Black Bayou (The Dark Legacy Series Book 1)

by Sara Clancy

  ***

  The hospital room was covered in a harsh, off-white glare by the overhead lights. Louis rushed through the hallways. His shoes squeaked against the tile floor as he weaved his way through the building, eyeing each room number in turn. His lungs were aching by the time he found the right room and flung himself inside. Both Marigold and the police officer talking to her fell silent and snapped their heads around to see him. Fear flashed through Marigold’s eyes, pure and gleaming before confusion diluted it.

  “Louis?”

  Both Louis and the officer lost the battle against their instinctual impulse and corrected her in unison.

  “I’m saying it the way you do.” Her quick snap of frustration dwindled away and she just looked exhausted. “What are you even doing here?”

  He pointed to the officer. “Joe’s my second cousin. He called me.”

  She looked between them. “I still don’t understand.”

  “Ms. La Roux,” Joe said softly. “May I show him your back?”

  Her fingers clutched the neckline of her paper gown. Despite the attention from the hospital staff, dirt seemed encrusted into her very skin. Her nails were splintered in a way that was painful to even look at and there didn’t seem to be a patch of skin on her hands that wasn’t covered in molten bruises.

  “Why?”

  Joe leaned slightly closer to Marigold and lowered his voice, “Please, I’ll explain in a moment.”

  She studied both of them in turn but reluctantly nodded. Turning cost her, and the movement was punctuated by gasps and pained winces. Louis edged closer, slow enough so as not to startle her, but fast enough to help her tip the edges of the gown off of her shoulders. The thin material gaped wider and Louis’ insides hollowed out within an instant.

  “How did you get those, cher?”

  “Why is everyone so concerned with them?” her defensive tone held no real heat as she struggled back onto the gown. “I was just locked in a tomb with a psychopath and found a dead body in the walls. These are just a few scratches.”

  Louis’ stomach churned but he forced the words out. “Those aren’t scratches. They’re claw marks.”

  Her glare couldn’t quite hold onto any amount of rage. She crossed her arms over her stomach but instead of adding defiance to her posture it just left her looking small and vulnerable.

  “Could someone please start explaining?”

  Joe patted Louis’ shoulder as he passed, “I’ll be outside. Let me know when you’re done.”

  Marigold watched Joe leave. Every inch of her screamed that she was a second away from following him. “What is going on?”

  Louis could feel her eyes watching his every move as he collected a chair from the corner and pulled it closer. He was buying time. This was new territory for him and he wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. Generally, people already knew what was happening to them by the time they sought him out. He had never had to actually break the news. Turning the back of the chair towards her, he straddled it, folded his arms over the rim of the back, thought better of it, and gripped the sides instead. He didn’t want to look aggressive or lax, but wasn’t quite sure how she would read his body language. Her gaze was a lead weight against his skin and it only left him more at a loss.

  She broke the silence in barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  They spoke so softly that they could hear the constant hum of the overhead lights.

  “I know. Everyone knows. You weren’t even in the state when he was killed.”

  “He?”

  “They’re still working on an I.D.” Licking his lips he settled on a course and hoped it was the best one. “Joe told me what you told him.”

  Even as it grew shrill, her voice didn’t break the hush that had separated them from the rest of the world. “Is that even legal? I’m sorry, but I really can’t take this right now.”

  “I’m only here to help, cher.”

  “That’s why the police are here.” She wrung her hands, her grip tightening until, despite the layers of damage that covered them, her knuckles turned white. “If I’m being stalked, I’m sure they’ll find the person responsible.”

  “I think we both know that it’s not a person following you.”

  “What?”

  He saw how dread lurked in the depths of her emerald eyes but he forced himself to continue. “That’s why Joe called me. My family has experience with this kind of thing, and I want to help you.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Hauntings.”

  For a moment, she did nothing but stare at him. “You think I’m haunted?”

  “Those claw marks on you back, the creature I saw in your attic, the encounter you have just experienced.”

  Her voice climbed with every word. “That doesn’t mean that a ghost is following me.”

  “Okay, cher. But may I ask, what do you think is happening to you?”

  She opened her mouth but remained silent. Her eyes were wide and a tremble took hold of her slight frame. Watching her slowly deteriorate in the face of this revelation was like a blade straight to his chest. But he held her gaze, attempting to stay with her as much as he was able during the fallout. She took a studded breath, finally gathering a response, but before she could voice it, Delilah barrelled into the room like a controlled storm. He leapt up just as the older woman pushed past him and slapped Marigold across her face. An angry red welt blossomed across her cheek.

  “You ungrateful little wrench,” Delilah hissed as her niece cringed away. “How dare you desecrate my family’s resting place?”

  Delilah pulled back to strike again but Louis managed to grab her wrist in time to stop the blow. Joe ran into the room just as Delilah wrenched herself free from Louis’ grip.

  “Do not touch me,” she hissed at Louis. Over her shoulder she commanded. “Officer, I want him arrested.”

  “Just step away from your niece, ma’am.”

  “Excuse me?” Delilah turned her rage onto Joe. “This man has assaulted me and you are simply going to ignore that?”

  Taking advantage of the moment Louis fished a slip of paper from his pocket and passed it to Marigold.

  “My number and address. If you need any help, call me.”

  Delilah was suddenly beside Marigold, her eyes locked onto Louis like her disgust alone could kill him. She dragged Marigold onto her feet and shuffled her towards the door.

  “I am quite capable of taking care of her. Stay away from us or I’ll call a police officer you’re not related to.”

  Marigold glanced back at him. Despair weighed on her, exhaustion and anxiety warring for supremacy of her body. It was doubtful she was even aware of what was happening. Louis started forward, but Joe stopped him with one large hand against Louis’ chest.

  “We can’t just let her go back there.”

  Joe sighed. “We can’t force her not to.”

  Chapter 8

  Talking with the police had taken longer than Marigold had thought. The last traces of sunlight had fled the sky by the time Delilah had bundled her out of the hospital. The night didn’t dampen the heat of the day and sweat soon glistened against the curve of her spine. Crowds swelled out from the bars and spilt onto the streets, forcing their cab driver to slow down to the point where it would have been quicker to walk.

  Delilah hadn’t said a word. Not since she had refused a police officer’s offer to drive them home. Trapped in silence, Marigold could do little but repeat the strange events in her head. Rhodes’ warning was probably the only reason the police had believed her. She had barely been able to believe herself when she had heard it out loud. Had she been followed, or did someone simply take advantage of the opportunity? But the crowd had stood vigil and no one other than her had left the tomb. There was no other exit. No window to shimmy through or trap door to hide in.

  Where had he gone? The thought rolled over and over in her mind. She just had to figure it out. Find the answer. Then she wouldn
’t feel it; that twinge deep inside of her that screamed Louis was right. But every theory she came up with couldn’t even hold up against her own scrutiny.

  Maybe I’m insane. Maybe that was what all this was about. Someone wanted her to go insane as revenge for what her parents had done. It was a staggering amount of effort to go to. She couldn’t even think up all the tricks that they would need to keep her from seeing them. The thought turned her skin to ice even as her insides boiled. If she was right, whoever was doing this was a lot smarter than she was. And had a lot more help. Marigold reached into her pocket and ran her fingers over the crumpled slip of paper Louis had given her.

  He’s not doing this. She didn’t know why she desperately needed to believe that. It would make sense if he was a part of it, and finally being able to put a face and name to her tormentor would be a relief. But for whatever their misunderstandings, Louis had been kind to her, just like Rhodes, and she needed to believe there were still people like that.

  Maybe there’s still enough painkillers to mess with my head?

  The cab pulled up to the desolate curb outside of her house. Suddenly, the question Marigold had been running from hit her full force. She clenched her teeth in an attempt to keep it inside. Her jaw ached from the force. She couldn’t ask while there were strangers around to overhear. Time stretched out as she watched Delilah pay the man and head to the front door. The second the cab pulled away, the question burst free from Marigold’s chest in a gasp.

  “Who was that man?”

  Delilah unlocked the front door. “What man are you referring to?”

  Dumbstruck, Marigold couldn’t bring herself to move until Delilah had disappeared into the house. She broke into a run and caught up with her aunt in the sitting room.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I don’t appreciate your tone.” Delilah’s voice didn’t carry a hint of anything beyond annoyance.

  “I found a corpse today. Of a man who was most likely murdered.”

  “Yes,” Delilah said as she left for the kitchen. “While destroying my family’s resting place.”

  “Our family’s resting place!” Marigold hadn’t meant to put any anger behind the words but they came out sharp with it.

  “Perhaps we should talk about your desecration first?”

  “I’d rather focus on the dead guy.”

  Delilah ignored her outburst and calmly poured herself a glass of wine. Unable to take the dismissal, Marigold ripped the glass out of her aunt’s hand and slammed it down onto the counter.

  “Who was he?”

  Delilah cocked an eyebrow and fixed Marigold with a condescending stare. “How am I supposed to know that?”

  “So out of all the tombs in that cemetery they just so happened to pick the La Roux one?” Marigold said.

  “Yes.”

  Barely able to contain herself, she flung her arms out, almost toppling the glass of wine. “It’s just a weird coincidence?”

  “Our family has a certain reputation that undesirable people would seek to take advantage of.”

  Delilah seemed intent to leave it at that and attempted to reach for her wine. Marigold put her body between them. She attempted to match Delilah’s blatant animosity but knew she fell far short.

  “What reputation?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does. If I’m related to more killers, I have a right to know.”

  She lifted her chin. “What have you been told?”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “Have you been talking with that Dupont filth?” Delilah crowded Marigold against the counter, her eyes narrow with rage. “He gave you that gris-gris, didn’t he?”

  “Why would any of that matter? There was a dead man walled up in our tomb.”

  “Stupid child. That entire mongrel family have hated our line for generations and you brought them back into my home. By all probability, they are behind this madness.”

  “That is a lot of rage.” Marigold’s fear kept her from crumbling under the full force of her aunt’s attention. “Why would they hate us so much?”

  “It’s all in the past.”

  Delilah reached around her, grabbed the glass of wine, and began to leave the kitchen.

  “It’s not the past for me. Someone is trying to hurt me. If people are still that angry about our history, then I need to know.”

  “It is not worth dredging it back up to the surface.”

  “Not worth it? They attacked me and locked me in a tomb!”

  “The police will sort out the matter.”

  Delilah hovered in the doorway when Marigold called out her name. There was barely any hint of emotion on her face and she idly took a sip of the white wine as she waited.

  “What if,” Marigold stammered. “What if it is a ghost?”

  Delilah threw her head back and cackled at the ceiling. It filled the room and left space for Marigold’s pride to remain.

  “I’m just saying,” her eyes drifted to the floor, “If they did exist–”

  Delilah’s parting words made her look up. “If the dead could come back, you’d have a lot more to worry about.”

  The house smothered all sight and sound of Delilah as she stepped through the doorway. Within an instant, it was as if Marigold was completely alone. A part of her wanted to follow the older woman and demand some answers, but there was a stronger part that wanted to remain hidden in ignorance. Fatigue pressed down on her and despite the thick tendrils of dread that squirmed in the pit of her stomach, she could barely keep her eyes open.

  Reluctantly, she began the long journey to her room. The only sound the house offered was the echo of her own footsteps. A heavy fog settled over her brain and severed all attempts at thought. She turned on every light before venturing deeper into the house. Still, shadows, as dark as a murder of crows, lurked in every corner. Each staircase felt like it would go on forever. Her legs were stone and she had to grip the handrail to keep going. Sparks of pain sliced up her fingers to remind her just how damaged her hands were.

  Her pace slowed to little more than a shuffle as she approached the final flight of stairs. The never-shifting shadows of the thin tunnel looked darker now than they had before. Last night played within her mind, attempting to convince her that the darkness was anything but empty. But she needed to sleep. And while that room offered little comfort, it was the only space she knew. Cautiously, she crept up the stairs, one hand on the wall, her heart beating faster with every step. Surrounded by the darkness, she held her breath, alert for even the tiniest shift in the air.

  The void played tricks on her mind. She heard whispers in her footsteps and each time she touched the wall she was sure she felt someone hidden in the darkness. Unable to hold her breath any longer, it slithered from her in a broken gasp that she was certain was not her own. At first, she didn’t believe it when her outstretched hand pressed against the door. Quickly she hurried into the room and hurled the door closed behind her.

  Sweeping her hands over the space around the door she found the light switch. The overhead lights flicked on and instantly drew her attention. She remembered them being brighter. Now they released only a dim, sickly yellow glow that barely countered the darkness.

  Still, they were better on than off. She opened each of the curtains to allow in the lights of the city, but didn’t dare open a window to release some of the pent-up heat. Then she checked under the bed and in the closet. It was a normal practice, one that stirred up memories she was in no condition to deal with. As with a lot of children, Jasmine had gone through her ‘monsters in the closet’ phase. She would refuse to sleep until Marigold checked every possible hiding place. But there had still been some nights when Jasmine would sneak into Marigold’s bed with stories of how the monsters were after her. Marigold had given her a Braveheart Care Bear and promised her that it was only a bad dream. And in time the dreams had stopped.

  Did they stop? she wondered as she stood by the bed. Or
had she just stopped telling me about them?

  Unable to deal with that thought, she flung the top sheet into the air and crawled onto the mattress. The sheet fell delicately over her as she curled into a ball. Her eyelids slid closed, she melted against the mattress, and the last of her resistance left her on a long sigh.

  Drifting somewhere between awake and asleep, she caught the faintest rippling of water. It began as what felt like a dream, but as it pulled at her consciousness, she reasoned that it was rain. Perhaps it would finally break the unbearable heat and allow her to sleep. Then she heard the giggling. Her eyes snapped open but she couldn’t see anything past the floral sheet that covered her.

  The sounds were coming from her bathroom. Softly at first, but growing and constant. Marigold curled her trembling fingers around a hunk of the sheet but couldn’t bring herself to pull it aside. Water sloshed like someone leapt out of the bathtub and raced across the floor towards her.

  She choked down a scream but was unable to stop from flinching. Someone was standing beside the bed. She could feel them watching her. Hear each drop of water as it collided with the floorboards a few inches from her head. Droplets fell upon the thin sheet and soaked into the fabric. Neither of them moved. Only the unrelenting dripping broke the silence. She held her breath and tried to resist from shaking as the water continued to gather in the sheet over her head.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  From just beyond the boundary of the sheet she heard the voice. The unmistakable voice of the man from the darkness of the tomb.

  “Daddy loves you.”

  The sheet coiled around her like an anaconda as she flung herself off the bed. It tightened around each limb and dragged her to the floor. Fire streaked across her chest, her arms, her legs, and became an inferno on her back. She tore at the sheet, ripping it to shreds as spots of blood bloomed over the floral pattern. When it was nothing more than tattered shreds, Marigold flung it to the side and found herself in an empty room. But she no longer believed it meant that she was alone.

  Blood plastered her shirt to her back and she pressed one hand protectively against the slashes across her stomach. She could feel her skin being pulled open slightly with every breath. Getting up was an agony that made her legs shake. Her gaze flicked around the room while her back was towards the door. Her eyes were drawn to the dividing curtain, to the water that poured out from under it. It didn’t flow. It lurched forward like an injured creature, scraping its way across the floor in a procession of sharp jerks and mangled twitches.