The Lodge (Ellie Jordan, Ghost Trapper Book 15) Read online

  Contents

  The Lodge

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Also by J. L. Bryan

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The Lodge

  Ellie Jordan, Ghost Trapper,

  Book Fifteen

  by

  J. L. Bryan

  Copyright 2021 J. L. Bryan

  All rights reserved

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my wife Christina and my father-in-law John, without whom I would be a full-time parent struggling to write at odd hours.

  I appreciate everyone who helped with this book, including beta reader Robert Duperre (check out his books!). Thanks also to copy editor Lori Whitwam and proofreaders Thelia Kelly, Andrea van der Westhuizen, and Barb Ferrante. Thanks to my cover artist Claudia from PhatPuppy Art, and her daughter Catie, who does the lettering on the covers.

  Thanks also to the book bloggers who have supported the series, including Heather from Bewitched Bookworms; Mandy from I Read Indie; Michelle from Much Loved Books; Shirley from Creative Deeds; Lori from Contagious Reads; Kelly from Reading the Paranormal; Lili from Lili Lost in a Book; Heidi from Rainy Day Ramblings; Kelsey from Kelsey’s Cluttered Bookshelf; and Ali from My Guilty Obsession.

  Most of all, thanks to the readers who have supported this series! There are more paranormal mysteries to come.

  Also by J.L. Bryan:

  The Ellie Jordan, Ghost Trapper series

  Ellie Jordan, Ghost Trapper

  Cold Shadows

  The Crawling Darkness

  Terminal

  House of Whispers

  Maze of Souls

  Lullaby

  The Keeper

  The Tower

  The Monster Museum

  Fire Devil

  The Necromancer’s Library

  The Trailwalker

  Midnight Movie

  The Lodge

  Cabinet Jack

  Urban Fantasy/Horror

  The Unseen

  Inferno Park

  Time Travel/Dystopian

  Nomad

  The Jenny Pox series (supernatural/horror)

  Jenny Pox

  Tommy Nightmare

  Alexander Death

  Jenny Plague-Bringer

  Chapter One

  “This is all so sketchy,” Stacey whispered. There was no reason to keep quiet, but in the darkness and near silence, broken only by the lapping of the Savannah River and the night choir of insects, a normal voice sounded loud as a gunshot. “Are we sure this is the right place?”

  “It must be,” I replied, pointlessly whispering also. “The security guy opened the gate for us.”

  It was a couple of hours before dawn, and we stood at a small, deserted dock deep inside Savannah’s industrial district, surrounded by long metal buildings webbed together with chain link. Construction machinery loomed in the shadowy fenced-off areas.

  “It’s definitely very…gray,” I said. “But it looks like a spot where we can load the van onto the ferry.”

  “There are nicer spots for that,” Michael said. He’d come to wait with us in this extremely dark hour of the night because of the unusual place and time arranged by the client. I generally had a rule against involving Michael in my work, especially after his sister had paid the price for it by being possessed, but that rule was for the supernatural side of things. In this particular instance, I was worried about the living client, not any spirits of the dead. Not yet. And I was more than fine with Michael helping to protect us against the living. “She’s late,” Michael added. “We should go. This is crazy.”

  “The law firm already wired the retainer to our bank account,” I said. “And it’s…a lot. More than our last several cases combined. Some of our clients are slow to pay us anything. We need this case.”

  “And Jacob said the lawyers who contacted us are from a top-notch, blue-chip firm out in Silicon Valley,” Stacey said. “Personally, I think we should be doing more cloak and dagger stuff like this. We’re private detectives, right? We should sometimes have mysterious, anonymous clients. We should meet in exotic cities passing off briefcases full of secret codes, written on flash paper in invisible ink.”

  “Is that the ferry?” I squinted at the thick, white, moonlit fog obscuring the river. We could hear the slow-rolling water and smell its living broth of fishy odors, but could see only fog beyond the end of the dock. It was like standing at the edge of the world rather than the edge of the river.

  “I hope the ferry captain can see better than I can,” Stacey said.

  Lights approached, cutting through the fog, accompanied by the low chug of an engine.

  A weather-stained craft emerged from the sea. The ferry, designed for transporting vehicles, resembled a length of blacktop road with rusty junk heaped on either side, a mobile parking lot.

  When it reached our dock, its wide front end lowered into a ramp.

  “Looks like our ride,” Stacey said.

  “It looks like a scrap heap,” Michael said. “How far are you traveling on this thing?”

  “Our client is meeting us on the island,” I said. “That’s all we know.”

  “Is ‘the island’ a local river or sea island?” Michael eyed the craft. “That thing could be taking you to Bermuda. Or the Bahamas.”

  “Oh, please, please, let it be the Bahamas.” Stacey held up her hands, fingers crossed. “I knew I packed my swimsuit for a reason. Maybe we’ll investigate a haunted seaside resort with windsurfing and sea kayaking.”

  “I’d just be happy with room service,” I said, but I wasn’t getting my hopes up. I had also packed a swimsuit, though. It was summertime, and our first week of investigation was already paid, with on-site lodging included. On an island. Somewhere. “I expect it will turn out to be a hotel or resort, though I doubt we’re lucky enough to have a job in the Caribbean.”

  While the identity of our client remained unknown, they’d apparently already determined to retain us through an intermediary. Research must have shown that we were the paranormal investigators to hire in the area, if you absolutely had to hire some.

  The idea of leaving town for parts unknown concerned me, but there were more than a hundred barrier islands along the Atlantic coast, from the Carolinas to Florida, along with countless smaller islands in the labyrinth of rivers, creeks, and tidal marshes all along the shore. Perhaps we wouldn’t trav
el too far.

  The ferry crew moved like shadows in the fog. A figure in a hooded black raincoat emerged onto the ferry’s lowered metal ramp and descended quietly to the dock.

  I tensed, glancing at Michael. He took my hand discreetly, as if he understood I wanted to be reassured but didn't want to look weak in front of the new client. I squeezed him back in silent thanks, then let go and stepped forward to meet the person in the water-resistant Grim Reaper getup.

  The figure drew back the hood, revealing a dark-skinned man in his late sixties or early seventies, balding with a fringe of pale white hair and a matching beard of considerable length. His eyes sought me out, and he smiled, teeth flashing in the moonlight.

  “Eleanor Jordan?” he asked, voice lilting in the traditional Geechee-Gullah accent of the sea islands, which sounds quite a bit like a Caribbean or West African accent.

  “Ellie,” I replied, cringing inwardly at the sound of my rarely used full name. “I thought I was meeting a woman named Darika.”

  “You’ll meet her on the island. I am Emmanuel Walker, owner and skipper of the Charleston Crosser. I’m here to get you across. That’s the vehicle?” He nodded at our aged blue van full of ghost-hunting equipment, parked next to Michael's cheerful red 1949 Chevrolet pickup that Michael had restored himself.

  “The van's ours,” I said. “About how long do you think this trip will take?”

  He shrugged. “Two-three hours.”

  “Guess we’re not going to the Bahamas.” Stacey sagged.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  Captain Walker scratched his head. “You signed on without knowing your destination?”

  “Our client is being sort of cagey with us. But the check cleared, so…” I shrugged. “Still, it would be nice, prior to boarding a boat, to know about a few minor details like where it’s actually going. We don’t know the who, what, or why of the situation. Just the when.” I pointed to the dark predawn sky above. “Knowing where would be nice. A real luxury, even.”

  “I see what you mean.” He glanced at Stacey, then his eyes landed on Michael. “I was told two passengers only. Did your friend here sign the nondisclosure agreement? Darika loves her NDAs.”

  “Well, no,” I said.

  “I won’t mention it to anyone,” Michael said.

  “It would be nice for somebody to know where we are,” I said.

  “Just in case we get ax-murdered, you know?” Stacey added. “So my mom will know where to pick up the body.”

  The captain looked genuinely distressed. “You should have asked Darika the destination. I cannot violate the NDA, or I could lose the transport contract.”

  “What contract?” I glanced at the machinery around us and considered how easily he’d glided into the dock despite the darkness and fog. “What do you normally transport? Construction equipment like this? Cars?”

  “I transport anybody who wants to pay, wherever they got to go,” he said. “But stepping aboard is your choice.”

  “Are you suggesting we shouldn’t go to the island?” I asked.

  “Some do call it an unlucky place.” Captain Walker seemed to pick his words carefully. “Most of us avoid it. We don’t fish there, we don’t take tourists there. We leave it be.”

  “Is there an actual ax murderer?” Stacey asked.

  The captain shook his head, but he seemed indecisive. He looked at me while pointing at Michael. “Can he be trusted?”

  “Not with picking a restaurant, unless you’re really into hot dogs,” I said.

  “Come on, you love Sly’s Slider Dogs,” Michael said.

  “Oh, my gosh, Sly’s Sliders?” Stacey gushed. “Have you had the Pain Don’t Hurt sandwich?”

  “Brisket with jalapeno sauce.” Michael nodded. “It lives up to its name.”

  “See what I mean?” I asked the ferry captain.

  “Prove his number, I’ll call him if there’s an emergency.” The ferryman held out his hand to me. “Now give me your keys. I’ll secure your vehicle.”

  “Okay.” I was reluctant to hand over our van full of expensive gear, but I’d also never driven onto a ferry before, so it made sense to let the ferryman do it.

  “Are you sure about this?” Michael asked, brow furrowed. I felt like furrowing my brow a bit at the situation, too, but kept mine distinctly flat and unfurrowed instead, acting relaxed to reassure him.

  “Oh, yep,” I said. “Nobody’s throwing around this kind of cash just to lure us out into the ocean and ax-murder us.”

  “Probably,” Stacey added.

  “Most likely, we’re dealing with a client who has an investment to protect, and who does not want anyone to know they’ve hired paranormal investigators.”

  “Because they don’t want word getting out that their place is haunted,” Michael said.

  “Or they don’t want to look crazy. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find some developer creating a new golf resort out on one of the islands. He probably built it over some old plantation house or native burial ground and, boom, instant ghost problem.” I watched Walker drive our van up the ramp onto the ferry. The blacktop strip of the onboard parking area looked like it could hold a dozen cars or vans like ours, or a few large construction vehicles instead.

  “I hope they aren’t wrecking any wildlife preserves out there,” Stacey said.

  “We’ll find out soon.” I gestured to the boat. “All aboard.”

  “Isn’t that for trains?” Stacey asked.

  Michael held me tight, his green eyes staring at me grimly. His dislike of the situation was clear. “I should come with you,” he said.

  “You have to be at work in, like, an hour, so I doubt you can fit in a week on some island.”

  “I could arrange it.”

  “It’s fine.” I drew back from him. “It’s just a ghost. Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ve seen worse. And I’ve definitely seen worse paychecks.”

  “But it’s like they’ve set you up to disappear. How can that be good?”

  “I’ll be fine. Thanks for understanding.”

  “I didn’t say I understood—” he began, but I quieted him with a kiss, because it was time to go.

  Stacey and I headed up the ramp.

  “Ever see cattle boarding the truck for the slaughterhouse?” Stacey whispered, and I elbowed her, hoping her voice hadn’t carried on the breeze.

  The crew, just two young men assisting the captain, hurried about raising the ramp, speaking to each other in a rapid island creole, of which I could catch maybe one out of three words, despite having grown up in coastal Georgia myself.

  “Make yourselves at home,” Captain Walker told us, then pointed past heaps of equipment and crates toward a covered seating area with three benches. “But stay over there for your safety. Help yourself to water from the cooler.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and he headed to the wheelhouse.

  As the ferry pulled away into the foggy river, Michael stood on the shore, watching us go. Watching me.

  I waved. He waved back.

  Then the night fog fell between us like a curtain between worlds, and I didn't see him again after that.

  Chapter Two

  Stacey and I stood at the railing as we headed downriver. The ferry moved slowly through the predawn fog. It was like navigating through some dark, primordial world more simple and wild than our own.

  It may have been a long way until sunrise, but that didn't stop colossal cargo ships from cruising up and down the river. Cranes lined the riverbank like the hundred-handed giants of Greek myth, lifting and swinging steel containers on and off the ships.

  This was the commercial heart of the city, ultimately the reason it existed at all, a safe harbor providing ready access to the Atlantic and the rest of the world, yet protected from the ravages of tropical storms and hurricanes by the barrier of islands along the coast.

  After crossing under the dark shadow of the Talmadge Bridge, we crawled alongside River Street, the cobbled hea
rt of our city’s tourism biz, still dark at this hour, though people in the critical coffee, baking, and newspaper delivery industries were no doubt already at work.

  River Street, to me, would always mean memories of my parents taking me to the candy shops, where I would watch in wide-eyed fascination as the workers spun up fudge and caramel in plain sight, as if by magic. I hardly ever went there as an adult, though. Maybe because of those memories.

  As the black sky lightened to deep blue, we nosed past one river island after another, then the rocky spire of the South Channel lighthouse, whose ghosts Stacey and I had removed. It stood dark now, no supernatural glow in its lantern room.

  “Maybe we are going to the Bahamas,” Stacey said, watching as the North American continent drew farther and farther away from us, separated by a growing gulf of grass-filled marshes and deepening water as we left the river for the ocean.

  “It would be nice.” I eyed the ever more crowded waters, with fishing boats joining the international cargo shippers. Colorful sailboats and yachts would appear later. Those earning their living from the sea had to rise much earlier than those spending their leisure on it.

  “We’re turning south,” Stacey observed as we passed tourist haven Tybee Island at a distance. The beaches were sparsely populated, but would be thronged after sunrise if it didn't rain. The heavy clouds above held that question in limbo for the moment.

  “Surely he’ll tell us where we’re going now,” I said.

  “Yeah, I’m kind of desperate to find out,” Stacey agreed.

  We picked our way around the cluttered deck of the ship and headed up a narrow aisle between assorted crates and barrels toward the wheelhouse.

  “He doesn’t like to be disturbed when the door’s closed.” One of the crew members, who looked about twenty, emerged to block our path. He spoke apologetically, with the same accent as the captain, smiling but clearly serious about the ferryman’s protocol.

  “Oh, I just had a quick little old question for the captain.” Stacey threw a dazzling smile that shifted the crewman’s stance noticeably. “How much longer until we reach, uh, you know, how do you say it right, cause I ain't from around here—”

  “Satilla Island?” He slowly returned her smile. “It’s a long haul. You want some Pringles?”