by Lia Davis
She stifled a scream.
Dear God! What’s happening?
The woman who stared back at her had rich, ebony skin and jade green eyes that shimmered like the ocean. She wore a ruby red dress with a daring décolletage and a cinched bodice. Her breasts, barely contained, threatened to spill out.
The longer Harper stared at the woman, the more entranced she became, melting into the emerald eyes that held her gaze, losing herself in the tiny brown flecks that floated within the green sea of her irises.
No longer aware of Clay sleeping soundly in her bed, no longer aware of the here and now, Harper drifted away from the world she knew. When the drifting ended, she had transformed into the beautiful slave girl, Ophelia.
Ophelia choked back tears as she sprinted through the slave quarters toward the small barn-sided cabin she shared with Mammie Odette. Clutched to her bosom was a scarlet gown. Only when she was safely inside the cottage did she let her tears flow free.
Mammie, round as a whiskey barrel and not much taller, wrapped her massive arms around Ophelia and pulled her close.
“What’s wrong, child?” she cooed.
Ophelia kissed her cheek, then pulled away and threw herself across the bed. She lay face-down on one of Mammie’s patchwork quilts. Ophelia rolled over, grabbed the gown by its shoulders and spread it out beside her on the bed. It was made of crimson satin, styled off the shoulder with a black lace plunging neckline and fitted bodice.
“Lawd!” Mammie gasped. “Where’d you get such a vile thing?”
Ophelia sat upright and rubbed away her tears. Her chest heaved and her breath came in short, ragged bursts. She struggled to slow her breathing. When she was able to speak, she said, “Massa Judd gave it to me to wear tonight at the Halloween Ball. He said it wouldn’t do to have me ruin the party wearing my raggedy livery clothes.”
“Did he, now?” said Mammie, folding the dress over her arm. She sat beside Ophelia, stroking her long dark hair. “Don’t you fret none. Mammie gonna take care of this.” She struggled to her feet and hobbled to the door, the gown still in hand. “You get yourself washed up for tonight, baby. I won’t be gone long.”
Ophelia poured a small amount of water into the tarnished wash basin and scrubbed her face with a cotton cloth, her thoughts never straying far from the lecherous slave master, Buford Judd.
His hooded eyes constantly followed her, watching, leering. When he smirked at her, she saw a spark of madness in those eyes. He stank of whiskey, smoke, and sweat. Short and thick, with occasional wisps of hair that shot from his head like alfalfa sprouts, she would have imagined him mucking stalls or hawking tonics for a living.
But she’d learned early on that his looks were deceiving. He was anything but weak. Although Judd was illiterate, Mister McKinnon had let him take charge of the field hands. He ruled them with an iron fist and McKinnon was pleased with their output. Over the years, a few of them had gone missing in the middle of the night. Judd would say they‘d run off, though she knew that wasn’t so. He was a man to be feared. And while his desire for her was obvious, Ophelia knew down deep inside Massa Judd hated her because Mr. McKinnon had taught her to read.
She knew how fortunate she was; most slave owners would never dream of such a thing. There were laws against educating a slave. But he brought her books and even encouraged her to discuss them with him. Every time Judd looked at her, jealousy burned in his eyes.
She grimaced when she remembered that Mr. McKinnon, noticing Mammie’s tired gait, had given her the evening off. He told her to rest and said the other servants could handle the ball. That meant Ophelia would have to deal with Judd and the other drunken louts on her own.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of Massa Judd’s cursing. She couldn’t make out the words, but Mammie’s voice had joined his. Ophelia raced to the door and threw it wide. There, not thirty feet away, Judd and Mammie stood face to face.
Ophelia’s heart sickened. Surely, Mammie would suffer for confronting him. They argued on, neither of them noticing her in the doorway.
Mammie held the dress in her hand and pushed it toward Judd. “Massa Judd, we both know that dress ain’t gonna be free. My Ophelia’s a good girl. Don’t you go turning her into some soiled, two-bit hussy.”
His face blanched, his eyes turned cold and flinty. He grabbed Mammie by the arm and backhanded her, knocking her to the ground.
“How dare you, you uppity brown cow! I give your daughter a gift, and this is the thanks I get?”
Ophelia sprinted toward Mammie and reached her just as Judd kicked her in the ribs. “Stop! Please, you’re hurting her!” Ophelia threw herself across Mammie, shielding her, and scooped the dress off the ground. “See?” she said, “See, it’s fine, Massa Judd. I’ll wear the dress. Please, just don’t hurt Mammie. Please.”
Judd’s eyes narrowed. He watched silently as Mammie took Ophelia’s outstretched arm and struggled to her feet. She held her head high and stared at Judd with eyes that were dark, flat, and defiant. He refused to look away but made no advance toward her.
Ophelia could almost see the wheels of his mind turning. The house slaves were McKinnon’s darlings. He’d have hell to pay if he hurt them.
He sneered at Mammie. “You ever talk to me that way again, it’ll be the last time.” He grabbed Ophelia’s hand as she dusted mud from Mammie’s skirt. “You best listen to me, girlie girl. I better see you in that dress tonight, or you’ll get more than the back of my hand.” He spit on the ground as an exclamation point, turned and headed toward the manor.
Ophelia took Mammie’s arm as they returned to the cabin and asked, “Why would you say such a thing?” she asked. “You know his temper.”
“Righteousness,” Mammie said, “Sometimes, things need sayin’ no matter who’s doing the listenin’.” She waddled to a solid oak shelf that hung high upon the wall and took down a sundry box Mr. McKinnon had given her. After opening the box and sorting through several bunches of dried herbs, she pulled out a tiny jar filled with a fine-grained powder. Then she opened the cabin door and plucked a pretty white flower from a bush alongside the cottage. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Curious, Ophelia looked on. Maybe she needs a liniment. But deep in her heart, she suspected otherwise. Mammie’s herbs could do many things, not all of them good.
Ophelia’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Did he hurt you?” she asked.
Mammie cupped Ophelia’s face in her hands. “No, child. This be for you. Your powers are strong, but this will make them stronger. It’s time you learn about a...special herb.” She leaned close and whispered, “And the tings it does.” She chanted quietly, and while Ophelia didn’t know the words, she sensed they were dark and powerful. Mammie sprinkled the powder on the beautiful white flower, and placed it in Ophelia’s hand.
For the first time, Ophelia understood the burden she would carry as an Obeah woman. What Massa Judd had done to Mammie — and done to those missing slaves — and what he would do to her if she didn’t stop him, was wrong.
She put on the scarlet dress and rolled her hair into a twist, showing the slender slope of her neck. Then she tucked the pretty flower Mammie had given her deep into the décolletage of her gown. She kissed Mammie’s cheek, and with her head held high, walked to the manor.
Last minute preparations for the ball were underway. Guests soon arrived masked and magnificently costumed. The men smoked cigars and drank like fiends while the women preened like peacocks and fanned themselves on the balcony. Music from the ballroom drifted through the veranda doors and into the sultry night air.
Judd donned a long frock-coat paired with a puffy cravat at his neck, and slicked back his quarrelsome hair. A chill touched Ophelia’s spine. Even in his Sunday best, there was a coarseness about him. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, she thought.
Since Mammie was given the night off, Judd had told Mr. McKinnon that he would supervise the servants and di
rect the coachmen, though that was likely more of a ruse to gain admittance to the ball, since Ophelia and the others were well instructed in their roles. He didn’t have the pedigree for an invitation, so he drifted back and forth from the kitchen to the plantation’s long oak-lined drive, snatching drinks and harassing the waiting coachmen.
The gentlemen guests drank round after round of whiskey, their tongues getting looser and their hands becoming freer with every glass. Ophelia faithfully served them with a forged smile and a vacant stare, thinking only of the treacherous task that lay ahead of her.
Midnight approached and found Judd haranguing the coachmen outside. Mr. McKinnon advised Ophelia that he wished to make a toast, and asked that the servants open bottles of champagne. While the house staff moved through the crowd, filling their goblets, Ophelia disappeared into the kitchen to prepare Judd’s drink herself.
She removed the Oleander flower from her cleavage and chopped it into a thick paste, then dropped it into his goblet and added the champagne, stirring until the tiny remnants of pulp settled to the bottom. Drunk as he was, he would never know they were there. She fetched him for Mr. McKinnon’s toast and handed him his glass of champagne. He finished it in a single gulp.
Her work was done.
There was a lightness in her step as she moved through the crowd and breathed deeply for the first time in hours. No sooner had she dared to think how different life would soon be, than a hand crept around her waist from behind and a noxious cloud enveloped her.
Judd nibbled her ear lobe and swatted her behind. “We need ice. Go fetch some from the icehouse. Now!”
Thankful for the opportunity to exit, Ophelia nodded and left, making her way across the lawn, bucket in hand. The further she walked, the darker her path. The sounds of the party faded. She heard footsteps behind her and stopped. A single footfall crunched, followed by an unnerving silence. Her mouth went dry and her heart thundered.
She sprinted for the icehouse. The footsteps came closer, louder, nearly upon her. She threw open the door, tripped over the sill and sprawled across the floor. She rolled to her back as Judd entered the doorway.
“No need to get up, girlie girl. I got you right where I want you. So to speak.” He gave an ugly laugh and inched forward.
Her eyes darted across the room. She was surrounded by blocks of ice and had nowhere to run but through him. A pair of tongs with claw-shaped hooks were embedded in the ice above her head. She sprang to her feet and grabbed them. When she turned back, Judd was nearly upon her.
She thrust the tongs toward his gut and screamed, “Get away from me!”
He glanced at them and laughed. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Ophelia’s mind raced, recalling the preparation of his champagne. She studied him closely. His face was sweaty and pale, his lungs wheezed. He stepped toward her but then doubled over and groaned.
She took heart and jabbed at him again with the tongs. He leapt at her, trying to take them away. She spun sideways and swung at him, gouging his cheek with their sharp tips.
He roared and charged, knocking her down, ripping them from her hands. Then he straddled her, but overcome with nausea, he dropped to his knees on top of her.
“What was in that drink, you bitch?”
Her eyes blazed, rebellious. “Doesn’t matter now, Massa Judd. You’re dying.” She bucked her hips, hurling him forward over her head then rolled away from him, loosening the comb in her hair and sending it skittering across the mud floor. She raced for the door as he regained his feet.
Several steps ahead of him, she made it to the pigpen, but screamed when he caught her from behind. He spun her around, wrapped his massive hand around her throat and squeezed.
“You damnable whore, why did you do this?”
She locked eyes with him and thought of Mammie’s words. “Righteousness,” she rasped. “Righteousness.”
Judd raised his other hand and buried the ice tongs deep in her chest. She gasped as he pulled them out and let her slide to the ground. “Where’s Mammie?” he roared. “Where? That heathen witch can save me.”
She sneered, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. “Massa Judd, even God can’t save you now.”
He picked her up, nearly falling to his knees and rolled her over the railing into the pigpen.
“Won’t be nothing left of you to find, girlie girl, not even your clothes once the pigs get done with you. But since you ain’t quite dead yet, you can watch to see what parts of you they eat first.” Barely able to stand, he turned and stumbled off toward the manor.
The pigs, roused by the scent of blood, stampeded through the mud and began to scavenge Ophelia’s body like a pack of hungry wolves. She moaned and rolled onto her wounded stomach, sinking into the muck, putting her hands over her head.
Her mind swam as her body turned cold. When she could no longer feel pain, the shrieks and squeals of the pigs still filled her ears, their hot breath warming her clammy, wet skin. With her last ounce of strength, she raised her head and saw Judd lying dead in the grass. She wondered if Mammie would be proud of her and then closed her eyes for the last time.
Chapter 6
Clay awoke wrapped in the crisp, cool sheets of Harper’s bed and smiled. Thank God, it hadn’t been a dream. Her scent surrounded him, the feel of her skin still velvet on his hands. He’d never met a woman who made him ache the way she did. Did she feel the same? He reached for her, wanting the full length of her against him.
She was gone.
He scanned the moonlit room and saw her standing in front of the dresser, wearing her flowered nightgown, the comb tucked securely into her hair. Still as death, she gazed unblinking into the mirror. Was she sleepwalking?
“Harper?”
She didn’t answer. He climbed out of bed and slipped on his jeans, his feet touching the ice-cold floor. His breath disappeared into vapor, and he wondered why the house had gotten so cold. Pluto cowered under a nearby chair, hissing long and low.
“Harper. Wake up,” he said, touching her arm.
When she still didn’t respond, he led her by the elbow back to bed and turned on the bedside lamp. She flinched at the sudden brightness. When her eyes came to rest on him, he saw a flicker of recognition.
She broke from her trance and grabbed his arm, her words tumbling out in a torrent.
“I saw her, Clay — Ophelia. She pulled me through the mirror and showed me everything. I know what happened!” Harper recounted the girl’s story, leaving nothing out. Not even the details of her brutal death.
“That’s it!” Harper cried. “Don’t you see? Ophelia wants us to know that Thaddeus was right. She didn’t run away. She was murdered!”
Clay rubbed his face with his hands. What the hell was going on here? God knew, as many times as he’d seen Ophelia, he believed in ghosts. But portals to another time? Ophelia had never spoken to him, let alone tried to carry him off to the past. Part of him wondered if Harper had been dreaming.
He walked to the dresser, peered into the mirror and waited, hoping for a sign —some kind of affirmation. The longer he stood, the more ridiculous he felt.
“Harper, I’m sure it seemed real...”
A whip burst through the mirror with an audible crack and struck Clay, flaying a strip of skin from his neck. He reeled, nearly falling. The whip disappeared but another crack rang out and the skin on his right forearm peeled like a grape.
“It’s Judd!” screamed Harper.
A malignant laugh echoed through the room. Harper jumped from the bed and ran toward Clay, but an invisible force lifted her from her feet and threw her out of the bedroom into the hallway. She crashed headfirst against the wall and collapsed on her back, eyes closed with a thin trail of blood winding down her forehead.
The door slammed behind her.
Clay scrambled to his feet, his eyes ablaze. “You wanna fight, Motherfucker? I’m right here. Leave her alone.” When he reached the doorway, he heard another crack and felt th
e sting of the ghostly whip as it pulled his feet out from beneath him.
He clambered back up and a low growl hummed in his ear causing him to spin around. The electricity blinked once, then twice but stayed on. An eerie silence blanketed the room, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
As if on cue, the lights flashed off and on, and the temperature in the room soared. The television and radio blared. The shower turned on full blast along with the spigots on the sink.
“Show yourself, damn it!” Clay bellowed. Getting no response, he dove for the door, but a hurricane lamp from the dresser hurled through the air behind his head, missing him by inches.
He spun around. “You fucking coward.” Invisible arms crushed his ribs, and he watched the room fall away as his body shot toward the ceiling and suspended in midair before crashing to the floor.
Sprawled on his stomach, he gasped for air. Every muscle in his body ached but he had to get to Harper. He struggled to his feet and made for the door. The dresser careened toward him from across the room. He waited until it was almost on top of him then leapt out of its path and watched it slam into the door. Then he grabbed it with both hands and heaved it aside. Amid a chorus of Judd’s cackles, he threw the door open wide.
Harper was nowhere to be found.
Chapter 7
Harper opened her eyes and groaned. She lay on the hallway floor staring at flecks of fresh blood on the carpet. Mine? She wondered. She tried to sit up but her stomach lurched. What the hell happened? Judd’s maniacal laughter from the bedroom across the hall jogged her memory and pulsed in her ears.
She crawled to the next bedroom and turned the doorknob. It opened easily. As she slithered inside on her stomach, Pluto rushed in ahead of her. Safe at last, she pushed the door closed with her foot, then slouched against the wall and closed her eyes.
