The ghost of John Domingo
Charleston Market House
By David Farrow
Megan Trumpy smiled as the people gathered around her. A Charleston city guide since July, the 23-year old NYU graduate with a degree in drama had found her niche. Embellishing stories that were already utter balderdash, Megan cared nothing for the veracity of the tales, only their effect as she watched the children clutch a little closer to their parent’s hemlines, the young girls grasping the biceps of their boyfriends.
She embraced the angst as a personal gift. It was not about the story, it was about her; her long silky blonde hair, her body perfectly sculptured by her T-shirt and jeans, her perfect faux London accent. She reveled in the looks of horror on the faces young and old as she described the mass grave the group was standing over. A harvest moon cast a cold shadow and caused a shiver to tremble through the hearts of children and grandparents as she described the mass murderer who abducted scores of hapless sailors from ships and ladies of ill repute from Six Mile, tortured and buried them right on this spot.
“You might want to tell them that you are standing on what was once a creek bed — Kinda hard to form a mass grave out of a creek, dear.”
The pronouncement came from a man older than her father with a superior attitude and a funny accent to top things off. He was scruffy and disheveled, but elegant at the same time; dressed in what she could only describe as an un-pressed version of “the uniform”: wrinkled khakis and a broadcloth shirt with button down collars. He had slightly longer gray hair and a beard. What impressed her, though, were his eyes; eyes that burned through her like a laser. This man took her psyche to a place hitherto yet fathomed – a place that echoed with the demented laughter of a soul devoid of hope. The name “John Domingo” reverberated through her head. It was a name fraught with evil, although she’d be hard pressed to explain why.
Just as quickly she realized where she was; standing by the graveyard, her tourists laughing because they thought it part of the show. She recovered with aplomb, giving the rest of the tour with her usual wit and charm. Walking back to her car parked on Concord Street, she walked by the north side of the Customs House.
And there was the man, again.
He seemed a bit more disheveled in the light; somewhat … decayed. Megan quickened her step, the slap of her sneakers against the sidewalk growing louder in her ear. The previously busy streets now echoed with the solitary sound of her movement.
In moments, the world around her began to shift and another market building began to take shape. It was no longer 10 at night, but late dawn. The sights, sounds and smells that began to assault her senses were entirely foreign. She had slipped 100 years into the past.
She noticed the man closer now, his face a leer.
Just as the market was transformed, the man’s face began to shape-shift into an ageless black man. John Domingo! She knew it as well as she knew her own name. His head twisted grotesquely towards her, and she screamed silently as the ancient root doctor’s spirit took over her body.
For all intents and purposes, Megan Trumpey no longer existed. John Domingo, the most powerful root doctor to ever live in Charleston, admired his new fine body and flaxen hair. The average person would see no difference save for the eyes. Her eyes were dead.
As the possessed body of Megan walked back towards the market, a high pitched laughter began to reverberate through the bars and restaurants. On Anson Street, dogs howled and cats hissed.
Evil was now in session. Order in the court.
To be continued…
