Page 68 of Error Handling
“Nope.”
“Have you ever been bitten by a spider when crawling around in a crawlspace?”
“No. But I’ve seen my fair share of sand dollar-sized ones as well as loads of cockroaches and the occasional mouse.”
I shiver.
“I go to my happy place,” Chris says.
“Which is?”
“I imagine I’m lying on a beach somewhere.”
“Is that why you want to move to Puerto Rico? We have beaches here, you know.”
Chris grips the wheel tighter. “No. I mean, yes. Partly. But not really. There are other reasons.”
I wait for him to continue, but I remain silent. Which gives me time to speculate about what his “other reasons” might be. He’s dying from cancer and wants to spend the rest of his days in a tropical oasis. He has an illegitimate son there that he needs to spend time with. He’s half Puerto Rican and his Puerto Rican mother has Alzheimer’s. So many possibilities.
Chris is still silent, and I’m stumped for anything else to say. Despite his truck’s age, it has an upgraded stereo mounted on the dash, and he subscribes to satellite radio. Manchester Orchestra’s “Bedhead” comes on, and I feel comfortable enough in Chris’s presence to reach over and turn up the radio. He doesn’t say anything but lowers his shoulders and leans his head back.
We ride the rest of the way in silence, listening to the latest and greatest alternative music. Unlike my date with Yann back in high school, the silence between Chris and me feels warm, thick, and relaxing.
When we reach Old Towne Ghost Tours’ office, Chris searches for a place to parallel park. He finds a spot a block away and deftly maneuvers the truck into it. We make quick time to the tour bus.
Five people are already on the bus—the tour guide, Cassie and Luke, and Cassie’s cousin and her fiancé. I know them all, some better than others. They greet us with smiles and waves. Cassie accompanies her wave with a mischievous grin and then a thumbs-up after she sweeps her eyes up and down Chris’s frame. My face turns hot. I glance up at Chris, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed Cassie’s gesture.
We sit as the bus takes off. As we’re driving to our first stop, the tour guide, Dontrell, shares some of Charleston’s historyincluding its founding year in 1670 and its significance during the Revolutionary and Civil Wars.
The bus stops in front of the Old Exchange Building, a stone building with three arched entrances and a white cupola. Built in 1771, it’s been a post office, city hall, and military headquarters; however, the dungeon underneath is our area of interest. We can enter the dungeon after hours thanks to Cassie’s sweet talking and a very coveted key.
Low light illuminates the stairway, setting the spooky mood. We gather under the masonry arches while Dontrell gives us a history lesson.
“Between 1680 and 1767, Charleston was a walled city. Pirates and marauders who were caught trying to infiltrate the city were sent to the dungeon to await execution. During the Revolutionary War, the British imprisoned American prisoners of war, private citizens, and slaves here, all of whom endured harsh treatment.”
Dontrell goes on to explain the ghostly experiences people have had in the dungeon—otherworldly screams, haunting moans, disembodied cries. Some have witnessed the chains move on their own. Others have seen floating orbs or have felt unexplained cold spots.
When he finishes, Chris raises an eyebrow at me.
“You’re not convinced?”
“It is a bit creepy down here, but...”
After a few minutes of wandering the dungeon on our own, we file back up the stairs and head to the bus.
“Have you ever been on a Charleston ghost tour?” I ask as we make our way to stop number two, the Old City Jail.
“Never,” Chris says. “Do you believe people actually see ghosts down there?”
“Our tourists have seen strange things on these tours. I only know what they tell me.”
Chris looks skeptical.
“Even if you don’t believe in ghosts, Cassie packs the tour scripts with historical facts, so you always leave with more knowledge than you came with.”
A few minutes later, we pull up to an eerie, castle-like structure. The stone façade of the Old City Jail has blackened with time, giving the structure a forgotten and forlorn appearance.
We gather on the sidewalk in front of the building while Dontrell shares its unsettling past.