Ghosts ⚔️ Blackbeard's Treasure

Chapter 4.

Rain pelts the windshield as I peer through the heavy downpour. "The storm's getting worse. We should be heading home."

"Brooding accomplishes nothing, Lizzy. If you think there's a ghost after you, why would you act predictable? That's the first place an evil spirit would look."

"Somehow, that doesn't bring me much comfort." I don't mean to be testy, but the vintage Victorian boots I'm wearing are pinching my feet like lobster claws. I want to rip them off and hurl them through the window.

"Honestly, that was just a squall back in the alley." Julia's squints, pecking at my phone's keypad. A gust of wind plasters a heavy duty, thirty-gallon trash can liner onto the windshield, blocking my view. The car swerves as I'm unable to see. "Watch out." She drops my phone onto the floor mat. Unhooking her seat belt, she bends down to retrieve it.

The inky black man-of-war refuse remains affixed to the windshield with squid-like suction power. Rivulets of rain hydroplane across my windshield as the wipers fight a losing battle against the monstrous piece of plastic. "This weather is insane—how can I navigate through garbage?" Rain stings my face as I roll down my window and grab the slimy liner. I toss the offensive bag onto the floor of the backseat.

I can't continue working with Chills n' Thrills. They're soulless ghouls and I'm being hunted by Bloody Mary. I rub my temple. How am I going to explain this to Dylan?  How will we afford our own place?

My grandmother interprets my worried silence as acquiescence to continue risking our lives. "Just a couple of drinks at the bar, then we'll leave." She puts my phone back in my purse. "I promise."

"Are you sure it's not some sort of 80's rave party," I snap. "I mean, who invited you to this mysterious place? Some random stranger who hit you up on Facebook?"

"No." She says, evasively. "It was a rum promotion with a local brewery. I entered online."

Is she running away from something? My antennae raises. Something's wrong with my grandmother. She's too resilient to be having a mid-life crises. Julia's a veteran actress who travelled Europe in her youth, performing with her theater company. I've always wanted to follow in her footsteps, but I've never mastered her level of subterfuge. She holds up a mirror and starts preening herself like an excited rooster.

Twenty minutes later, we've entered what can only be described as "a zombie kill zone." Marshy sea air permeates Charleston's low rent district, famous for notorious bank robberies and murderous thieves. "Turn down that street." We continue past run-down buildings that I'm sure are rat-infested. I see heavily made-up men in skirts and high-heeled boots, holding cheap umbrellas, scurrying in the rain.

A black dog runs across the street, and I hit the breaks to avoid slamming in to him. I crane my head. "I think that was a stray. He didn't have a collar."

"Keep going," my grandmother urges. We're almost there." Another torturous fifteen minutes of low visibility driving, and we pull up to a refurbished historical building, next to an old warehouse. I circle around back to a small parking lot, overflowing with cars. The wind sways the tree tops.

Julia laughs. "What a good location for a Pirate's hideaway. Who would have guessed." She strips off her white shroud costume, revealing a velvet sequined bustier under a sheer black blouse. Touching up her lips, she transforms herself into a seductress. Bending over, she reaches into her bottomless Mary Poppins bag and pulls out a pair of elegant high heels. That's why I admire Julia; she's always ready to seize life by the balls.

I glance at the button hook Victorian boots I'm wearing. "I can't feel the blood in my toes. Do you have an extra pair of shoes in there?"

"Just these three inch Jimmy Choos." Julia holds up a pair of pink kitten heels.

"What about the flats you took off?" I reach down and start unbuttoning my boots.

"These? They're hideous corpse wear."

"That's all right. I'm acting as your chaperone, not your wingman."

Thunder cracks as I step out of the car. I put my hand on my feathered hat to prevent the rising wind from dislodging it as I look around for Blair. There's no sign of her. I catch a glimpse of something moving in the corner of the dimly lit parking lot. A metal dumpster, overflowing with shucked oyster shells, is positioned in front of a copse of trees. "Blargh." A loud retching noise startles me into a defensive crouch. I think Bloody Mary's attacking, but an ashen-faced young man staggers out from behind the metal container. He bends over and noisily vomits in front of us.

"Are you all right?" Standing up, I move towards the brown-haired youth and try to shelter him from the wind with my body. I squint; where have I seen him before? He looks vaguely familiar. White as a sheet, he groans motioning me away. It looks like he's been out in the rain for a while, water's dripping from his hair, chin, and face. I try not to inhale the salty stench rising from the steaming pile of liquid. My gaze drops down to the pile of vomit and my forehead wrinkles. Is that seaweed in it?

Probably bad oysters

Julia ignores the young man and walks through the greenish vomit.  I'm surprised when none of the gooey substance sticks to her gilded heels. Pulling out a faux burnt-edged scroll invitation, she heads straight for the bar's mysterious blue-lighted entrance. She closes her umbrella and knocks on the hideaway's large, bolted iron door. A toaster-sized slot appears in the burnished gray, strong-hold metal, and she eagerly pops her invite through it like an atm card. We hear a bolt slide before the door opens by itself. "It must be automated."

A massive Terminator-shouldered bouncer, dressed in black leather, appears. His dark eyes drill us with a penetrating stare. He could be mistaken for a  lumbering Grizzly bear who's been awakened from hibernation as he hands Julia back her invitation. The invitation appears the size of a postage stamp in his huge hands. "I'll need to see an ID," he says. I start to open my purse. Taking in my vintage attire and matronly shoes, he shakes his head. "You're fine, ma'm."

Ma'm? I'm eighteen years old.

I roll my eyes as Julia puffs up her chest and daintily steps up to hand him her license. Damn, I'm being gaslighted by The Rock. "Listen, this isn't my normal attire." Ignoring me, the giant hands back my grandmother's license and we both enter Pirate's Republic.