“I need to break that to him soon, don’t I? By the way, will you be able to make the preseason game?”
“Not this time.” I patted Millie’s arm. “You go be with your gentleman, Millie. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Millie and Dan walked off arm in arm, and I dove into my opening spiel.
“Welcome to the Old Coast Ghost Walk. I’m Cesca Marinelli, born here in St. Augustine in 1780.”
“That was during the British period, wasn’t it?”
“Exactly,” I answered the studious-looking woman. “The Peace of Paris returned Florida to Spain in 1783, which marked the second Spanish period. Of course, the city was over two hundred years old by that time, and the ghost population only grew from there.
“Now, if you’ll start toward the city gates and hand me your tickets as you go by, we’ll begin our tour with the Huguenot Cemetery. Oh, and if you feel a ghostly presence at the gates, say hi to Elizabeth.”
The group moved out, passing me their tickets. Kevin came last, fumbling a meter as he searched his pockets.
“Hi, Ms. Marinelli. Can you hold this a minute?”
He shoved the gadget in my hand, and when the meter immediately screeched, he grabbed it back and peered at the screen.
“Wow, wicked awesome EMF reading.”
“Anything for science,” I said dryly. “Find your ticket?”
“Uh, no.”
“Never mind. Let’s go.”
“The Huguenot Cemetery,” I said when I caught up with my tourists, “was established in 1821 to accommodate those who died from the yellow fever epidemic that swept through St. Augustine. The last burial here took place in 1884, and most who are interred here are Protestants. During Spanish rule, only Catholics were buried inside the city proper.”
As we approached, three ghosts waited for us, two who looked positively gleeful. I also spotted Gorman on the opposite side of the stone-fenced cemetery but ignored him to launch into the stories of Judge Stickney, and of Erastus Nye, John Lyman, and John Gifford Hull.
“Erastus and the two Johns are said to have come to St. Augustine from the north shortly before their deaths, and all were buried side by side, their tombstones nearly identical.” I didn’t mention that the three could be pranksters, too. I didn’t want to influence an experience anyone might have.
While Kevin muttered excitedly over his equipment, I told the stories of graveyard lore, stories I only told once a week and only because they were required. They hit disturbingly close to home.
“Especially in the height of plagues such as yellow fever, the dead were buried quickly to prevent further spread of the disease. However, not everyone who was buried was quite dead.
“In some cases, victims presented all the outward signs of death but regained consciousness after being buried. We know this because, when coffins were later moved, claw marks were evident inside the lids. The victims had desperately attempted to free themselves.”
Several people in the crowd visibly shuddered, me right along with them. The residual energy of victims buried alive and clawing to escape made me sick with horror.
“Thus, those who died of certain illnesses,” I continued, “began being buried with a string tied to one hand. That string was also tied to a bell at ground level. Families, friends, or those hired to do the job began keeping watch in graveyards at night. If a bell rang, the person interred was quickly unearthed and freed. From this practice, the phrases graveyard shift and saved by the bell are said to have come into use.”
As I shepherded my group to the rest of the sights, Kevin seemed to grow more subdued. That is, until we reached the south end of town near the plaza then moved to the bay front. Kevin said a litany of ohmygods as he filmed, enough to spook even the hovering Gorman.
At eleven o’clock that night, with the lighthouse beam sweeping the sky, Saber and I arrived at the park to find Pandora in her house cat form lounging on the rim of the well. No Jo-Jo.
“You didn’t frighten Jo-Jo away, did you?” I asked her.
Pandora snorted.
“I take it that’s a no. Has she patrolled the area?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
Saber frowned. “Cesca, I don’t hold conversations with werecreatures.”
“Pandora isn’t a were. She’s—”
“A magical shape-shifter, I know.” He gave Pandora the eye.
“All right. Did you see anything suspicious?”
No, and I admire this man for speaking to me.
“She says no, but thanks you for talking to her directly.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Who’s welcome for whaaa—” Jo-Jo said, flying in from behind us, but faltering in his landing when he saw Pandora. If a cat could roll its eyes, Pandora did.
“It’s okay. Pandora is our lookout tonight.”
“Uh-huh. Just as long as she stays that size. By the way, I got a call from Vince tonight. He has me booked to open for a band at
the Hard Rock Hotel in Vegas on Wednesday. Can you believe it?”