A Ghost of a Chance - Cherie Claire (best ebook reader under 100 .txt) 📗
- Author: Cherie Claire
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“Man, that’s a bummer,” TB says. “I would so love to see ghosts.”
“On the other hand,” Carmine continues, “a traumatic event can release this blockage and suddenly a person sees ghosts everywhere. Or they have visions, can communicate with people in comas, or something like that. It all depends on the trauma.”
This all makes sense, but I’m not totally convinced. “And you know this how?”
Carmine picks up his drink and drains the glass. Obviously, this is not something he wishes to revisit. “As you probably have guessed, I bat for the other team. When I was in high school, I was bullied fairly regularly by the more manly specimens of my gender. My dear father said I needed to stand up to these assholes so one day I did.”
Carmine takes another drink even though there’s nothing left in the glass. “What happened?” TB asks.
“They beat me within an inch of my life. I was in the hospital for five weeks.”
“That’s awful,” I say, feeling how those two words sound so inadequate.
Carmine shakes it off and resumes his haughty appearance. “It’s fine, but now I see ghosts. And I’m a member of the SCANC tribe.”
“So you’re saying Vi should join this group?”
Bless his heart, despite his stupid remarks Carmine doesn’t patronize TB. Like I said, only I’m allowed to do that. “No, although she certainly can if she wants,” Carmine says sweetly. “What I’m saying is that not only has this psychic door opened to Vi for some reason — I’m thinking Katrina did it – but Vi will also be having experiences related to that hurricane.”
I shake my head trying to process all this through a martini haze. “What?”
Carmine leans in closer and glances around to make sure no one is listening. “I only see ghosts who are gay.”
“That’s weird,” TB says like an astonished child.
“Not always,” Carmine retorts with a grin. “I got to meet Oscar Wilde in Paris. That was pretty cool.”
At this point I know he’s pulling my leg. I smile, shake my head at the absurdity of it all and rise once more. “You’re an asshole.”
Carmine doesn’t grab my hand this time, leans back in his chair with a gaze as dark as the night of Katrina. “I think ‘ass wipe’ was the word.”
I’m feeling that buzz again, like a pesky fly that won’t leave you alone, and my head throbs. Right now the only person making a lick of sense is a Texan with great hair who sees the gay dead. Whether it’s that fact or that my head will blow if I remain standing, but I sit back down. I’m still skeptical and I’m certain Carmine reads that in my gaze.
“Maybe you need to explain that,” TB offers.
“What happened in Katrina?” Carmine asks. “Exactly?”
I’m not going there but TB explains it all, from the levees breaking to the two days on the roof surrounded by floodwaters, snakes and who knows what. He skips the information he offered the night before but details our nights on the roof and our evacuation to Lafayette once we were picked up by some benevolent Cajuns in a skiff.
“I’m going to assume this has something to do with water,” Carmine concludes. “You’re probably seeing ghosts who have died by water.”
The buzzing stops and my head clears and suddenly I remember the opera singer at the New Orleans airport. “That woman singing You Are My Sunshine back in New Orleans. You saw her too.”
Carmine nods. “I heard her.”
“She was soaking wet.”
Carmine nods again and offers a weak smile. “Then that’s probably it.”
My brain pours over the possibilities; this all makes sense. “The woman in the cave, the three girls by Lake Eureka, they all drowned.”
“What girl in the cave?” TB asks and I ignore him. I’m finally vindicated and I’m not going insane so life suddenly seems brighter.
Except for one thing. “How do I explain this to the police?”
Just then Alicia walks over and informs us that we’re now meeting for dinner in the hotel ballroom.
“We’ll be right there,” Carmine answers.
We all stand but Carmine draws closer and we huddle like football players, waiting for the quarterback to tell us what to do.
“Your best bet is to find out all the information you can on these women. Information is power. That way at least you have something to offer the police. It might not be enough — they’re not keen on psychics — but it’s better than nothing.”
“How do I do that?” I ask.
“Maybe Opie here can dig around for you while we’re out on the tour?”
It’s a great idea but “Opie” frowns and digs his hands deep inside his jeans pockets. “I’m leaving for New Orleans in the morning.”
That old malaise returns, threatening to swallow me whole. I wonder if the self-inflicting darkness I have lived with all these years could have been averted if only I had shared my pain with my husband, who looks so lost and hurt right now. Besides, if I can communicate with ghosts, could I finally be able to see our little girl again? The thought of speaking with Lillye floods my heart with so much hope, I have trouble speaking.
“You don’t have to leave,” I softly say to TB. “I don’t want you to.”
Such simple words, but they make a world of difference. TB looks up hopeful and I smile.
It all begins with the cherry tobacco outside Room 212, which no one smells but me and Carmine; he’s grimacing to my right.
“This was Dr. John Freemont Ellis’s office, the hotel’s Southern physician during the Victorian era who was a heavy pipe smoker,” our ghost tour guide tells us as we make our way through the Crescent Hotel. “People have reported smelling tobacco here although we’re a non-smoking hotel.”
“I don’t smell anything,” Richard announces proudly as if that settles the case.
Carmine glances my way and rolls his eyes.
TB, meanwhile, is watching Carmine and me for a clue. “Did you smell it?” he whispers but neither of us replies.
We move on to the most famous room of the hotel, that of 218 where Michael the Irish stonemason reportedly hangs out because it was here that he fell to his death years before. “He’s a rascal and a bit of tease,” the tour guide says. “He sits on the bed, flirts with women. One visitor said she heard an Irish voice.”
“I’m okay with a cute Irish man waking me up,” Holly says in that way too adorable Southern accent, and all the men laugh.
“Moi aussi,” Carmine whispers to my right.
Other ghosts, we learn throughout our hour-long tour, include a young girl who also fell to her death, this time on the staircase near our room, and Theodora across the hall who despises discord and will tidy up a mess.
“That’s the one I told you about,” TB tells me.
“Tidy up my ass.” Richard crosses his arms defiantly. “I’m in that room and I’m the only one in that room.”
Winnie leans close to me and whispers, “I’ll bet she tidies him up tonight,” and we giggle.
We head down one flight to the third floor on the north side where people have seen or heard a nurse pushing a gurney late at night and as we descend further to the “morgue” our guide tells us about the college coed who threw herself off a balcony. Her “mist” is occasionally seen around ten-thirty at night, he claims. “You can go to the police station and they will tell you that people have reported a girl jumping off the balcony here.”
That now familiar buzzing returns. “Who was she?” I ask.
“No one knows, but they believe she was attending college here back in the 1920s. Some have called her Annabelle.”
That electrical feeling intensifies and I vaguely make out the sound of an emphatic “No!” As soon as the guide starts discussing the morgue, the buzzing stops.
Just before we head to this infamous morgue, the guide hands us a variety of photos snapped by past visitors. Some contain “orbs,” small round balls of white that float within the photos, images that have been credited to both paranormal activity and dust mites and mosquitoes. In other photos, wispy mists and streaks of white appear and these can’t be explained away. The last photos to get passed around contain actual ghost sightings, at least that’s what the guide claims. I have to look really hard to make out what he claims to be a man in a top hat, but the outline of a woman in a room mirror is pretty clear.
“It’s a reflection,” Richard says over my shoulder. “Or Photoshop.”
The basement of this behemoth hotel contains the spa, which is closed up for now. Its bright and airy retail shop is the only redeeming aspect of this underground crypt, the rest dark and rustic like most basements although I wouldn’t know, I live below sea level where basements
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