If you don’t believe the dead come back to life,
you should see this place at quitting time.
unknown
It’s a part of adulthood no one warns you about.
The part where you feel homesick, not for a house,
but for a moment in time. A version of life that doesn’t exist anymore. A place you can’t return to and a feeling
you didn’t know you’d miss until it was gone.
Anonymous
Prologue
June 1, 1998
3:07 AM
Mortimer Adkins steered his ‘87 Buick Park Avenue onto the dimly lit Walmart parking lot right around 3:15 in the morning with retribution on his mind, contempt in his heart, and 387 feet of nylon rope coiled in his trunk.
His Check Engine light was on.
Probably a fucking sensor. Hundred bucks for a diagnostic charge, plus the hassle. If it’s not one goddamn thing, it’s another. Clenching his fists, he eased into the spot he’d chosen beside a concrete light pole. In the cool night air, the fluorescent lights above him swarmed with nocturnal insects. He could’ve taken the easy way out and just sold his soul, like in those old black-and-white TV shows. Instead, he’d brought rope, rigged the end with high tensile baling wire, and fashioned a barbed noose that would’ve made the toughest outlaw in the west hesitate.
Throat tight, he swallowed hard.
Necktie party for one.
Under the glow of the streetlamp, he fastened one end around the pole with scout knots and a grappling hook, fed the other through the steering wheel, and took a final, somber look at the empty lot. He climbed back in his car, and thunked the door shut like a coffin lid.
He pictured his once-loyal customers, now vultures picking apart his legacy, circling for scraps, pestering him with questions, then driving way out here to save a buck. They competed for parking spots, rammed carts through narrow aisles chasing privileges and possessions that never brought true happiness. The Adkins’ name…trashed. The newspaper headline flashed before his eyes: Local Business Owner Loses His Marbles, Then His Head.
His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat.
With the rearview mirror adjusted, he shifted into drive and stomped on the gas. The Park Avenue lurched forward, fishtailing briefly, headlights bouncing over potholes and faded parking lines.
Glass exploded inward, shards spinning through the air like ticker tape as the car plowed through soda machines, a DVD kiosk, and a claw game. Shopping carts crumpled and twisted. Tables displaying ‘Prices Slashed’ signs buckled under their weight.
The car shuddered to a stop, steam hissing from the mangled hood, the air a sickly-sweet mix of radiator coolant and high-mileage motor oil.
Nothing moved.
At 3:15 a.m., surrounded by crushed boxes of Swiss Cake Rolls, Ding-Dongs, and cream-filled Twinkies, Mortimer Adkins punched his ticket to the afterlife.
Chapter 1
Waivers & Warnings
April 29, 2022
8:05 p.m.
No living soul exists without change; even the busiest lives drift into seasons of work and play, of marriages begun and undone, of children born, schooled, leaving behind empty nests. Years bring jobs obtained and lost, fortunes earned and squandered, graves filled and lives forgotten. But for ghosts, there is no season. They linger without time, patient and watchful, until some purpose stirs them from stillness. 321 Jefferson Street, not empty, stood by itself, hewn beams firm, marble counters bare, windows filmed with dust. Shadows lay evenly across brick and mortar, wood and glass. Whatever waited there, waited with old scores to settle, for ghosts are not conceived in four-poster beds on sheets of high thread count, nor in clawfoot tubs foaming with pink bubble bath, nor in aft lavatories of Boeing 737s like the rest of us. They arise from regrets, unfinished business, or, in the worst of cases, to unleash their vengeance.
“Be nice to encounter some actual ghosts on a ghost walk,” a man muttered from the back.
Ignoring the sarcasm, Tabitha Hartman, a forty-two-year-old tour guide, lifted her plastic lantern and gestured for the group to gather in a semi-circle around a rutted gravel entrance. Weathered brick columns flanked the cemetery, topped by a rusted iron arch where black-winged gargoyles crouched, their twisted metal faces forever snarling at the living. Gnarled sycamore trees clawed at the sky, casting jagged shadows under the dim glow of a lone streetlamp.
“Why are there fences around graveyards?” a boy in a Delmarva Shorebirds hoodie called out.
“A riddle!” Rubbing her chin like Sherlock Holmes on Halloween, the seasoned guide scanned the cemetery, eyes darting from headstone to headstone. “Because people are just dying to get in! Excellent question, young man. Speaking of which…over seven hundred souls took their final bow right here long ago.”
She fingered her Certified Interpretive Guide badge, thinking about the guests she’d led that week. One of the latest 5-star reviews made her smile: “…weaving spooky tales with historical facts. Tabby blends goosebumps and giggles! No wonder she’s a small town legend.”
Tonight, she would approach a barrier no guide was ever meant to cross.
Her fingers tapped against the headset, wondering how to hook this group. “I wasn’t exactly a mathlete in school, but by my calculations, that’s quite a load of ghosts you might bump into tonight.”
The group shuffled closer. Some eager. Some skeptical. One already trying to get Wi-Fi on his Apple Watch. She matched energies. “Let’s make our way, shall we?” Her voice turned firm. “But remember, don’t walk on the graves. Around here, disrespect has a way of…clinging to you.”
She waited for the young boy with the coastal osprey swooping across his chest to catch up, then crouched down and handed him an EMF meter. “Your name’s Ricky, right? I’ve got a special job for you.”
His face lit up as he gripped it with both hands. “Go, go, gadget…ghost!”
Tabitha’s voice took on a hushed tone. “Our last stop, St. Paul’s Graveyard, waits patiently behind me. But first, a warning. On cold winter nights, visitors have reported seeing men riding horseback through the fog. Local historians believe they’re lost Civil War soldiers searching for their battalion.” She paused, allowing the image of spectral riders to settle into the night air. “Why are we here? Graveyard, ghost sightings, and unexplained tomfoolery. Who’s behind it? We don’t know.” Her shaky index finger pointed toward a row of gravestones. “Fun fact: You’ve heard the phrase ‘six feet under,’ right? Well, here on the shore, with the high-water table, grave diggers had to cut corners. Restless spirits only need to claw through four and a half feet of earth.”
“Boooorrrring,” a voice called out. “No ghosts, just stupid jokes and made-up stories.”
She grimaced. Weaving through weathered stones, crooked crosses, and crumbling obelisks, she led the group into the graveyard. Some lay sunken, others jutted upwards, defiant and tall. At her favorite sculpture, stone wings stretched, its expression frozen between sorrow and serenity. “And here,” her tone lowered to a reverent hush, “we have a replica known as ‘The Angel of Death Victorious,’ commissioned by Frances Haserot of Akron, Ohio.”
“Dad,” Ricky whimpered as he tugged on his father’s sleeve.
“Quiet.” His dad placed a hand on his shoulder without glancing down.
“In the 1940s,” she went on, “a local businessman, grieving the loss of his young wife, saw the original statue during a visit to relatives in Cleveland. So moved, he commissioned a duplicate and had it shipped here at great expense.” Tabitha’s long, violet-brushed fingers motioned to the dark streaks down the angel’s cheeks. “The patina you see isn’t just weather. Bronze ages like that in the open air. In Ohio, some believe the statue weeps black tears. It’s a regular stop on their ghost tours now.”
“Dad!”
“What?” his dad snapped, finally looking down.
“Look…” Ricky pointed. “One of the gargoyles…it… moved.”
His dad eyed him. “What do you mean…moved?”
The guide followed the boy’s gaze, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she spoke into the headset. “You’re not the first to notice. Lots of people swear the gargoyles shift or turn their heads. Me? I like to think they enjoy the attention.”
She bent slightly, winked at Ricky, then adjusted the strap on her backpack. “Ghosts love small children. They’re more receptive.”
“Who cares about a statue from Ohio?” the same voice as earlier grumbled from the back. “The Mistake by the Lake. Maybe a real ghost would help this tour. It’s just boring right now.”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. An idea slipped into her head, but she pushed it away before it could take shape. The group fanned out, some snapping photos, others dragging their phone flashlights across the uneven ground as if looking for something they weren’t sure they wanted to find. “I’ll step aside so you can get your headshot, but please, no duck faces or tilted peace signs with the angel, capiche?”
As she shifted her weight against the pressing night air, tears threatened. Throat tight, her mind slipped backwards, months or maybe years, to the 3:15 a.m. call and the measured voice of a Delaware State trooper. They’d never discussed final wishes. Who does? Cremation was cheaper and quicker. Now Jack sat in a cardboard USPS box in her hallway, labeled with two words: Cremated Remains. “My Jack-in-the-box,” she’d say, turning it into a joke.
She still listened to his last voicemail. Still carried around his wallet with twenty-seven dollars inside. His legacy was a white roadside cross with plastic flowers that hugged Dupont Highway like a shallow grave.
And hers? A part-time ghost walk guide. Trading stories for tips. Filling weekends with strangers and empty searches for something that might never return. The ghost she sought wasn’t famous. Wasn’t listed in brochures or tagged on social media.
Jack had vanished, and she’d unraveled with missed mortgage payments, maxed out credit cards, a flatlined career, reliance on alcohol, and more than one failed attempt to let it all go quietly. Take a permanent holiday.
She was left with questions that had no answers: Where was Jack? Did he not wish to come back? Did the dead need more time to find their way? That’s the story she told herself. She spoke of ghosts often, encountered many, but never his.
“I’ve seen scarier shit at a petting zoo.” The drunken heckler scowled.
Tabitha met his gaze with one of her own, then gestured toward the graves. “Burleigh embodies the classic American small town: bucket brigades that battled devastating fires, door jambs marking the heights of catastrophic floods, and graveyards overrun with wayward souls. To our left, the stones memorialize those lost in the great Burleigh Fire of 1904 and the Blackwater Flood of 1912. Many visitors enjoy tracing family connections, distant cousins twice removed, through the names etched on the tombstones.”
She raised the lantern toward the horizon. “Burleigh is abutted by cornfields and stretches of chicken and soybean farms. Along the tree line lie the resting places of Native Lenape Indians, including several prominent chiefs. St. Paul’s church, along with the town of Burleigh, made sure their graves were honored.” She paused. “A history we still celebrate each August on Founders’ Day.”
The heckler cupped his mouth, voice a falsetto. “Oh, look. It’s Kemo Sabe and his little Injun ghosts…Everybody run!”
Her grip tightened. For a moment, she imagined clocking him with it. Just a quick, satisfying thunk. Her eyes poured over the scuffed leather boots, black cowboy hat, and a belt buckle the size of a serving platter. Figures. The bigger the buckle, the smaller the… “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said through gritted teeth. “I do apologize for the fickle nature of ghosts…They’re not circus performers…They appear when they choose.” Adrenaline rushed in. But…I might have a little something up my sleeve. Voice dripping with honey, she glanced at her watch. “Tell you what, sir. I’ll just make a quick call, but how does everyone feel about an extra stop?”
A ripple of interested surprise swept through the group.
“Okay, the ayes have it. Give me one second. Just continue looking around.”
She turned her back and scrolled through recent numbers on her phone.
“Hi Mindy. It’s Tabs…Sorry to bug you so late, but I’m on the Burleigh walk…and, well, let’s say I’ve got an urban cowboy feeling a bit underwhelmed.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I know we’re to steer clear of the old Adkins place, but what if I sneak over there for, like, two minutes? Just enough to pee himself.” She paused, giggling. “I promise…Sage and the meters…Not a drop.” Another pause. “A teacher buying it? I heard that too…Wonderful.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’ll get the waivers signed…you worry too much.”
She turned back, thumb tapping the headset. “Good news, everybody. We’ve got exclusive after-hours permission to extend the tour.”
A hand shot up like a flag. “Quick question,” a tall man with a long, sharp nose and observant eyes called out. “If ghost walks are conducted on public sidewalks, why would anyone need to obtain permission from their employer?”
“You sound just like a New York lawyer. I’m simply crossing my i’s and dotting my t’s.” She turned back to the group, flashing a grin. “Alright, everyone, slight oops on my part.” Heart racing, her voice trailed off as she snapped a rubber band off a stack of waivers. “Gotta keep the swim suits happy, you know? These are mostly rubber-stamped, cookie-cutter forms. Once you fill it out, you’ll get your own EMF meter.”
Accident Waiver and Release of Liability
I hereby assume all risks of participating in the Atlantic Ghost Tours, including all risks that may arise from negligence or carelessness on the part of the persons or entities being released, dangerous or defective equipment or property owned, maintained, or controlled by them, or because of their possible liability without fault. **In consideration of my application and permitting me to participate in this tour, I hereby take action for myself, my executors, administrators, heirs, next of kin, successors, and assigns as follows: (A) I WAIVE, RELEASE, AND DISCHARGE from any and all liability, including but not limited to, liability arising from the negligence or fault of the entities or persons released, for my death, dismemberment, personal injury, property damage, property theft, or actions of any kind which may hereafter occur to me including my traveling to and from this event, THE FOLLOWING
ENTITIES OR PERSONS: Atlantic Ghost Tours and/or their directors, officers, employees, volunteers, representatives, and agents, and the event holders, event sponsors, and event volunteers; (B) I INDEMNIFY, HOLD HARMLESS, AND PROMISE NOT TO SUE…E Pluribus Unum…Lorem Epsom salt…dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Lorem Epsom salt amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. “Lorem Epsom salt dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt blah blah blah. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
Your friends at AGT,
______________________________________
Ghost Walk Participant
The lanky man in the plain blazer squinted at the double-sided card as though it might bite. “I can barely read this, and I write these for a living.”
I know, it’s 9-point Tahoma…in pig Latin. “You know the old saying: The large print giveth, the small print taketh away.”
Tabitha gestured toward the gravel path ahead. “Glad to see everybody got the memo and wore sensible shoes.” She led them through a narrow gap in the trees, past a rusted, mangled chain-link fence, and over railroad tracks. As they reached the clearing, the buildings appeared, jutting at odd angles like broken teeth.
“Are these tracks still active?” someone asked, eyeing the metal rails warily.
“I’m ninety…five percent sure they’re not. But hey, ask Siri later if you’re curious. Speaking of trains, if you’re into rail bikes, Tracks and Yaks is just over there, in that old caboose. Mention our tour and get 20% off. They offer a beautiful ten-mile pedal trip that takes you to an abandoned train station.
“Oh, we rode them this morning,” a couple in athletic wear yelled from the path. “It was awesome…zero hills.”
“Yep, that’s the Eastern Shore…flat as an Olympic gymnast, as my dad liked to say.” Her voice rose over the soft crunch of gravel. “We’re now approaching the outbuildings of the former Burleigh Hardware. Founded in 1893, it anchored Burleigh’s commerce and saw more than its share of tragedy.”
She paused for the group to gather.
“The hand of death first showed itself as an employee hanged himself from the rafters back in the early 1900s.” She pointed toward the rear of the building. “Then, in 1953, a night watchman turned up missing. His flashlight was found still on, just under that loading dock sign. A few days later, his baton washed up in The Ditch, a narrow stream that cuts behind the property and runs beneath the old covered bridge.”
The small crowd stirred.
Locals posted warning signs for trespassers. Don’t cross bridge on foot after dark.
“And then came 1998. The same year president Bill Clinton famously said, ‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman.’ Well, here in Burleigh, a different scandal was unfolding. Mortimer Adkins, once proud owner of his family business, watched as the town’s loyalty shifted from the Mercantile to the Megastore. In a fit of despair, Mortimer looped a length of nylon rope around his neck, fastened it to a concrete pole, and drove his car straight into the front entrance of the Ocean City Walmart. Some now refer to this grim chapter in the history of Mom-and-Pop stores, the ‘Walmart Effect.’ But Mortimer’s story didn’t end in that wreck. His name, his bitterness, his curse still lingers. They say strange things still take place in the five buildings that stand before you.”
The heckler kicked a loose piece of gravel across the lot. “So, now we’re looking for Walmart ghosts and talking about blow jobs?”
Her jaw clicked as she locked it, the smallest grind of teeth as she stepped toward the chipped cornerstone, the numbers 1893 buried under layers of grime. “If you look toward the rear of the warehouse, you’ll spot where figures have shown up in photos. Elementals. Mist shapes. Something here doesn’t want to be seen. Feel free to start snapping away. Focus your shots on the building and its dark corners.”
The group fumbled for their phones. Cameras began flashing in every direction.
“I got something!” a woman cried, thrusting her phone into the air. “What’s this white blob?”
Tabitha walked over and glanced at the screen. The photo was grainy, but there it was. A faint, translucent orb floating near the corner of the building. “That, my friend, is an orb.”
The woman beside her leaned in, squinting at the fuzzy image. “It looks like a moth…or a thumb.”
“It’s a white blob,” the cowboy hat guy scoffed. “I’ve seen less blurry pictures of Bigfoot.”
“Okay. One, two, three, eyes on me. Come with me. Stay close and follow my directions to the T.”
“Unlike our first stop, the Pitts’ house, where baneful spirits convinced the owners never to sell, this place is on the market.” She paused, nodding toward the sign in the front window. “A retired schoolteacher is talking with the widow. Wants to bring the old hardware store back to life.” She smirked. “Now, that’s the kind of project that could keep you up at night…especially considering the history here.” She let the words linger. “And just last month? The county talked demolition. Hotel. Condos. A hearing was even scheduled.”
Tabitha dropped her backpack, then faced the group. “Alright, everyone, spread out and let’s use those EMFs. They’re simple. Just point and watch the LED lights. Green means ghosts are napping. Orange? Something’s twitching in the shadows. Red?” She leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Red means the party’s started…and you’re on the guest list.”
A middle-aged woman raised her meter, then froze. The device trembled slightly in her hand before she handed it back. A cold draft slipped along her neck, and she stepped back, almost tripping over her own feet. “I don’t like this,” she whispered. “Haven’t felt this strange since the old Grumbacker Art Supply building in Annapolis. Something followed me home that night.” She pointed toward the streetlamp and backed away. “This place screams go away. I think I’ll sit this one out.”
She turned to Ricky and whispered, “Stick close, little buddy. Tabs won’t let anything get you.”
Near the front door, a couple from Wilmington leaned in close to the entrance, their meters pulsing faintly. Out back, a group of Baltimore locals edged toward the railroad crossing.
She sauntered up to the skeptic. “I think you’ll find what you’re looking for over by the loading bay.” She handed him her most responsive EMF detector. Then she turned, watching the group like a shepherd minding her flock, and fished out her phone.
He stood alone in the loading bay, grip tightening on the detector as he glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was around. A shiver prickled down his spine as he glanced at the rotted beam and rusted pulley overhead. His EMF meter flared red. He froze, tightening his grip on the detector as he glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one else was there. Whatever this was belonged to him, and him alone. Before he could shout, his body convulsed, and his feet flew out from under him. He slammed into the corrugated wall with a crack like a gunshot. His head snapped back. Then, an unseen force yanked him upward, boots kicking uselessly against the metal. His mouth opened, but no sound came, only a raw, strangled gasp.
The meter shrieked in his hand, then tore free as if plucked by invisible fingers. It hovered for an instant, then shot to the ground, exploding into shards.
Nearby, Ricky clung to a light pole, eyes wide, too scared to scream. The rest of the group was spread out across the grounds, their distant conversations rising and falling, unaware of what was happening just yards away.
“Game on,” she whispered with dark amusement. She snapped a few pictures, tucked her phone away, and calmly popped an Altoid, savoring the spicy burn. Crouching by her duffel, she pushed aside a bundle of EMF meters, cables, and a Gideon bible, then pulled out her newest obsession: a black-and-yellow plastic ‘Bug-A-Salt’ gun. She cradled it, loaded the salt with the pump action, clacking loudly as she cocked it, her arm raised high in a single, practiced motion. This wasn’t the kind of table salt you pinch and throw over your left shoulder. The canister held her own ghost-hunting cocktail: Pink Himalayan salt and Dead Sea crystals, blessed twice over by a visiting rabbi, then ground fine with dried organic sage and spearmint leaves harvested from the Moonridge Apothecary Gardens in Crisfield. She licked her thumb and lifted it, the way an archer would test the breeze before a clean shot. A faint draft brushed her skin. The laser sight flicked on with that telltale red dot. She steadied the weapon, first sweeping it above the heckler’s head, then lowering the beam with precision to his belt buckle.
The cowboy’s boots scraped the wall as the invisible noose tightened, his body jerking like a hooked fish.
Tabby steadied her aim, clicked the orange safety, and squeezed the trigger. The Bug-A-Salt spat a sharp thwump, a burst of sanctified salt spraying across the heckler’s midsection with a satisfying p-ting. He yelped as if stung by hornets. The invisible grip around his throat faltered, then released.
He dropped like a marionette with cut strings, coughing and clawing at his neck. Eyes wild, unfocused. “Did you see that? Something tried to hang me!”
Tabby lowered the gun, a pale mist from the salt chamber curling faintly in the cold air. She quickly tucked it inside her bag and covered it with a cluster of EMF meters and charging cords. Overhead, the pulley creaked and swayed, as if some unseen weight still hung there. The air carried a metallic tang of ozone and burnt iron.
One by one, the groups turned, their nervous chatter dying into silence.
She smiled loudly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
A nod passed between them.
The heckler doubled over and puked on the pavement.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” She stepped forward and motioned them in closer. “Alright, circle up. Hope you all had a wonderful time and took something memorable back home with you. Let’s head toward the town center before my boss gets fined for breaking the ghost walk curfew, and they revoke my credentials.”
The heckler wiped his mouth, eyes narrowing. “You don’t know who my father is.”
“Nope. But I’m sure he’s very proud.” She counted heads while collecting her equipment. “Don’t want to leave anyone behind.”
Ricky bent over, scooping up broken EMF pieces and shoving them into his pocket. The group murmured uneasily.
The lawyer lifted his head, voice slick. “It’s like that shark flick, Open Water. Miscount a few tourists, and suddenly you’re swimming in lawsuits.”
Tabitha smiled. “Well, that’s an alarming thought.” A line from a different movie flashed through her mind. You’re meddling with forces you cannot possibly understand. “Thanks again for joining Atlantic Ghost Tours on our Burleigh walk. We’ve got eight locations to choose from, including St. Michael’s and Ocean City. And,” she added with a wink, “if you enjoyed yourself this evening, don’t forget to tip your guide and leave me a glowing review on Yelp. That’s my bread and butter.”
The crowd thinned, but the lawyer lingered, then slipped her a folded twenty as he pressed a business card into her hand. “Great tour. I loved the stories. MasterClass-level theatrics.” His grin faded. “It’s a funny thing. We’ve got one of those toys in the office. Killing horse flies has become a sport. More entertaining than bug zappers and more humane than fly strips.” He lowered his voice. “Waiver or no waiver, if someone gets hurt, you’re flirting with reckless endangerment. It opens the door to civil liability, maybe even criminal negligence.” He tapped the card against her palm. “Paul Tilghman III, Esquire. If you consult with me, attorney–client privilege will protect you or the unfortunate teacher who buys the place.”
She thanked him and walked to her car. She dug her cell phone from her pocket, lingered over a few photos, and sent them off with a small, knowing smile.