Haunting Muses by Doreen Perrine

Author:Doreen Perrine
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction - Anthology
Publisher: Bedazzled Ink Publishing
Published: 2016-10-03T04:00:00+00:00

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Amy Sisson is a writer, reviewer, and librarian currently living in Houston, Texas, with her NASA spouse and a large number of ex-stray cats. Previously, her short fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, and a number of licensed Star Trek anthologies from Pocket Books. In January 2015, she began a project to read at least one short story every day, and blogs about her favorites at www.amysisson.com.

Wine and Magnolias

Lela E. Buis

WE GOT A late start yesterday and ran into an accident in Atlanta, so we’ve come in from Savannah this morning. Miller is driving the truck with our equipment, and his wife Celia and I have come separately in the car. She’s a freckled red-head with brown eyes and expressive hands.

“Holly,” she says, as we turn off onto the main street, “this doesn’t look like a good place to have a shellfish allergy.”

I look over at her. “Is that bothering you again?”

“I got a rash from the fish last week,” she says.

She tugs at the hem of her shirt.

“So, order fried chicken, instead.”

“What if the whole kitchen is contaminated?” she asks. “They use the same utensils, the same fat to fry the chicken.”

“Go vegetarian?” I suggest.

“I’ll starve,” she says. “Is that the place?”

We’re just north of Brunswick, Georgia, here to investigate a Bed and Breakfast hotel that’s had paranormal activity. It’s situated in a hole-in-the-wall community with graceful old homes still lining the streets, all framed by live oaks trailing Spanish moss. There are two or three gift shops and an art gallery, tabby ruins at the waterfront. At the docks, a line of shrimp boats provides a clue to what supports the local economy.

We’ve turned into the backstreets now, and I’m looking for the address. Celia’s pointing to a white Victorian house at the end of the block. It’s a two-story with columns, a porch, and a swing. There’s a white picket fence out front. The parking area is shaded by magnolia trees, covered just now with white blossoms. There’s a sign that says “Open Gates.”

“That’s it,” I say.

I drive in under the trees and shut off the car, look around. At the end of the block, our truck turns the corner, close behind us. In another moment, Miller pulls in beside the car. He gets out and stretches, his long body uncurling like a cat from the cramped cab. He looks at the house with intense, dark eyes.

It’s late summer in South Georgia, but the temperature is relatively pleasant here. It’s humid, but that’s always a given in the South. We’re still looking at the place when a man comes walking down the street from a shop further along.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re the investigators, right?”

He’s looking at the truck, which says “Halloran Psychic Investigations.”

“Sure,” says Miller. “I’m Miller Halloran and this is my sister Holly and my wife Celia.”

“I’m Zak,” the man says. He’s taller and younger than I expected. “We bought the place about three years back,” he says. “We didn’t know it was haunted.

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