by Sara Clancy
“Mommy’s here.”
Marigold tore out of the room and barrelled down the thin staircase. On the second flight, her blood-slicked hands slipped over the handrail and sent her tumbling the rest of the way to the landing. She ended up on her stomach, with her head spinning and her body screaming in protest. She tried to get up but only succeeded in curling her fingers against the wood. Liquid pooled under her. For one dizzying moment, she thought it was her own blood. But when she opened her eyes she saw water trickle down the stairs. Within seconds, it had become a torrent that pushed her across the floor.
A deep primal instinct took hold and forced herself to her feet.
Don’t stop. The water tried to trip her every step.
Run. The word screamed within her skull.
Run. Her muscles cramped and her legs buckled.
Run. It roared in her ears as she flung the door open and hurled herself into the night.
Chapter 9
Blood smeared the door each time Marigold smacked her hand against it. She couldn’t recall a single second of her sprint through New Orleans, although she was sure she had gone down streets that shouldn’t be travelled at night. Each pounded step had urged her to run faster, harder, and now the pain she felt in her legs and lungs let her know just how far she had gone. She slumped against the door, barely able to lift her hand to knock again.
The door opened. Louis was quick to catch her as the last of her strength dissolved. A few of his words were audible over her hysterical weeping, but not enough to understand what he was asking. He scooped her up, his touch as gentle as his voice, and carried her into his apartment. The tender embrace evoked her hunger for contact, ravenous after its starvation. If she had possessed the strength, she would have clung to him like a child. As it was, she pressed her face against his shoulder and only looked up when he began to lower her down onto his white sofa. Tightening her grip she shook her head hard enough to make her hair fan out.
It took some effort but she managed to croak out, “I’ll stain it.”
Louis’ stunned chuckle did more to soothe her than his touch had. She looked up to see his smile and for a few moments, her insides didn’t feel like they were twisted up in barb-wire. His attention turned from her and he called out across the room. Shock rocked her when she looked around his shoulder and saw a woman. For a moment, she mirrored back Marigold’s surprise, but at Louis’ probing she ducked out of sight for a moment and returned with a blanket. Her eyes never left Marigold as she spread it over the sofa. Still with his indulgent smile, Louis tried to lower her again. Her arms clenched until they shook. In her weakened state, he still could have easily pried her off, but instead, he settled down on the sofa and let her remain close. He repeated words numerous times but she didn’t want to listen. She just wanted to sit there and let the storm within her die.
Louis called back over his shoulder to someone she couldn’t see, “Can you call an ambulance?”
“No!”
Louis flinched at her sudden outburst but was quick to recover. He spoke of her blood, her wounds, how he wanted to make sure she was okay. But all that filled her head was what the visit would entail. Strangers enticing little snaps of pain when they pushed too hard. Stripping her down and photographing her as they struggled to make her relax. Recounting the event to police that would listen but couldn’t possibly believe. And then the questions of whether or not she had lost her mind.
“Please. I don’t want to go. Don’t make me go.”
“It’s alright, cher, we can stay right here. But the trade-off is that you let me have a look and make sure you’re okay.”
She sniffed and pushed her face against his shoulder. It was hard to nod in that position but he seemed to understand. Thrown head first into an adrenaline crash, Marigold was struck with both exhaustion and pain in equal measures. She was vaguely aware of Louis tending to her wounds, of him helping her shrug into a shirt that was soft and smelt like vanilla and frangipanis. Seconds from tumbling into sleep she remembered the woman in the kitchenette. Her head lulled as she turned to catch sight of her again. If he and the woman were related, it wasn’t by blood. Her skin held a slight tan. Not unpleasant but unremarkable. His reminded her of the rich earth that had surrounded her home, that had nurtured the flowers she had planted each spring. She didn’t share many of his features either, like the width of his nose or the slope of his chin. The distance between them didn’t hide that her eyes were the same shade of brown she would see repeated within any crowd. Louis’ weren’t so mediocre. They shone a unique shade that swam somewhere between hazel and green but never truly belonged to either. She didn’t know how long she had watched the woman, but her mind was wondering and her eyelids drooped.
“The boogieman is coming.”
Marigold struggled to open her eyes but could barely crack them open.
“Jasmine?”
“Come again, cher?”
“The boogieman is coming.”
A sudden, high-pitched scream sliced into her skull. She clamped her hands over her ears but it did nothing to dull the noise. It bellowed from within, a hellish shrill cry of an infant. All the while, Jasmine’s shrieked warning mingled in the noise. She burrowed into the sofa, seeking some kind of refuge from the onslaught and finding none.
***
Louis munched on the still warm bacon and idly wondered if Marigold was a vegetarian. It wasn’t common for a southern girl to deny meat, but while her blood might be southern, she sure wasn’t raised as one. The oven timer chimed, reminding him that she could at least have the biscuits. If she didn’t mind the buttermilk and bacon fat. A sweet, delicate aroma wafted out of the oven as he retrieved the pan. It mixed with the lingering scent of cooking bacon and he heard Marigold begin to stir.
A tangled mess of dishevelled crimson hair poked up from the other side of the sofa as he placed the oven pan on the kitchen island. Steam rose from the golden pastry to join the growing morning humidity. He might not understand exactly what had happened to her last night, but he knew not to push. So instead of asking one of the thousands of questions that he had bundled inside, he rested his forearms on the countertop and waited.
For a rather long time, nothing happened. Then she suddenly snapped onto her feet and looked around like a startled cat. Her attention finally focused on him but she didn’t seem to be calm. So he smiled, waved, and offered up the plate of bacon.
“Hungry?”
“Louis?”
“You’re getting closer. Not quite there, but there’s only so much you can do with that accident.”
He had hoped that her gaunt features were her natural state, instead of a side effect of supernatural suppression. That hope dwindled as her eyes focused on the bacon with a ravenous need. He dished out a generous serving of everything he had prepared and set the plate before one of the stools.
“I would have taken the couch but I didn’t want to disturb you. It seemed like you really needed the sleep.”
“You made breakfast.”
The words hovered somewhere between a question and a statement so he just held his smile and backed up slightly to rest against the kitchen counter. It left enough room for her to approach the food without feeling like she was nearing him. Timidly, she rounded the sofa and took her seat. She mumbled a ‘thank you’ before attacking the food.
“When was the last time you ate?”
Marigold only shrugged. He passed her the biscuits.
“Are those buns or scones?” she asked as she tore off an experimental bite.
Apparently, his response was no longer needed. She tore off large mouthfuls and barely chewed them before swallowing. He sipped his coffee. For a while, they remained in a pleasant silence, broken only by Marigold’s excited eating and quick gulps of water. Bit by bit he edged around the kitchen island and even managed to settle into the open seat without enticing any panic. But she did notice. Her bright eyes slid to keep constant track of his every movement.
/> Outside, life began to emerge and the sounds entered the room like a song. He listened to it as he finished his coffee and idly munched on a biscuit. More than an hour crept by in this limbo before Marigold turned to him.
“You really have no questions for me?”
“Oh, I have plenty. But I’m going to follow your lead, cher. We’ll get to everything eventually.”
She nodded, cupped her glass of water with both hands, and looked completely lost as to where to start. He took it as progress when, as she took in her surroundings again, she didn’t resemble a terrified animal.
“There was a woman here last night.”
“Ginny.”
He was pretty sure that she was attempting a casual shrug but it looked awkward and forced.
“Where’s Ginny?”
“Home, I suppose. Last night was our first date.”
“How did it go?”
It was clear that she regretted the question the second it was out but she seemed resigned to follow it through.
“It was fine. She’s very nice. But I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again.”
“Not because of me,” Marigold flinched. “I could talk to her. Let her know that you don’t normally get midnight visits from crazy ladies.”
“Well, that would be mighty kind of you, but a complete lie. This is actually the norm.”
“Huh?”
He tilted his mug in a silent offer to get her a coffee. There was a trace of frustration in her responding nod and he took the hint that he should elaborate.
“My family line is full of voodoo queens and powerful conjure doctors. When people in these parts have your kind of problem, they come to us. Generally, people reach their breaking points at night. Probably because the already thin wall between our world and the next weaken around three A.M.”
“My kind of problem?”
From his experience, people tended to handle this conversation a lot better when they had coffee. It was probably something to do with the normality of the act. To keep his midnight guests as comfortable as possible, he had collected a variety of sweeteners and flavored creamers that he now had neatly spread out over the countertop. She didn’t eye any of them as he handed her a half-filled mug. Despite the warmth of the day, she eagerly wrapped her fingers around mug like she was desperate for the heat.
“I think we’re past the point of denial,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me what you saw, not until you’re ready. But you do need to start admitting to yourself what is happening to you.”
“So you really think it’s supernatural?”
“So do you.”
As she settled once again into silence he felt brave enough to probe just a little.
“Cher, you ran past two police stations to get here.”
Licking her lips, she put the mug on the countertop. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, she just stared at him. “I was expecting more of an explanation. You know, something like how ghosts are actually disembodied energy or something fancy-sounding.”
He smiled and pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “If you want to get into the academia, we can discuss the numerous kinds of beings that fall under the ‘ghost’ umbrella. It’s actually rather fascinating if you’re interested.”
“I’m really not.”
“We can get into it later,” he said.
She took another sip and clutched the cup to her chest. It must have hurt, but she didn’t remove the hot porcelain that made her delicate skin flush an angry red.
“If the dead could come back, I’d have a lot more to worry about.”
“Excuse me?”
“Aunt Delilah told me that,” her words were hollow and her fingers tightened on the mug. “My parents . . . did things. Horrible things.”
“I know.”
She spun around to face him. “You do? How?”
“I have access to the internet.”
“Right.”
“And my family is kind of obsessed with yours.”
The mug clattered onto the countertop. “Why is that, exactly?”
Louis played with his glasses even though they were sitting perfectly in place.
“Voodoo places a focus on our ancestors. It keeps us connected to them, and I love it for that, but it does make it harder to shake off old grudges. Although to be fair, Delilah is pretty focused on the past as well.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Your family used to own numerous members of my family,” he said bluntly.
“Oh,” Marigold swallowed thickly before venturing, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s still a sore spot for a lot of my relatives, as you might have picked up on while meeting my mother.”
That provoked a small smile from her and what might have been a roll of her eyes if they weren’t so battered. It was enough for him to feel a slither of hope that she might still have some fight left in her.
“Do you know if anyone died in that house?”
“Of course, cher. In a town as old as New Orleans, it’s hard to find a house that someone hasn’t died in.”
“So, it might be a slave. The ghost. The one that’s haunting me,” she stammered over her words like she couldn’t get her mouth to work quickly enough for her thoughts. “I don’t know much about ghosts, but in campfire stories, they seem to get confused easily. Maybe they think I hurt them.” A bitter, breathy laugh escaped her as she lowered her eyes. “Not that people need to be confused to take their anger out on an easy target.”
“It’s possible.”
“So can I do a cleansing or something? Or do I have to find out who they are first?”
“A cleansing is always a good idea,” he said. “But it might not be the place itself that’s haunted.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last night, you weren’t on the property but it looked like you were experiencing something. If the house itself were haunted, the ghosts wouldn’t be able to come here.”
Her eyes widened and he could see fear flood into her eyes. “You think I’m haunted?”
“By something very strong. Not much gets through my Ma’s boundaries.” His hand twitched with the desire to reach out and touch her shoulder, to let her know she wasn’t alone, but since he didn’t know how she would react to the contact, he kept his hands on the counter. “I know it might seem helpless now, but remember that we’ve just started to fight back.”
“Fight back,” she said it like a foreign concept. “I haven’t actually seen it.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Since she had eaten a decent amount, he stood up and retrieved a notepad and pen from where he had left them on the counter. “We just need to get a game plan together. If you’re ready, I’d like you to tell me what has been happening to you.”
Chapter 10
It took a bit of encouragement, a dozen more biscuits, and a lot of patience, but he was finally able to get Marigold comfortable enough to talk. The stories started slowly at first. She was quick to force a laugh and correct herself, insisting that she was just being paranoid. He didn’t correct her and simply added the incident to the list. The reward for his silence was more stories. As the hours passed, her voice grew stronger and she shed her need to constantly dismiss the occurrences. By the time she was done, he had filled a few pages and a solid lump had formed in the pit of his stomach.
“Could,” she hesitated before she forced the question out, “Could it be my parents?”
“I don’t think so.”
She visibly sighed with relief. “Good. I barely know how I feel about them right now, I don’t think I could take them haunting me as well.” Her brow furrowed. “Wait. Why don’t you think it’s them?”
“The first shadow figure you saw.” During his writing, his glasses had slipped down his nose and he used the end of the pen to push them back up. “It actually ties into a theory that some of my r
elatives have had for a while.”
“What theory? About my family?”
The great thing about the darker tones of his skin was that it hid his nervous blushes rather well.
“Apologies, cher, but there are a few theories about your family.”
“Your family really is obsessed,” she said into her mug.
“Oh, it’s not just us; the La Roux family is a major draw for most people within the paranormal society. And murder buffs.”
“What the heck is with my family?” Coffee barely managed to stay in the mug as she flung her arms wide.
“Heck?”
“I stand by my word choice. Shut up.”
He held up his hands as if to fend her off, “I’m not making fun of you. It’s a fine word choice. You might make a decent southern belle yet.”
“Shut up.”
“No, no, cher. It’s ‘bless your heart’.” His smile grew as she playfully glared at him. “A true southern belle lets her tone express her mood.”
He discovered that she was rather talented at faking smiles. “Bless your heart.”
“That was actually impressive. I got chills.”
The constant fog of paranoia that hung around her finally began to lift. He didn’t want to see it come back down, but couldn’t really risk stalling this conversation any longer. The spectre’s increasing violence didn’t allow them much time.
“Has Delilah told you much about your family’s history?”
Her shoulders hunched instantly. “No.”
“Okay, La Roux 101 it is. Would you like the relaxed version or the version I have to say to tourists five nights a week?”
