Chapter 2
Hollow Pines in Southern California was a town I’d always wanted to visit, ever since I heard about Spooktember Fest. During the month of September, horror movies were played on an inflatable screen at the local park next to dozens of booths filled with all kinds of spooky trinkets for Halloween enthusiasts.
Following the movie, the evening concluded with a haunted history walking tour where a local guide led people on a behind-the-scenes exploration of the town’s haunted past.
I’d dreamed of attending for years, and tonight I got my wish. As we neared the end of the walking tour, Cade dipped his cowboy hat, leaned closer, and whispered, “Still can’t believe I let you drag me here.”
I elbowed him with a playful jab. “Why? I’m having a lot of fun.”
“Your idea of fun and mine don’t always line up.”
He had a point.
Whenever I convinced him to sit through a horror film, even the faintest jolt had him leaping in his seat. Meanwhile, I stayed put, popping kernels of popcorn into my mouth.
I suppose after so many years working as a private investigator, I was jaded.
These days, it took far more than a splash of fake blood in a staged scene to rattle me.
Nowadays, I only worked part-time, but I’d been considering whether it was time for me to retire, though I had a sneaking feeling I wasn’t finished solving murders just yet.
As we rounded the corner onto Ravenwood Drive, our tour guide, Ichabod, though I doubted that was his real name, said, “It’s the 1800s, the mid-century gold rush era.
Several states began being known as the ‘Wild West.’” Boomtowns began springing up around mining strikes, and many in those towns became notorious for lawlessness, saloons, and outlaws. ”
He paused for effect, then continued, pointing out several red stains splattered across the side of a cream-colored brick building. “Any of you ever heard of Barrett “Bear” McCoy?”
More than twenty of us had shown up for tonight’s tour, but if anyone recognized the name, they kept it to themselves.
“McCoy was a cowboy during the Wild West, wasn’t he?” I asked. “Famous around here during the mid-1800s from what I’ve heard.”
Ichabod pointed at me and said, “Miss, you are correct. Here, at this exact spot in 1855, McCoy was shot dead in the street.”
He’d said it with all the dramatic flair I’d expected.
“What happened?” Cade asked.
Ichabod raised a finger. “I’m getting to that. But first, they say the streaks of blood before you belong to McCoy himself. Time has passed, yet the marks remain etched into the brick, a chilling testament to what took place here that night.”
He was wrong, of course.
After almost two hundred years being exposed to harsh weather and direct sunlight, any bloodstains would be unrecognizable, as the brick would have endured extreme weathering and chemical breakdown. Any surviving stain would be faded at best, a fact I decided to keep to myself.
“Why was his nickname Bear?” one woman asked.
“He was said to have killed a bear with his hands.” Ichabod turned toward Cade.
“As to your question about why McCoy died that night, let’s retrace the final minutes before his death.
McCoy was inside this building. Back then, it was a saloon.
He was indulging in a few pints of beer at the bar when the door to the saloon swung open.
In walked Cyrus Tate, the father of Esmerelda Tate.
Tate had just received word that McCoy had proposed marriage to his daughter without his consent.
But even if McCoy had asked for consent, it wouldn’t have been given. ”
“Why not?” Cade asked.
“Cyrus Tate was a man of means, while McCoy was an outlaw—one of the most feared of his time. The day McCoy rode into town and laid eyes on Esmerelda, he was determined to win her over. Cyrus forbade it outright, but Esmerelda, unwilling to bend to her father’s will, met with McCoy in secret.
It didn’t take long for Tate to discover the affair, and his fury was swift. ”
“He came to the bar to confront him that night,” I said.
“Right again,” Ichabod said. “After a verbal altercation at the bar, Tate suggested they go outside, settle their dispute like men. And he wasn’t talking about a fistfight. No siree. He was looking to put a bullet in the center of McCoy’s head.”
“Sounds like he got his wish,” one man said.
“In the standoff, both men stood their ground. The rules were, Cyrus would count to three and they would fire.”
“Who was the better shot?” Cade asked.
“McCoy, by far,” Ichabod said. “They say he gunned down more than twenty men, and his aim was so true he never missed a shot.”
“Then why was McCoy the one to die?” a woman asked.
“Cyrus cheated. He counted to two and fired, shooting McCoy right in the heart. McCoy went down, and rumor has it his last words were, ‘I’ll haunt you, Cyrus. I’ll haunt you every day you live from the afterlife.’ To this, Cyrus responded, ‘Not in hell, you won’t.’”
“What happened to Esmerelda?” Cade asked.
“Upon hearing of McCoy’s death, Esmerelda ended her own life right here, pressing her back to this building, weeping as she lifted a gun to her temple and pulled the trigger.”
“What a shame.”
Ichabod nodded, sweeping his arms wide. “And now, as our tour comes to an end, I urge you—keep your eyes sharp. Countless witnesses have sworn they’ve seen Esmerelda’s ghost drifting along Ravenwood Drive, draped in a long, dark red dress. Perhaps one of you will catch a glimpse of her tonight.”