by Gaby Triana
The casino profits gave us more than enough. We lived modestly and worked at the camp every day, but make no mistake—we were set for life. This wasn’t about money. This was about me selling out to a different lifestyle, something my family would frown upon and would send our most traditional members into a moral tizzy.
“Only one day.” Kane Parker raised an eyebrow.
The “what ifs” snuck into my mind again. What if I wanted a career? What if I didn’t want to live this way anymore? Kane Parker may as well have been holding a ticket to freedom in his hand.
“Your call,” he said. “We do a show on Netflix called Haunted Southland. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
Haunted Southland? I watched it all the time. Was that where they were from?
The host was an older woman with a deep Southern accent named Sharon Roswell from Atlanta, Georgia. Their investigations were always at the coolest homes and cemeteries, and I always felt a pang of envy when they explored these beautiful locations. Their equipment was modern, and I appreciated the way they respected the spirit world. Most of the time. Sometimes, Sharon could push the envelope to try and get the spirits riled up.
I nodded. “I’ve watched a few episodes.”
Parker’s face lit up. “Yeah? Nice. Well, we’ve explored all the antebellum plantations, haunted gardens, and battlefields we’re ever going to see, and this time, we were hoping to shoot a unique Southern location for once. Somewhere exotic. That was when one of our staff mentioned Villegas House in the Everglades.”
Exotic was not the world I would have chosen to describe Villegas House’s crumbling structure. “It would make a cool episode. Too bad I can’t take you.”
He smirked and withdrew the bills, pressing them back into his wallet. “It is too bad. We were hoping, if we liked you, maybe you’d like to join us on a few more shoots. Go on a few expeditions with us. Our ghost consultant is about to retire.”
Ghost consultant.
They were scouting me to possibly hire me.
While it was nice that someone finally appreciated my talents and was willing to pay me for it, at the end of the day, being a “ghost consultant,” if that was such a thing, wasn’t who I was. Watching ghost shows in secret was who I was. I enjoyed learning about the paranormal from afar. And that was the way it had to be if I wanted to avoid dishonoring my family.
“I truly appreciate it, but hopefully you’ll understand.”
Mr. Parker and his wife exchanged quiet looks. “Then, we’re sorry to have taken your time. Thank you so much for the tour. It was entertaining, definitely a pleasure.” He tipped his hat and tacked on that wide smile again.
“The pleasure was mine. Thank you for visiting the Miccosukee Village.”
That’s it, Avila. Walk away. Your ancestors would be proud.
“Again, if you change your mind, we’ll be at the hotel and casino a few more days,” Mrs. Parker called out. “The number on the card is my direct line.”
“Got it,” I said, holding the card up in the air. I wondered if they would continue their hunt for a tour guide, or if they’d go home empty-handed now that I’d turned them down. My guess was they’d somehow make it to Villegas House anyway—they’d just find someone else to take them. Deep down, I hated that.
I trudged toward the rental office. Entering the chickee and heading toward John, I waited until the Parkers had driven off in their Rove Ranger before tossing their card in the trash bin and letting go of the biggest exhale ever.
“What’s up?” John shuffled through a stack of envelopes. “More customers who think the sawgrass wasn’t exciting?”
“Nah, they were fine,” I replied. I wasn’t about to share what had just happened with John in front of Charlie Cypress, eavesdropping from the back office. The man was good friends with the General Council’s Assistant Chairman—a.k.a. my uncle. He would only tell me I’d done the right thing by turning them down, and I wasn’t so sure.
John handed me my paycheck. “Have a good weekend, Avila. Say hello to your mom and pooshe for me.”
“I will.” I ripped open my envelope and stared at the meager earnings that were more a token than a salary. For a moment, I entertained the idea of waving down the Parkers’ truck. I wanted to see the house that had haunted me my whole life, the crumbling structure I had dreamed about, the place of terrible stories I’d heard.
The location of my grandfather’s death.
That was the main reason nobody spoke about Villegas House. The land was sacred, the final resting place of our head of council—Robert Cypress. Villegas House terrified me so deep in my bones, I never mentioned it for fear that it would come for me just by using its name.
But I didn’t chase after Kane and Eve Parker.
I went back to the garbage bin and pulled out the ShadowBox business card. Then, I climbed into my truck and went home.
Just like I did—day in, day out.
After a shower, I went about preparing dinner, grilling bass, and setting the table. My mother looked up from her chair where she sat sewing a new patchwork skirt of blue, red, yellow, white and black. “Set the table for four, Avila.”
“Uncle Bob?”
“Yes.”
Inwardly, I groaned. Why did Uncle Bob have to come tonight of all nights? It was bad enough I was still reeling from having turned down a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I didn’t need tradition shoved down my throat, too.
Pooshe strolled into the kitchen to help me flip the fish in the pan, as though I were a child incapable of doing it myself. In elaponke, she told me how her own mother used to prepare and cook deer, but never while on her monthly period, as it was considered a sacred act.
I listened politely but my thoughts wandered as she talked. I’d heard all these stories before. She recounted them so I could pass them on to my own kids one day, but that would never happen if I didn’t get out of this place and meet someone.
Uncle Bob arrived right on time—as usual.
“Eelechko,” my mother greeted.
“Chehuntamo.” Uncle Bob sat at the table, ready for his meal, legs apart, elbows wide. “And there she is…” Something about the way he looked at me made me nervous. My stomach hurt without even knowing why. “Avila Cypress, wannabe ghost hunter.”
“What do you mean?” My stomach sank. Why did he have to do this in front of my mother and grandmother?
“We received another complaint about your tour today.” He chugged his water and set it down again.
“What?” I stared at him. “About what?”
“About the extra garbage you add to your tours. Spirits? Pirate ships? Avila, you’re scaring children now, and people don’t sign up for a haunted storytelling hour that has nothing to do with the Everglades. Take them out, show them alligators, tell our history, talk about genocide that must never happen again. Return home. End of story. Can’t you do that?”
“I do do that,” I muttered. Great, another Avila-does-everything-wrong dinner. I was thirty-one and still listening to this crap. “Look, I only add a few mysteries here and there to spice the tour up. People like it when I say the weird tales. It’s not hurting anybody.”
“Yes, it’s hurting us,” my mother chimed in. “It’s not who we are. When people pay for an airboat ride, they’re expecting animals, scenery, photos, history, Miccosukee traditions. Not ghosts.”
Uncle Bob gave me a stern look. “That’s right. We expect you to tell them about how life is changing. We can’t drink the Kahayatle’s water anymore. Crucial elements of our life are no longer possible. We’re fighting to keep these traditions alive. We don’t expect you to talk about plane crash victims.”
“Flight 411 was an actual event. It’s history,” I countered. “Maybe not the history you want me to talk about, but history of the Everglades nonetheless. You want me to stop that too?”
“Avila…” My mother eyed me.
“Fine, I’m sorry.”
I knew I sounded childlike, but this wa
s only the second time someone had complained, which was unfair, because people complained about the airboat rides no matter what. They’re boring, we didn’t see enough, I only saw one alligator… At least my airboat rides were entertaining. Because of me, we had a 4.5 star rating on TripAdvisor.
“We need you to stick to the script, Avila.” Uncle Bob’s forehead crinkles warned me not to challenge him. He was my elder. My job was to listen, respect, and promote our ways proudly. As part of the General Council, his was to tell me what to do.
“Avila, we have talked about this.” My mother set down her needlework and sat at the table. “You know very well how I feel about all those shows you watch. Ghost this, ghost that. You’re inviting dark spirits into your life every time you watch that.”
“Really, Mom? By watching TV? Look, I’m not inviting dark spirits in. I’m not playing with a Ouija board or anything. I’m not into the occult, if that’s what you think. If I mention ghosts in my tours, it’s only for entertainment value. I’ll stop, okay?”
“You will,” my uncle said. “Or we’ll leave the airboat tours to Gale.”
“You don’t need to do that.” I gritted my teeth then slapped on a fake, grateful smile. I liked the airboat rides. I liked the peacefulness and the fact it was the only way I got to interact with people outside our camp. “Now, can we eat?”
Stick to the script. Smile and accept the tips.
Got it.
From the time I was little, we were encouraged to learn traditional ways but also non-Indian ways as well. It was the reason we went to private schools who employed all kinds of people from all different races and backgrounds, so we could harmonize with the outside world, not be isolated from it. Well, guess what? The outside world held a fascination with the supernatural, and so did I.
“We just don’t want you misrepresenting our culture,” my uncle added, as my grandmother silently set the fish and fry bread on the table. We gave thanks to God for this bounty and ate in silence.
I had nothing else to say, nothing to add. More than ever, I wanted out of there, to drive down the road to my cousin Kellie’s in Miami and watch movies, to get away for a while. We might even watch Haunted Southland on Netflix, now that I’d personally met the producers. I could tell her about the money I was offered without getting an earful. I could be myself without feeling like I was being judged and that “me” was a mix of tradition and modern ways.
After dinner and cleanup, I sat in my room and picked up the faded photo of my grandfather. Long hair pulled into a ponytail, crinkly eyes, handsome smile, wearing the same gator tooth necklace I now wore. Having died long before I was born, I’d never met him but always felt close. When I was little, I’d get into trouble, pick up this photo, and imagine myself talking to him, telling him my woes. He’d always tell me to hang in there and fight another day.
Next to it was the card Eve Parker had handed me—ShadowBox Productions.
Being around a TV crew might be good for me. God forbid I should learn a new skill. Hiring me as a consultant would mean getting to travel around the country, investigate cases, and I got goose bumps just thinking about it.
Yes, I respected my family and tribe, but what about me?
I needed to live my own life.
My little brother had died on the side of US-41 at the age of six in a truck crash we’d been involved in. Minutes before, he’d asked me if he could ride in the front for once, and I’d switched places with him while Mom drove. He’d been the same age as that little boy on the boat today.
He’d died so that I could live.
That terrible night, I watched a wispy white light rise out of his chest and disappear into the ceiling only moments after he’d drawn his last breath. About a year later, he visited me while I was in bed. Scared the living shit out of me. Appeared as a filmy gray apparition by my bedside. I never got to talk to him, because lurking behind him had been an ominous, dark energy.
Immediately, I began praying to make him go away.
He did. So did the cloudy darkness.
I’d been praying for them to stay away every night ever since.
Billie never had the chance to do more with his life. Neither had the passengers of Flight 401 who perished out in the Everglades. Neither did any of the people killed and made to “disappear” out in the Kahayatle. But I did. And I’d never shake the guilt of surviving either. I carried it with me like a cross.
My mind whirled with the possibilities. For the first time in a long time, I felt like there could be more for me.
I waited until my mother was asleep before calling the casino resort and leaving a message for Kane and Eve Parker to call me in the morning. I said my prayers, told my brother I loved him like I did every night, and fell into a dreamless, peaceful sleep.
FOUR
Sunrise over the Everglades was the most beautiful thing about living here. I didn’t see the early morning sight often enough. Today, though, as I waited by the side of the access road that would lead us deep into Big Cypress National Preserve, I soaked it all in—the golden rays filtering through the cypress trees, the reflection of blue sky over the water, the anhinga quietly perched on a log, spreading his wings to dry.
So much magnificence and stillness.
Yet ShadowBox Productions wanted to see the ugly parts.
I’d taken the offer. Two weeks ago, I’d spoken to Eve and told her I’d escort them out to Villegas House after all, but they could not mention it to the tribe. She couldn’t have been more delighted that I’d changed my mind, and the more we talked over the phone, the more I liked her and felt this would be an exciting opportunity for me, especially if they were considering keeping me on for other projects.
Eve told me they’d return to their home base in Atlanta, plan the Everglades episode, then come back to South Florida in two weeks with the crew. That should give me enough time to prepare.
For two weeks, I thought about how to tell my family that I wouldn’t be home for a day, possibly two, because I’d taken a tour job to Villegas House. In the end, there was no good way to do that. For the first time in my adult life, I’d lied straight to my mother’s face. I’d told her I was going fishing with Kellie, and though my mom had thought that was strange, she’d shrugged and told me to have a good time.
That might’ve made me a liar, but I couldn’t do it.
Especially after the talking-to I’d been given during dinner that evening, which only reinforced why I felt stuck. Perhaps if I ended up with a job consulting haunted places for the production crew, they might be proud of me and understand why I had to do it. But I had to tell them eventually. I wouldn’t be able to live in good conscience otherwise.
Taking in the last few moments while waiting for the crew to arrive, I thought about what might happen at Villegas House. The place was built in the 50s by Roscoe Nesbitt, the father of the two gladesmen brothers who taunted the new residents there in 1967. I knew this because I’d overheard my uncle talking about it to councilmen when I was a kid, though nobody was supposed to know what happened there.
I know that Gregory H. Rutherford, an English environmentalist and avian expert, moved into the deep Everglades cabin a decade after Roscoe moved out and claimed it was uninhabitable due to its haunted nature. The place served as his home and rescue center where he, his Cuban wife, Elena Villegas, and two biologists all lived, studying the natural habitat and rehabilitating injured animals.
As soon as he moved in, bad stuff started happening.
William and Richard Nesbitt began coming around telling Rutherford and his crew to leave; it was their father’s house, even though no permits had officially been pulled to build it. They got into arguments that lasted a couple of years. Besides quarreling over the property, they argued over hunting. Rutherford opposed the shooting of some of the most endangered species in the Everglades—panthers and snail kite—and the Nesbitts argued it was their right to hunt.
I’d always understood both points of vi
ew.
What happened next depended on who told the story. I’d spent years trying to decipher the truth. So far, the truth had eluded me, but the gist was this—the Nesbitt brothers went berserk and killed everyone during an argument, including my grandfather. Knowing they’d never get away with murdering a high profile scientist or leader of the Miccosukee Tribe, they killed themselves.
Seven people in total.
Down US-41, the caravan approached. They came in two vans, one of them hauling an airboat. I wasn’t sure where they’d rented it, but I hoped it was one of the newer models I felt comfortable driving, since they were pretty tricky to handle, especially in marshy Big Cypress.
A ball of nerves coalesced in my stomach, as I watched the caravan slow down upon seeing me standing by the side of the road, waving my arms. This was it. They were here, and soon, we’d drive up the access road until we couldn’t drive anymore. Soon, we’d switch from van to airboat to make our way up the River of Grass. I was crazy—pure crazy to do this. I could already visualize something bad happening and my mom telling me, en maheem—I brought it upon myself.
Still, I couldn’t wait.
The vans slowed, tires crunching over gravel. They came to a full stop, as new people began stepping out, including the Parkers. The group looked out of place, and I suddenly felt guilty bringing strangers into my homeland.
“The crack of dawn, Cypress?” Mr. Parker joked, coming over to shake my hand with that big smile he wielded so well.
“It’s a long journey to where we’re going, Mr. Parker,” I said. “Trust me, you don’t want to boat when the sun is boiling or in the afternoon when the storms begin. Follow me down the road. We’ll put the airboat in the water about a mile north of here.”
“Listen, call me Kane. Mr. Parker is my father, and by the way, these are my crew. You already know my lovely wife, Eve. That over there…” He pointed to a tall, gangly white man in his late thirties with sandy brown hair hanging over his eyes who’d begun taking photos. Serious, not very friendly, he would soon be sorry he wore a long-sleeved flannel shirt to the Everglades at the height of the steamy wet season. “That’s Quinn, our cameraman. BJ Atkins is our tech.”
