“Let’s go on the ghost tour,” she said.
“It’ll be fun,” she said.
What could happen? A lot happened. Like fucking everything. One day you’re packing cute shoes and a dress for a masked ball that you spent months trying to get tickets to, the next day you’re trekking through a boggy cemetery in a pair of boots you’re happy you got on sale. And before you know it, you’re walking down the creepiest cobblestone street in the creepiest town in America on the creepiest weekend of the year to find a creep who killed the rando ghost tour guy.
Hold the candy corn. Pass the bourbon.
Happy Halloween, bitchachos!
“I’m Googling this shit later,” said Regan, her voice a whisper in my ear.
I just shook my head. The guy’s stories all night had been so good, I didn’t care if they were all lies or not. I took a sip of the bourbon smash, felt the warm trickle flowing through my veins, and let Mr. Not-Edgar Allan Poe tell us the fifth ghost story of the night. He had flair, and his costume was on point, that was for sure, but I wasn’t sure if the stories were that scary, even if Lindsay had spent most of the tour hiding behind the gaps between her fingers.
Dude stood on the little table in the corner, behind him the wall nothing but a massive animated shadow play as he used what was surely a minor in drama and theater to best effect. We leaned against the bar as instructed, a dozen or so tourists in a sleepy Pennsylvania town known for its Halloween-themed Octobers. My squad, Regan and Lindsay, always up for a bit of fun, had insisted we visit this year, and I wasn’t going to deny them. A little ghost tour, a “haunted ball” in a creepy old mansion, a little shopping and eating — it was our own adult version of trick or treat.
Dude had a booming voice. Definitely had wanted to be an actor at some point in his life. And his delivery was Poe-etic—slow, dramatic Southern drawl. I wondered if he sounded like that in real life or if it was just an act.
“Mr. Blackwood opened this saloon in 1847 with the idea that he could cash in on the thriving trade in these parts and the towns going up around the Ravenwood estate. An enterprising young family man, he was looking to make a name for himself. And he did for a while, both as a business owner and as a bootlegger of illegal liquor. You see, southern Pennsylvania was Quaker through and through back in those days, and alcohol was frowned upon — not illegal, but not exactly in keeping with the Lord’s way, if you know what I mean.”
Not Edgar Allan Poe, as he’d introduced himself two hours earlier, winked and raised his glass, and in turn, the bunch of us crushing together in the tiny upstairs bar raised ours. Another sip, another story, another night of creepy, Halloween fun in the sleepy village of Ravenwood, Pennsylvania. And this guy with his powdered white face and long black jacket. He certainly looked the part of the famous poet and storyteller.
“Rumors flew, but the townspeople looked away when Barnabas Blackwood’s illicit business and ill-gotten wealth began to grow, by leaps and bounds, until it seemed the Blackwood family might buy the Ravenwood’s out and move into the old mansion on the hill themselves. Who could say how Barnabas grew so rich and fat so quickly?
“Some said it was black magic, that he was a practitioner of the black arts, that he had made a deal with the Devil. There were even tales of him sacrificing some of his staff in horrific rituals in the basement in order to invoke his supernatural powers. And that talk went on in the quiet hours of the night in Ravenwood, just whispers — whispers of whispers and nothing more - because the whole town was afraid.
“Until one night, the night before Halloween in fact - that’s tomorrow night, ladies and gents - legend has it on the night of his death - nay! - on the night of his entire family’s death, for his wife and two young sons died that night, too - the family was dining in this very room when a violent thunderstorm raged over the town. Lightning streaked across the sky, throwing wild and terrible shadows against the walls, shadows so terrible that if you look closely, I wager you can still see them.”
A pale finger lingered in the air, Not Poe pointing as eerily as a storyteller could at the back wall behind us, but no one could turn around; the place was packed to the gills. A total fire hazard.
“Around six in the evening, supper on the table, the twin boys yawing and eager for their beds, lighting blasted through the thin roof of the tavern just above your heads, turning this very room into a raging inferno, incinerating the entire Blackwood clan, but not before — as rumor has it — Barnabas Blackwood made a chilling vow to haunt this very establishment he’d loved so much.
“And to this very day, the new owners and some patrons will swear you can hear mysterious footsteps up and down the very stairs you came up. Some of the staff say you can hear eerie whispers in the basement, and others have noted the clinking of phantom glasses after closing, or the occasional table or chair moving of its own accord.”
“Well, that would piss me off,” said Reagan, a sly look on her face. “Here they get everything put away and shut down for the night, and some dick of a ghost is still partying and knocking shit around.”
I giggled, remembering my all-too-long turn as a server. “Living customers are bad enough. I can’t imagine dead ones tip well.” I gave Reagan’s glass a little clink, then turned back to Not Edgar. This was the last story at the last bar, and he was looking a little worn down. Running on fumes, or at least on bourbon smashes — it’d been his drink of choice at the first bar, and I’d followed suit. Perfect concoction for a cool night.
“And that, dear friends, is that, as they say. The end of our night. Please tip your servers well, and if you’d be so kind, I invite you all to go to Trip Advisor and say every nice thing you would about your guide, me, Victor Hughes, and this ghost tour. But fear not, if you’ve not had enough of my ghostly tales, you can always stop by Nevermore, my little bookshop just off Ravenwood Avenue, and find more information on local legends, ghosts and hauntings. Remember what Poe said, ‘The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?’”
And with a flourish, Not Poe raised his glass in a final toast and downed the last of his elixir. I followed suit like so many others, letting happiness splash down my throat, warm from my coat, belly full of the most tender filet I’d had in recent memory, and my favorite bitchachos all giggling beside me. Fun night and a great start to the weekend.
Five stars for this guy!
A tiny gothic witch bumped by, nearly knocking my glass from my hand, but when I turned, some unpleasant words swirling around in my mouth, I bit them back and watched her lay a big hug on Not Edgar. The noise of the rush of people trying to get their checks drowned out whatever they said, but the little brunette in her pointy hat handed over what looked like another bourbon smash and sat down on the old leather sofa in the corner with him. Before I knew it, a dozen ghost tourists had followed suit and were crowding around with praise or questions or whatnot of their own. Eh, no harm, no foul.
“Another smash, Ses?” It was Linds, who’d come out from behind her hands to hold up her empty. She was drinking old fashioneds with Regan all night, not her usual chardonnay. I glanced at my watch — not even close to any kind of bedtime, so I nodded, a big grin washing over my face.
“Oh, somebody’s feeling good,” said Regan, throwing her arm around me and reeling me in.
“Yeah, bish, I’m feeling damn good.” Maybe it was that sudden whirl to confront whoever bumped into me. Maybe it was the bourbon finally displacing all of my blood. Didn’t matter. Warmth was spreading all over, and it was such a cozy feeling that I wasn’t complaining. Wrapped up in my girls and my little camo vestie, I was all good.
“One more for the road, and then we’ll get you all tucked in.”
“Ooh, me, too! I wanna be tucked in, too,” said Linds, back with a smile and three tumblers full of golden miracle. “No turndown service in that place. I bet there’s not even a chocolate on my pillow.” She pouted, which was probably the thing she was best at in life, but it was the prettiest little pout ringed in ashy blonde curls. Who could resist it?
“Fuck’s sake, Linds. This ain’t the Five Seasons,” said Regan.
She’d established herself as Lindsay’s foil since the day we squaded up. She was the exact opposite of Linds, her skin as golden brown as Lindsay’s was pasty white. Where Regan was a tall, wiry Black woman, an ex-Marine built for business, Lindsay was a soft, curvy fun-sized girl who’d made her fortune in, of all things, internet porn.
And here I was in the middle, keeping the tempest between them at bay, blonde, tan and not too shabby looking, I thought. Sadly my resume wasn’t as exotic as theirs, but I was closing in on my private investigator license, and that made me super happy. The only thing that made me happier was that the three of us felt like a complete package everywhere we went. A girl couldn’t ask for much more than that.
I took the proffered drink, held it up under my nose and inhaled the love there, took a sip. The magic of being twenty-six is that hangovers weren’t really a thing yet, so fuck it.
“It’s Four Seasons. Like Fall, Spring, Summer and whatever. Like that singing group. I bet they got turndown service everywhere they went. And they didn’t have to share a bathroom.”
And that’s where the convo went — what I could remember of it. Lindsay in her first bed-n-breakfast. Lindsay in a bed that wasn’t king-sized. Lindsay having to carry her own luggage up the stairs herself, although Regan had actually done that for her. The so yummy dinner and a dessert menu to die for — could we go back for just dessert tomorrow? Then, the ghost stories, and oh look, a few people we recognized from the tour — the chick in the way-too-sexy pirate costume, the guy who looked like zombie Superman, and the couple dressed like a loofah and a bar of soap — she’d kept rubbing her whole body up and down on him all throughout the tour, and someone had shouted “Get a room!” more than once. Then there was Not Edgar Allan Poe’s easy delivery, how the cobblestones in the streets were quaint but would kill anyone brave enough to wear heels, and finally how last call was a half hour ago. What?
I took a deep breath, blinking to clear the cobwebs that threatened, staring at the bottom of my glass. Where there had been a low roar all night, the place had quieted down a lot, leaving my ears ringing. I handed over my empty and decided I’d let Regan and Linds figure out the tab while I scooted out of the way and pushed up against the back wall as the rush to leave went into overdrive. People in costume, some not, pressed up to the bar to clear tabs. That’s when I spied the loofah chick slipping out of the bathroom, pulling her bar of soap behind her. “Damn, girl, go rub-a-dub in private,” I muttered. They scooted past without even looking my way.
They didn’t notice me or the snoozing Not Edgar Allan Poe, who was still on the couch, drink still in his hand, his head back, mouth open. Dude was gonna catch some flies. He’d been throwing them back, but he hadn’t even finished his last one. What a waste! I stared at him and giggled to myself. How many times had he fallen asleep here? Was this the norm? Did they let him sleep it off on this couch or make him go home?
A quick glance towards the bar found Lindsay, Regan by her side, in the midst of some deep philosophical discussion with a guy dressed like a used roll of toilet paper. So, I did a quick, non-math sort of calculation, and realized that Poe had the right idea, and I was better off listening to him snore than standing there feeling wobbly. It was farther to the couch than it seemed, maybe because I took the long way, first a shamble towards the stairs, then a little ramble towards the bathroom, until I finally plopped on the couch, a move that sent our ghost tour guide’s drink dumping into his lap. I jumped, apologies filling the air between us as I reached for the glass.
“Fuck. Sorry, sorry, so sorry,” I babbled and leaned over, trying to keep my balance as the couch shifted. Not Poe’s head lolled to the side like so much dead weight, and I braced for his accusing, half-lidded eyes and the southern-accented curses that would come with them, but all I found was the whites of his eyes, spittle dribbling out of his gaping maw and his entire frame flopping over on me like so much very dead weight.
“Oh Jesus fuck fuck fuck.” Nope, a napkin wasn’t gonna fix this.
And nobody was getting tucked in tonight.
Author’s Notes: And there we have it! The mystery has begun. Sesame, Regan and Lindsay, my favorite fictional trio off on another adventure — this time after what seems like an innocent ghost tour.
I first came up with the idea of Sesame Swallow over ten years ago. And it was also the first time I ever thought about writing a mystery. What did I know about writing mysteries? About as much as Sesame knew about solving them. And therein is the dilemma: writing something you don’t know. Sure, I used to read Hardy Boys books as a kid, and I’ve read a Nancy Drew or two, plus watched plenty of mystery movies, but writing a mystery is a whole different ball of wax.
Writing a mystery is its own puzzle to solve, and slowly, over time, I’ve begun to solve them — as has Sesame. She’s fun, spunky, sexy, and determined. And she’s got a great crew around her. I hope you enjoy this ride as much as I do because we’re in it through to Halloween!
Go on to episode 2 below:
Sip, Swallow & Scream
If you are just jumping into this paranormal murder mystery, start here with Part 1.
I always enjoy your Sesame Swallows stories.😊