Jillian Chantal

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt, meet. I am working in my story where the main character sees spirits. I am also using real historical figures buried in our cemeteries as characters in the book. This is part of a scene where the protagonist stumbles on a dead body as she’s walking her dog in the cemetery.

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She sat back on her heels and let out a small moan of pity for the deceased.

Realizing she was surrounded by spirits, she glanced at them to try to identify someone she might have spoken to in the past.

Her eyes finally landed on Juan de La Rua, a one-time alderman and mayor of Pensacola back in the 1800s.

He stared at her with sad eyes. “Someone has disturbed our peace yet again, Señorita Haverstock. We are all upset about this invasion of our resting places.”

“Did any of you witness what happened?” Lu didn’t see the amount of blood that would be expected if the man was killed on site but she also wasn’t sure how a body would’ve been transported there when the gates were locked from dusk to dawn. Who could’ve gotten inside to dump this poor soul here?

Many of the spirits disappeared when she looked back up at them from where she knelt beside the body. Clearly they didn’t want to interact with her like the ones in the morgue didn’t.

La Rua was still there along with two or three others she hadn’t met before. Lu addressed him. “Did any of you here see how this poor man got here? The gates aren’t open at night to let anyone in.”

“We have seen live people come over the fence and inside through the gates somehow. I think they do something to the lock.” La Rua pointed to a man standing to one side. “This is Salvador Pons. He thought he saw someone when he was out taking the air around three a.m.”

Lu wasn’t familiar with this man and wondered how he’d been buried in St Michael’s. He was dressed as if it was the late 1800s or early 1900s and she’d thought this cemetery was segregated during that time period. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Pons.”

He bowed as if he was attending a formal ball. “It is my pleasure. I am not sure you would have heard of me, but I was the first man of my race to be mayor of this fine city. In the 1870s. A very long time ago for you but it does not seem so long to me.”

“You’re correct. I didn’t know about Pensacola having been so open as to have someone of your race as mayor back then. I’m happy to hear it.”

“Thank you kindly. I was born in Mexico to a Hispanic parent and a Black parent. So perhaps with the Spanish background of this place, it was acceptable even so close to the end of what is called the civil war.” He smiled a grim smile. “Although as we know, there is nothing civil about a war.”

Welcome to Tuesday Tales. This week’s word prompt is narrow. I am working on my NaNo story and the heroine has just tried to visit a crime scene. Her love interest, who is also a detective with the police department has called her in this scene about her jaunt to the crime scene. His nickname for her is Mick as when they first met, she was wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt.

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As soon as she greeted the caller, Malcolm said, “I hear you’re up to your usual habit of annoying Detective Morgan.” He spoke with a laugh in his voice so she didn’t get offended at his words. She knew he didn’t like the man as much as she didn’t, but he had to work with him.

“You know what’s weird?”

“Good Lord, Mick. What a thing to ask me. When it comes to you, there are so many things that are weird it’s hard to narrow it down unless I have some context.”

“Very funny. What I was going to say is that I was just making a move to call you and find out why this lady’s fall down the stairs isn’t your case since you were at the autopsy and then my phone rang and it’s you. I call that weird.”

“I don’t. You had to know Morgan would call me to complain about you and that I’d have to reach out, as chief detective, to warn you officially not to interfere with his investigation, so your phone ringing shouldn’t have been a surprise.”

“So that what this is then? An official call?”

“Just so I can say I did it.” He sneezed. “I presume you and our friend the general were wanting to go in and inspect the crime scene? How’d you think you’d manage that?  Knock on the door and ask the husband to show you were he killed his wife?”

“You keep sneezing. Are you getting sick?”

“You’re deflecting, Nurse Haverstock. I’m asking a legitimate question. We’re you going to enter the house of a man suspected of violently murdering a woman with only a dead former president to witness this debacle? What if you’d been hurt? How would anyone know you’d put yourself into such a situation?”

“I didn’t think that far ahead.”

“Nope. That’s your biggest flaw, Lu. You plunge in, head first, not even thinking about the next move and what consequences could come into play. It worries me.”

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt run. I’m taking a break from the story I’ve been sharing as I started a new story for National Novel Writing Month. This is the beginning of book three of a series I’ve been working on that are all unpublished as of now. The protagonist has the gift of seeing and speaking to spirits. I used a form of the word run.

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A deep quiet floated on the air under the dense fog hanging down in the predawn darkness. Lula Mae Haverstock didn’t usually venture out at this time of the morning. Working twelve hours shifts from three p.m. to three a.m. usually saw her cuddled up in bed once she arrived home and settled in from her work day. But today was different. She’d been awakened by a spirit at her bedside letting her know there was someone in danger who needed her assistance. This wasn’t unusual—well the spirt part wasn’t—after all, she was able to communicate with the dead. What was unusual was she didn’t normally have the spirits invade her home. 

This time, it was a gentleman named George Barkley. He was sort of a neighbor. If you could call someone who drowned himself in 1854 a neighbor. 

Startled awake by him, Lu immediately pulled on her jeans and sneakers. She didn’t waste time taking off her nightgown. She pulled a puffer jacket over it and grabbed her phone.  Once she was ready, she made her way out the back door and toward the bay. The same bay where George committed suicide after some financial setbacks. 

He led the way across Bayfront Parkway, moving much swifter than she could since she still had mortal feet and had to watch for whatever traffic might be out this time of day. 

As soon as she was over the seawall, she saw the person floating in the water. 

“Geez. It’s got to be thirty degrees out here. I have no choice do I, George?”

“Sorry, Miss Haverstock. I do not think so. I know how this goes. Best to hurry.”

She threw off the jacket. It would need to stay dry. 

Running toward the water, she dove in, hoping for the best. The icy water nearly took her breath away but she swam out to the body face down in the little bit of waves formed by the wind whipping over the water. 

The water was cold enough that there was a slight chance the woman could still be resuscitated. Cold helped the body’s organs from completely shutting down.  No way to know how long the woman had been out here, but she was pretty sure George moved swiftly since he spent a lot of his time here in the water as well as the house he built looking over the bay. He was buried at St. Michael’s cemetery but liked to hang around the house and the scene of his death. He sure loved his home. 

Lu dragged the body toward the shore. When she was able to get the woman clear of the water and flip her over, she realized it was actually a young man. All the long brown hair floating around him like seaweed had resulted in her missing that fact. 

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt scary. Happy Halloween!!

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I moved toward Jacques’ voice wondering what had him sounding so freaked out.

When I turned the corner, I saw him kneeling down with his hand on the floor.

Since it was still so dark, I couldn’t really tell what he was doing. “What’s happening? Where’s Monte?” I asked.

Jacques looked up at me, his face white enough for me to see in the dim light. He appeared to be shell-shocked. Or at least how I pictured someone who suffered from that as looking.

“He’s not here. Gone.”

“Gone where?”

Jacques shrugged. “No clue but there appears to be a puddle of blood here.  Come see.”

This was scary. “What do you mean blood? Are you touching it?” Horror seized me by the throat. I couldn’t swallow. “What is happening?” I took a step back. Not sure I wanted to go forward at all.

“I touched it to see what it was. It’s thick like blood or like melted chocolate. It’s hard to tell exactly what it is in the dark, but is smells metallic and not like cocoa.” Jacques held his hand out. “Come over here and check it out.”

“Shouldn’t we be calling the police? If Monte is hurt and missing, we need assistance in finding him and getting him some help.” A thought seized hold of my brain. “I saw a huge shadow outside a few minutes ago. I wonder if that was someone determined to hurt us. It’s pretty deserted in this area. What if some criminal was hiding out here and we disturbed their lair?”

“I don’t think that’s the situation. My friend who arranged for us to be here has a crew working in the house all week. He’d know if there was anyone hanging around. He wouldn’t send us into danger.” Jacques stood, his knees creaking in the silence between us. Eerily, the rain had stopped and a hush spread over the house.

“I don’t like this. We need to call someone to come help us find Monte.” I didn’t want to get near that puddle of blood. It was freaking me out. There was a lot of it and I was sure Monte had to be hurt really badly to have lost so much. This was not what I wanted to have happen this evening. I thought this would be a fun and eventful learning experience about the old plantation. I wasn’t anticipating one of my friends getting injured or disappearing.

“We have to go outside and look for him.” I turned toward the door. “At least it’s stopped raining.”

“I think you’re right about calling the police.” Jacques hesitated. “And probably an ambulance. This doesn’t look good. Nope. Not good at all.”