“Stand still while I get a baseline,” the guy commanded, moving in on me again.
Being polite to tourists is one thing, but I refuse to be ordered around by them. I took two deliberate steps away and planted one hand on the hilt of my rubber sword in its plastic scabbard.
“Matey, it is not a good idea to stick things in a pirate’s face.”
The young man blinked big brown eyes. “My name’s Kevin Miller, and this is an electromagnetic field meter”—his gaze dropped to the gadget—“that’s going nuts. Besides, you’re not a pirate. You’re the vampire.”
“Exactly. A vampire might bite.”
“You won’t. You don’t bite people.” He grinned at his fellow tourists like he’d won a prize. “I did my research.”
“Yes, but did you leave your manners at home?”
He shifted from one foot to another at my schoolmarm tone and fingered one of the crosses with his free hand. He looked down at the one he held, then back at me.
“My crosses aren’t lighting up.”
“Unless you put batteries in them, why would they?”
“Because you’re a vampire.”
I smiled at him and the crowd. “Not much of one, according to my friends. Now, is everyone ready to visit the ghosts of St. Augustine?”
Amid murmurs of assent, I dodged Kevin to collect tickets and headed for the tour substation. The substation is a square cabinet with padlocked doors. Two-by-fours screwed to the sides of the cabinet support a sign that reads Old Coast Ghost Tours. I stashed the tickets in a manila envelope in the cabinet alongside our ghost tour pamphlets and snagged a battery-operated lantern with plastic panes. I didn’t need the lantern, and it didn’t give off much light anyway, but carrying a lantern was part of the tour guide ambiance.
“Welcome to the Old Coast Ghost Walk. Gather around, now. Don’t be shy.
“I’m Cesca Marinelli, born in St. Augustine in 1780. My parents were among those immigrants from Minorca, Italy, and Greece, who came here as indentured servants to work in the New Smyrna Colony. My mother was Minorcan Spanish, my father an Italian mariner.
“We’re standing at the north end of what is called the Minorcan Quarter, or the Spanish Quarter, or simply the Quarter. This is largely where the immigrants settled, and many downtown properties are still owned by Minorcan descendants.
“We’ll start our tour by going through the city gates to the Huguenot Cemetery and wind our way through the historic district. If you have any questions along the way, just raise your hand.”
Three hands waved, one of them Kevin’s. I called on a young woman in lime green shorts and a white blouse.
“Will we see the place where you caught the French Bride murderer?”
“I didn’t catch him alone, but yes, we’ll see Fay’s House toward the end of the tour.”
“Are we going into haunted buildings tonight?” a man at the back called out.
“We’ll be going into the oldest drugstore.”
Kevin shouldered his way closer. “I need time to take readings and photographs.”
“I appreciate that you want to document the ghosts, but these tours run on a schedule.”
Kevin shook his head. “I’m not here just to document ghosts. I’m here to document your abilities as a ghost magnet.”
Ghost magnet?
Okay, so maybe spirits did relate to the underdead part of me, but my fellow tour guide Mick Burney is the only one who’d ever called me a ghost magnet. Had Mick gotten this guy to pull a gag, or was Kevin serious?
From his expression, I was going with serious. Sheesh.
“You can take any measurements you want, but I can’t wait for you. Now,” I said, sweeping the group with a bright smile, “come along, and let’s meet the ghosts of St. Augustine.”
I saw the usual ghostly suspects in their usual haunts. Elizabeth the gatekeeper’s daughter waved to us as we passed through the city gates. Judge John B. Stickney also waved. The judge was a prominent citizen who had died of typhoid while on a business trip to Washington, D.C. Buried in the Huguenot Cemetery but later exhumed, the story is that he searches the cemetery for the gold teeth that grave robbers stole.
Erastus Nye and John Hull made themselves known at the Huguenot, as did a lady wearing a snood. A cat ghost brushed against at least four tourists’ bare legs.
At the Catholic Tolomato Cemetery, we saw the Man in Black—a black robe—who is said to be a Franciscan missionary murdered on the grounds of the then Seloy Indian village. The Bridal Ghost made a brief appearance, too, but the tourists were even more absorbed with the orbs of light that zipped around the cemetery for a good five minutes.