gone away. Mr. Smith wanted me to forge a specific painting, make an exact replica, for which he would pay me five hundred dollars. That was an enormous sum back then. I just couldn't turn that kind of opportunity away. I had to take it.'"
