HE FIRST HOUR was fantastic.

Sallie and Chris led us along dark streets, dispensing trivia and funny bits of city lore. The group would stop and gather close while the duo spun tales of famous hauntings, poltergeists, and unexplained occurrences.

We learned about the Lowcountry’s notorious pantheon of spirits. Haints—dead souls who take the form of ghosts or people. Boo-hags—beings who shed their skins and roam the marshes by moonlight. Plat-eyes—one-eyed phantoms who creep inside houses on hot summer evenings.

Sallie talked of the protective powers of boo-daddies, tiny figures made of marsh mud, Spanish moss, sweet grass, and salt water, then incubated inside large marsh oysters.

“If you fear the local baddies,” Sallie warned, “keep a boo-daddy in your pocket.”

She waggled her personal model above her head. “A good boo-daddy protects you from night creatures. The more boo-daddies, the better.”

Our route hit several well-known spectral hot spots. South End Brewery. The Rutledge Victorian Guest House. Circular Congregational Church.

Passing the Dock Street Theatre, we craned for a glimpse of Junius Brutus Booth, father of the man who killed Abe Lincoln. No luck. Then we cruised by Battery Carriage House Inn, where a male presence is said to slip into the beds of female guests.

Our path traversed an ancient graveyard, where the ghost of Sue Howard Hardy has been photographed weeping beside her child’s grave. Our snack break was at Poogan’s Porch, where Zoe St. Amand, a one-time resident, is occasionally spotted waving from a second-floor window.

Finally, the tour reached the old Exchange Building at the intersection of East Bay and Broad.

Stone steps ascended to a porch where porticos adorned three sets of white double doors. Above, imposing two-story windows were flanked by large arching casements. The building’s exterior was faced with gray-and-white stone, once dull with age, now restored to its colonial glory.

The group gathered at the base of the steps.

“In 1771,” Chris explained, “with trade booming, Charles Town’s elite decided their city needed a modern customs house. The new Exchange would stand for more than mere economic prosperity. It would symbolize optimism for a glorious future.

“The city fathers chose a site on the Broad Street waterfront, where the biggest docks and streets converged,” Chris continued. “Construction took two years. When completed, the Exchange was one of the first landmark buildings constructed in colonial America.

“But that’s not why we’re here, is it?” Smiling wickedly, Chris pointed to steps descending the building’s side. “We came to see … the dungeons.”

Sallie lit and distributed candles, then, single file, we trooped down the narrow staircase. At the bottom, a door led into a gloomy basement with a low ceiling constructed of barrel-vaulted brick. Archways divided the space into murky, shadow-filled alcoves.

The sundress ladies tittered as their husbands exchanged jokes. The Packers couple snapped shots with their Nikons. Brincefield scouted the room, excited, a kid at Disneyland. Marlo and Tree Trunk stood at the back of the group, silent and still.

Sallie spoke in hushed tones, candlelight dancing shadows across her features. “The Provost Dungeon served a sinister function during the Revolutionary War. Beneath the beautiful façade of the Exchange above lurked this nightmare.” Sallie swept her free hand in a wide arc.

“Cruel men converted these cellars into a ghastly prison.” Sallie’s whisper forced us to draw close. “Dark. Dank. Without heat or light. Those caged within these walls faced sickness, despair, even death. The British used this hole to jail American patriots.” The flickering light distorted her face, Halloween style. “Brave Charlestonians were clapped in irons, locked underground, and forgotten.”

Chris’s voice sounded dull in the subterranean gloom. “Deserters. Women. Slaves. Highborn sons. All those suspected of aiding the rebel patriots were crowded into cages and left to die.”

Chris told the story of Isaac Hayne, an American war hero captured and hanged by the British.

“Hayne refused to surrender,” he whispered. “His ghost now haunts these dungeons, searching for enemy redcoats, even in death unable to lay down his arms.

“So.” Chris smiled. “Shall we proceed?”

Huddled close, our little band tiptoed through the cellar and eventually descended a second staircase, steeper than the first.

At the bottom was a wide, dark chamber, older than the room above. Clammy, bare-earth floor. Low, claustrophobic ceiling. Stale, fetid air.

Shelton fiddled an earlobe, face tense in the glow of his candle. I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, knowing how much he hated tight spaces.

“We’ve traveled further back in history,” Sallie whispered, “to a time before the Exchange existed.”

My heart threw in a few extra beats. This was what we wanted.

“For you see,” Sallie intoned, “the Exchange was constructed atop an even older fortification, one dating to the town’s founding.” She paused for effect. “That bastion, too, had a dungeon.”

Chris picked up the narrative. “Half-Moon Battery.”

My elbow found Hi. Just as his found me. We listened intently.

“You are standing in the linchpin of Charles Town’s original defense system,” Chris said. “Half-Moon Battery was so named because it jutted into the harbor in a half circle. This vault was discovered during a renovation in 1965. Rumors persist of older, deeper spaces yet to be discovered.

“Every town needs a prison. Long before the Provost Dungeon was established, dangerous criminals harried the streets and waters of old Charles Town.”

“Pirates,” Sallie whispered.

“From its founding, pirates plagued the city,” Chris said. “Blackbeard. Stede Bonnet. Ruthless marauders captured dozens of Charles Town vessels and held their occupants for ransom.

“At the urging of terrified merchants, the colonial governor finally commissioned privateers to end the reign of terror. In October of 1718, Stede Bonnet was captured.”

“And brought here.” Sallie’s flame spluttered as she arced her candle in the blackness. “The dungeons of Half-Moon Battery became Captain Bonnet’s new home.”

He’s not the only one.

“Bonnet and his crew were tried and sentenced to death,” she continued. “On December 10, 1718, they were hanged at White Point on the Battery.”

Theatrical pause, then the Fletchers led the group back to the staircase. I hung to the rear. Tried to melt into the shadows. The other Virals did the same.

I blocked my candle by cupping the flame with one hand. As the others clomped up the stairs, the chamber went darker and darker, eventually black. We were alone.

Now or never. If Bonny was down here, we have to find some evidence.

We’d agreed. To search the dungeon, we needed our abilities unleashed. It was time to test what our powers could do.

“Burn,” I whispered.

In the darkness, four gleaming orbs suddenly appeared. Eyes of golden fire.

Hi, always quickest. And Shelton, tapping his fear of the dark.

SNAP.

Almost instantly, the flare tore through me, washing my innards with ice and fire.

From deep within, my powers emerged and stretched their legs.

Beside me, Ben cursed. Then, “No go. I’ll watch the stairs.”

I heard rubber soles on hard-packed earth as he headed to the door.

“Spread out,” I hissed. “We only have seconds.”

Hi and Shelton nodded, their faces distinct. With my hypervision unleashed, the candle lit the room like a bonfire.

Seeing a wall a dozen yards ahead, I fired in that direction, senses casting a wide net. Searching.

Shelton’s voice stopped me short. “Hear that?”

The tour group was gone. Even flaring, I heard nothing but the sounds of our own breathing and movement.

“There.” Shelton crossed to the rear wall, crouched, and tapped the stones. “Listen. Hear that trickling?”

I hurried to his side. Yes! My wolf-ears pulled in a faint whistling, underscored by a soft murmur. “Incredible.”

“Moving air.” Shelton squeezed his eyes shut. “Or maybe running water?”

“Let me look,” Hi urged.

The wall was constructed of roughly shaped stone sealed with crumbling mortar. Ancient, but solid looking.

“Bottom row,” Hi pointed downward. “At your feet. The mortar looks different.”

I squatted and peered at the base of the wall.

“Hi’s right,” I said. “This stone has darker mortar, with more cracks. Like it was sealed at a different time.”

Ben’s whisper cut through the darkness. “Hurry.”

Something velvet brushed my face. The slightest touch.

I froze.

My glowing irises spotted a dancing wisp of light. A silvery curl that reached out and stroked my cheek, then drifted away.

Ghost stories flashed through my mind. My breath caught. I was about to scream when my higher centers reengaged.

Spiderweb. One single strand. I watched the tendril puff away from the stones, relax, then settle back into place.

A draft! Air was circulating from somewhere behind the wall. Without my powers, I’d never have noticed.

“It’s here!” I said. “There must be open space behind these stones!”

“Someone’s coming!” Ben hissed. “Move!”

I jumped to my feet and shot to the stairs. Marlo’s feet were descending the steps.

Averting my eyes, I tried to douse my flare. For a panicky moment, the power wouldn’t fade. Then the sensory doors slammed shut.

SNUP.

I stumbled into Shelton, who steadied me. Spittle clung to the corner of his mouth, but his pupils were human. A quick look confirmed that Hi had also shut down.

“What’s going on in here?” In the light of his small flame, I could see Marlo’s frown. “Ya’ll getting high or something?”

The charge was so absurd, I laughed out loud.

“Sorry,” Hi stuttered. “We, uh, dropped our candles and couldn’t see.”

“All of ’em?”

Hi shrugged. “We’re extremely clumsy.”

“How come that one’s lit?”

“There you are!” A yellow glow preceded Brincefield down the steps. “Everyone’s waiting outside. Sadly, I think the tour is over.”

“On our way.” Slipping by Marlo and Brincefield, we raced up both sets of stairs, passing Tree Trunk on the way out.

“That way guys.” Chris pointed to the exit. “We ran a little long. Time to call it a night.”

“It was great.” Thrown over my shoulder. “Thanks so much!”

Outside, I gulped fresh air. Divine.

The others emerged quickly, and we hustled across East Bay.

“Don’t be a stranger!” Sallie called.

I gave her a five-finger wave good-bye. Chris was padlocking a sliding iron gate while chatting with Brincefield. Beyond them, Marlo and Tree Trunk were shuffling away down the sidewalk.

“Man, I hate basements,” Shelton whined as we hoofed it up the block. “Nasty, stinking graves.”

I checked my watch. Five past ten. Five minutes past curfew.

“Crap! I’m late.”

“Me too,” Hi said. “My mom’s gonna rip me a new one.”

“I found something right before—”

Ben cut me off. “Let’s talk aboard Sewee. For now, we haul ass.”

As we hurried to the marina, my mind was already testing excuses.