A Grimoire Dark

by D. S. Quinton

  Jimmy saw the bird for a brief moment as he unknowingly called to it, “…da spit tay cat wit da mot’eatn ear.”

  Another flash of lightning and the bird was gone.

  After a few minutes, Jimmy quietly closed the shutters and latched them, hung up the old coats and tiptoed back to bed. He quickly dropped off to sleep thinking about the beautiful black bird he had just seen.

  Around the corner of the big sleeping room, Josephine stood in the shadows of the dark hall until Jimmy had settled back into bed.

  What’s he doing now? she wondered. The last thing she needed was another all-night symphony from creep station.

  Chapter 16

  Sunday

  “Ouch! What is this?”

  Sharon woke early the next morning to a burning sensation running over her shoulder and up her neck. Her blanket rubbed against an itchy area, which sent ribbons of pain shooting to her head.

  Looking into her bedroom mirror, she saw swollen curls of rash streaking up her neck and encroaching onto her right cheek.

  “Oh my God! What is this?” she cried, gently touching the enflamed marks.

  Just her luck! She tries to be a good person, and this is what she gets. Sure, she has to bend a rule every now and then, but she doesn’t deserve to get some weird rash, especially the day she was going to work a stag party and make fifty bucks! Who can dance in a negligee with swamp crud growing up your face?

  Walking to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, she saw the old book laying on her séance table and remembered part of a strange dream she’d had last night.

  Something about a bird flying around… dropping seeds into the swamp that grew into giant talking snakes, or something like that. Weird.

  The image quickly faded, and she thought no more about the book on the table.

  After a quick breakfast, she threw on loose clothes and headed out the door. She would drive into town and see if she could find some cream for her rash. Living this far out on Barataria road had the advantage of few prying eyes, and it wasn’t terribly far from the city, but when it came to quick conveniences, there were none.

  She drove north and passed the old swamp road. She’d heard there had just been a gator killing down there and wondered if it was anyone she knew. Usually these things didn’t make much news, but there was something odd about this one, apparently.

  As she drove past the abandoned Crown gas station which sat at the end of the swamp road, she suddenly thought of Chocolate sodas. She hadn’t thought of them in years, but something about the quiet Sunday morning reminded her of driving home from church with her parents.

  Her father was an honest, but uneducated trainyard worker. Her mother did her best with the money they made, but it didn’t go far. Sunday afternoons typically included a stop at one of the few gas stations that was open to check the air and oil. Even though her father did this regularly, he used the stop as an excuse to spend a few cents on his only daughter; this usually meant a treat from the soda machine.

  Her friends always said that Yoo-hoo was the best, but she preferred Chocolate Soldier – ‘Cold or hot it hits the spot’. She remembered wishing that the tiny red soldier on the side of the bottle would come to life, slay a wild beast and whisk her away to a magical land. There, she would live in a fairy tale and have five children, one more beautiful than the next. Her prince would be very handsome.

  Her mother’s voice brought her partially back from her daydream:

  You have your health and good teeth. What else does a girl need?

  Despite her mother’s utilitarian view on her late-arriving womanly assets, she was a caring woman and loved her family. Maybe she deserved a call.

  Sharon knew they hadn’t spoken in quite a while, but was having trouble remembering exactly how long it had been. A year? Surely not over a year and a half.

  A year and a half really?

  Despite the embarrassment she still felt from the affair, she thought her mom really did deserve a call. Maybe some of the fallout had been her fault.

  She could still make amends.

  She would call her mom when she got home.

  The party is tonight.

  She would call her mom tomorrow and save her the lie of what she was doing tonight. She would call tomorrow.

  A movement in the shadows of the old gas station caught her attention and pulled her back to reality. She thought maybe her landlady’s dog, Millie, had escaped the backyard fence again. If that were the case, she’d pick her up on the way back and deliver her home. Who knew, maybe the old lady would knock a few bucks off the rent.

  Watching for the dog in her mirror, she saw another shadow and got the impression that it may be a person. Maybe her landlady was already out looking for Millie.

  Her car’s not there.

  Well, maybe someone was finally trying to do something with that old building.

  She knew that many people had tried to repurpose the old gas station before, but they never lasted long. If someone was trying to work it again, they shouldn’t expect much traffic to come along. The gasoline pumps had long been removed. All that remained of the station was the graying cinderblock building, the rusting metal roof that stood above two vacant pump areas, and the road sign that kids had thrown rocks through for years.

  She drove on, wondering what anyone would be trying to sell on this side of the river, but remembered that a fruit or vegetable stand would show up there occasionally and people would reuse the flimsy wooden stand that the original proprietor had left.

  Approaching the Mississippi River Bridge, she swung her car to the side and slammed on the brakes.

  “Shit! It’s Sunday!” she said, letting her head fall against the tattered headrest.

  “Damnit.”

  Besides the fact that most everyone would be heading to church, no store would be open today, not on a Sunday in the South.

  Her burning rash protested at this and sent a searing pain up the side of her cheek and into her right ear.

  “Owww!” she said as she looked sideways into the rearview mirror. Her heartrate jumped as she imagined the rash somehow crawling inside her ear and deep into her head.

  Dismayed at her situation, she turned around and drove toward home, wondering how she would make it through the day. The burning was getting worse.

  As she approached the old gas station again, she slowed to see if anyone was there, or if she could catch a glimpse of the dog. The old wooden cart was untouched, but she caught a sense of movement through the large front window of the building.

  She pulled to the shoulder and sat with the car running. The rash felt as if it were pulsing now, irritating her, a beacon throbbing out to an unknown presence. She scratched at the rash, which sent a bolt of fire down her neck and back.

  She squinted through the foggy car windows, messing with the defroster controls that never seemed to work when needed. She was positive she had seen movement. Why she cared, she wasn’t sure, as her landlady never gave her a break on rent. But if some hobo had decided to take up residence just down the road from her, she wanted to know; plus, if someone was looking to muscle in on territory she regularly worked, she wanted to know that as well.

  Feeling for the switchblade in her purse—and having walked an alley or two in the past—she felt comfortable enough with the open area around the old building. She got out of her car—where the cold mist felt good against her rash—and walked as far as the old fruit stand. She surveyed the area, and all looked normal—it was an abandoned building after all—but then noticed, sitting on an old rocker next to the front door, two of the rattiest Voodoo dolls she had ever seen. At least, she thought they were Voodoo dolls. She was certain those hadn’t always been there.

  New Orleans was flush with Voodoo dolls, skulls, orbs and other assorted gris—the Creole term for anything that may be used as a charm—but one typically did not lose a Voodoo doll, and you never threw one away. That was a sure way of offending whatever spirit was attached t
o the doll.

  She also knew from dealing with the soothsaying community that the proper pronunciation of gris was with a long E sound like free, but preferred the more sinister sound which rhymed with this. Swamp people were known for taking liberal shortcuts with words, and she hated the extra work it took to form the long E sound in the back of her throat.

  The blessing of gris—where inanimate objects were blessed or imbued with a magical power—was a decent money-maker for her. And although she knew she had little to no real power, she had seen some things in her past that made her a true believer; some people had truly awesome power. And gris could consist of anything from amulets and lockets, to small bones and trinkets; sometimes even a bundle of sticks tied with twine could be blessed or cursed and used to great effect; sometimes to terrible effect.

  Just as she was about to return to her car, the front door of the gas station creaked open with a rusted jangle from an old bell.

  She watched as a peculiar old man walked out of the interior shadows.

  He stood in the doorway and looked at Sharon the best he could. At least, she thought he was looking at her.

  She could see from the length of his arms and legs that he had been a tall man in his youth—probably over six feet tall—but because he was so hunched over, and because his knees seemed to be compressing before her very eyes, he barely stood five feet tall. And although he leaned heavily on an old walking stick, she perceived a constant struggle for him to keep his balance.

  The strange man stood for a moment in the doorway and Sharon wondered if he could even speak, when he suddenly twisted his head sideways and breathed a ragged breath of air.

  “Good morning, miss,” the strange man said in a voice from another time.

  She was so surprised by the sight and mannerisms of the strange man that she nearly didn’t hear his greeting.

  “Oh, good morning,” she replied.

  At first, Sharon couldn’t understand what was so unsettling about the man, but slowly realized that his dress was completely inappropriate for someone who had just walked out of an abandoned gas station in this part of town.

  His heavy rain slicker dragged against the ground due to his stoop, and all but covered his old wool pants and cowboy boots; a dark shadow masked his shirt, which appeared to be ornamented with a number of small leather bags strung about his neck; an old hat covered his head, which appeared to pull him forward. But the oddest thing he wore were a pair of tortoise-shell sunglasses with blue mirrored lenses.

  “Pardon me,” the strange man said in a gentlemanly proper voice, “is this your residence?” The hat and glasses obscured most of his face, and his mouth portrayed no emotion.

  “Residence?” Sharon asked with concern. “No, this is a vacant building.”

  “Oh, of course,” the man said. “I meant to say, is this your property? I was simply resting out of the weather.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, no, it’s not my property, but… say, do you need help or something?”

  “Help? No, why?”

  “Well… you just kind of seemed… I don’t know, a bit wobbly.”

  The strange man considered her for a long time, then said, “Just getting my sea legs about me.”

  Sharon wasn’t sure what to make of the response, and mentally calculated the distance between them.

  “Ok then,” she said. “I thought maybe you were setting up shop or something.”

  The strange man considered her for a long time again, then said, “Oh, what type of shop?”

  Sharon shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I thought you were selling something, is all.” She turned to walk away.

  “Sell?” the man said. “No, I rarely sell, but I often trade.” A fierce wind blew at this and buffeted Sharon where she stood; oddly the wind seemed to miss the strange man completely. Maybe the building blocked— Sharon started, then said, “Trade? What do you trade?”

  “Gris,” the man said, raking the bags that hung about his neck.

  “Hmm, I guess you just don’t have it all out yet,” she said, trying to look over him and through the station door.

  “Oh, I only carry a few… specialized items,” he said as the blue mirrored glasses followed her.

  “That so?” Sharon asked. “What would that be?”

  With a shaky hand the man raked the bags again.

  “Gris, you say? Just what you have there?” she said, pointing to the bags around his neck.

  The man touched the bags gently. “Special gris. For special… conditions.”

  “What about those?” Sharon pointed to the old Voodoo dolls laying in the chair.

  The two ratty dolls looked a hundred years old to her. One appeared to be a miniature doll, only about four inches tall; it had stubby arms and legs, no attempt at hair or clothes that she could see, with bright red beads sewn in for the eyes. It sat on an overstuffed doll of a dog—or a cat, she couldn’t really tell—that had one ear half torn off and a tail that was coming apart so that it looked like it was two pieces. They were stuck together with a long hat pin. Even though they looked like Voodoo dolls, Sharon couldn’t see the telltale signs of stitching, and wondered what they were made of.

  Stepping slowly through the door and resting his hand on the rocking chair, the man looked at the dolls and patted them gently, as if petting them, and said, “Oh these? They’re not for sale.”

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  Looking at her for a long moment he finally said, “They bite.” And a distorted, toothy smile broke across his face.

  Sharon waited for him to break into a laugh, signaling the punchline, but his face resumed the reserved look of a mortician.

  She cleared her throat and turned to go back to her car when she heard the old man breathe another ragged breath.

  “Pardon me, madam, for being so bold,” he said, “but that is quite an ugly rash you have there.”

  Self-consciously touching her face, she said, “Oh, yes, I was just going to get something for this.”

  “Of course,” the man, said nodding his head slowly. “But I doubt anyone will have what you need.”

  Casting a questioning glance his way she said, “Really? Why is—”

  “I’m familiar with this rash,” the man said, now standing only a few feet away from her.

  The quick and silent movement startled her as she stared at herself in the mirrored glasses.

  “Fascinating,” the man said.

  “What?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the man said. “I was referring to your eyes. How lovely.”

  “Oh,” Sharon said with relief. She was used to people commenting on her multi-colored eyes, but not within the context of an ugly rash. “Thank you. Odd mix of genes, I guess.”

  He nodded slowly. “Indeed.”

  “But, about the rash?” Sharon prompted.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, inspecting her closely from his hunched position. “That’s quite aggressive. It’s been a few years, quite a few actually… but… I know just what you need.”

  He shuffled through the many bags that hung about him, and upon finding one he held it out and said, “Put this under your pillow at night. In about two weeks, you should start to see it fade.”

  “Two weeks? I can’t wait two weeks, I have… well…”

  “Well what?” he said, listening intently.

  “I just can’t wait two weeks. Don’t you have anything stronger?” she asked.

  “Stronger? Hmmm… yes, I could make something stronger, but…”

  “But what?”

  “You must understand, the stronger the gris, the more… the consequences.”

  “Consequences?”

  “Poor word choice. Affects, really.”

  “Oh… OK, yes, I get that. But how fast can you get rid of this?”

  “Quite fast, but you must give freely.”

  “OK, but—”

  He went to work quickly, opening the small leather bags, picking an assortment
of items. He picked a fragment of parchment from one and a small piece of bone from another and crushed them between his fingers. This he let fall into an empty bag he produced from inside his trench coat. He produced a small bone knife from another pocket and cut a lock of hair before she could protest, then very carefully scraped a few flakes of dying skin from the rash. He crushed all of this again between his fingers and dropped it into the same bag as he mumbled to himself.

  She thought it sounded like an incantation, but couldn’t tell.

  He closed the pouch tightly, tied it to a cord around his neck and dusted his hands.

  “There, all finished,” he said.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes. As I said, all finished. Your rash will begin to fade in an hour and will be completely gone by morning.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure,” he said.

  “OK… don’t I… need to take the gris with me or something?” she asked.

  “Oh no!” he exclaimed, patting the bag with affection. “As I said before… special gris. This will pull the source of the rash to it, away from you, so it no longer manifests itself… outwardly.”

  Sharon self-consciously touched her face again.

  “So what’s the cost then?” she asked shrewdly.

  “Cost? Oh, no cost really. As I said before, I prefer to trade.”

  “Trade what?” Sharon watched the strange man as her own image came into sharp focus, reflected in the blue mirrored glasses. It looked as if her image was shimmering a sensuous dance.

  “Oh, I see,” Sharon said. “You want to trade. Well… whatever.” She couldn’t imagine that the man had much stamina at all, and if the gris actually worked, she’d be glad to show her appreciation to him.

  “When and where? Here?” She looked at the road for any traffic.

  “Oh no,” the man said. “May I call on you in an evening or two? To check on your… progress.”

  “OK, sure, but how—”

  Turning around, she was surprised to see that he had already walked back to the door of the building. The Voodoo dolls were gone also, but she assumed he had snatched them up on his way.