A Grimoire Dark

by D. S. Quinton

  Built in the 1840s, the mansion was a marvel of architecture that showed the wealth and eccentricity of the original owner, reportedly a man of French descent who made a fortune in the slave trade. The mansion and supporting carriage houses encompassed an entire city block, and was surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron fence.

  The steep-pitched gable roof was obscured in the thick fog-rain, but Frank knew it challenged the live-oaks for sun as it towered skyward.

  Third-story dormers looked out over the soggy streets, and were high enough to give view over the wall of the cemetery and onto the crypts within.

  A large covered front porch stood ominously silent, all at once inviting and dreadful.

  The arthritic oaks stretched their massive branches in all directions, some reaching over the street and nearly touching the cemetery wall, as if straining to snare an errant soul, living or dead, to feed its ancient roots.

  The house was dark except for a faint flicker of light that came from a second-story window.

  Frank pulled slowly around the corner to where the side of the mansion loomed large to his left. Halfway down the block he came to a large gated drive where gas lamps cast a dying light upon an ornate but foreboding entry gate.

  Pulling up to the gate, he pressed a small button and said, “Bonjour, l’entrée s’il vous plait?”

  Several seconds passed before a response came. “C’est qui?” said an odd voice.

  “Armand, it is Frank Morgan. How are you, old friend? May I speak with you?”

  “Mon ami! Oui, oui, come in!” Armand said through the crackling speaker.

  Just then, the gate gave a loud shudder and the two pieces creaked apart with strained groans. If anything would wake the dead, Frank thought, it was that gate.

  Frank parked inside the gate, then he and Del walked through an overgrown garden that sat between the old carriage house and the main residence. The garden was a clever mix of stone walk areas and lush plantings that still slumbered under the cold March weather. A large circular fountain accented the center of the garden. An eight-foot tall maiden, rising out of the black tarn, cast her cold granite eyes upon them; her face shown sad for all those who passed.

  Frank considered walking around the side of the house to the front, but was surprised as the backdoor opened before they could ascend the steps to the large back porch. The wild hair of Armand Baptiste stood out in silhouette from the dim glow of the kitchen.

  “Bonjour! Bonjour! Come in, mon ami!” said Armand’s bushy white mustache.

  “Armand, how are you?” Frank said, shaking his hand and pretending to tidy his lapel. “Dapper as always.”

  Armand’s short, slight frame hid the physicality that Frank could feel in his gripping handshake.

  “Still toting boxes?” Frank asked.

  A twinkle lit Armand’s eyes that added magic to an already wizened face. “On occasion,” he said with a wry smile.

  “This is my friend Del. I hope we’re not disturbing you.”

  Armand’s bushy eyebrows danced. “No, no! It is so very nice to have a visitor now and then!” He waved his pipe over his head as if spinning a saucer on it. “Gets me out of my study, you know!”

  Armand led them into a large kitchen that was cluttered to no end with relics and artifacts of all types. The lingering smells of a late breakfast still hung in the air, mixing with a very recent bowl of pipe tobacco.

  Del thought Armand seemed at a loss with what to do with his new guests, and watched the curious man as he meandered around the large room touching random items.

  “Let’s see now…” Armand said as he turned in a slow circle, patting objects, “table… my what a mess, table… chair… pantry… yes of course, stove!” He pointed a triumphant finger at Frank. “Would you care for some tea?”

  Del arched an eyebrow, wondering about the odd little man Frank had insisted they see.

  “I ‘spect Del would love some,” Frank said, “but as for me…” He shrugged his big shoulders.

  “Ah, but of course. Brandy it is!” Armand said as he started another slow circle to piece together what was needed for brandy.

  Del watched in amusement as the impeccably dressed man walked around the kitchen, smoothing his smoking jacket and patting objects, playing a loose game of word association. His strong hands shot here and there with amazing dexterity, touching, straightening and patting objects. “Vase,” which sounded like Voz, “basin, let’s see now, basin… pitcher, ceramic, yes of course, cupboard!” He walked out of the kitchen into the foyer. “I moved the brandy to the sideboard!”

  Frank turned and saw the crossed arms and questioning look on Del’s face. He smiled broadly and gave her a wink and a nod, then followed Armand to the brandy station.

  As Frank and Armand chatted friendlies, Del gazed around the large parlor room to which they had moved. Late nineteenth century furniture was arranged in proper sitting areas. Large, dark paintings looked down from the ten-foot walls. Tiffany lamps and wall sconces cast warm, kaleidoscopic light toward the dark corners. The deep, rich feel of the room enveloped her as she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror, gaping at the room like Alice down the rabbit hole.

  She had never been in a room like this before, much less an entire house. She wanted to love the dark, rich wood and thick carpets, but tried to push them from her mind. Whatever house she could afford—more than likely a small apartment—would never look or feel like this one, so why think about it at all?

  “Now Frank, mon ami,” Armand said after a while, “what really brings you here? Is it that small package you have so carelessly wrapped and failed to acknowledge?” He tilted his head toward the book that sat next to Frank.

  “Dis…” Frank said, touching it lightly. “Yeah, dis is part of da reason.” He tapped his foot nervously on the floor, wondering how to start.

  Armand puffed on his pipe, eyes twinkling, as he watched Frank.

  “Well, it seems we got a… bone problem,” Frank started.

  Armand nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I have read about the poor souls. Squeezed right out of their eternal sleep, it seems.”

  “Yeah, well, some of ‘em ain’t been asleep long. And…”

  Armand stopped nodding.

  “And, der missin’ lotsa parts.”

  Frank went on to describe the three bodies he’d investigated, and the state that each was found in.

  “The head you say, was missing? How so?” Armand asked as he strolled the room, touching objects as if recording the strange story with a secret word association being passed into the objects.

  “Well, da arms and legs were torn off,” Frank said, “but we found em. And da head was… well, part of da head was der. Da back skull. But…”

  “Yes?” Armand asked, watching Frank intently.

  “But uh, da face was gone and da brains were missin’.”

  “Really?” Armand said, touching a bust of Pallas Athena, storing the brain part of the story there. “The brains were missing,” he told the bust quietly. “Cut out I suppose?”

  Frank shifted his girth on the couch and sipped his brandy. As the liquid courage warmed his belly he said, “No, I believe they were et out.”

  A shrewd look crossed Armand’s face as he turned from the bust. “And why do you think they were… et?”

  No one noticed that Del’s headache had seemed to return.

  “That skull was clean as a whistle. Almost like it’d been licked clean. And… looked like teeth marks on da part dat was left.”

  “What type of teeth marks?”

  “Big damn dog maybe. Can’t tell for sure. Whatever it was, it damn near bit through his arm before it ripped it off.”

  “And the other bodies,” Armand asked. “Were they… equally violated?”

  “Heads were gone, but da bodies were worse. And…”

  “Yes?”

  “And there were tracks. Hard to tell if they were animal or… or human in one case. They were kinda muddled together
.”

  “Fascinating,” Armand said as he walked absently out of the parlor.

  Del looked quickly at Frank and gave a What gives? shrug. Frank was hoisting himself off the couch when he heard, “Follow me please! Up, up, up!” from somewhere outside the room.

  Del and Frank walked out of the parlor just in time to see Armand disappear over the top of a long staircase that curved gracefully up to the second floor. The staircase originated from a large foyer that led to grand oak doors at the front of the house, and created a regal entryway that looked up to the room Armand was now in.

  Del was the first to the top of the stairs and looked on in amazement at the room in front of her. At the top of the stairs was a large half-circle room that overlooked the grand foyer they had just stood in. The large alcove was lined floor to ceiling with ornately carved bookshelves, also constructed in a large, half circle that followed the contour of the room. A librarian’s ladder hung from a metal track at the top of the shelves, which could be slid around from side to side to reach the uppermost ends. Part of the second-floor ceiling—floor to the third—had somehow been cut away and fashioned into an interior dome that rose to the third-floor ceiling, narrowing until it poked out of the roof. There, a stained-glass dome finished the structure, which allowed ghostly colors to muddle together and creep down the interior curves. A large working table sat in front of the shelves and was covered with old books, loose manuscripts and several candelabras.

  By the time Frank reached the top, Armand had already chosen several volumes from the shelves and was walking in a slow circle behind the table, stalking the final book. “Let’s see, flood of 1785… yes flood, city plans, yes, dyke plans,” he touched books seemingly at random, “no, not dyke plans… city, swamp… yes of course, Bayou Road!” he said triumphantly. “Have you ever heard the strange story of Dr. John?”

  Chapter 23

  Eddie wandered the streets in a sleep-like trance since waking late that morning in the cold alley on the wharf. He looked like any other junkie, dirty and stiff with cold. He walked like an old man, shuffling shoes of despair along the bumpy road of life; his youthful gait gone like a flash of pubescent dreaming.

  He saw the world in grays, blacks and blues, the colors of a bruise, permanent and abusive. He saw the detritus scutter about the streets and cling to his pants; he skittered with the trash.

  He felt a strange hollowness permeate his core. It could be described as hunger, but not of the stomach, of his entire being; his soul felt thin.

  He wandered for hours until a cold wind caused him to pull his wet jacket around his neck. There he felt the remnants of his rash, nearly gone, but what good would it do him now? Too little, too late, Eddie boy, he thought. What fucked up thing are you going to do next?

  With that thought, a raven flew out of the mist and landed on the branch of a tree that hung over a concrete wall. The rest of the branch draped into the St. Louis Cemetery #1. Eddie never saw the bird.

  Eddie remembered that he had asked Marie Laveau for help a few nights back in this cemetery. A lot of good that did.

  He shimmied through a side gate and looked left, then right. Something had drawn him in here, but he wasn’t sure what. He could ask Marie for help again, but he didn’t have anything to offer. He knew there were others he could ask for help, but once again, the unlucky ones like him didn’t have it when they needed it.

  The raven, sitting atop a high granite cross, pecked three times, sending an echo down one aisle. Eddie, hearing the echo, looked to where it came from.

  He walked down the narrow aisle as the raven silently lit atop another vault toward the back of the cemetery. It pecked three times on that granite stone, sending an echo bouncing around a corner toward Eddie.

  Eddie followed the new course and shuffled toward the back of the cemetery.

  Finally, the raven lit atop a very old vault, pecked three times and waited.

  Eddie slowly emerged from around the corner and gazed upon the vault. It sat in the last row of the cemetery, taking up more than twice the normal space and backed up to a large wall that separated the cemetery from a street. Wild vines grew out of the broken cobblestone and climbed the sides of the vault and over the wall. The raven flew to a tall baluster that protruded from the corner of the outer wall and watched Eddie closely.

  Eddie didn’t know why he was drawn to the vault, but he was. He walked up the three steps that led to the vault door and put his hands softly on the old granite. He thought he felt a slight vibration of life in the stone. Without hesitation, Eddie walked to the side of the vault, kicked off his shoes and climbed the old vines that led to the top. Once on top, he settled into a low crouch on the front corner of the vault roof. He began rocking slowly to an unheard tune; all the songs he would never sing. There, overlooking the cemetery, shrouded in a dense fog, Eddie waited.

  The raven eyed him once more; satisfied, it flew off through the fog.

  Chapter 24

  Josephine grumbled at her next set of chores. She’d just finished a six-hour shift at the boring reception desk. No loving couple today looking for a seventeen-year-old throw-away. As if there ever would be.

  She felt like her sad story only tainted her more. When people heard her story, they simply shook their heads politely, but then regarded her as something just less than a leper: druggy mother that always had the wrong guys around; parties with needles. Poor thing, she would hear some woman whisper, but who knows what she may have. Everyone would nod in agreement.

  Her story was nothing like that of Del’s. From the day Del had arrived, Josephine felt there was something about her; she held a mystique for Josephine and the nuns. The nuns pined over her in the beginning.

  Poor thing, they would say, such a tragic accident. Fire you know, loving parents, both killed trying to save their daughter, not knowing she had gone out the back. Yes, poor thing. Tragic. They must have really loved her. Terrible reminder, the scar and all. Yes, terrible. Poor thing.

  Josephine knew from the beginning that Del had a different aura about her. There was indeed something special in her. But from the moment Del had pushed her down to protect Jimmy, a spell was cast, and it was powerful. Josephine, being slightly younger than Del, didn’t know what it was at the time, but she knew now that it would never release her.

  Entering the girls’ shower area, she retrieved the bucket and mop from the cleaning station—which was nothing more than the first shower stall on the right, stuffed full of mops and brooms—and began filling the bucket with hot water. Sitting on a small bench, watching the steam roll out, she thought of the last time she saw Del before she’d left the orphanage. Wanting to make a clean break the morning of her release, Del had taken a late shower the night before. Josephine had waited for her on this very same bench, intending to tell her things.

  She had waited as the agonizing minutes ticked along, watching the steam roll up from Del’s own stall. She stood up just as the water went off, but froze at the sight of her languid movements as she walked out of the steam. Del seemed not to notice the spell she held over her, and simply walked to the mirror with towel in hand. Josephine said nothing. That image, and the fact that she had not told Del what she’d wanted to, had tortured her sleep ever since.

  Even Del’s scar held a mystique for Jo. As embarrassing and terrible as it was to Del, Jo thought it gave her an added sense of beauty in a rough and damaged sort of way.

  Kicking the bucket of soapy water, she felt her breathing increase as she silently cursed her inability to change her situation. She knew she would be out of the orphanage in another few months, but right now that was a lifetime. Del was finding her way in the world now, without her.

  She slowly rolled the bucket and mop out into the hallway and pretended to tend to her chores, all the while playing the shower scene over and over in her mind. After a few minutes of lackluster sloshing, she heard a sound that instantly set her nerves on edge. Jimmy the boy-wonder was headed her way, singin
g.

  “Owipop, owipop, oh, wow da owipop, owipop!” POP! He made a sound with his finger and cheek. “Owipop, owipop, oh, wow da owipop, owipop!” POP! He repeated immediately.

  When she saw Jimmy come around the corner, walking backwards of all things, her mind went red. How Del could stand up for the boy-wonder night after night was beyond her comprehension. Without thinking, she placed the mop in the bucket and sent it rolling silently down the hall toward Jimmy.

  Still walking backwards, counting ceiling tiles or something else equally as stupid, Jimmy sang, “Owipop, owipop—,” and stepped against the bucket, which sent him toppling over backward, spilling soapy water down the hall. “OWWW! I FEHW DOWN!” he yelled out, flailing around the slick floor.

  Josephine stood silently by the shower entrance until she heard Sister Eulalie storming down the hall. She quickly went in and flushed a toilet, waiting for the nun’s arrival. At the right moment she stepped out of the shower area into the hall and exclaimed her surprise at the mess Jimmy had made. Sister Eulalie already had Jimmy up by the collar and was hauling him off for his punishment.

  Josephine couldn’t guess at the degree of punishment, as it really depended on the Sister’s mood. The Dying Cockroach was a favorite she would give to the boys for mild transgressions; made to lie on their backs in the hallway, with their arms and legs straight up in the air, quivering from exertion. She wouldn’t make the girls do that because of their skirts, but the Chair Pose would work the legs just as hard. Of course, swats, hand slaps and pulled hair were dished out regularly, fast and efficient. But for the really bad ones, anything the Sister associated with an unclean soul, there was Sin Washing. Surely, she wouldn’t make Jimmy do that, Josephine worried.

  Chapter 25

  Frank and Del settled into a cozy sitting area in front of the working table. The area bordered the banister overlooking the foyer below and Del could see where they stood earlier if she craned her neck to look over the back of the couch. Frank sat in a large wingback chair and Del on the coziest oversized loveseat she had ever seen. Armand had lit a fire in the old fireplace that stood to the right of the giant bookcases on the side wall. It sat at the top of the curving staircase they’d just ascended. After tinkering with the flue damper to adjust the draw of oxygen across the fire, he wandered slowly behind the table, touching different objects as if gathering bits of the story in his mind. He puffed on his pipe and began.