by Sara Clancy
Sighing dramatically, Marigold rolled her eyes. She should have known better by now. There were a few subjects that you just couldn’t take lightly around Louis. Having grown up in a family of voodoo practitioners and paranormal investigators, Louis took certain subjects way too seriously. It was a lesson she had learned after using the terms ‘ghost orb’ and ‘ghost vortex’ interchangeably. Louis had enthusiastically explained the vast differences for almost two hours.
She cut him off before he could get started on the finer details of reincarnation, “It’s a figure of speech. I just meant that I knew better. Mr. Smash Mouth causes a fuss in the same room, at the same time, every day. I should have just let him do his thing.”
“Mr. Smash Mouth?”
Marigold froze for a moment before she entered the kitchen. “After the singer.”
She didn’t look back to see if he believed the lie. An image of the broken body flashed again in her mind. Blood. Pearly bones cracked through tender flesh. Broken teeth and hanging eyeballs. Each day the ghost’s face was pulverized anew, but it was his destroyed mouth that she remembered the most. So, Mr. Smash Mouth it was. It made it easier to deal with the situation. A lot easier than knowing the man’s real name. The kitchen had once been a marvel of industrial steel but now only patches of that grandeur remained. She reached into one of the cabinets and groped around for the first aid kit. Its bright red case was probably the only pristine thing in the room, including herself.
Louis looked over the room as he moved to the counter. “What happened to the cabinet doors?”
“Oh,” she fixed a smile into place before she turned back again. “One of them really likes banging doors. After the eighth consecutive hour, I decided that it was enough.”
He gestured to the pots and pans that littered the floor and threw her a quizzical look. When he knelt down to pick them up she spoke.
“Don’t bother,” she said.
Curiosity sparked in his eyes, something mischievous and childlike, and it made her smile turn real. “Okay, fine. Pick up a few and put them here.” She tapped her fingers against a spot on the counter and retreated to the door. “Then duck.”
He placed the pots in his hands where she had indicated. The pots had already begun to rattle before he had a chance to pack up. The sound of clattering metal ricocheted around the room as the pots trembled violently. They flung off of the counter, straight at his head. Louis ducked and they collided with the wall an inch above his head, hard enough to dent both the wall and the pans. The room echoed with the noise. Then, with a grinding slide, the pans slid back where Louis had picked them up from. Louis remained hunched, surprise evident on his face. Slowly, with mounting composure, he pushed his dark-framed glasses higher onto his nose and straightened up.
“Okay,” A smile quirked his lips. “Why have you not told me about that?”
Marigold unzipped the first aid kit and retrieved a bottle of iodine and a bunch of cotton wool balls. “I thought I had.”
“I would have remembered this level of poltergeist activity.”
She shrugged and handed him the small bottle. “It’s not like it’s an issue. They like their mess and I don’t want to clean up after them. It’s a special kind of harmony.”
He reached out to take the items from her hands, his larger fingers dwarfing her own, and she was caught up once again by the vast difference in their skin tones. She hadn’t really noticed it until her Aunt had attempted to kill them. The devastation of that night had left her hovering between life and death and heavily drugged. She remembered how, with morphine in her system, his dark skin had shone with the strength of the moon. Like dark, rich, polished tiger’s eye gemstones. She always looked sickly pale in comparison and almost fevered with her clusters of red freckles. Once more with a feather light touch, he twisted her head to the side to study her head. The bleeding had stopped.
“It doesn’t look that bad,” he mused.
“That’s what I said.”
He pulled back and caught her gaze, “So where did all the blood on your hands come from?”
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t keep from squirming. “Nothing bleeds like a head wound.”
The strong scent of antiseptic burnt her nose as he doused the cotton wool with iodine. Despite his warning, the first touch was a surprise. Each dab was a sharp sting into her skull and she felt stupid for wincing. This was hardly the worst pain that she had ever endured. The scar that sliced across the middle of her neck was a testament to that. Each time she thought about it, of her father opening her skin with a kitchen knife, she could almost feel the blade again. Her parents had both been nurses. They had told her about phantom pains, about how amputees could sometimes feel an ache in a limb they didn’t have anymore. Sometimes the scar felt like that, like an ache that would never really go away, no matter how well it healed.
“Maggie?”
She blinked rapidly and looked up to meet Louis’ eyes. His Clark Kent-like glasses framed his face rather well and made his hazel eyes brighter.
“Sorry, I must have tuned out.”
He frowned, “Maybe we should take you to a hospital.”
“I’m okay,” she replied but her protests didn’t clear the concern from his expression. “I don’t have a concussion.”
He began to pack the items away. “I’ll believe half of that. Which half do you want to pick?”
Marigold snatched the first aid kit out of his hand and put it back on the shelf. “I’m adjusting.”
From his position by the door, Louis watched her every move. She could feel his eyes drifting over her exposed skin, assessing each new cut and bruise. In some places, her skin had become so discolored that it hid her freckles. She washed her hands in the pump action sink, watching the bloodstained water swirl down the drain.
“I brought food,” he said abruptly. “But how about we go out tonight? Hit the town?” She cocked an eyebrow and he smiled. “Okay, okay. Hit the few buildings that have been strategically placed around a road. Come on, cher. I hear the food ain’t that bad.”
The whole boat heaved and rattled as a ghastly wail echoed through the corridors. Out of the small window, she watched the last rays of sunlight paint the sky a sickly pink.
“They’re waking up.”
“Ghosts are naturally more active at night,” Louis said as if there was any comfort to it.
She dried her hands on her jeans and realized that blood still covered her shoulder, her hair, and half of her face.
“Okay,” she mumbled. “Just let me get changed.”
***
The issue hadn’t just been to find a haunted place for Marigold to stay. That would have been far easier. New Orleans has a way of holding onto things that other places released like a whispered sigh. The issue had been finding the right kind of ghosts. In his experience, people had heard enough about the ‘barrier between life and death’ that they can accept the concept even when they don’t believe in an afterlife. It’s a lot harder to explain how life and death are more like different ends of a spectrum, rather than dueling forces. ‘Ghost’ was a general term that covered a lot more than an outsider would consider. And for their purposes, they needed some very specific ghosts.
The demon that had latched itself onto Marigold’s family had been allowed to nourish itself with time and blood. It was strong. Strong enough to break through the boundaries that Louis’ mother had set into place. But ghosts could be strong, too. And just as territorial. The ghosts that lingered here served as an extra protection for Marigold. His mother liked to refer to them as ‘spiritual guard dogs,’ but it wasn’t entirely accurate. Guard dogs weren’t supposed to attack the people they were protecting.
Louis wandered out onto the back deck, torch in hand. It was problematic to have generators out here, and costly. Since they would be leaving shortly he wasn’t inclined to go to the trouble of starting it up. He washed the beam over the large blades at the back of the boat. They had once powered the boat
through the water, now they were chipped and weathered. Broken remains of something that had once been beautiful.
A shrill cackle made him turn. He trained the beam of his flashlight over the shadows beyond the boat. The mist glowed in his torchlight, as opaque as falling ash. Spanish moss hung in thick tendrils from the trees, swinging like serpents, but Louis couldn’t feel a breeze. The laughter came again; a painful shriek that carried on with a child’s abandonment. He knew the sound and backed up a little closer to the entrance. Dubbies might have a more comical sounding name, but history proved time and again that they weren’t a ghost to be dismissed. Not if you wanted to remain as alive as when you started.
He searched the shadows again, his torchlight barely able to penetrate the darkness. Something sloshed through the water. Louis spun to the sound and the small circle of light fell upon a shifting shadow. The dubby stood on the far bank, shadowed under the branches of a willow tree. Grotesquely rotted, but still with all of its limbs, the dubby grinned at him. A feral flash of fangs that twisted up its whole face. Louis felt a deep chill roll over his skin and instinctively patted his pocket. He had always carried a gris-gris for protection while leading paranormal tours around the heart of New Orleans. But since he had met Marigold, he kept the little spell pouch close at all times.
The familiar shape against his palm helped steady his heartbeat. He waited to see what the dubby would decide. Were they just to have a passing encounter or was this destined to be something more violent? Slowly, the dubby rose its hand, its fingers as spindly as spider’s legs. It swayed its forearm in a broken wave. Louis let his hand drift up to mirror the movement. Its smile remained firmly in place as it drifted back into the shadows, its feet never touching the ground.
“Was that the dummy?”
Louis jerked and whipped around. Marigold squinted and held up a hand to protect her eyes from the glare or his torchlight.
“Dubby,” he replied after a thick swallow. “Has he been coming by often?”
“He likes standing under that tree.”
The spot she indicated was in the distance, but still far too close for his comfort.
“Does it ever come closer?”
“Not really. It just smiles and waves.”
“Tell me if it ever gets closer,” he said. “Dubbies have the temperament of a two-year-old. They’re happy until they’re not.”
She nodded. “At this point, the other ones worry me more.”
He forced a smile and gently curled an arm around her shoulder. She leant into him just a little, just enough for him to know that she really needed the reassurance. She had lost weight again.
“Remember the plan. The dubby is more concerned with the ghosts on the boat. The ghosts on the boat are more concerned with dubby.”
“And the tension keeps the demon from wanting to step into the middle of it,” she finished for him.
Each time he had to remind her, the words lost a little more of their strength, and he was worried that one day they would be rendered useless. She needed something to cling to. Something to keep her strong. The demon had made their battleground about perseverance, defiance, and strength of will. If she faltered, there might not be anything he could do to save her.
Chapter 3
The Ragin’ Cajun was the only restaurant in town and the small but sturdy wooden building was always crowded. The deck was on stilts over the water of the bayou, with a stomach-high railing and long thin tables. Weeping willows, dripping with Spanish moss surrounded the area, while strings of colorful paper lanterns draped from the bare beams. Newspapers were used instead of table cloths and each table was lined with bench seats.
Kids ran around like screaming typhoons while a live bluegrass band played in the corner. All the songs were traditionally Cajun, with energetic beats and a strong bass. All the songs were in French, so Marigold didn’t understand a word of it, but they sounded nice. It was late October, yet the winter chill didn’t stop many from heading out onto the deck. Marigold was grateful for the shift in temperature. She hadn’t done well with the stifling heat when she had first arrived in Louisiana. At least now she could tolerate wearing jeans and light jackets again. And the more wounds she covered, the less odd looks she got. In her only act of defiance on this account, Marigold had stopped wearing scarves. After the night with Delilah, after everything really, she didn’t care if anyone saw the protonate scar across her neck. It was a reminder that she had survived, and sometimes that was all anyone could do.
There were few things in life that Louis loved as much as food. His eyes would light up at the very mention of it. He led her through the crowd with a smile on his face and a happy bounce in his step. Picking a table near the water’s edge, he was practically bouncing with excitement and snatched up the menu. It had been a while since she had seen him this happy and she took a second to appreciate it.
“Do you want crabs, bugs, or crawfish?” He turned over the menu and his jaw dropped. Sheer joy flooded his eyes. “They have a sample platter. We can get all three.”
Marigold laughed and shook her head, “Whatever you want. My treat.”
Aunt Delilah might have been a sadistic psychopath, but she had possessed the foresight to keep the ancestral home insured. As the last La Roux, Marigold had been the sole beneficiary. There had been a lot of complications. When Delilah had been outed as a serial killer – a trait that ran thick through the La Roux line – there were a lot of angry people. The person handling the insurance policy had tried to use the horrible public opinion as leverage not to pay out. They had said that since it was arson, which, technically, it was, they didn’t owe her a dime. Marigold argued that when the options were starting a fire or getting stabbed to death, the decision was legitimate. But then Joe, Louis’ cousin, who also happened to be a police officer, had stepped in. She didn’t know what he had said, but things had wrapped up relatively quickly after that. She had her inheritance and since she was living on a haunted shipwreck in the middle of the bayou, she hadn’t made much of a dent in the relatively meagre sum.
Louis’s attention flicked over her wrists and his humor faded. The shackles Delilah had used on her had damaged her wrists considerably. Time had soothed the color back to her natural pale shade, but the scars were never going to fade away. She pulled her sleeves down to spare him the sight.
“They don’t hurt anymore,” she assured.
“That’s good.”
“How is your arm?”
He had been injured that night as well. But he was a good healer and recovered quickly. From time to time his shoulder joint still ached. Delilah had sliced him along his upper arm, luckily it hadn’t caused any lasting damage, but he now had a long, thin scar that would never go away. Absently, he rubbed it through his long-sleeved shirt.
“I think it adds a little bit of danger to my appearance,” he said with a smile.
“Very macho,” she agreed.
Laughter and music hung in the air as readily as the scents of spice and melted butter. Marigold could feel the vibrant energy curling around her, comforting and smothering at the same time. It had been days since her last contact with a living person. And at least a month since she had seen anyone but Louis. She wasn’t comfortable around anyone else anymore. She didn’t trust herself with anyone other than Louis. One of the demon’s favorite pass-times was tormenting her family members until she agreed to kill just to make it stop, if only for a little while. Her genetic history proved that anyone could be dangerous when they’re desperate enough.
“We should do this more,” Louis said.
Marigold met his eyes, “We haven’t even tried the food yet.”
“I mean we should get out more. Maybe even go bowling. We spend way too much time in that place.”
“That place is my lovely home,” she smirked. “Besides, it’s dangerous for me to be out here.”
He held onto his smile, although it did change into something softer. “I know you’re scared, and I
’d be lying if I told you there was no reason for you to be. But you need to have social contact. Isolation isn’t your friend.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Maggie, but it’s important you keep fighting.”
“It doesn’t seem much like fighting,” she admitted.
“Just because it’s not physical doesn’t mean it’s not a fight. Remember the stages of possession. We want to keep it in the infestation stage, not let it get bad enough to be oppression.”
It seemed odd that only a year ago she would have had no idea what he was talking about. Only a few months separated her from a normal, happy, oblivious life. Now, she knew how to make protection gris-gris and which prayers to say before she went to bed. She drank holy water and had a blessed rosary around her neck. Now she knew the stages of demonic possession intimately.
Manifestation, infestation, oppression, and possession. Manifestation, the point when someone invites a demon into their lives, had passed before she had been born. When she had met Louis, the demon had almost reached the oppression stage. She had felt the strain of her mind breaking in two, leaving her vulnerable and beaten, and ready to just give up.
It was like having a stalker. One that could be anywhere, saw everything, and could rip apart her mind to find her deepest fears. At first, the goal had been to get rid of the demon completely. Now they just wanted to keep it out of her body. Loud bumps in the night, twisted nightmares, hallucinations, and constant fear of what it would do next had somehow become a ‘win’ in this scenario. She couldn’t remember when the focus had shifted.
“It’s going to be angry,” she muttered.
Before he could respond, their server came to the table. The middle-aged woman kept casting sidelong looks at Marigold, her attention drifting over the bruises Marigold couldn’t hide. One of her ‘roommates’ had gotten out of hand yesterday, and she still had a black eye to show for it. It looked far worse as the bruise blended with dark bags under her eyes.
The waitress spoke French, so Marigold couldn’t tell exactly what she was saying, but fear was pretty distinctive in any language. The words flowed from the woman’s mouth, no matter how much Louis tried to reassure her. He gave their order and the woman practically ran away the first chance she got.
