Mona Livelong

by Valjeanne Jeffers

  Dem WMU crazy as a flock of loons.

  Still holding the knife, he walked to his study, to the brass-lined bookcase centering the room. He pushed the right side of the bookcase, and it swung open to reveal a dark windowless room. Burr stepped inside and the bookcase swung closed behind him.

  He’d picked this house because the former tenants, Auroral Lachette and Jude Javert, were rumored to have dabbled in sorcery. Four months ago, they’d vanished without a trace. This added mystery and notoriety to the house and also lowered the price. But Burr didn’t care about the coins. Once he knew the history of the mansion, he had to have it. And he’d found a wealth of occult literature, and more, inside the house.

  A glowing half-circle, painted on the floor of the chamber had been left by the previous owners. A high-backed chair lined with velvet was the only piece of furniture in the room. Burr reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out a wooden match. He fumbled about in the darkness, found the oil lamps affixed to the wall, struck the match on the wall and lit them.

  On the floor beside the chair was a book of symbols and chants. It was from this book that he’d first learned what the half-circle meant. It was the symbol of chaos, the symbol of humanity always at war with itself ... and designed to grant power to the supplicant. There were pictures too and strange names. The Reviled: here were images of a powerfully muscled daemon covered with green scales, his eyes like black pebbles. Golden talons glittered on his fingers and toes (Geth). Beside him sat a withered, blue daemon with the head of a hawk; black eyebrows curled upward to frame his bald crown; the talons of his hands and feet were silver (Paltus) … There was a depiction of a dark entity with a cruel arrogant face (Tehotep) … and a picture of blue-eyed fair-skinned daemon with long kinky hair (Hek-teon). Looking down at the book, Burr was filled with excitement.

  Daddy always said—Burr shut his eyes tightly and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He licked the blood away. He didn’t want to think about his father. Not now. Not ever.

  He wanted …? Power to be free. To live how I want.

  Burr took the book and dragged it inside the circle. He knelt and held his arm over it, cutting into his forearm, so that blood dripped on the pages.

  And spoke the mantra, “Transformai edivai, transformai edivai ... that which is whole, let it be broken, that which is pure, let it be defiled.”

  Nothing happened.

  A groan of anguish escaped his mouth. Tonight would be like every other night, like every other empty spell he’d cast. His eyes filled with tears.

  Against the backdrop of the wall facing him ghostly entities appeared, their faces hidden, except for the red eyes gazing at him with great interest. Henry felt his bowels loosen. When he could speak, he opened his mouth to ask—to beg—for what he wanted.

  A basso profundo voice spoke, “Your sacrifice is accepted.”

  The chamber disappeared. A vortex of wind tore through the chamber hurling the chair against the wall. The tome’s pages turned rapidly— almost viciously. It rose in the air and hung there. Abruptly, the wind died, and the book dropped to the floor.

  A door appeared in his wall.

  It swung open to reveal an alien city. Through the doorway, Henry spied twin moons nestled against one another in a violet sky.

  See what you have wrought.

  ____

  Chapter 2: The Vanishing Child

  It was a balmy afternoon, and school was out for the summer. The children milled about the copper-lined counter, ranging in age from eleven to five. Black, brown, pink and tofu-colored, their giggles rising in a cacophony of anticipation while Elconia, a slender caramel-hued woman with a wide face and large eyes, pried grape juice popsicles from an ice tray, shaved sticks protruding from each one.

  “Hold on now,” Elconia looked down at them, “I got one for everybody.” She placed a popsicle into each waiting hand. “The ice cream will be ready in a minute.” One girl of ten with large eyes, thick pigtails, and caramel-brown skin like her mother, lingered in the kitchen.

  The woman turned and walked over to the low stool behind a short barrel with an upright handle. She sat and pushed the handle up and down. Inside the barrel, peach ice cream churned.

  Isis sidled up to her mother licking her popsicle, not minding the purple drops that fell onto her daisy print sundress. Elconia looked over at her and smiled. “What you want, Sweet Pea?”

  “Is that hard?” Isis asked, watching her mother work the handle up and down.

  “A little, but I take breaks.” She screwed the top off the barrel, revealing the creamy peach ice cream; beneath it lay a layer of rock salt. “It’s almost ready.”

  Isis grinned. “Peach is my favorite.”

  Elconia’s eyes twinkled. “I know.” She screwed the top back on and resumed working the handle. “Wanna help me serve?”

  Isis nodded eagerly, “Yes, ma’am.” She finished off her popsicle in one bite. Her mother dragged the barrel to the counter, and her daughter followed, tossing her stick into the trash bin beside the counter.

  Elconia placed wooden spoons before Isis. “I’ll put the ice cream in the cups, and you put in the spoons.” When they’d finished, Elconia handed her a cup. “Go tell ‘em it’s ready.”

  Isis went to the door and shouted, “Ice cream’s ready!” The children came running, and Elconia passed out cups of ice cream.

  “Come on Isis,” Fiona, a tall darker girl of twelve said. Isis followed her cousin outside.

  Elconia went to the door. “Y’all don’t go far!”

  “Yes ma’am,” they said in unison. They walked through the grass fronting the houses. There were forty

  single-story apartments curling around to encircle the lawn. The complex was clean, and the flats built close together so that each unit shared a wall with its neighbor.

  Two years ago, Elconia had fled her husband’s fists and feet with Isis and returned to her mother, Margaret. Margaret, now dying of cancer, lay in her bedroom, heavily sedated against the pain. A year later Fiona, whose parents were drug addicts, had joined their little family. Her parents had dropped her off one night and disappeared. And Elconia, in the way of black extended families, informally adopted her. She supported them all by taking in laundry and sewing jobs.

  Isis paused, gazing toward the end of the row of houses. Past the little complex sat a solitary house covered with creeping vines. Unlike the trimmed lawns of the other homes the grass fronting this house was wild and unkempt. Slender branches of foliage touched the roof.

  Fiona ran over to her and followed her gaze. “We goin’ tonight?” Isis whispered. Whenever she mentioned the house, or even thought about it, she felt the need to whisper.

  Fiona grinned, her face alit with curious mixture of anticipation and fear. “Yeah.”

  ——

  At ten o’clock, Isis awoke to Fiona shaking her. “Isis, you woke?”

  “Uh-huh ...” Isis mumbled.

  “Your mama’s sleep—come on!”

  “Okay ...” Isis pushed aside her comforter and jumped out of bed. Anticipation made her suddenly wide awake. She slipped on her shoes and robe.

  Fiona took her hand, and they crept out of the bedroom they shared, down the hallway and out the door. Hand-in-hand, the two ran down the cobblestones to the house at the end of the row. Fiona and Isis joined the dozen children already gathered before the house, staring at the sight before them, their eyes as wide as saucers.

  A woman stood in the yard illuminated by the moonlight. She was covered from head to ankle with a white sheet. Beneath her bare feet lay a swatch of dead grass.

  The woman’s name was Ethel, and she’d lived in the house for as long as anyone could remember. Some of the elderly folks in the neighborhood whispered that she’d went crazy and killed her husband. She’d spent five years in the chain gang for the crime, before returning to her home in Clearwater.

  Ethel rarely emerged from her house, and whenever her neighbors saw her, her clothing
was ragged, and her hair uncombed. Nobody knew how she survived, since no one ever saw her buy groceries, but she made the adults in the community nervous. They steered clear of her and warned their children to do the same. She was a crazy old woman, a murderess and, though she kept to herself, most likely dangerous.

  But for the children she was much, much more. A ghost and a witch. Perhaps both. Twice a week they gathered to stare at her. Ethel was like a horror play, only better because she was real. They gazed up at Ethel, terrified and yet filled with giddy excitement.

  A scream rose from the sheet—a ragged, undulating scream—more like the cry of a wounded beast than a human being. The children scattered.

  One inhumanely long arm extended from the beneath the sheet. Its clawed hand grasped Isis.

  “FIONA!” Isis cried.

  Fiona whirled to see her cousin lifted in air. “Naw!”

  ——

  Isis appeared in Henry’s chamber. She opened her mouth wide and screamed and screamed.

  ——

  “They coming Cheri, n’est-ce pas? But I can’t help you. Not yet.” It was the seductive baritone she knew so well … and then, the smell of cigar smoke. Papa Twilight. Moments later, a child’s terrified screams split the night …

  In the darkness, Mona and Curtis opened their eyes, her cries echoing in their ears.

  ______

  Chapter 3: The Case

  A melody of violins and guitar drifted through the open window. Mona opened her eyes and looked over at the sleeping brown-skinned man beside her. She rose from the brass bed, a tall, slender dark woman with short wavy hair, a wide nose, and full lips, slipped a robe over her camisole and sauntered down the hallway. Mona opened her front door and picked up the town paper. Last month, she’d taken out a weekly ad to pick up cases.

  Mona walked back down the hallway to the kitchen. She tossed the paper on the countertop, took a match from beside the stove and struck it on the wooden countertop. She lit her gas stove and started coffee brewing. The dark woman opened her coldbox (blocks of ice kept the food from spoiling, and the water dripped into a tray beneath it) and took out strawberries, sliced melon and cheese pastries and placed them on the counter.

  The last three months had been good for her. Curtis had quit the Constabulary force and gone to work as a private investigator. He’d given up his house, while he built up his reputation as a PI, and moved back in with his parents. But whenever he could afford a train ticket, he came to visit her. Mona pulled two plates from the cupboard and stacked fruit and pastries on each one. Yes, things were good with them. Quiet too, here in Clearwater. But since the election of Shirley Mekins, a black woman, as governor the killing of people of color by Constables had escalated. Just this week in Monterrey, a young man, barely twenty, had been gunned down.

  How many is that now? Ten? Fifteen?

  It made her sick at heart and so angry that she couldn’t remember, that they’d become so frequent she couldn’t keep up. She and Curtis were taking the train to Monterrey this weekend to participate in a demonstration to protest the killings. Two of their contacts, Simone and Richard Starks, had found evidence that white supremacists had infiltrated the Constabulary. Even more disturbing was the possibility that both the mayor and the district attorney were behind it, despite the fact that white nationalist propaganda and activity were both illegal in North America.

  The sound of Curtis’s footsteps behind her pulled her back to the present. He pressed his body close to hers and kissed her cheek. “Good morning.” His voice held the light flavor of a Haitian accent.

  “Good morning,” Mona replied.

  Curtis Dubois had dark eyes, skin the color of brown sugar and a lean muscular build. His hair was cut low and he sported a thin mustache. He walked over to the coffee pot and fixed them both cups of coffee. He set one on the breakfast bar for her and sat down with his own cup. Mona set his plate in front of him and perched on the stool with her breakfast.

  Curtis unfurled the paper. “Harold sent me a post last week. He’s got a new partner.”

  Mona took a bite of her pastry. “Does he like him?”

  Curtis chucked. “Her,” he sipped his coffee. “And he can’t stand her. I should stop by and holler at him. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  The shared nightmare lay between them. A silent, worrying presence. And they were making small talk to avoid it. Curtis flipped through the paper. “Sa ki lanfè a? Simone’s been murdered!”

  “Simone Starks?”

  “Look at this.” He handed her the paper.

  Mona quickly skimmed the article. She looked up at him. “I can’t imagine how Richard is dealing with this.”

  “I know it hit him hard,” Curtis said. “Simone was all the family he had left.”

  Their lighthearted mood had fled. Neither one said it, but they were both thinking the same thing. Another murder. Another life lost in the rising death count. This time an activist. Somebody they’d known, somebody they’d liked. They finished eating in silence.

  The sound of a doorbell tinkled through the house. Mona had the pulley attached to a bell at the top of her office door; customers only had to pull the lever above the doorknob. It was loud enough to be heard in both the adjoining edifices. Being self-employed meant times could be tight. She didn’t want to miss out on any clients.

  Curtis looked up and frowned. “You expecting somebody?”

  Mona shook her head. “No.” She rose, belted her robe around her waist and walked down the hallway. She stood before the door for a moment pushing her magical antenna beyond it, searching for malevolent energy. She’d placed protective wards about house. But an enemy could break through. If he, or she, had the right tools.

  Mona opened the door. A caramel-colored woman in her mid-thirties with braided hair wearing a knee-length dress with petticoats stood in front of her office door. She held a drawstring purse, and her large eyes were red and swollen from crying. A chocolate-colored girl with shoulder-length pigtails, thin and tall for her age, stood beside her. She’d obviously been crying too.

  “Good morning,” Mona said. “May I help you?”

  “My name’s Elconia, Elconia Stamps. This here’s my niece,” her voice was low and hoarse, “My little girl is missing.” The woman stood rigidly and seemed to be controlling herself by sheer will.

  “I’m Mona Livelong, come in please.” Mona walked over and opened the drapes behind the couch. “Have a seat. Can I offer you something?”

  Elconia and the child sat down. “No, thank you.”

  Mona smiled down at the little girl. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Fiona,” her dull voice was just above a whisper.

  “Are you hungry, Fiona?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She’s in shock. They both are.

  Mona sat down in the armchair across from them, on the other side of a low wooden table. A paper scroll, and feathered pen inside an inkwell sat atop the table, along with hand-cut business cards. “Tell me what happened?”

  “A woman, one of my neighbors, she took Isis. I knew what Ethel was, but I didn’t expect this. I didn’t…” She patted the little girl’s hand. “Tell her what happened.”

  Fiona began speaking in a whispery voice, “We sneaked out to watch Miss Ethel... me and Isis. We go most every night to watch her ... She had a sheet over her head … like she does every night … And then … then her arm reached out of the sheet—it was so long!” Her voice rose in a sob, “Miss Ethel grabbed Isis—she grabbed her … I wanted to stop her … I wanted to help …” Fiona broke down, sobbing.