Chapter One #3
“From that day forward, the Perles Mansion sat empty and crumbling, shelter only for unfortunates. But none stayed long, and many ran screaming out into the night, chased out by a spectral vision of a Lady in White. For a while, during Prohibition, the mansion functioned as a speakeasy, until one night many of those in attendance were gunned down—again, the survivors of that bloody night claimed to have seen an angry woman in a long white gown and rebozo. At one point, a local historical society stepped in to save the house from the bulldozer, but they were never able to raise the funds to renovate it properly. Decades passed until, at long last, famous local artist Delilah Mason bought the place and fixed it up, taking care to preserve the mansion’s original details, including its many original furnishings.
Apparently, she fears no danger from the Lady in White, who is still said to haunt the place…
But then, Ms. Mason herself is in tune with the spirit world—or so she says. ”
Joel paused dramatically and placed his hand on the wooden gate.
“And you, my friends, are in luck. Mine is the one, the only ghost tour in all of Monterey permitted to enter the Séance Garden, courtesy of the largesse of the lovely and talented Delilah Mason. Assuming, that is, you dare to step through the portal.”
And with that, Joel slowly pushed the heavy wooden gate open. The hinges made a loud, creaking protest worthy of an old radio show. The members of the group murmured nervously. The honeymooners exchanged a few words in French, and the “psychic” leaned forward, straining to peer into the garden.
“Join me, won’t you, as we pass through the gate and into history?” Joel said in a low, solemn voice, heightening the tension.
The group entered slowly, one by one, looking around at the tall adobe walls encircling the garden, the flourishing oleander bushes and angel’s-trumpets lining the perimeter, the old stone well complete with a wooden crank and bucket, and the wide expanse of hard-packed dirt dominated by the stately cypress tree, its branches draped with lichen similar to Spanish moss.
Though there was no noticeable breeze, the leaves shimmered and branches swayed.
Beneath the tree was a sculpture of a melancholy angel, kneeling down, holding her head in her hands. Partially covered in lichen and moss, the angel appeared almost lifelike in the dim light, giving the garden an appropriately spooky air.
Harper glanced up at the second-story window. The shadow was still there, now standing motionless, as if peering out onto the garden. The famously fearless Delilah Mason, Harper presumed.
“As I was saying,” said Joel. “The Perles Mansion garden is known for its—”
“Do you hear that?” Harper interrupted.
“What?”
“Those sounds,” Tariq said, nodding.
“I hear something, too,” the retired woman said.
The mother and daughter from Iowa exchanged nervous looks, and the honeymooners from Bordeaux took a step back.
A movement made Harper glance over toward the house. A large, dark-haired dog emerged from the shadows and stood stock-still, staring at the tour group.
Could it have been making the sound?
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Joel. “As I was saying, this is the famous Witch Tree, where Isabel Perles was found—”
There was now an unmistakable, muffled sound of grunting, punctuated by faint groans. It was coming from underneath the colossal cypress.
“Is that a grave?” asked the mother from Iowa, pointing to a mound of freshly disturbed dirt at the base of the tree, near the angel sculpture. “That’s not a grave, is it?”
“Is it the ghost?” the teenage daughter asked, looking around as if searching the shadows. “The L-lady in White?”
“I assure you, it is not,” Joel insisted, sounding annoyed. “Isabel Perles was found here long ago, but it’s—”
A flash of pale skin in the bright moonlight. Dirt-caked fingers reached up through the earth.
Joel screamed.
The teenager from Iowa cried out and bolted for the gate, her mother one step behind, the French honeymooners fast on their heels.
The young blond “psychic” opened her mouth wide but made no sound while the muscular man named Mario let out a choked scream but seemed rooted in place, staring at the mound.
The retired couple retreated to the gate before halting and looking back. Joel stood frozen, apparently in shock.
“Dammit,” Tariq swore under his breath as he rushed to the grave. “What the hell?”
Harper followed him, kneeling on the other side of the mound of dirt. Frantically, they clawed at the ground with their bare hands, unearthing part of a once-white gown and then a woman’s face, deathly pale and wide-eyed with panic. Her mouth was foaming and full of mud, her eyes caked with dirt.
“Hang on, there,” Tariq said, his voice low and gentle. “We’re getting you help.”
Harper heard the calm voice of the retired man—Lamont, was it?—speaking on his phone as his wife, Margene, called out, “We’re calling 911!”
Lamont handed his phone to his wife and ran over to assist while Margene remained anxiously at the gate to flag down the EMTs.
“Here, use this,” he said, handing Harper a bottle of water from his coat pocket. “You said you’re a doctor? Can you help?”
“She’s not that kind of doctor,” Tariq explained as he continued to dig to free the woman from the grave.
“Almost there,” Harper said, rinsing the mud from the woman’s brilliant blue but bloodshot eyes.
The woman stared up at her and tried to say something, but Harper couldn’t make out the words.
“Help is on the way,” Harper said, trying to sound confident. “Won’t be long now.”
The woman again attempted to choke out some words but fell silent as her eyes fluttered shut.
“Let’s get her out of there, folks,” Lamont said calmly.
“Quickly, on three: one, two, three.” Together they lifted the woman, clad in a full-length nightgown, up and out of the shallow grave and onto the cool ground.
Harper caught the scent of something metallic mixing with the aroma of the cypress tree and the freshly dug earth.
Tariq shrugged off his coat and placed it over the woman. “Anyone know CPR?”
“I do. I’m a retired nurse,” Lamont replied, his hand on her neck to check her pulse. “But she’s got a pulse, so no need for it at the moment…”
“The police and ambulance are on their way!” Margene called out.
“Joel,” Harper said to the tour guide, who was standing nearby, staring at the macabre scene but neither speaking nor moving. “Joel! Pay attention. Do you hear me?”
Joel’s eyes shifted toward her, and he nodded dully.
“I think I saw Ms. Mason, in the house. She may know something about what’s going on here, or might need help. Run and check on her; she was upstairs, by the window.”
Joel shook his head, opening and closing his mouth but saying nothing.
“Get it together, man,” growled Tariq. “Move!”
“Joel,” Harper said, trying to get through to the stunned tour guide. “Go check on Delilah Mason.”
“B-but…” He pointed to the woman they had recovered from the grave. “That is Delilah Mason.”