“No rush,” I said. “Please, do your thing.”
“Chris can handle sales,” Sallie said. “It’s his turn anyway.”
We waited on the corner as Chris worked the crowd. A pair of seniors laughed at his jokes, but ultimately passed. The clock ticked closer to eight.
I chatted with Sallie. The boys ogled her, pretending not to.
“How’d you get into the ghost business?” I asked.
“Bills,” Sallie laughed. “Chris and I are grad students in archaeology. The Charleston Museum is great, but it doesn’t pay much. So we work the streets.”
“This makes money?” Shelton glanced around. “We’re the only ones here.”
“Hey, don’t jinx it,” Sallie joked. “There’s still time.”
We smiled politely.
“Seriously! On a good summer night, we make a killing. The rest of the year can be hit or miss, but overall, we do pretty well. Tourists love ghosts.”
As if on cue, a hefty couple approached wearing matching Packers jerseys and munching waffle cones. Chris’s pitch hit the mark. The couple bought tickets, then wandered into the market.
“It’s a great idea,” I said. “How’d you get permission to visit the Provost Dungeon?”
“That’s our ace,” Sallie said. “The director is a CU alum. Chris schmoozed him and got us access in exchange for cross-promotion at the museum.”
Two more couples approached. The men wore polos and linen shorts, the women sundresses and strappy little sandals. Chris beamed as he doled out four tickets.
“See?” Sallie winked. “Money in the bank.”
“You’ll be rocking a penthouse soon,” Hi quipped. “Platinum watches.”
“Not likely. Every extra dollar goes to our expedition fund.”
She read the question on my face.
“Egypt. Next summer. Chris and I plan to join a new excavation at Deir el-Bahri, unearthing a temple complex built by the pharaoh Hatshepsut in the fifteenth century BC.”
“Sounds wonderful.” I felt some hero worship kick in.
“We’re super excited,” Sallie said. “The temple sits among the cliffs at the entrance to the Valley of Kings, on the west bank of the Nile. There’s nowhere more beautiful in the world.”
“I’m officially jealous.” I was.
“We have to foot the bill first,” she said. “It’s a two-year commitment, so that means hawking a whole lot of ghost stories on Market Street.”
Over Sallie’s shoulder, I noticed two young African American men amble toward Chris.
The first was maybe eighteen, with a shaved head, deep-set eyes, and a Z-shaped scar cutting across his left check. His oversized white tee and weathered jeans hung loose on his slender frame.
The second guy was older, perhaps twenty-five, and larger. Much larger. Well over six feet, he towered over his companion. Muscles bulged beneath his authentic Kobe Bryant Lakers jersey.
Shelton whistled softly. “Look at the size of that guy.”
Baggy Jeans handed Chris a bill. Chris said something. Baggy Jeans shook his head. Nodding quickly, Chris signaled to Sallie. She joined the pair, then hustled back to us.
“Can you guys pay now?” she asked. “That kid only has a hundred dollar bill, and Chris is short on change.”
“No problem.” Hi produced two twenties. “It’s all about the Benjamins.”
“Thanks.” Sallie scurried back to Chris. Transaction complete, the newcomers strolled to a nearby wall, leaned back, and waited.
The next customer was a shocker.
Rodney Brincefield. Minus his yacht club butler’s uniform.
Today Brincefield wore a khaki shirt-and-shorts combo with a matching Bushmaster hat. Tan socks, brown sandals. No kidding.
Shifting a sixty-ounce lemonade, Brincefield shook hands with Chris and bought a ticket. Below the bushy white brows, his bright eyes roved to our little troop.
And lit on me. A toothy grin spread Brincefield’s face.
“Miss Brennan, what a delight!” Closing in like a charging rhino.
“Who’s Father Time?” Shelton spoke sideways to me. “He looks crazy.”
“He’s fine,” I whispered. “Harmless.”
But Brincefield worried me. The old guy was charming, but a chatterbox. Once inside the Provost Dungeon, we Virals planned to snoop around. Alone. We had to locate the older, deeper places where Bonny might’ve been imprisoned. Brincefield’s presence could complicate things.
“Good to see you, sir.” I gestured to the others. “These are my friends. Ben, Shelton, and Hiram.”
“A pleasure.” Firm handshakes, then a mischievous rubbing of hands. “So we’re all off in search of spirits?”
I nodded. “Sounds like fun.”
“It’s an extraordinary program!” Brincefield exclaimed. “This is my second time.”
“Can I have everyone’s attention?” Sallie had climbed onto a plastic crate, which brought her to about eye level.
“Hello to everyone!” she shouted. “Welcome to the world-famous Fletcher Ghost Tour!”
There was a smattering of applause.
“We’ll begin in a few minutes,” Chris said. “Please take a moment to introduce yourselves. We’ll be spending the next ninety minutes together, communing with restless ghouls and dangerous specters. So remember—” dramatic voice quaver, “—there’s safety in numbers!”
Laughter. Chris was a born showman.
Brincefield began pressing palms, making introductions. Not my style, so I slipped outside his orbit.
And bumped square into Baggy Jeans’s chest.
The young man glared at me, clearly irritated. His tree-sized buddy smirked.
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t see you there.”
Without a word, Baggy Jeans stepped aside. Feeling awkward, I introduced myself.
“I’m Tory.” I held out a hand. Neither took it.
“Marlo,” said the smaller guy. Tree Trunk remained mute. Without another word, the pair turned and walked away.
“Al-righty then.”
“Making friends?” Hi asked.
“Shut it.”
“It’s amazing how so many folks instantly dislike you,” Hi continued. “You have a gift.”
“It’s amazing that any—”
“Everybody ready?” Sallie cut short my clever retort. “Here we go!”
THE FIRST HOUR was fantastic.
Sallie and Chris led us along dark streets, dispensing trivia and funny bits of city lore. The group would stop and gather close while the duo spun tales of famous hauntings, poltergeists, and unexplained occurrences.
We learned about the Lowcountry’s notorious pantheon of spirits. Haints—dead souls who take the form of ghosts or people. Boo-hags—beings who shed their skins and roam the marshes by moonlight. Plat-eyes—one-eyed phantoms who creep inside houses on hot summer evenings.
Sallie talked of the protective powers of boo-daddies, tiny figures made of marsh mud, Spanish moss, sweet grass, and salt water, then incubated inside large marsh oysters.
“If you fear the local baddies,” Sallie warned, “keep a boo-daddy in your pocket.”
She waggled her personal model above her head. “A good boo-daddy protects you from night creatures. The more boo-daddies, the better.”
Our route hit several well-known spectral hot spots. South End Brewery. The Rutledge Victorian Guest House. Circular Congregational Church.
Passing the Dock Street Theatre, we craned for a glimpse of Junius Brutus Booth, father of the man who killed Abe Lincoln. No luck. Then we cruised by Battery Carriage House Inn, where a male presence is said to slip into the beds of female guests.
Our path traversed an ancient graveyard, where the ghost of Sue Howard Hardy has been photographed weeping beside her child’s grave. Our snack break was at Poogan’s Porch, where Zoe St. Amand, a one-time resident, is occasionally spotted waving from a second-floor window.