Page 1 of Come A Little Closer

1

TALLULAH

“Idon’t like this,” Cathy murmured as we crept along the darkened hallway of the gothic-style mansion. Floorboards creaked under our feet and the air was thick with anticipation. “Can we go yet?”

“The tour just started.” I looped my arm around hers and pulled her closer. “I’ll protect you. I promise. Just relax. The spirits can sense your fear.”

“That’s not funny,” she said.

Up ahead, the tour guide finally stopped, allowing us to catch up with the rest of the group. We’d been walking past the Rampart Mansion when we’d encountered the tour, and I’d quickly scraped together some money to pay for two tickets. Over my dead body would I miss seeing the inside of the Rampart. Although, at this rate, it might be possible that it would be at the expense of my life because Cathy had not been happy. My roommate wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic about experiencing the haunted past of the Garden District as I was.

She pursed her lips at me as we gathered in the cavernous main hall of the old house. “You’re paying for my drinks when we get to Mardi Gras.”

“Two drinks,” I agreed, then rolled my eyes and nodded when she held up three fingers. “Fine, but then no more complaining. This is going to be fun.”

“There’s nothing fun about this.” Her brown eyes narrowed and she shivered at my side, her head dropping back to take in the ornate chandeliers and the stained-glass windows of the hall. “It’s creepy, and creepy just isn’t really my vibe.”

I winked at her. “It is mine, though. Just give it a chance. You’ll love it.”

“I’ve been in New Orleans for four years, and I’ve been living within a bus ride of the Garden District for three of them, yet I’ve never taken one of these tours. That should tell you enough. I’m not going to love it. I’m only doing this for you. And free drinks.”

“Thanks, but there’s really nothing to be afraid of. It’s all⁠—”

“New Orleans is known the world over for its compelling, mystery-laden history,” the tour guide said solemnly, his voice low and eerie as he moved his eyes across the group with deliberate intent. “There are many people who believe that our cemeteries and other locations here in the Garden District are portals to the other side.”

“I didn’t need to know that,” Cathy muttered, tightening her grip on my arm.

“Here, tonight, you will learn about the chilling history of the Rampart Mansion, and if you’re lucky, you’ll get to experience the paranormal. Spirits linger here, ladies and gentlemen. During the war, this mansion once housed a mortuary, and as the evening progresses, you will discover why it is thought to be one of the most haunted houses in the area.”

“Great. That’s just great.” Cathy sighed, leaning into me as the guide motioned for us to follow him.

“He’s just trying to scare you,” I murmured as we set off deeper into the mansion. “It’s all part of the tour experience. The Rampart’s history really isn’t all that chilling. It was a mortuary for, like, two days. People even live here now. It’s privately owned by some rich guy, and he opens it up to the public for tours a couple of nights a week.”

She glanced at me, her black eyebrows lifting slightly as her head cocked. “And you know this how?”

I shrugged. “I love history and all things horror, remember? There’s no better place where those two things come together than right here in New Orleans. It’s fascinating. I’ve been reading about it for years.”

“Why can’t you have a normal hobby? Like knitting or doing crossword puzzles?”

“Uh. Hard pass. Those kinds of things might make some people happy, but sitting still and whittling away at stuff like that? Not for me. I prefer everything that gives you the ick, Cathy.” I was a sucker for Halloween, hauntings, or any other weird and wonderful, inexplicable phenomena. “It’s not personal.”

I didn’t scare easily, but I loved the adrenaline rush if something or someone did manage to spook me. I was hoping I might experience that rush tonight, but so far, while our guide was an excellent storyteller, the stories just weren’t so creepy.

“In the eighteen hundreds—” he started, but my roommate clearly wasn’t interested in finding out what had happened back then.

“Hey, have you heard from Carter or your folks at all?” she asked, her question drowning out the story the guide was beginning to tell.

That question was the scariest part of the tour so far. My skin bubbled with goosebumps and a chill fell over me. “No, and they have no way of getting hold of me. I moved out here for a reason.”

All that stuff with Carter and my parents was in the past, where it belonged. As much as it wasn’t always easy to just shake it off, I had to. I drew in a deep breath, shoving the memories back down when they threatened to rise.

I didn’t want to talk about it. Ever. But as my friend, Cathy often asked anyway. Just to check in with me, she claimed, and I appreciated her concern, but I was starting to regret telling her. I’d only done it because I’d had too much wine one night and she was pressing me about being so mysterious about my past. Eventually, I’d caved and told her the whole story.

At the time, I’d figured it would prove to her that I wasn’t a crazy drifter. But Cathy was a worrier. A lovely, friendly, warm one, but a worrier all the same. And part of me had begun to wonder if she also just liked the drama. It didn’t involve her, so maybe she found some sort of entertainment in it all. It wasn’t basic, after all. It was complicated. Layered. A real pain in my butt.

“There are ways of getting a hold of people, you know,” she said, tugging on my arm to pull us both to a stop. She turned to face me, her eyes cast into shadow by the moody darkness of the house. “Do you remember my friend, Mel? Well, she’s dating a cop now and he said⁠—”

“Cath.” I reached out and took her hands, squeezing them as I gave her an impatient smile. “I’m fine. We’re here to learn about the Rampart’s history. Let’s leave my old ghosts out of it, shall we?”