Dreamwalker

by Russell James

  Jean stood and faced her. “You are the most powerful priestess. Everyone says so. Who better to learn from?”

  “I need no apprentice,” she said. “And would never take on a boy. Especially a boy like you.”

  “Like me?”

  “I see what is in your heart. You seek communion with the loa for all the wrong reasons.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Seventeen and on your own?” Celanie said. “No family, no friends visit you? That raises some suspicions. So I asked around. I know about your parents.”

  Jean bristled. At age eight, his parents were murdered by the Tonton Macoute. Every Haitian knew to fear the organized gang of street thugs that ruled Port-Au-Prince’s lawless streets. Six machete-wielding members smashed through the front door of the St. Croix house in the dead of the night and slaughtered them.

  “The city is of full of orphans,” he said.

  “But not one’s with souls that shelter so much darkness. Vengeance bubbles inside you. I can smell it on your breath.”

  “And why not?” Jean answered. “Alfred Marc Dési’s men killed my parents. Hacked them to death in the room next to mine. Why shouldn’t he pay for that crime?”

  “And you are the judge and jury to decide?”

  “I am the victim who should decide.”

  “The loa help, they do not hurt. They provide insight, guidance. What I do cannot help you.”

  Jean stepped forward and placed both hands on the window sill. He looked down on the much smaller woman.

  “But if you called the petra loa…”

  Celanie recoiled with a fierce look of contempt. The petro loa were evil demons who possessed the strongest magic, and had no qualms about using it.

  “The petra loa,” she spat. “Only a fool calls on them. It is like unleashing a hurricane. The power will sweep you away before you know what is happening. Once you open their box, they do as they wish.”

  “Not you,” Jean pleaded. “Your magic is strong. I’ve seen you work. They would listen to you. Dési is evil.”

  “Enough,” Celanie said. She pointed a gnarled, arthritic finger at Jean. “You will gather up your things and leave. Now. You invite danger you cannot comprehend. Don’t come around here again. If you do, I won’t need to call the petra loa. I have more than enough human friends who will teach you a lesson.”

  She slammed the window shut.

  He packed his tools and parts into a milk crate on the rack of his moped. As he feared, she didn’t understand. How could she? She didn’t watch her parents get senselessly butchered, cases of mistaken identity. He rolled the bike around to the front of her house.

  But it was more than that. She was old and weak. He was young and strong. She didn’t want to admit he could handle powers she no longer could. He’d use the bokor, the shadowy side of voodoo magic, and become a high priest with powers to eclipse hers. That was her real fear. Loa, petra loa. All the same thing, just spirits. He’d seen her control the loa enough times. He could control their darker brethren.

  He cast a glance over his shoulder at Celanie’s front door as he kick-started his bike. The old woman stood there, fire in her eyes, spindly arms crossed across her bony chest.

  If she thinks this matter is settled, she’s in for a rude awakening, he thought.

  That night, Jean returned to Celanie’s house one last time. While she was out, he rooted through her talismans and gathered into a paper bag the elements for a summoning ceremony. Perhaps when this was all over, he’d thank her for these donations to his cause. He snuck out and pushed his moped several blocks in the dark before starting it. He headed to the site for his ceremony.

  He’d found the perfect location, a burned and abandoned farmhouse on the city’s edge. He wouldn’t have the opportunity to learn more from Celanie, but what more was there for him to learn? The only difference between a ceremony that called a petra loa instead of a loa was preceding the summons with a live sacrifice.

  Jean stole a black chicken on the way to the farmhouse and stuffed it in a burlap rice bag. The clear sky and three-quarters moon lit the passing landscape in a faded half-light. He killed the moped’s lights. The last mile and the turn up the driveway passed in darkness.

  Searching the petra loa pantheon, Jean had decided to call Cauquemere, a spirit who traveled the world of nightmares. Cauquemere could spin nightmares so horrid that people had died of fright during them. Rumor was that, with his intercession, what manifested itself in a dream would also manifest in real life. A plague of boils in a woman’s nightmare would truly cover her body in the morning, or a man dreaming his legs were severed would wake up to find himself in three unequal pieces. Such a spirit could penetrate the defenses of Marc Dési undetected.

  At the house’s open threshold, Jean paused. Once he crossed to the room he’d chosen for the ceremony, there’d be no turning back. Celanie’s warnings echoed in his memory. The sound of his parent’s final, pleading screams at the hands of the Tonton Macoutes drowned her out. He carried his two sacks into the farmhouse.

  Darkness blanketed the stinking urine-soaked corners of the house. Jean extracted two tapered black candles from the paper bag. He lit them and placed them around him in the room’s center.

  He took a baggy of salt and surrounded the candles and himself with a thin white circle. The priestess always performed this protective measure to shield herself from the loa when she summoned them. They couldn’t cross salt. People who had been possessed by demons often mutilated themselves, the spirit within forcing them to deliver one more sacrifice. Jean was here to become Cauquemere’s master, not his vessel.

  He placed a small hand mirror against one of the burning tapers. A mirror was Cauquemere’s portal into the world, his periscope from which he could view this parallel universe. Jean pulled a stick of incense from the bag and held it over the flickering candle flame. The orange fire licked the edge until it smoldered and sent a thin gray wisp into the air. Jean blew softly on the tip of the stick. It glowed red. He set the incense aside and the sweet smell of ivy and resin filled the room.

  Jean took a deep breath, drawing the recognizable scent into his lungs. Celanie used this scent often. The smell’s familiarity calmed him.

  He pulled the terrified chicken from the rice sack. It squawked and flapped its wings in protest. He grabbed it by the neck and twisted its head clean off. The decapitated bird struggled in his arms. Blood pumped from the neck and Jean sprayed it within the salt circle. The chicken went limp and he threw the carcass aside into the darkness.

  He pulled his ultimate talisman from the sack, Celanie’s wand. The crooked cypress stick was barely six inches long, the twisted tip of a dead branch, shellacked with a fine, glossy sheen.

  He tapped the small mirror with the wand’s tip.

  “Cauquemere,” he invoked. “My enemy is Alfred Marc Dési, who deserves just punishment. So that you can come forth in his dreams these next seven nights, I free you through this mirror.”

  The wand trembled in his hand. He gripped it harder, but it moved of its own volition. He looked into the mirror and the reflected shadows shifted. They swayed back and forth in the frame, as if blown by a breeze. Then the shadows began a slow counterclockwise rotation, blending into one dark, spiraling mass.

  Jean sensed a presence. Not in the room yet, but very close. Stronger than he thought it would be. Much stronger. His pulse accelerated.

  “No problem,” he assured himself. “You can do this.”

  “Cauquemere,” Jean said, voice cracked with fear. “Make Alfred wither in pain, fear, and illness. Make his nightmares become reality.”

  Power filled the room, a mushrooming charge of static electricity. The wand shook violently in his hand, as if it would float in the air if released. A hurricane-like cloud of darkness swirled in the mirror , strong and destructive, ready
to roar ashore.

  The glass in the mirror pulsed back and forth, heaving to escape the confines of the frame. The powerful, malevolent force beyond the mirror’s glass beat against the glass.

  The wand shook Jean’s arm all the way to his shoulder. He checked the protective ring of crystals around him. His heart skipped a beat as he realized his mistake.

  He sat inside the circle of salt with the summoning mirror, not outside. The ring that should protect him from the petra loa instead trapped him with it.

  The mirror shattered outward. A smoky, roiling mass blew from the frame and struck Jean square in the chest. A dark consciousness, rotten, rank, and evil, seeped into him through every pore. He struggled to push back the invader.

  A final surge of wicked force washed into his mind. A thousand visions of unspeakable torture and violent death flashed before him.

  Jean St. Croix winked out of existence.

  Cauquemere had yearned for this moment, this opportunity to cross from the world of the loa to the tactile world of human perception. He had walked in this world many times, but always enslaved by some voodoo practitioner, as a dog on a leash. Now he roamed as a wolf, free to travel within the shell of Jean St. Croix. He’d no longer endure a patient wait for the call of some priestess to let him momentarily taste the sweet sights and smells of the waking world. Masquerading as St. Croix, he wouldn’t attract the attention of the few who had the skills to send him back to his reality. While he already ruled there, with one foot in each reality, he could rule both.

  With full possession of St. Croix, Cauquemere left just enough of the foolish child alive to run the body at rest. By daylight, he walked the tactile world as Jean St. Croix. But when St. Croix slept, Cauquemere’s consciousness returned to the reality of the petra loa and the unlimited power he exercised there. So thrilled with his newfound alter ego, he even adopted the appearance of St. Croix in his nightmare creations.

  While as St. Croix, stripped of his magic abilities, he discovered the source of human power. Fear and force. Unencumbered by the weaknesses of compassion and morality, he could build an empire that rivaled the one he commanded on the loa plane. But not in Haiti. Opportunities were limited on the small island, but dangers were not. The farther he was from masters of the voodoo arts, the less likely his discovery. He needed a richer, softer target, where force would not so easily be met with force, where the powers of voodoo were unknown and could be wielded without warning. He needed to cross the Atlantic to America. The United States seemed to have an unlimited supply of black market capital and insatiate vices.

  He travelled to America and over the next decade, he built Island Cabs from a two-car operation into a ubiquitous sight on the streets of Atlantic City. Heroin was the high-paying passenger, smuggled in by ship from Afghanistan, and only sold to trusted men, and only within the confines of his electronically shielded cabs.

  Cops got suspicious, but St. Croix kept a tight rein on the operation, minimizing the number of officers he needed on the take. Anyone who compromised security or broke the slightest rule, knew that The Chair awaited them. The threat of The Chair made almost everyone careful. For those few who were not, Cauquemere had treasures from the world of nightmares to share with them.

  After Manuel’s visit to The Chair, it was time for Cauquemere to return to the other world, his world, where dreams were reality and his power absolute. He had groundwork to prepare there, a foundation on which to build the great events about to surround Island Cabs.

  St. Croix laid the bloody tire iron back on his desk and sat down behind it. He propped his shiny alligator boots up on the desktop. He licked his thumb, leaned forward, and wiped a spot of red liquid from the toe. He buffed it with the cuff of his shirt and admired the shine. Then St. Croix leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He relaxed, drifted off to sleep, and delivered Cauquemere back to the land of living nightmares.

  Chapter Eight

  When Pete Holm’s shift finally ended, the new day was over an hour old. He had been awake over twenty hours and the last seven had been steamy, wet, and hectic. He took a wickedly hot shower on autopilot and collapsed into bed. A tidal wave of sleep swept over him. It pushed him down in a happy passage to his ever-active dream world.

  Pete arrived back on the mansion ground floor. After an alienating day in Atlantic City, he welcomed the familiar sense of home and the inner peace the mansion always brought.

  He remembered the screaming gray monster from his last visit to the plantation house. The shattered sunroom windows, the tropical plants exposed to the elements. He caught his breath and ran down the hallway. He burst into the sunroom.

  All the glass was in place, gentle filters for the pale yellow sun of a beautiful spring day. The alabaster marble floor reflected the white clouds that passed above. Along the right side, the peace lilies’ full white teardrop blooms nodded in his direction. Orchids dripped with color and the air smelled of honey.

  Pete exhaled. Through the wonders of the subconscious, no harm done.

  He left the sunroom and walked down the hallway. He stopped almost immediately. A new recess in the polished wood floor hosted a large iron ring. An unnatural wide gap between the boards created a three-foot square around the ring.

  A trap door?

  The mansion had never had a basement before. This would be fun. Pete reached down, grabbed the trap door’s ring, and pulled.

  The heavy door came up with a loud creak. A hand-forged iron chain held the door open just past vertical. A rush of cool, humid air delivered the mixed scents of mold and earth. A set of rough wooden steps led down into the dimly lit passage.

  Pete looked down into the gloom, hesitant to enter this uninviting subterranean hallway. The pull kicked in again, the same pull that dragged him off campus yesterday, the same pull that drove him west into the down-and-out side of Atlantic City. And now it pulled him down, away from the calming mansion, warmth, and daylight. He took a deep breath.

  The steps led to a narrow passageway hewn from the earth, barely wider than his shoulders. The walls bore the irregular scars of hand excavation but smooth hard-packed clay covered the floor. Looser earth made up the ceiling. Stray black root tips poked down at intermittent intervals. Burning white candles protruded from the walls every twenty feet. Dripping wax formed small, dry puddles under each one. The passageway stretched on with no end in sight.

  The pull tugged him forward. He rubbed his damp palms against his jeans.

  A hundred yards in, a rumble echoed from the tunnel’s far end. Pete’s heart jumped and he slowed his advance. With each step, the noise became more distinct. It was the ear-splitting sound of loud, unmuffled car engines.

  The passageway ended with a sharp right turn, then a sharp left, a small “S” that kept the exit out of sight. Pasty, artificial light lit the mini-maze from the far end. Pete crept along the wall to the exit and found himself behind several boulders. Night had swallowed the mansion’s spring day. A dark, starless sky spread out above. Twin moons hung low on the horizon, one darker than the other.

  Pete had never dreamed of this place before. It sent a chill up his spine.

  He climbed atop the boulders. A city street ran past. The rain-slicked asphalt shone in the moonlight. Two- and three-story brick brownstones, or what was left of them, lined the street. Nearly all the windows in the structures had been blown out and the few doors still attached hung wide open. Some walls had gaping, ragged holes blasted in them. Common elements of daily life littered the street. Shattered furniture, bits of clothing, a crushed toy truck. A rank odor of bloating carcasses lay heavy in the air. Amazingly, the streetlights all blazed.

  Pete paused in confusion. Adventure dreams segued to the mansion, but mansion dreams never…

  “Hurry, we need to get moving,” a voice whispered from his left.

  He recognized the voice at once. He turned and saw Dream
Girl.

  She looked rougher than when they last met in the zoo. Her blonde hair was pulled back tight and the resulting pony tail pinned up. Worn, dirty black jeans hung loose at her hips. The cuffs of her denim shirt’s long sleeves were reduced to shreds. Shadows darkened the undersides of her eyes and streaks of dirt lined her face. She still looked beautiful.

  As with any dream, Pete just waded into the action.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  The roar of an engine thundered from a side street. Dream Girl grabbed his hand and pulled.

  “Across the street. Hurry!”

  They ran. Two headlights rounded the corner and turned toward them. The silhouette looked like a Jeep, but with some type of modifications. Pete hit the porch steps of the nearest brownstone just one stride behind Dream Girl. The Jeep’s headlights lit their silhouettes against the building. A high-pitched, evil cackle rolled down the street and the engine went full throttle. Pete and Dream Girl dove headfirst through the front doorway.

  She rolled expertly across the trash strewn floor, ending up back on her feet. Pete looked up in admiration from his prone position. She reached down and pulled him up by his collar.

  “Don’t stop now,” she said. “This way!”

  She turned left and darted through a hole in the building wall. He caught a flash of Dream Girls’ running shoe disappearing through a similar size hole in the wall of the neighboring building. Pete followed her through.

  This brownstone was a mirror image of the one they left and in no better condition. The contents looked as if they’d been through a blender. Weapons fire had julienned what remained of the furniture. Pictures with cracked and broken frames lay on the floor like the owners’ photographic tombstones. Bullet holes the size of silver dollars pockmarked the walls. Dream Girl leaned against the front wall and peered through the remnants of a bay window. Pete crawled up alongside her.