Southern Souls Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Also by Stuart Jaffe

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Afterword

  Try The Infinity Caverns

  About the Author

  Copyright Information

  Southern Souls

  A Max Porter Paranormal Mystery

  Stuart Jaffe

  For Leann Rettell

  she knows why

  Also by Stuart Jaffe

  Max Porter Paranormal Mysteries

  Southern Bound

  Southern Charm

  Southern Belle

  Southern Gothic

  Southern Haunts

  Southern Curses

  Southern Rites

  Southern Craft

  Southern Spirit

  Southern Flames

  Southern Fury

  Southern Souls

  Nathan K thrillers

  Immortal Killers

  Killing Machine

  The Cardinal

  Yukon Massacre

  The First Battle

  Immortal Darkness

  A Spy for Eternity

  Prisoner

  The Malja Chronicles

  The Way of the Black Beast

  The Way of the Sword and Gun

  The Way of the Brother Gods

  The Way of the Blade

  The Way of the Power

  The Way of the Soul

  The Parallel Society

  The Infinity Caverns

  Book on the Isle

  Rift Angel

  Gillian Boone novels

  A Glimpse of Her Soul

  Pathway to Spirit

  Stand Alone Novels

  After The Crash

  Founders

  Real Magic

  Short Story Collections

  10 Bits of My Brain

  10 More Bits of My Brain

  The Bluesman Complete

  Marshall Drummond Case Files: Cabinet 1

  For more information, please visit www.stuartjaffe.com

  Chapter 1

  MAX PORTER LEANED BACK from his desk and rested his head against the wall of his work area — an alcove of the family kitchen. Rubbing his face, he gazed at his laptop screen. He tried to force the words to make sense, but no matter how many times he dealt with the North Carolina government website, it never got easier.

  “Any luck?” Sandra said as she walked in.

  “You’d think they’d make it simple to give them money. I swear if this is how hard it is to pay our quarterly taxes, I wouldn’t dare think about evading them. Way too complicated.”

  She winked. “Maybe that’s the idea.”

  He watched her body move as she pulled down two wine glasses and dug out a half-empty bottle of merlot from the fridge. Her strong curves, her graceful moves, her sweet aroma — all these years together and she still thrilled him.

  “What are you grinning about?” she asked.

  “The boys asleep?”

  With a short giggle, Sandra poured the wine. “Easy there. Nothing’s going to happen tonight.”

  “Nothing?” He gave her a look that usually worked between them.

  “Don’t get your hopes up. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow while the boys are at school.”

  Max raised his glass. “To tomorrow, then.”

  She laughed as they clinked wineglasses. “I know it’s been a bit of an adjustment with everything that’s changed — having the Sandwich Boys under our roof, living in a smaller house, one with thinner walls. It’s all been crazy.”

  “Been kind of nice actually.” Particularly having everybody under one roof. Ever since he and Sandra had moved to Winston-Salem, their lives had been in constant flux. Meeting Marshall Drummond, the ghost of a 1940s detective, kicked off years of strange and dangerous cases involving witchcraft, the dead, and various groups vying for control of those who use magic in the area. But after the recent war between the Mobley coven and the Magi, after Cecily Hull set them against each other and stepped into the vacuum afterwards, after she gave the witch Madame Ti the position of controlling the remaining covens, after all of it, life finally had begun to settle down.

  Max and Sandra had lost their big house and much of their good income, but they had the boys now. PB and J lived under their roof, and soon they would legally be the boys’ guardians. Admittedly, the roof was rather small, but it sufficed. The neighborhood consisted mostly of starter homes which consisted mostly of starter families — young, ambitious people looking to get a good first step in their lives. Max and Sandra were the old fogies of the block.

  “There’s that grin again,” Sandra said.

  “I was just thinking how wonderful it feels to have us all together here. This is our little home, our little family. It’s starting to feel like a family, I think. Close to it.”

  “Give it time. The boys have been through a lot of changes. Not just from living on the street to here, but a lot in between, too.”

  “I guess it’s a good thing my mother still homeschools PB. Let’s him have some consistency.”

  Sandra took a large gulp of her wine. “Don’t you dare repeat this, but I think it’d be good for her to come over here. Have dinner with us all. That kind of thing. This whole game she’s playing, refusing to see the new house and all, it’s not going to end well for her — and that’ll make it difficult on us all. I mean, does she really think we’ll sell the house and move back into her cramped apartment? Why would she even want that?”

  “She doesn’t. She just got comfortable being at the center of everything.”

  “You mean making herself the center.”

  “It’s all an adjustment. Nothing more.”

  A single-bulb, ceiling-mounted dome provided the only light in the kitchen, and it flickered from loose wiring. Max had intended to get that fixed for the last few days, but they also noticed that if the toilet handle was not jiggled after use, the water would continuously run for hours. He intended to fix that, too. There were other minor issues with the small house, none of which amounted to anything crucial, but added up, they became a thumping headache. One that they needed a good payday to cover.

  “We could use a vacation,” Sandra said.

  “What?” Max coughed his wine, and some of it sprinkled on his shirt — red dots staining the yellow fabric. “Oh come on, this is one of my favorite shirts.”

  “I’m serious. We should all go to the beach. A real family thing. Besides, in all the years we’ve lived here, we’ve never gone to the beach. This is North Carolina — they’ve got great beaches. Why haven’t we gone?”

  “I’m not really a sand and surf kind of guy.”

  “Don’t be like that. This is for the boys. They’ve never even seen a beach.”

  “How would you know that?” Max sat straighter. “You’ve already talked to them about this. I’m being ambushed, aren’t I?�
��

  Flashing a smile that usually worked on him, she said, “I may have done some preliminary research on the subject to gain an optimal outcome.”

  Max couldn’t hold back a laugh. She shushed him, not wanting to wake the boys, and that only spurred on a heartier noise. Once he regained his composure, he said, “I like the idea of us all going somewhere as a family bonding sort of thing, but the beach — it’s too North Carolina hot right now. Do we really want to drive four hours in a car with barely any air conditioning, trudge across burning sand through thick, humid air, all just to lie out under a blistering sun?”

  “Yup. We really do.”

  “You know we shouldn’t be spending a lot of money. We’re slowly rebuilding our finances, but business has been rough with most of the witches keeping low profiles right now. Heck, even the hauntings have slowed down. There haven’t been a lot of cases coming our way. I guess even ghosts don’t want to move around much in hundred-degree weather.”

  The deep voice of Marshall Drummond said, “You got that right.” The ghost lowered through the ceiling and settled near the side door exit. He tipped back his Fedora and thrust his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. “Just because we feel dead cold all the time doesn’t mean us ghosts don’t sense the weather.”

  Chiming in, the rattling air conditioning unit kicked off. It never provided much in the way of cold air, but it was better than nothing. Its sudden stop to the flowing air brought the heat back right away.

  Sandra finished her wine and took the glass to the sink. “I don’t understand you two. I would think all men loved going to the beach. Where else can you see a bunch of scantily clad women showing off their bodies for your pleasure without having to throw dollar bills at a stage?”

  Before Max or Drummond could close their gaping mouths, let alone answer, somebody knocked at the door. Strange for anybody to be calling on them, but at such a late hour, it got Max’s blood pumping. He reached under his desk and pulled out the 9mm he kept stashed there. He did not particularly like guns, and he still had a lot of training to do before he would wield a loaded weapon, but in his line of work, being armed — even with an unloaded handgun — had become a practical matter.

  Drummond stuck his head through the wall. “It’s the police.”

  Exchanging a worried look with Sandra, Max holstered his weapon and opened the door. “Good evening, Officer. There a problem?”

  “Good evening, Mr. Porter. I’m Office Glader.” The uniformed man had the fit, young appearance of a new recruit. “Sorry to bother you at this hour, but there’s a matter that requires your attention.”

  “What matter?”

  “If you’ll please come with me.”

  “What’s this about?”

  Glader’s tone tightened. “Don’t make this difficult. If you’ll just come along, we’ll take care of things quickly.”

  Drummond floated behind the officer. “He’s got a real cop car sitting on the street and he looks like the real deal, but this smells like bad fish, if you ask me.”

  Max nodded. “Officer Glader, I’ll be happy to cooperate. Just give me a moment to call the police department to make sure you are who you say are. Can’t be too careful nowadays.”

  Glader’s face blanched. Only for a second, but it was enough to make Max wonder if he could reach his handgun in time. Then he remembered the thing wasn’t even loaded.

  Glancing to the side, Glader said, “Okay, Mr. Porter. You got me. I am an officer of the law, but this is not official police business. I was told to get you and bring you to a crime scene.”

  “A crime scene? Why isn’t this official?”

  “Police don’t know about it yet. Officially.”

  Sandra stepped up behind Max. “Look, he’s not going anywhere with you unless you get some specifics out.”

  Glader rested his hand on his weapon. “Ma’am —”

  Max said, “Drummond, please show this officer what he’s dealing with.”

  The ghost swiped his pale hand across the officer’s back. Max saw the icy chill register on the man’s face.

  “W-What was that?” Glader said.

  “Who sent you here, and what’s this about?”

  “Um, well, look I’m just trying to get a few extra bucks, that’s all. Honest. I was told about this stuff, you people and the crackpot nonsense you deal with, but what the heck was that?”

  “Not so crackpot.”

  “Don’t voodoo me into a zombie or anything, okay? I’m just running a few errands for my employer.”

  Crap. “Your employer? You work for Cecily Hull?”

  “Yes, sir. And I’ve been told that you’re needed at a crime scene before the police officially find out about it. That won’t last long if somebody stumbles upon it, so please, come with me. If you know anything about the Hull family, you’ll know I don’t want to screw this up.”

  “You should have led with that.” Gesturing toward the car, Max added, “Just a warning here — don’t try anything stupid. That little touch of cold you felt is coming along with us and it can get a lot worse if you threaten me.”

  Drummond snickered. “You got that right, pal.”

  Chapter 2

  MAX WANTED TO FOLLOW THE OFFICER’S CRUISER, but Glader insisted they go together in his official vehicle. Despite Drummond’s protesting, Max did as asked. He figured Glader would not have gone to all this trouble if he intended murder. Neither would Hull, for that matter.

  They drove through the city, right by The Porter Agency’s Trade Street office, further north, and after a few turns, ended up heading west on 27th Street toward the grounds used for the Dixie Classic Fair — one of the largest and most well-known state fairs. Max always thought of it as the birthplace of every deep-fried nightmare a mind could conjure. Twinkies, bubble gum, Oreos — all deep fried and served up to clog arteries and destroy hearts.

  Right before they reached the fairgrounds, Glader turned up Shorefair Drive and pulled into a parking lot on the right. The lot stood empty except for one dented car in the back corner.

  “Welcome to Odd Fellows Cemetery,” Glader said.

  Drummond appeared next to the car. “Sandra’s going to be thrilled she missed out on this. There are so many ghosts clogged up here, I can barely see the trees.”

  Glader kept the engine running but stopped the cruiser so that the headlights did not quite reach the dented car at the end of the lot. “You go on and take a look. That’s what she wants.”

  “You aren’t coming?” Max said.

  “I’ve already seen it. And Ms. Hull ain’t paying me enough to mess with that car again.”

  “This is your first job for her, isn’t it?”

  “So what?”

  Max opened the car door. “You sit right there. You may want to think about finding a different sideline job. This — this is tame compared to whatever else Hull has planned for you.”

  Glader paled, swallowed hard, and kept his focus straight ahead.

  Max stepped onto the carefully lined pavement. Streetlights illuminated the parking lot showing well-groomed trees and well-maintained grass. Stepping in front of the police cruiser’s headlights, Max’s shadow stretched out towards the dented car. The heat from the cruiser’s engine mixed with the humid evening air, and in an instant, the back of Max’s shirt dampened.

  He walked across the empty lot. In only a few steps, his heart began to pound. The outside of the dented car had been painted with numerous symbols — odd-shaped swirls with jagged lines bisecting them, circles around foreign letters, and even a few religious symbols that Max recognized. White paint had been used and if Max had come upon this car in the daytime, if it had been parked on any street or in any lot with other cars, he would have assumed it belonged to an eccentric, perhaps mentally ill, individual. But out here — Max’s stomach turned.

  He pulled out his phone and took several pictures. Sandra would be able to identify the kinds of spells these were meant for. And if she
couldn’t, she would know where to go for the answers.

  “What do you think?” Max asked.

  Drummond slipped up next to him. “I think doing anything for the Hulls only leads to trouble. But when have you ever listened to me?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Get arrested?”

  “Might’ve been a better choice than being out here. Let’s get this over with.”

  Moving closer to the car, Max discovered that the windows were all dark — not tinted but painted black. From the inside. He walked around the car once, continuing to take photos, forcing himself to breathe slowly.

  Looking up, he caught Drummond wincing. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I told you — there are so many ghosts here. It kind of hurts to look at.”

  Max gazed across the area as if he could magically see them. “They all around me now? I don’t feel anything.”

  “They’re at the edge of the cemetery. I don’t think they have the guts to step out into the parking lot or any further. I suspect they’re all tethered there.”

  “That would mean they’re all cursed.”

  Drummond turned his back to the cemetery. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it would mean. After all, Odd Fellows Cemetery started sometime around 1911. Two African-American groups — Twin City Lodge and the Winston Star Lodge — they created this place. And it’s one of the oldest and largest African-American cemeteries from the twentieth century. They estimate something like ten thousand graves are in here. And when you look at internment dates, most of the dead are from the Civil War — so we’re talking about slaves and others who never lived a wonderful life. That’s curse enough in itself. Not hard to believe they are tethered here.”

  Max stared at his ghost partner with as much surprise as if the dead detective had just risen to life. “How the heck do you know all that?”

  “I’m a detective. I know my job.”

  Max turned in a slow circle. About halfway, he stopped and pointed to the blue sign near the road. “That’s a sign from the Historic Society, isn’t it? That’s got all the information you just told me, right?”

  “Big deal. You should be proud that I’ve finally done some research.”