GHOST HUNTERS FALL ASS-BACKWARDS INTO A CLANDESTINE CONSPIRACY
by
Bowie V. Ibarra
Here is an excerpt from the latest ZombieBloodFights.com title, 'Alamo Rising'. It's a supernatural horror story about a team of ghost hunters who unwittingly become embroiled in a dark and sinister plot against the city of San Antonio, Texas.
Check out the excerpt here, and grab a copy for yourself in paperback or kindle
here.
ALAMO RISING
BY
BOWIE V. IBARRA
With a forward by ERIC S. BROWN
ALAMO RISING
A ZombieBloodFights.com
book
Published by arrangement
with the author
This book is a work of
fiction. People, places, events, and
situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2011, 2013 Bowie
V. Ibarra and ZombieBloodFights.com. All
Rights Reserved.
No part of this book
may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means
without the written permission of the author and publisher.
This story is dedicated to Daniel Cohen, whose
‘encyclopedias’ about Ghosts, Monsters, and other myths enthralled me as a
child and sparked my imagination as I prepared for a life as a
parapsychologist, just like the Ghostbusters.
To Bo Woodman and
Holly Ann Kasprzak. Your help and
opinions are treasured immensely.
To Celeste Dillon, whose true-life ghost hunting advice
helped create segments of this story.
And likewise, to the ghost-hunting community.
To all my family, fellow writers, and friends that always
supported me no matter what: Thank you.
And to all my readers, new and old, thank you for giving my
works a chance.
I Hate Ghosts
By
Eric S Brown
When Bowie
Ibarra asked me to write an introduction to this book I was both stunned and
honored. I’ve read Bowie’s work since I
first became a writer myself. The very
first published edition of Down the Road sits between David Moody’s Autumn
and Len Barnhart’s Reign of the Dead in my vast collection of zombie books. Bowie is a writer who has proven not only
that he can relate a great and entertaining story to his readers but also make
that story fun and intense as only he can.
None the less, I scratched my head. Given this book’s subject matter, why me? I am pretty open in my hatred of all things
‘ghost’. Unlike my wife, who is a big
believer, I just can’t bring myself to seriously consider this particular
staple of the horror world’s existence.
Bigfoot? Oh yeah, count me
in. Aliens? They’re out there man. Yetis?
Dude, they’ll rip out your entrails and have them as a snack. But ghosts?
Nah. Ghosts are nothing more than
electro-magnetic disturbances, lingering psychic residue from powerful or
terrible events where the energy released continues to hang around for a while,
or simply stories told like myths to explain things we can’t understand.
When I think of writers out there putting pen to paper
about ghosts, Bowie does not leap to my mind.
I think of the likes of Stacey Graham and her Ghost Hunting Guide for
Girls. But perhaps that is exactly
why Bowie asked me. Alamo Rising
may indeed be a book about ghosts but it’s on a whole other level than things
like Ghosthunters or Straub’s Ghost Story. This book, like a good Fulci film, puts the
hammer to the floor with its climax and leaves the reader breathlessly going
“Wow! That was awesome”.
Along the way to that climax, Bowie presents deeply woven
characters that one can’t help but become taken by. For those of you who do believe in phantasmal
creatures, Alamo Rising delivers with suspense, terror, and all those
creepy things you guys dig so much. For
folks like me, I think you’ll find you will be equally impressed. This book, like The Fog, The Supernaturals or
Fulci’s City of the Living Dead, delivers action, gore, and an ending that even
us monster folk will relish in. As a
bonus, you get Bowie’s characteristic style and some cool pop culture
references that will make you smirk.
So whether you’re a ghost fan or not, stop reading my sad ramblings
here and tear into Alamo Rising because as always Bowie will not let you
down with his latest novel of terror. And from now on, when I think of ghost
books, the name Bowie Ibarra will come to mind as well. If Mr. Ibarra can win over an anti-ghost guy
like me, well. . .enough said.
=== Eric S Brown, Author of the Bigfoot War series,
the A Pack of Wolves series, The Crypto-Squad series, and comic
book scribe (currently scripting the adventures of the superhero team The
Stormchasers and the Unstoppable Origins title for Unstoppable Comics).
PROLOGUE – THE BATTLE OF THE ALAMO
Blood-bathed
bodies blessed the brown dirt and green grass in and around the Alamo amid the
cruel blasts of gunfire and cannonade of the soon-to-be legendary
conflict. The hand of death was
baptizing the land with the warm, sacred crimson lifeforce of the warring
soldiers. Bodies began to stack upon
bodies. Some were still groaning in
pain, missing limbs. Some had portions
of their heads blasted away. Some were
cut in half by cannon fire. Streams of
life were flowing from gaping and fatal wounds.
The Mexican
soldiers forced the hand of the Texicans defending the sacred building on the
13th day of the siege. Now,
the fires of liberty burning in the hearts of the defenders of the Alamo were
scorching their souls as they fought to the death, resigned from the start of
the siege to make the ultimate blood sacrifice to defend what they thought was
right in the fiery core of the cruel hellscape.
“Hold this
wall!” yelled the tall volunteer from Tennessee. His signature coonskin hat had been lost only
moments before, replaced by a sweaty brow and mussed hair. His hardy team of defenders was dropping in
numbers to the gunfire, bayonets, and cannonade of the forces of Santa Anna.
As the
onslaught of Mexican soldiers closed in on yet another wall, two defenders
looked at each other. They nodded. Both fired at the storming Mexicans before
rising and leaving their post, running off together.
“Flores! McKinney!
Where are you going?” yelled the tall Tennessee volunteer, watching the
two conspirators run away. “Get back
here, you cowards!” he yelled in anger as a small group of Mexican soldiers
breached the abandoned wall.
Alejandro
Flores and Marshall McKinney ran to the chapel in the middle of the Alamo
grounds. Before they reached the wall of
the chapel, they watched as one of the barricades were demolished by the
Mexican forces.
The two
raced to a set of barrels, passing scrambling defenders, women, and
children. They fell to their knees,
pulling out two separate and different objects.
“Are you
ready?” asked Marshall, pulling out a small music box.
“Yes,” said
Alejandro, retrieving an ancient charm from his pocket. Its carved stone suggested Aztec or Mayan
origin.
They reached
down to a Masonic amulet hanging down from their respective necklaces, pulling
their individual charms to their lips and kissing them. The shouts of Mexican soldiers grew louder,
melding with the cries of the dying.
The two men
placed their charms in a pre-set wooden chest in a hole they had dug days
before. Marshall pulled out a letter,
folded and sealed with wax, and placed it in the chest. They both pulled out their knives.
“Dear
Lord,” Marshall began, pulling out a knife, “bless this day with the promise of
your furious vengeance. May you smite those
that defile your land with the souls of the men whose blood now graces our
temple.”
Though the
prayer initially sounded like an homage to the Christian God, their appeal was
to the most unholy of spirits.
Death.
The two men
made their blood sacrifice, cutting the palms of their hands with the
blades. They held their sliced hands
over the objects and allowed the blood to flow over them. The clenched their fists, squeezing blood
from the wounds. The hot fluid suddenly
sizzled against the charms, and black smoke rose from the chest, a supernatural
sign that their unholy curse was cast.
The two
conspirators closed the lid of the chest before allowing their bloody hands to
christen the box with their red lifeforce as well.
“Trae su
venganza con la música de este jugete,” said Alejandro, touching the music
box Marshall had retrieved. “Ahora y
para siempre,” he said, placing the malevolent and eternal revenge curse on
the device. They opened the chest again
and placed the music box inside along with the other objects.
Bullets
whizzed around their heads as they covered the chest with dirt, hiding the
object and ending their ritual. Dirt and
blood caked on their sliced hands, sullying the handles of the shovels with
their blood.
The two men
shook sanguine hands, blood brothers, before rising to their feet again. The cries of the dying mixed with the shouts
of the desperate grew louder. The
Mexicans were breaking the walls on all sides.
The tall
Tennessee leader was falling back with the remnants of his team as Felipe and
Marshall rejoined them temporarily.
“Vengeance
will be ours, Mr. Crockett,” shouted Marshall, running headlong into the
storming Mexican soldiers.
“¡Tejas para siempre!” yelled Alejandro,
running side-by-side with Marshall into the fray. With fists flying and knives flashing at the
burst of gunfire, the two sliced and punched their way into the mass of
soldiers with an unholy fury. Blood
splashed on their faces as they took out as many Mexicans as they could.
“Good
Lord,” whispered Crockett as he opened fire on the group of Mexicans stunned by
the audacious attack of the two unholy conspirators.
Crockett
led the remnants of his team to the doors of the chapel, passing the covered
ground where the men had buried their curse.
As the team regrouped for their last stand, Alejandro Flores and
Marshall McKinny, a Texican and a Tennessee volunteer, were cut down savagely
with gunfire before being run through multiple times by bayonets. Their bodies were trampled by the Mexican
soldiers, who were flowing into the Alamo grounds like a cattle stampede.
The
sacrifice of the two disciples of death gave Crockett precious few moments to
move his team to their last stand where they would meet their destiny in the
fire and blood of the Alamo.
_@_
1. SAN ANTONIO – 2010
“… and as we all know, the defenders of the Alamo
did not make it out alive. Santa Ana had
their bodies burned…”
“Tory, how many times do I have to
hear the story of the frikkin’ Alamo?”
“We’re Texans, Kim,” whispered
Tory, her friend. “The Alamo is in our
DNA.”
Kim Hawkins and Toribio ‘Tory’ Jiménez
had been taking notes in their Texas history class. Mr. Hawthorne was passionate about history,
especially tales of the Lone Star State.
The eighty-three-year-old professor beamed when talking about the story
of the Alamo. His enthusiasm rubbed off
on his students. Except for Kim.
“Give me the cattle drives,”
groaned Kim. “Give me the Indians. Give me the Aztecs or Mayans, for crumb
sake. Just, please, no more Alamo.”
“Ya, cálmate, Kim,” chuckled
Tory.
“Tory,” called out Professor
Hawkins, “Is the lecture not interesting enough for you?”
“Sorry, Mr. Hawthorne,” said Tory.
Kim groaned, pulling out her cellphone. Holding it under her desk, she looked down as
subtly as possible and wrote a text message.
She sent it to Tory.
It read: I
need a beer
Tory’s phone buzzed. He knew enough to keep his phone on
silent. He pulled it from his pocket and
read the text. He looked at Kim and
smiled.
He sent a text back to Kim: Let’s
go to Pat Finleys
Kim read the text and smiled as Mr. Hawthorne gave
the assignment.
_@_
The
University of Texas at San Antonio was located near downtown S.A. Though parking was just across the street from
the main building, Kim and Tory thought it would be easier just to take the bus
to the bar. It would be cheaper than
parking downtown. After they put their
books away in their cars, they paid their fare and hopped on a bus.
Conversation
was light until Kim brought up something curious.
“Did you
know San Antonio is the second most haunted city in the U.S.?”
“Really?”
said Tory. “What city got number one?”
“New
Orleans.”
“I could
see that,” said Tory as they drove past Mi Destino restaurant.
“Now that
would be an interesting topic in class,” said Kim.
“What? Ghosts?”
“Yeah.” Kim smiled.
Her full lips spread across her freckled face. “Like, a ghost hunting class, or a ghosts and
legends class.”
“There are
a buttload of Texas ghost stories, though,” said Tory.
“A lot of
them are here in this town,” she said, indicating the city just outside the
windows of the bus.
“I don’t
know about ghosts and ghost stories,” said Tory.
“What do
you mean? You don’t believe in ghosts?”
“Well, it
just all seems like stories people make up for fun,” said Tory. “You know, to scare people by the
campfire. Kind of like an oral tradition
passed down through the years.”
“But you
don’t think oral traditions and stories, ghost stories, have some element of
truth to them?” asked Kim.
“Well,
yeah, but by the time it gets to be told, what’s the truth and what’s being
exaggerated?”
Kim
shrugged as the bus paused on Houston St.
“You start with where the story is and go backwards.”
“Make
connections, but that’s a lot of digging.”
The bus
revved up as Kim replied, “If you want the truth, sometimes you have to dig.”
“Buried in
the sands of time,” said Tory, waxing poetic.
“Exactly
like that,” said Kim, smiling.
They looked
out on their city, a metropolis of great Mexican food, music, and art.
Then Kim
had a thought.
“Hey, Tory.
Why don’t we form our own ghost-hunting group?
You and me?”
“Ghost
hunting?” said Tory.
“Yes,” said
Kim with a sly smile.
“In San
Antonio?”
“Anywhere,”
she replied. “Everywhere.”
Tory
smiled, sighing. “Will there be beer?”
“If you
join, I’ll make sure there’s beer,” she said, chuckling.
“Then
consider me in,” said Tory with a smile.
He offered his hand, and Kim shook it back to seal the deal.
The bus
arrived at a stop near a bustling downtown spot near Rivercenter Mall and the
Alamo itself. As the two contemplated
their secret team handshake, they stepped off the bus.
“You know,”
said Tory, “It’s just so strange, in a way.
Walking here by this place where hundreds, hell, thousands died and
spilled their blood for our state.”
“Oh, God,”
groaned Kim. “Not another Alamo story.”
“Well,
seriously,” said Tory, indicating the shops and tourists who patronized the
stores. “Look around. People, many years ago, died for our state here. Their blood ran where these streets are, on
the ground. Just a massacre. Slaughtered.
And we honor them here with a 3-D Mine Shaft ride?” he said, pointing to
the amusement ride in a building directly across from the Alamo. “Kind of rude.”
“I’ve never
even been in the Alamo,” stated Kim.
“Wait. What?” asked Tory, dumbfounded.
“Seriously,”
she said. “I’ve lived in this city all
my life, and I’ve never been to the Alamo.”
Tory shook
his head, taking Kim by the hand. “Come
with me,” he said.
“What are
you doing?”
“I’m taking
you to the Alamo,” he said.
Kim
chuckled. “What?”
“I’m taking
you to the Alamo.”
Kim started
laughing. “Tory, I don’t want to go to
the Alamo. I hate the Alamo.”
“Dammit,
Kim,” said Tory with playful intensity.
“No friend of mine is going to call themselves a Texan without going to
the Alamo.”
“Okay, okay,” she groaned with
a smile. Tory was funny, and always good
for a laugh. His brown baby face and
glasses gave him a nerdy charm. She
liked him.
As they
walked onto the Alamo grounds, a young man approached him.
“Have you
two been saved?”
The comment
surprised the two friends. “Wh...what?”
asked Tory.
“Are you
two living your life for Jesus?” he asked with a smug smile.
“I’m
Catholic,” said Tory.
“Baptist,”
said Kim.
The man
handed them a small pamphlet. “That’s
great, but are you living your life for Jesus?”
Tory looked
at the pamphlet. On the cover was an
illustration of the Alamo sitting in a pool of blood. Over the Alamo was an image of Jesus, holding
his hands benevolently outward. Beams of
light emanated from behind his head. A
caption read: Are you ready for your last
stand?
“Yes, man,”
said Tory, turning and moving away.
“Of course
you are,” said the man, lacing his words with condescension. He followed Tory and Kim, looking at the two
suspiciously. “Follow His word, or when His
reckoning arrives, you will be lost forever.
Only His word will save you.”
“Okay. Thank you,” said Tory, walking away.
“What’s
your name?” asked Kim.
“Peter,” he replied.
“Peter. How appropriate. Thank you, Peter,” said Kim with a ‘rasberry’
and middle finger. “Now get away from
me.”
“God’s
vengeance will claim you,” he called out.
“Not if it
claims you first, mister,” Kim replied.
“C’mon,
Kim,” said Tory, pulling her away.
“But
seriously, what was that all about?” asked Kim.
“Just,
whatever, c’mon,” said Tory.
The line to
enter the Alamo was not too long for Friday.
The pair took their place in the queue.
“How much
does it cost?” asked Kim.
“It’s like
a state park, so it’s free,” Tory replied.
“How long
is the tour?” asked the person in front of them.
“It’s not
even twenty minutes,” said Tory. Then he
asked the strangers, “Is this your first time here?”
“Yes,” they
said.
“Where’d
ya’ll come from?” asked Kim.
“Toledo,”
they said.
“See?” said
Tory to Kim. “People come from as far as
Toledo to pay homage.”
Kim turned
to the tourists. “It’s my first time,
too.”
“She’s
lived here for twenty-four years and she’s never been here,” said Tory.
Kim slapped
his arm. “Stop it,” she said, playfully.
“Today, you
get your Texas card,” said Tory. “You’ll
be a card-carrying Texan after this.”
After only
a few minutes of waiting in line, they reached the front door. Tory pointed out a plaque on the outside wall
next to the door.
“Check this
out,” he said, reading the text as Kim looked on. ““Be silent friend. Here heroes died to blaze a trail for other
men.””
“I know, I
know,” groaned Kim.
“Did you
know they say there’s ghosts here?” said Tory.
“Really,”
said Kim sarcastically. “What did I say
earlier? The Alamo and all the battles
in this city help make it the number two city, remember?”
“Number
two,” chuckled Tory. “Like going poopy.”
Kim started
laughing. “No, stupid. You know what I mean. Ghosts.”
“Oh,
yeah. Number two haunted city.”
They walked
to the doors and into the historic monument.
As they stepped into the edifice, Tory bumped into a park ranger, who
was walking out.
“Excuse me
Ranger…” Tory read his badge. “Ranger
Rick.” He chuckled. “You’re Ranger Rick? Like the kids magazine?”
Kim stifled
a giggle, and so did Tory. The man glared
at them as he walked past the two.
“That was
his real name. Ranger Rick. He was Ranger Rick,” said Tory.
“Shh,” said
Kim, smiling. “Just go in.”
The two
looked into the building. From the front
doors, there was a large open space filled with tourists meandering through the
building. Flags stood tall in posts,
lined up against the wall. Ribbons hung from the flags with numbers. A cannon stood alone in a nook right by the
door.
Kim looked
at a statue, pointing and asking, “Who’s that?”
“St.
Anthony,” said Tory. “San Antonio.”
Kim
examined all the flags. “What are all
these flags here for?”
An elderly
woman approached Kim to answer her.
“Ma’am, those are the flags of the states and countries of the people
who fought and died here. The name of
the country or state is listed on the ribbon above the flag. The number represents the number of people
who sacrificed their lives for our state.”
Kim
gulped. “Wow.”
She
examined the flags closer. “Kentucky,
Illinois, Ohio, New York, Scotland… Scotland?
Really?”
“Yup,” said
Tory. “Ireland and England, too.”
“There were
even soldiers from Spain and Denmark, too,” said the lady. “People from all over the country and the
world fought and died here. A tremendous
sacrifice.”
“Wow,” said
Kim again. She was beginning to feel the
depth of the battle and sacrifice made.
“Wow,” she said again.
“Come check
this out,” said Tory, leading Kim to a large standing display case.
The glass
display case was set on a table near a wall in a back corner of the room. It was set up so people could walk around the
large case and see the details of the model inside.
“The battle
of the Alamo,” said Tory, presenting the case to Kim. “In a miniature model.”
“Oh, wow,”
said Kim. She examined the model. “So, we’re here,” she said, pointing to the
interior area of the Alamo model.
“That’s
right. Check it out,” said Tory,
indicating another section of the large model.
“There are the breaches there, where the Mexicans came in. And there.”
“Man,” said
Kim. “Bad news,” she commented, looking
at the number of small model Mexican soldiers that outnumbered the defenders of
the Alamo. “Bad news,” she said again.
As Kim’s
eyes wandered, she noticed something subtly hidden behind a set of flags. As she looked closer, she noticed it was a
small display case.
“Hey,
what’s that?” she asked, pointing.
Tory
followed her gaze and her finger and asked, “Where?”
“Behind the
flags.”
It took
Tory just a few moments to find what she was pointing at. But he saw it.
“Hmm,”
mumbled Tory. “Dunno. Let’s check it out.”
The two
walked through the scattered tourists and made their way to the case.
It was a
glass case posted against the wall in a back corner. Partially hidden by the flags, it was
inconspicuous enough to be ignored by virtually everyone in the space, but it
was hidden in such plain sight that anyone who was paying attention could see
it and observe its contents.
Kim and
Tory walked up to it as several tourists stepped away from the box, completely
oblivious to its existence. The duo
looked at the items encased reverently in the case.
“What are
they?” asked Kim.
“Hmmm,” was
all Tory could give as a response.
“Well,
c’mon, Alamo know-it-all. What do we got
here?”
“Looks like
relics from the battle,” theorized Tory.
“That’s weird, though, because they have some relics like these in the
building next door. I wonder why these
are set up here.”
Kim shrugged. “Something special, or something.”
The case
held a mix of items. A small plaque read
that the objects were on the battlefield at the Alamo all those years ago.
“Chalk from
a child’s blackboard tablet,” said Kim, reading a description inscribed near
the relics.
“The iPad
of the 1800’s,” said Tory.
“Good one,”
said Kim.
“A folded
flag,” said Tory.
“Bullets, a
cannonball, a medal,” said Kim, reading along.
“Dirt. Dirt?” asked Tory, observing a bottle labeled
as such.
The two
looked at each other, puzzled. Tory
crossed his eyes. Kim giggled.
Looking
back at the mysterious display, they saw the numbers ‘12’ and ‘13’.
“What is
this?” asked Tory, puzzled.
“Let’s find
out,” said Kim, turning to one of the guides.
She patted the guide on the arm and said, “Excuse me, what is the
significance of this display?”
The guide,
an elderly but spry woman, gladly replied, “It’s a set of relics from the
battle donated to the city many years ago.”
Kim noticed
her nametag. It read: Patricia
Mitchell. Below her name, it read:
Daughters of the Alamo.
“Who
donated them?” asked Tory.
“No one
knows,” replied Patricia. “They are
legitimate relics. But no one knows why
they are here, who donated them, or where they came from. Just wild rumors.”
“And what
are those?” asked Tory. “The rumors?”
Patricia
played it off. “Just rumors.”
The two
friends looked at the case again. It had
two hinges and a latch with a lock on either end.
“Someone
paid for the case and the installation,” said the guide. “It’s just one of those curious little
mysteries of the Alamo.”
= = =
The sunny
spring afternoon was giving way to the night as Tory and Kim strolled from the
Alamo to Pat Finley’s Irish Pub. They
passed Ripley’s Believe It or Not and Wax Museum. They considered buying a raspa from a
street vendor, but didn’t think it was worth paying five dollars for it. The souvenir shops they passed sold various
sundries as ponchos, souvenir Alamo shirts, zarapes, and sombreros.
“Check that
out,” said Tory, pointing at a shirt that said Tú eres un pendejo with a
translation under it saying, incorrectly, You are my friend.
“That’s not
what that means,” chuckled Kim, knowing enough Spanish to understand it was a
funny insult.
She then
saw another one. “Check that one out,”
she said, pointing.
The shirt
read, Relax, gringo. I’m legal.
Tory
laughed. “That’s a good one. Good one.”
The
colorful stores all had their variation of souvenir and clever shirts,
blankets, pictures of Mexican revolutionaries Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata,
and even lucha libre masks. If it was a
kitschy Mexican item, these stores had them in spades.
They walked
up to Pat Finley’s where Kim groaned, “Beer, here I come.”
The duo
walked in and were immediately greeted with a friendly welcome.
“Kim! Tory!
What’s going on, ya’ll?” asked the bartender.
“Texas
history over beers,” Kim replied.
The
bartender chuckled as he tugged at the nearby tap, drawing a beer into a
chilled glass that the duo usually ordered: Lone Star Beer.
“It’s the
best way to study Texas history, Brant,” said Tory.
“Or do just
about anything in Texas, in general,” Brant stated.
“Football,
baseball, soccer,” said Kim. “Movies at
Alamo Drafthouse,” she said, name-dropping the maverick Texas movie chain.
“Pro-wrestling,
flat-track roller derby, money fights in a back alley,” chimed in Tory.
“Needlepoint,
crochet, poetry,” teased Brant, handing them their beers, which they gladly
accepted with a laugh at his comment.
“I bet Joe
Lansdale has thrown back a beer or two when he writes,” said Kim.
“Whatever
works,” said Brant as Kim and Tory raised their beers.
“A toast,”
said Tory. “To the heroes of the
Alamo. If it weren’t for them, we’d be
drinking Corona right now.”
“You can
still drink Corona,” said Brant.
“Let me
rephrase that, then,” said Tory. “We
would be drinking Corona from the draft now,” chuckled Tory.
Kim and
Tory toasted and took a swig.
“Corona’s
not so bad,” said Brant.
“There’s
better Mexican beer, though,” stated Tory.
“Like Bohemia or Superior.”
“Indio is
good, though,” said Kim. “And Victoria
is good, too.”
“What about
Carta Blanca?” asked Brant. “Or Modelo
Especial?”
“Two thumbs
up,” said Tory.
“You
alkies,” chuckled Brant.
“Thanks for
enabling us, Brant,” said Kim with a smile.
“You guys
are out of control,” said Brant with a smirk, moving to wash some glasses.
“Hey,
Brant,” said Tory. “We’re putting
together a ghost hunting group. You want
to join?”
“I don’t
believe in ghosts,” said Brant, shrugging.
“Really?”
said Kim. “I think there’s something to
it.”
“I’m not a
ghost atheist or anything,” said Tory.
“Just like a ghost agnostic.”
“I’m a
ghost atheist,” said Brant. “Maybe when
I was a kid, but not anymore.”
“Well,”
said Kim. “We’re just getting it started
anyway. Maybe when we get bigger, you
can join.”
“What’s the
name of this team, this super-team?”
Kim looked
at Tory, who shrugged.
“Well,”
said Kim, “we haven’t thought of that just yet.”
“How about
the Ghost Hunters?”
“Those
people on TV already have that one,” said Kim.
“Well,”
said Tory. “What about the Ghost Hunters
of San Antonio?”
“Or,” Kim
interjected,” we can just do away with the ‘hunters’ and be like ‘Ghost Team of
San Antonio’.”
“Or
league?” said Tory.
“Society,”
said Brant. “The Ghost Society of San
Antonio.”
“Ooooooh,”
said Tory and Kim at the same time.
“I like
it,” said Kim.
“That’s the
name,” stated Tory. “That’s definitely
the name.”
“A toast,”
said Kim. Tory promptly picked up his
glass yet again. “To the Ghost Society
of San Antonio. May we progress the
further education and discovery of ghosts in our community.”
“Educate
ghosts?” asked Tory.
“Shut up,”
chuckled Kim. “You know what I mean.”
Tory
chortled with Kim. “To the GSSA. Salud.”
2. THE ENTERPRENEUR
“I need to speak with Mr. Belmont Smith, please.”
“Mr. Smith is unavailable right
now.”
“I need you to make him available
right now.”
Prescott Madison had all the charm
of the New York politician he used to be.
Strong, intelligent, and rich, Prescott was used to getting what he wanted. His blonde female assistant, clad in a
business pant suit and standing by his side, was used to doing what she was
told.
This lady behind the desk was
not. At least not by Prescott.
“Mr. Smith is not taking visitors
at the moment,” the secretary replied.
She was unaccustomed to discussions like these, but was still no
stranger to them. Her dark eyes glared
at Mr. Madison behind black horn-rimmed glasses under dark hair.
“What is your name, ma’am?”
“Judy.”
“Judy, my name is Prescott
Madison. Within the next few days, I’m
going to be your boss. So if you want to
keep your job when I become your new boss, I suggest you make it happen right
now.”
His tone of voice almost made the
young secretary cry. It reminded her of
the days when her father scolded her in her youth. It was so demanding, so strong, she felt
somehow demeaned. She looked at
Prescott, then his assistant, who gazed at her with a smug grin. The blonde didn’t laugh, but Judy could sense
the lady wanted to.
Judy gave in. She dialed up her boss.
“Mr. Smith,” she said into the
phone. She didn’t expect to be slightly
choked up when she spoke. She cleared
her throat and said, “You have visitors.”
Prescott and the assistant turned
away for a moment to let the wheels turn.
They looked upon the walls of the office. It was Belmont Smith’s personal wall of
fame. Newspaper clippings throughout the
years were testaments to Smith’s financial success. A clipping of a groundbreaking ceremony in
the ‘60s. A ribbon cutting in the
‘70s. A party from the ‘80s. A check delivered to a children’s home. Another check delivered to a battered women’s
shelter. Yet another philanthropic
donation to an animal clinic. A photo-op
handshake with the mayor in the ‘90s.
Smith’s pride in his business endeavors knew no bounds.
There was even a plaque with a
compass and t-square on the wall.
“And he’s a mason,” said the blonde
woman.
“Hmph,” grunted Prescott, nodding
his head.
The duo could hear a curt response
from the other side of the phone line as they examined the accomplishments of
Smith. Judy’s reply was simply,
“Prescott Madison.”
The pause in the conversation could
be felt by the duo, who turned and grinned at each other. That’s when Judy hung up the phone.
“You can go in,” she said. She subconsciously raised her shoulders and
tucked her neck, like a dog that had been disciplined with a rolled up
newspaper.
Prescott and his personal assistant
and legal councilor walked into Smith’s office.
There was no warm greeting from
Belmont Smith as the duo walked into the room.
Instead, cold words were exchanged.
“I told you never to come back
here,” said Belmont. His cold, old blue
eyes glared at Prescott. The vein in his
forehead became prominent under his aged skin.
“What do you want?”
“I need you to sign these papers,
delivering all your Riverwalk properties to Madison and Associates
Corporation,” said Prescott, holding his hand out to his assistant, who
dutifully pulled out the file from a briefcase she held.
“What kind of nonsense is this?”
asked Belmont. He removed his pinstriped
coat, as the conversation had made his blood pressure rise. His long-sleeved white shirt was topped with
a western pull tie.
“When we spoke three months ago, I
informed you that my associates have found that all of your properties are in
violation of city safety codes. You had
the opportunity to make the repairs yourself.
You chose not to.”
Prescott’s assistant provided the
documentation to back up his statement.
She handed it to Belmont.
“Who do you think you are walking
into my office like this?” growled Belmont in a huff, slamming the papers on
his desk. His haggard pale skin was
turning pink around his cheeks and ears.
“The new owner,” Prescott
responded, getting another file from his legal council. “These papers have been drawn up by my legal
team, approved by the San Antonio city manager, and signed by the mayor, making
all the listed properties assets under my corporation.”
Belmont wanted to explode and punch
Prescott in the face. “You dirty Yankee
sonovabitch,” shouted Belmont. “You can
take those papers and stick them up your ass.”
“Refusing to sign these papers
would be considered a violation against city statutes,” said Prescott, dropping
the papers on Belmont’s desk. “I will
give you a day to have these signed. My counsel,
Ms. Noel, will be by to pick them up tomorrow at 4:45pm. If they are not signed, we will pursue
further legal measures. You will be
compensated monetarily. It will be an
appropriate compensation - you would be a fool to turn it down. Good day.”
And with that, Prescott and his
assistant walked out of the office.
“Go to hell, Prescott!” shouted
Belmont.
“You first,” was the snide reply.
Prescott turned to Judy, who was
wiping a tear away from her face.
“When you come to work for me, no
heels, Judy,” he stated, walking out the door.
Whimpering in humiliation, Judy
walked into Belmont’s office. “What is
he talking about, Mr. Smith?”
Belmont was looking at the
papers. He said, “He’s using city
ordinances to grab my property.”
“What are you going to do?” she
asked.
“I’m going to talk to my lawyer,
number one,” he said, walking to another plaque on the wall. “Number two, if that doesn’t work, I’m going
to talk with some of my brothers.”
The plaque Belmont was gazing at
was molded bronze. The design was the
same Masonic square and compass that was in the reception area. In the center of the two tools stood the
letter ‘G’, the ancient symbol of the Freemasons.
3. FIRST MEETING OF THE GHOST
SOCIETY OF SAN ANTONIO
After
agreeing to form The Ghost Society of San Antonio, Tory and Kim had to decide
when to meet. Considering they were
going to be slightly hung over, they figured convening the next afternoon would
be the best choice. They usually met at
La Taza Azul every Saturday afternoon for menudo and a Big Red. It was a south Texas dish that claimed to
help with hangovers.
Tory walked through the door. As agreed upon with Kim, he brought a friend
to join the club.
“I know this place,” said Tory’s
friend. “Fun place.”
“I gotta tell you, Hank, for as
lame as S.A. can be sometimes, this place is actually pretty cool,” said Tory
as they took a seat at a table. “A
combination of taquería and coffee shop is a step in the cool
direction.”
“Townies and trendies,” said
Hank. “Two different crowds, for sure.”
“Over on the stage, they do open
mic nights. Poetry and comedy.”
“Awesome,” said Hank.
The friends talked, then gave their
order to the waitress when Kim walked in with her friend.
“Wow, Kim. This place is so cool.”
“Check out the art on the walls,”
said Kim, indicating the various paintings from local artists.
“Cool,” said Kim’s friend.
Along the walls were colorful
paintings of still lifes, Mexican revolution icons, and other cultural symbols.
“What are we doing here again?”
asked Kim’s friend, snapping a picture on her phone to upload to her WhatsUp
page.
Kim saw Tory and waved. “Pam, we’re going to a meeting.”
“Meeting?” she asked, typing away
on her smart phone.
Tory stood up from his seat and
gave Kim a hug.
“This is Hank,” said Tory, motioning
to Hank, who was arranging his Magic: The Gathering cards on the coffee table.
“Ya’ll play Magic?” asked Hank.
“What?” said Tory.
“This is Pamela,” said Kim,
indicating her friend who was still texting away.
“Are you on WhatsUp?” asked Pamela.
Tory looked at Kim. “Um.
Yeah. I’m on Kim’s friend list.”
“Cool,” said Pamela. “I’m going to send you a friend request.”
As Pamela took a seat, Tory looked
at Kim. “Who are you bringing to this
meeting, Kim?”
“Hey, so whose team are we on?”
asked Hank, shuffling his Magic cards.
“I want to play with someone with a white deck, because I have a black
deck.”
“Who are you bringing to
this meeting, Tory?” said Kim, chuckling.
The two friends sat down by their
guests. Tory spoke.
“Okay, everybody. It’s good to have you here. Welcome to the first meeting of the Ghost
Society of San Antonio.”
“Ghost Society of San Antonio?”
said Hank. “Why not call it the San
Antonio Society of Ghosts?”
“Hank, we already picked the name,”
said Tory.
“You can still change it,” said
Hank.
“Hank, we’re not changing it,” said
Tory.
“What’s your last name, Hank?”
asked Pamela, looking up from her phone briefly to get the answer.
“Overstreet.”
“Great,” said Pamela, typing into
her phone again. “I’m going to send you
a friend request on WhatsUp.”
“Hey, guys,” said Tory, trying to
get control of the meeting back. “Can we
come back… put attention back up here, please.”
He indicated himself with his thumbs.
“I’m on your team,” said Hank.
“What team? The Ghost Society, you mean?”
“No. The ‘Magic’ team. We’re playing the girls, right?” asked
Hank. Kim shook her head at Tory.
Pamela looked up from her
phone. “You know magic? Can you, like, make a quarter appear from
behind your ear and stuff?”
“Who said anything about magic?”
asked Kim.
“He did,” said Hank, pointing at
Tory.
“I didn’t say Magic: The Gathering
or even magic, like ‘abracadabra’ magic.
I said The Ghost Society of San Antonio was going …”
“You mean the San Antonio Society
of Ghosts,” said Hank.
“It’s not the San Antonio Society
of Ghosts.”
“We’re not ghosts,” said Kim.
“There’s ghosts? Where?” asked Pamela. “Oh, I’m going to put that as my
update.” She began to type into her
phone again.
“I have two ghosts in my Magic
deck,” said Hank.
“We’re not playing Magic,” said Tory.
“You know magic?” asked Kim,
pointing at Tory.
“I don’t know magic,” said Tory,
getting flustered. “Listen, everybody,
just… shhhh…” he said, putting a finger to his lips.
“But…” said Hank before being
interrupted by another shhh from
Tory.
“Listen. We are not here to play Magic, or pull
rabbits out of a hat magic, people.
We’re here to talk ghosts, okay?”
Hank sighed. It was clear what he wanted to do as he
shuffled the deck out of nervous tension.
“But I’m scared of ghosts,” said
Pamela.
“Don’t be afraid, Pam,” said
Kim. “Ghosts can’t hurt you.”
“Are you sure?” she asked with
concern.
“Pretty sure,” said Kim with a
reassuring smile.
“Alright,” said Tory. “It sounds like we’re all on the same
page. Finally.”
Kim chuckled, shaking her head
again.
“Listen, I just wanted to hand it
over to the founder, Kim Hawkins.”
Kim stood up and started her
presentation as the waitress brought the food for Tory and Hank. “Wait, ya’ll ordered food?”
“Yeah,” said Tory. “They’re just breakfast tacos.”
“Ma’am,” said Kim. “I’ll have one potato and egg.”
“Me, too,” said Pam.
The waitress left with their orders
and Kim continued.
“Anyway, thanks for ordering tacos
for us, Tory,” said Kim sarcastically.
“No problem,” came the reply as he
bit into his breakfast.
“So, as I was saying. Thanks all of ya’ll for showing up today.”
“No problem,” said Hank, talking
with his mouth full of breakfast taco.
“What we want to do is form a group
that will go in and around the city and document ghostly activity.”
“What kind of ghostly activity?”
asked Pamela. Goosebumps rose on her
arms.
“Well, manifestations, possessions,
poltergeists, just anything that has to do with ghosts.”
“What about haunted things?” asked
Pam.
“What do you mean ‘things’?” asked
Tory. “You mean, like, Ouija boards or
dolls?”
“Like paintings,” said Pamela.
“Paintings?” said Kim.
“What do you mean ‘paintings’?”
asked Tory.
“Well, I heard there’s this
painting that’s painted with the blood of those from the Alamo.”
“What?” asked Tory, Kim, and Hank together.
“You haven’t heard of the battle of
the Alamo painting at the old LaChantel house?”
“No,” said Kim.
“Do tell,” said Tory.
“Well,” said Kim, typing away on
her smart phone. “My dad says the legend
is that many years ago, this guy, this Mexican soldier who was an artist,
pulled bodies of both Alamo defenders and Mexican soldiers. He filled a cup with their blood and added it
to his black paint.”
“No way,” said Tory.
“Well, I don’t know for sure,” said
Pamela. “It’s just what my dad said the
legend was.”
“Go on, go on,” urged Kim,
intrigued.
“So, the day after the battle, they
burned the bodies of the defenders. That
painter guy painted the scene of the burning of the bodies by the Alamo and,
well, he painted it with their blood.”
“Wow,” said Hank.
“So, how did the painting end up
there?” asked Tory. “At that house?”
“Hang on,” she said, continuing to
text on the phone. Tory shrugged at
Kim. Kim just shook her head. The three looked at Kim with great anticipation.
“Okay,” she finally said. The three audience members exhaled, mumbling,
“Okay.”
“Anyway,” said Pam, putting the
phone aside for once. “They say Santa Ana
took it, but then he asked for his servants to burn it because the ghosts of
the defenders would whisper to him in his dreams.”
“Let me guess,” said Tory. “The servants didn’t burn it.”
“Right,” said Pam. “They took it and sold it to a rich land
owner. But he became haunted by the same
dreams. So, he sold it. The next owner
of the painting went mad. The next one
killed his family. They say even the
Nazis had it, trying to utilize the blood in the painting for a dark
ritual. It even ended up at the… what’s
that museum in France?”
“The Louvre?” suggested Tory.
“Yeah. The Louvre.
But they were having strange things happen, too.”
Pamela then paused, picking up her
vibrating phone again. She tapped her
fingers along the face of the phone as Kim, Hank, and Tory nodded in wonder.
Pam took an extra second to find
something on the Internet application on her phone. She then shared it with the group.
“Here it is,” she said, holding up
her phone. “It’s a picture taken when it
was loaded into the Louvre. There was a
buzz on its arrival, and a newspaper snapped this picture.”
Tory took the phone and passed it
around as Pamela continued.
“From the Louvre it went back to a
family there in Paris. The LaChantel
family. Bad things happened with the
family and members of the family came to Texas - right here in town. It’s been at their house ever since.”
“This is wild,” said Kim.
“We gotta go now,” said Tory,
excited. “We’ve got to go, like, today.”
“I agree,” said Kim. “This would be a great first project for the
Ghost Society of S.A.”
“Where’s this place at again?”
asked Tory.
“By the McNulty Museum, but I’m not
going,” said Pamela. “Too scary.”
“What?” Kim asked, incredulous.
“Hank, you’re coming with us,
right?”
Hank just shrugged. “Meh. I told some friends I would meet them at
Dragon’s Lair Comics to play Magic after this.
So not today.”
Tory and Kim looked at each
other. “Well, uh, let’s finish eating
and call the meeting adjourned,” decided Tory.
Everyone agreed.
“Guess it’s just you and me,” said
Tory to Kim.
“Oh, well,” she shrugged. “At least the GSSA is official now.”
The friends enjoyed their meal and
had a few laughs before going their separate ways. Pam and Hank one direction. Tory and Kim another.
Just as Pamela’s GPS app on her iPhone had directed
them, the LaChantel mansion was just off Broadway near the McNulty Museum. A large parking lot stood across from the
house, labeled by an old rusty sign that read ‘LaChantel Parking’. The paint was peeling off the sign, faded and
abused by time and the harsh south Texas weather. There were a few other cars in the lot,
indicating others must be looking at the pearl of San Antonio history as well.
Tory and Kim stepped out of their
vehicles, then walked to meet each other near the old sign. They gazed at the big, old house. It was hidden among thick and tall pecan
trees. The long, dark branches were
filled with green leaves. Small, green
pecan pods were open, waiting for nature to pull the hard nut out, spitting it
on the ground.
“Wow,” said Kim. “That’s a big house.”
“That’s an old house,” said Tory.
“It’s a big, old house,” said Kim chuckling as the two walked toward the
building.
“Kim, this whole ghost deal is one
thing. To see a painting that supposedly
is haunted or whatever is really stretching it.”
“You were excited about it just a
little while ago,” said Kim, walking and noticing another sign. “What the hell?” she mumbled.
The sign was as old as the parking
lot sign, but had at least received some attention to refresh the paint over
the last decade. The sign read:
LaChantel
Mansion.
Open
Mon-Sat
11am-6pm
Sunday
1pm-5pm
Daily
tours at the top of every hour
Established
1834
“Oh,” said Kim.
“The last tour of the day is about to start.”
Tory was looking up at the house again. Kim could see his Adam’s apple rise and fall
in his throat.
“If I were to ever picture a
haunted house, this would be it,” said Tory.
Kim joined him under the canopy of pecan trees.
The
two-story house loomed over the two friends.
Its combination of red brick and white wood trim pattern evidenced its
antiquated design. The horned gargoyles,
forever obnoxiously sticking their tongues out at visitors and the city alike,
stood just below the roof at the corner of the house. Dark mold melded with white bird droppings
over the head and shoulders of the guardians, providing a palate of color that
made the worn stone statue both gruesome and menacing.
“After
you,” said Tory.
“After
you,” said Kim.
Even though
they were kidding around, both could sense the true anxiousness in the other.
“Ladies
first,” said Tory, chuckling.
“You big
chicken,” she said, starting up the stairs.
Adrenaline stomped through her heart.
“Age before
beauty,” said Tory, following her up the stairs. A bead of sweat fell from his brow.
“You’re
older and uglier than me,” she said, teasing Tory. Cracking the joke was her unconscious way to
alleviate her nerves.
“Older, but
not uglier, freckle-face,” teased Tory with the same soul-soothing motivation
behind his words.
“O-M-G. Second grade,” Kim retorted as they reached
the front door.
A stout man
with a red coat and earpiece stood at the door.
“Five dollars,” he stated simply.
“Man,
there’s a cover charge?” asked Kim.
“Five
dollars,” replied the man with a cold charm.
“Club
LaChantel,” said Tory. “Do you need my
ID?” Tory joked.
The man
turned to Tory and smiled a sinister smile.
His skin reminded Tory of an embalmed corpse, even though the man was
very much alive.
“Okay,”
whispered Tory, awkwardly.
The two
paid the admission and received a ticket.
As they passed through the door, another large man took the ticket with
his thick fingers. A patch of hair
decorated his knuckles as he tore the ticket and handed it back to the
pair. “The line starts over there,” he
said with a deep voice, indicating a crowd gathered at the bottom of the
staircase.
“I guess if
you had a haunted house, you should make some bones from it,” said Tory.
“Pun
intended, right?” said Kim, pointing at a human skull embedded in a display
case in the wall.
“Yeah,”
said Tory, suddenly as stunned as Kim.
“Right.”
“Look at that.” Kim pointed to a doll posted on a pedestal.
“Tory, is
that a … a voodoo doll?” asked Kim.
“Considering
those pins,” he said, pointing at the base of the doll. “I would say yes. Yes, this is a voodoo doll.”
“What the
hell did we just walk into?” whispered Kim.
Needles of fear poked her heart.
Then, a man
in a classic Old West suit appeared at the top of the stairs. The man was shadowed by a woman wearing a red
Victorian-era dress. Elegant lace lined
the outfit. A ruffled collar fell around
her neck. The dress fit her frame all
the way down to her feet. When she
walked down the stairs, her buckled shoes could be seen. It was as if the woman had stepped out of a
portal in time, completely out of place in the modern world.
“Good
afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” said the man in the suit. Even his accent and demeanor lent itself to
the feeling that the two were in the wrong era of Texas. “My name is Lucien LaChantel. This is my grandmother, Ms. Marianne
LaChantel. We welcome you to our family
home.”
“This ought
to be good,” chuckled Kim.
“Well, as
long as we see the painting, it will be good,” said Tory. “You think Pam knew what she was talking
about?”
Kim just
shrugged. She had caught a brief gaze
from Ms. LaChantel and was frozen. The
look from the old woman reminded her of an owl, or a big cat. Kim almost made a cross with her fingers at
the woman.
Lucien
gestured to the crowd. “We ask that you
place all cell phones on silent. No
pictures allowed.” As the crowd placed
their phones on silent mode, Lucien said, “Please, walk this way.”
“Well, I
guess we’re about to find out,” said Kim as they walked up the stairs.
“The wooden
stairs and railing you are walking on are made of cherry wood. Through careful preservation and upkeep, we
are actually walking on the same wood that was originally installed in 1834.”
“Kind of
like walking through history,” said Tory.
“Through
time,” whispered Kim. The friends looked
at each other, rattled. “Walking on
history.”
When they
reached the top of the staircase, they were led down a long hallway. Two doors were open on either side of the
hall. All of them revealed luxurious
bedrooms.
Lucien and
Marianne stopped at the end of the hallway and turned to the crowd. Behind them, illuminated by two small lights
was a painting. In it, a woman in Victorian
dress stood over a man seated in a chair.
Beside the man was a child.
Lucien and
Marianne stood on either side of the painting.
“This,”
said Lucien, indicating the painting, “is a painting of the LaChantel
patriarchs. Standing is Lady Annemarie LaChantel. Her husband is seated, Baron Lucius
LaChantel. Originally from Paris,
France, the family found out about the land opportunities in Texas and took
advantage. They purchased this land and
also large swathes of property along the San Antonio River.”
“Kid looks
like he should be wearing a beanie and sucking a lollipop,” whispered Kim.
The old
lady glared at Kim. It went unnoticed to
the duo, who were stifling a chuckle.
“Hey, check
out that genie lamp,” whispered Tory. In
the painting, a lamp typically associated with Aladdin stood on a tabletop
behind the family. On the table were two
drafting tools neither could identify.
“To your
left and right,” continued Lucien, “are the bedrooms of the family. All of them lived here at one time or another
thru 1987, when the family moved to new accommodations at La Cantera. This house was also deemed a State Landmark
in 1988.”
“So they
don’t pay taxes,” whispered Tory.
The woman
casually glanced at the pair again.
Again, the look was so subtle neither of them noticed.
The friends
were led with the crowd through the upstairs portion of the house. Antiques from the time period were shared, as
well as general information and stories from the household.
As the tour
wound back down the stairs, Kim saw what the duo were looking for. The painting Pam had told them about was
located in a downstairs study.
“There it
is,” said Kim. Her heart skipped a beat
as she pointed to its location. Tory
looked and immediately saw it.
“Ooooh,” he
groaned. “That’s it. That’s definitely it.”
Tory raised
his hand like an anxious student, waving it conspicuously over the people of
the tour.
Lucien was
trying to conclude the tour, ignoring the waving hand.
“The
LaChantel family is proud to be a part of San Antonio’s rich history.”
Tory
impudently started snapping his fingers, trying to get Lucien’s attention.
Lucien
continued, “We appreciate everyone who has attended here today.”
Tory spoke
up. “Sir? Sir?”
Lucien
looked directly at Tory with annoyance.
“Does anyone have any questions?”
And then he nodded at Tory.
“Yes. You, sir.”
“Can you
tell me about the painting in that room, that study, that we didn’t go into?”
“Why, yes,
sir. I’d be happy to tell you about the
painting.” Lucien addressed the crowd. “If anyone is interested in viewing this
historic artistic piece, please follow me.”
“Good job,”
whispered Kim.
“If you
don’t ask, you don’t get,” he replied.
Lucien cut
through the crowd heading to the study.
The duo noticed Lady LaChantel remained near the exit. She glared at Tory and Kim with a sinister
stare that made them shiver before following the crowd.
The group
that remained entered the room where Lucien was standing by the painting.
“This is a
painting of the aftermath of the siege of The Alamo. It was painted by one of the Mexican soldiers
as it was happening. It has been passed
down for generations, and we are proud to display it here.”
“Why don’t
you show this as part of the tour?” asked a member of the group.
“Considering
the subject matter, we feel it is best to keep the painting available to those
who ask to view it,” he said, glaring at Tory.
I got to
get a picture of this, thought Kim, taking out her cell phone. She set it to camera mode and held it up to
take a picture.
Lucien
jumped in front of her, holding out his hand at the phone. “No pictures, ma’am.”
Kim
flinched back. “Sorry. I’m sorry.
I forgot.” She put the camera
away.
“Delete the
picture, please.”
“I didn’t
have time to take one, sir.”
“Are you
sure?”
“You didn’t
hear it snap, did you?”
Lucien
glared at her.
Kim leaned
in to Tory. “I don’t think we’re welcome
here anymore,” she whispered.
Everyone
took in the painting with dark curiosity.
Pasted and carved on the textured canvas, the ancient oil displayed an
abstract painting of death and woe.
Dark flames
and smoke rose from a fire emanating from a stack of bodies. Mexican soldiers in Napoleonic uniforms were
dragging bodies to the pyre. Some were
in the middle of tossing them on the fire.
The Alamo
was clearly illustrated in the distance, where other Mexican soldiers were
gathered. The blue of the soldiers
contrasted against the browns, gray, and black of the landscape, burning
bodies, and smoke. The textured oil
marked the work with cruelty, delivering the impression of the images, but
warping the pictures slightly, like a dream.
Some
visitors turned away and made their way out of the mansion. Others wept gently.
Lucien
nodded his head. “It’s a powerful
painting, to be sure, in many ways. It
is why we are selective of who views it.”
Kim spoke
up, trying to frame her query as diplomatically as possible. “What are the stories associated with the
painting?”
Lucien
tested her true knowledge. “What do you
mean?”
Kim
gulped. “Well… uh…”
“Is the
painting cursed?” he asked, looking her directly in the eye. “Is that the question you wanted to ask?”
The crowd
all turned their attention to the duo.
It made them anxious to suddenly be the center of attention.
Lucien
waited for an answer, letting the silence fill the room and forcing Kim’s
hand. “Well?”
“The
legends of the Alamo Death Painting are false,” boomed a voice from behind the
duo. The small group looked toward the
entrance to the study as Kim and Tory turned as well.
It was Lady
LaChantel. She was smoking a cigarette
with a classic long filter. Tory noticed
that in spite of her age, there was still a dark beauty to her.
“The
unfortunate circumstances that befell previous owners were purely
coincidencidental. It resides here with no
incident. Any reference to death,
curses, or the Cult of the Alamo is all pure fiction. Fantasy.”
“Cult of
the Alamo?” whispered Kim to Tory, who just shook his head.
“Our tour
is now over,” said Lady LaChantel, taking on a harsher tone. “It you could please exit out the front
door. Thank you.”
“Well, that
was quick,” said Tory, turning to look back at the painting one last time with
Kim.
“You think
she was telling the truth?” asked Kim, looking one last time at the painting.
“She’s
rich,” said Tory. “She doesn’t need to
tell the truth.”
“Neither do
I, though,” said Kim as the two exited.
“Let’s get to the car.”
“What?”
asked Tory, following Kim.
As the duo
arrived at their cars, Kim motioned to Tory to enter her vehicle. When they entered the car, they rolled down
the windows. The Texas heat had already
overcome the interior. Tory turned on
the air conditioner full blast as Kim spoke.
“I got a
shot.”
“What?”
asked Tory.
“I got a
shot of the painting,” she said, pulling out her phone and tapping the phone
screen to the camera album application.
“No way.”
“The phone
was on silent. There was no snapping
sound.”
Kim
scrolled through the album with a victorious smile and then found the
painting. Her smile slowly dissipated.
“What?” asked
Tory. “Did it come out blurry?”
“See for
yourself,” she said, holding the phone to Tory, who looked at the shot.
The picture
was perfect. Lucien’s hand dominated the
picture. Part of his face could be seen
just above the hand. Even the hint of a
booger in his nose was evident. In the
background, some of the luxurious wall and ceiling could be seen in perfect
detail as well.
But it was
the painting that was the most curious.
A significant portion could be seen in the picture, but the entirety of the
painting was black. There was no hint of
oil, of detail on the painting, or anything else. It was completely black.
The duo
looked at each other, then back at the house.
On the
front porch of the building, near one of the pillars close to the front door
were Lucien and Lady LaChantel.
They were
looking right at Tory and Kim.
================
'Alamo Rising' is now available on
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Amazon from ZombieBloodFights.com. Network with Bowie for updates today.
Need a zombie horror fix? Pick up the 'Down the Road' zombie horror trilogy from Permuted Press and Simon and Schuster today.
Down the Road,
Down the Road: On the Last Day, and
Down the Road: The Fall of Austin. Pick them up in paperback or Kindle today.
BOWIE V. IBARRA earned his BFA in Acting and MA in Theatre History from Texas State University. Network with Bowie at his official website, ZombieBloodFights.com today.
