by Lori Titus
The nurse lifted an eyebrow. “No. Physically, she is stable. She wouldn’t have been moved there if that wasn’t the case.”
The woman gave her the room number and she took the elevator up.
As the doors slid open she read a sign that said 4th Floor, Mental Health.
Jenna walked down the long corridor. Half the floor was divided into mental health; the other was for patients who were post-op. Most patients were alone in the rooms. It wasn’t until she got to the back of the ward that she heard whispers and soft crying.
Diana was lying in bed, curled up on her side, with her back to the door. Jenna caught her breath when she noticed the tethers that secured her wrists to the metal rails on either side of her bed.
Jenna circled to the other side of the bed. She was surprised to find her sister awake.
Diana looked up at her with calm, dark eyes. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“What?” Jenna said. Her voice choked in her throat.
“Henry hasn’t been here, and no one will tell me where he is. So he’s dead.”
Jenna put her hands in her pockets. She nodded.
Tears came to Diana’s eyes. A long moment passed before she spoke again.
“I told him they were coming. I tried to warn him. How are my babies?”
“Raquel took them home.”
“That’s probably best. It won’t be long before they get us all,” Diana sighed.
“What came for Henry?” Jenna asked. “What’s coming for the rest of us?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you, you silly bitch,” she snapped.
“I found Daddy’s letter. Do you believe him?”
“I’ve seen him,” Diana said. “So yes, I believe him.”
I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS is my life, talking to this crazy woman about our dead father, Jenna thought. She pulled up a chair and sat down, because she had a feeling that she was going to need to be seated if she were to have this conversation.
“How long have you known about all this? It seems you knew something about it before he wrote that letter.”
Diana’s eyes narrowed. “Of course. I don’t know when he first told me, but at some point I thought it was just a story.”
“So when did you start to see things?”
“Maybe a year ago.”
Jenna swallowed. “Taleya told me she saw a man talking to you outside on your porch one night. Was that him? Travis?”
“You gotta tell these people I’m not crazy!” Diana raised her voice. “I saw him, and if Taleya did too, that’s proof!”
“You thought that maybe you were losing it when you started to see it, didn’t you?”
“Shit, yes,” Diana’s voice was a whisper now. “My mama saw it too, years ago, and I didn’t believe her back then. So I wasn’t going to try to tell anyone when I saw Travis.”
“From my understanding . . . what he said in the letter . . . it’s a lot more than just him.”
“That’s true. But Travis was the only one that ever talked to me. I think that he tried to keep them in line sometimes. I hope . . .” her voice trailed off. “He said they were responsible for what happened to Ahmad.”
Jenna dug her fingernails into her palm.
“You lose me there, Diana. When Raquel picked up the girls, she told me all about your confession. No one was responsible for that accident but you and Jon Soltero. You got him liquored up, and he went running off in his car when you upset him.”
“I know better. I see the signs. Daddy came and whispered it to me days ago. That Henry would fall into the darkness, into a pit. And that it would be full of hot oil. And that he would die. Henry was seeing that blackness in the corners of his eyes for weeks, but he was afraid to tell me. But Daddy knows, because he sees everything. You think what happened to your husband was just an accident? Everything worked in favor of bringing you here.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“That I should encourage you to come and stay at the house,” she said, her lips twisted into a demented grin. “Because the more blood, the better.”
JENNA WENT INTO THE hospital bathroom and was sick. She barely got the door closed behind her in the stall before she retched.
Standing with her back against the door, she tried to catch her breath. She thought about the shadow that she had seen out of the corner of her eye in the yard and Taleya’s assertion about the man in the hat who spoke to her once and then later to Diana.
Jenna had had the strange feeling that she was being watched for weeks, but she’d dismissed it as her overactive imagination running away with her.
And there was the book about Patricia Bell.
How much of that was-her skill as a writer? Was someone telling her this story?
That was when Jenna realized it.
The answer to how this thing began was somewhere in Patricia Bell’s story.
And perhaps the way to end it existed there as well.
CONSTANCE BELL HOWARTH lived alone in a modest brick house on Spearhead Drive, a solidly middle class neighborhood. She and her husband Richard raised three boys, put two through college, and sent one off to the Navy. When her husband died in 1998, she vowed to continue a life without him that would make him proud. She remained in the home they had purchased together after years of work and scraping by. There were still marks on her kitchen wall where she had made notches to document her sons’ growth spurts. Now and again, she still remembered the day Richard carried her over the threshold of their front door.
Though Constance had just made her seventy-fifth birthday, she stayed busier than some fifty-year-olds. She was an elder at her church, active in counseling outreach. She had taken part in Holy Trinity’s outreach for fifteen years, but after Ahmad’s death that she was truly impacted by what it meant to give back. Helping others eased her pain. She made it her business to reach out to people that would usually not seek advice, those that believed they were too strong to need help.
Her children didn’t live in South Carolina anymore. Two of her sons had moved out to Colorado, and her youngest lived in Florida. Both of Ahmad’s grandmothers had passed, and as Connie developed a relationship with him, they became important in each other’s lives.
Raquel used to come around now and again, and Constance had a soft spot for the girl. But there was something about Ahmad that was just special. He’d drop by unannounced, often with groceries or some small item he’d noticed that she needed around the house. He called more often than her sons did and fixed things around the house without being asked. When he needed an understanding shoulder, it was Constance that he turned to. She’d often envied Diana for having this child. How did a woman like her, who never had a kind word for anyone, end up with such a sweet, thoughtful kid? Either it had something to do with his father’s genes or it was an act of God!
She knew Ahmad’s friend, Jonathan, as well. He didn’t come to the church much and seemed to be one of the young people that had to be dragged in by the collar. She’d seen him a few times, and she remembered that he was patently courteous.
The Solteros were members of her church, and she was friends with Arturo, Jon’s father. He had come to the church many times over the years to discuss problems within the family. They spoke privately about issues he had with his son. He was having a hard time accepting that his son was gay. And he and his wife had problems as well. Arturo had been known as a lady’s man for years, a reputation that was catching up to him. His wife had found out about his infidelity and threatened to divorce him.
Over the course of four years, Arturo had come in to the church to see Constance weekly. They’d talked and prayed and talked some more. No subject in Arturo’s life had not been broached, including things that had happened to him as a boy and had come to shape him as a man. Arturo’s father had been abusive, a philanderer, a functioning alcoholic. Vowing never to become like his father, Arturo spent much of his youth defying him.
In his twenties, Arturo met a
girl named Eva Barron. She was sweet and soft spoken, with the most beautiful dark eyes he’d ever seen. She’d utterly ignored him. Within six months of meeting her, he’d secretly vowed he would make her his wife.
She was the daughter of a Mexican mother and an African American father. Arturo suspected that his family might disapprove, but even he was shocked by his father’s reaction. He was disowned. In a way it had been a relief. Knowing that he’d never have to seek his father’s approval again made him feel like a man. He proposed within a week of his father’s violent rebuke, fearing that Eva would think less of him because of the way his father acted. Tears came to his eyes when she said yes. Until that moment, he’d been breathless with worry.
Eva made a good wife. She loved him in a way he felt he didn’t deserve.
Children soon followed, and with the pressures of life and work came problems. Arturo never raised a hand to his wife. He drank, but not in excess, fearing that alcoholism might be in his genes. Being faithful was another matter. He loved the rush, the chase, the thrill that came with bedding a new woman.
Constance worked to show him how all these events in his life were connected. It was no surprise that he had not escaped some of the same demons his father had wrestled with. In his rush to be better man, he’d brought with him the same demonic strongholds that existed in his parent’s marriage. He’d laughed at the idea of generational curses to begin with. But as they kept speaking and went deeper into his past, Arturo admitted he did see the connections.
“It’s the same thing that you’d hear from a psychologist, but with a spiritual reference,” Constance explained. “We acknowledge that a person is not only body but mind and spirit as well. Through the link of blood and spirit, some things are passed on from our parents. You had certain fears growing up, and these are manifested in your actions. But it’s not only acknowledging the existence of these things, but learning to pray against them. And just as important, you have to put your own action into motion. Once you know what your weaknesses are and understand how you‘ve acquired them, you have to work against it. I am in no way telling you that you can’t overcome this because of the situations that happened in your past. I am saying that you will have to war against it. And if you want to be successful in that fight, prayer is the best way to do it.”
Perhaps the most painful conversations had been about Arturo’s son.
Arturo had been molested as a child, and this was part of the reason for his homophobia. Constance pointed out that this may have had something to do with his relationships with women—the fact that he needed to prove his manhood over and over, one woman after another.
“Your son is a challenge to you,” she said. “There is nothing wrong with him. He’s the man that he was made to be. It’s your wounds that need to be healed. And if you can do that, you’ll both be stronger for it. How can you be a father to him if you continue to turn away? Is it worth losing him because he will love someone different than whom you would have chosen? Isn’t that what your own father did when you married Eva? He’s bound to fall in love with someone. When he does, will you turn him away?”
That day, she saw the light in Arturo’s eyes. He had an understanding.
OVER TIME, THINGS HAD eased. Arturo had come to accept his son. He’d let go of his other women, and Eva had eventually forgiven him for his indiscretions.
After the accident, Arturo had come to Constance with tears in his eyes, and they’d sat together in the church office, speaking in whispers. He’d been so filled up with rage that it flowed off his body like heat. He’d explained to her that he’d spoken to Diana. “I know she’s lying,” he’d said, red faced, with tears in his eyes. “She said something to upset him. I know.”
Constance had felt like a stone had been placed on her chest. What could she say to comfort him? Knowing Diana, it was most likely true. She had heard stories from both Raquel and Ahmad about how fickle their mother could be. She was like bad weather: all sunshine and warmth one moment, clouds and thunder the next. Diana was a two-faced bitch.
Constance had told Arturo that she was without words, but she’d held him, the way she would have if he were her own son.
WHEN CONSTANCE GOT the call from Jenna, she recognized the sound of trouble.
It wasn’t just what she said, but also what she didn’t. Connie had not seen Jenna since Louise divorced Travis and moved to California. She had heard of the girl’s troubles of late—the loss of her husband and her home—and she’d meant to get in touch with her once she learned Jenna was moving back to Chrysalis. It seemed fortuitous that Travis’ daughter reached out to her first.
Jenna seemed a self-contained woman with emotion flowing under the surface but a calm exterior. This impression was only deepened when Jenna arrived at her door. She wore high-heeled boots, black slacks, and a pink sweater that stopped at her hips. Her hair was down and flowed against her shoulders. Her brown eyes were intense. In the light, Constance could see they had an almost reddish hue. Her mouth turned down slightly in a thoughtful pout.
Constance hugged her and they went to the kitchen together where a teakettle was already warming.
“You look like you could do with some sleep,” Constance said gently. “How are you?”
“I have been better,” she replied. She ran a hand through her hair with a nervous laugh. “I don’t suppose there is anything more I can expect at this point.”
Constance sat down at the table across from her. “Now why do you say it like that? You’re expecting something worse?”
Jenna crossed her arms over her chest. “Worse has a way of finding me.”
The kettle whistled just then. Removing it from the fire, Constance poured hot water into two cups.
She watched Jenna as she took tea and sugar from her cabinet. Constance believed that she could sense the energy around certain people. And this woman’s energy was strong. It extended far around her body. There was a depth of pain there—and darkness. This darkness did not belong to Jenna. It was something that was placed there to do her harm.
She handed Jenna a cup of tea and sat down.
Over the next hour, Jenna poured out her story: about what happened between her and Diana, the things that Taleya told said about seeing her grandmother talking to a man that she believed was a ghost. She explained what Raquel said about Ahmad’s death and about the letter from Travis.
“Had you heard anything about this before?” Jenna asked. “This supposed curse?”
“I’m sorry to say that I have. And you’re right, it does go back to Patricia Bell.”
“IT MIGHT HELP IF I started with your father and your Aunt Helena,” Constance said. “We grew up together, you know? I lived in the house next door. Of his siblings, Helena was the closest in age to Travis, and she was six years older. Your father and I came up thick together. Being we were only a few months apart, we went to the same school and knew each other’s friends.”
“Helena was something of a loner. She was a pretty, skinny little thing with big eyes and long hair. She had a boyfriend in high school, and it seemed that he was the only person she really cared to talk to. One thing she did like to do was tell us stories. And all Helena’s tales had to do with the family history, the past. I was present for many of these tales. She could tell you the exact same story twice without changing a word.
“Travis asked her once, ‘How do you know all these things?’ And she looked from one to the other of us—we were probably only ten at the time—and she said, very quietly, ‘I know, because the Ancestors tell me.’ ”
“We laughed,” Constance said, her face grim. “I loved a good ghost story, but I never believed them. Travis was downright mean about it. He accused her of making the whole thing up. He didn’t even believe that she was telling the truth about who the people were when they were living, much less that she could see them in the afterlife.
“She told us the story of a Cuban man who had a black wife. He died young, a case of pneumonia
. When he passed, his daughter and wife were taken and sold into slavery. Helena said that his spirit haunted the house and the land around it. That he wandered, looking for his family, unable to find them. He wore a white suit. It was what he wore on his wedding day, and later, his wife had him buried in that suit. That’s how Helena said she always saw him.
“His daughter, Soraya . . . Helena was very certain about this name . . . was sold to Samuel Bell, a wealthy plantation owner. She gave birth to a daughter, Patricia Bell. And though she was fair, they did not send her up north or out to New Orleans where she might have been chosen to marry a white man. When she came of age, which was only fifteen at the time, she was given to the son of the master, Thaddeus, to be mated with.”
“I know that part of the story,” Jenna said. “That much I have been able to piece together. I have been writing about it.”
Constance sat back in her chair. “Helena kept journals, but I don’t know that anyone ever found them.”
The clock chimed in the hallway, breaking the uneasy silence.
“There were other spirits besides those ones that were malevolent. A girl from the 1920s who still wore a flapper dress. Her name was Victoria. She was raped and then killed by what people from my parent’s generation would have called the Gown Men. They strung her up from the highest tree they could find in the forest.”
“The Klan?”
“Yes. There were other stories Helena told us. A man who drowned accidentally in the river. A woman who died in childbirth. It was always the angry ones who came the most, who were the ones to be feared, Helena told us. She said that she saw them, sometimes in the day, sometimes at night. But according to her, she had seen them as far back as she could remember.”
“Did her parents know about it?”
“Yes, they did, but it was not spoken of openly. I think Helena only told us because she needed to explain herself to someone, to let go of all the fear that she had pent up inside. I can’t imagine the kind of burden that must have been for a young girl with no one to talk to.”
