“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 Allen 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 was it 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 Allen 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. 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 Ravenwoods 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 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 still processing the most tender filet I’d had in recent memory, and my favorite bitches all giggling beside me. Fun night, and a great start to the weekend. Five stars for this guy!
Author’s Note: Right now, this is looking like it’ll be ten episodes. This is just part of Episode 1, following our heroine, the intrepid Sesame Swallow, Baltimore’s Sexiest Private Investigator.
Hope you’ll stick around and “Step into the enchanting world of ‘Sip, Swallow & Scream’ in Ravenwood, Pennsylvania, where Halloween reigns supreme. As the festivities unfold, a spine-tingling scream reveals a chilling murder. Join Sesame Swallow and her friends as they discover dark secrets, uncover old rivalries and unearth a rare, unpublished Poe manuscript. With danger lurking, they must follow the clues from an eerie hilltop estate to an ancient cemetery to a final confrontation with the killer in the haunted village. It’s a whimsical tale of mystery and magic, where Sesame and her friends sip, swallow, and scream their way through a wild and wicked Halloween weekend.”
