The Gathering

by Fiore, L. A.

  Jasmine had been right. There was no blood detected at the crime scene, even with the techs scraping below the surface. It was definitely not the crime scene just a body dump. Kathy and Lee’s friends had said they were dared to enter the LeBlanc plantation. I didn’t buy into any of the hocus pocus that so many others around here did, but even I couldn’t deny there was something wrong about the place. The amount of calls we got about weird shit happening out there and the fact that someone owned it but did nothing with it; it wasn’t a surprise it was considered the most haunted place in New Orleans. During the investigation, we’d been through the house and grounds with a fine-tooth comb. We came up with nothing. Not one damn thing. It couldn’t hurt to give it another look.

  The phone pulled my attention. “Abiviny.”

  “Hey Sheriff, it’s Jasmine.”

  “Tell me you got something?”

  “I don’t know what I have. You need to come down to the morgue.”

  Now what? “I’m on my way.”

  Jasmine was pacing in front of the slab, a body covered in a white cloth in front of her. Her head snapped to me. “I took countless photos, but I don’t know what to do with them because I don’t believe it. Even seeing it, I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe what?”

  “That’s Kathy McKinnon.” She gestured to the body.

  “Okay.”

  “Pull the sheet down.”

  I wasn’t a fan of autopsies, but I had never seen Jasmine like this. I pulled the sheet down. “What the…?”

  “You see it too? I was thinking maybe that one time I did acid in college was coming back to haunt me.”

  Yeah, I saw it but was working on believing it. On the outside Kathy looked, well, fresh. But on the inside her body was all dried up.

  “She’s in the final stage of decay. The inside of her body is consistent with someone being killed eight months ago, but on the outside, she’s only on the first stage of decay. It isn’t physically possible and yet…” She lifted her hands to the body.

  “Have you opened up Lee?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve never seen this before?”

  “Josiah, no one has ever seen this before.”

  “Finish the autopsy, collect what you can. Document it. Take pictures of everything. We’re going to have to hold off releasing their bodies until we figure this out.”

  “I don’t know that we’ll ever figure this out.” Jasmine was freaked. I couldn’t blame her.

  “Keep this between you and me.”

  She studied me a second before she asked, “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking there are a lot of superstitious people who work here. I don’t need hysteria on my hands.”

  “Good call, because I’m freaked out and I’m not superstitious.”

  “You’re a scientist. Think like a scientist, not like Cyril.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Call me if you find anything, including what made those marks.”

  “Will do.”

  I started from the room but stopped and looked back at her. “Lock them up, Jasmine. Until we know what the hell we are dealing with, lock up those bodies.”

  “You got it.”

  Cyril was waiting when I reached my office. He followed me in, dropping a file on my desk before taking the seat across from me. “I found something. I was going through cold cases looking for a similar MO. Long shot, right? But I got a hit.”

  Intrigued, I opened the file.

  “Back in 1995, a young girl was brought into New Orleans General with claw marks on her arm and throat. She lived. Photographs were taken. Jasmine can compare the wounds to the McKinnons’.”

  “1995, that was over twenty years ago.”

  “It gets weirder. This Ivy Blackwood was accused of burning her foster parents’ house to the ground the night she sustained her wounds.” He palmed the necklace he was never without before he added, “She was brought to the hospital on the night Kathy McKinnon was born and…wait for it…they share a birthday. Gives you chills, doesn’t it?”

  I wasn’t superstitious like my deputy; however, two girls who shared a birthday and both had claw marks from an unidentified suspect. That was a little too coincidental. “Where is this Ivy Blackwood now?”

  “She’s been a resident at Misty Vale Sanatorium for the last twenty-two years.”

  “Misty Vale? Never heard of it.”

  “She’s under the care of a Dr. Gary Ellis.”

  “Call the doctor. I want to talk to Miss Blackwood, see what she remembers from the night she was attacked.”

  Cyril reached for his necklace again. “I knew you were going to say that. It’s a mental hospital.”

  “So.”

  “There are disturbed people who live there.”

  “We’re just going to ask Miss Blackwood a few questions. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “You had to say that. Why do you tempt fate?”

  “You’re superstitious,” I said.

  “And you’re pigheaded.” Cyril turned the file around, lifted the receiver, and started punching in the phone number. “I’ve got really bad feeling about this.”

  2

  Ivy

  The sun was so bright; it felt marvelous on my skin. The breeze through the trees sounded like laughter. It was quiet, peaceful, and so beautiful—untapped, untamed…nature in her purest form.

  I wasn’t sure what it was that drew me here, but I came often. Like the pull of the moon on the tides, this place called to me. Always had. The dirt road was long, carving into the side of the lush green hill. Wildflowers in every color dotted that green blanket and spread out to the horizon. I collected a few, a brightly colored bouquet clutched lovingly in my arms. Their scents tickled my nose and drew a smile.

  My feet stopped when a feeling swept through me, one I’d never felt before. My heart fluttered behind my ribs, and my steps were faster as I hurried down the lane, desperate to find that which I didn’t even know I sought.

  A primitive log cabin appeared on the horizon, a man came into view as I reached the crest of the hill. It was like being hit with lightning, the jolt of power so strong I dropped my flowers; they fell right out of my numb hands. He was tilling the rich, dark soil, preparing the ground for plantings. A little patch of the earth he had claimed as his own. Black hair that brushed his wide shoulders blew in the breeze that stirred. Alone, but not lonely, he worked with a quiet kind of passion.

  His head lifted and eyes like the sky before a storm looked over at me. There are some constants that link us all, destiny, fate, love…even magic. It was a little of all of those when our gazes collided. The piece of me I didn’t know was missing was returned with nothing more than a simple glance. For the first time in my life, I knew where I belonged. I should walk away, turn from the promise of something extraordinary and go back to what I knew…what was safe.

  I didn’t.

  I took a step closer and then another. I was willing to risk it all, so I could dare to walk where dreams were made.

  I moved the food around on my plate, but I didn’t eat it. My heart ached. I had woken from the dream and wanted so desperately to get lost in it again. Why was it we couldn’t go back into dreams after waking? I’d had that dream before and knew I would again, but it was the waiting. As many times as I’d had it, I never saw his face, only his eyes…those beautiful gray eyes. There was a part of me that believed he was real. It wasn’t possible, my head knew that, but it had a hard time convincing my heart.

  I was yanked from my thoughts when the screaming started, the cries of the mad that echoed off the walls and drove into my head like stakes. I tried to think of the meadow, the flowers, and the man who claimed my heart with nothing more than a glance, but the tranquil beauty of that make-believe world was drowned out by the cries of the insane.

  Glancing over at the barred windows and the outside world I would never see, my eyes stung. I didn’t walk wh
ere dreams were made. I lived in the nightmares.

  My skin iced; a chill danced down my spine. My chest ached from the pounding of my heart. I felt them, but it was too dark to see. Feeling around the crumbling wall, the sounds of footsteps behind me brought the numbness. Whispers came from everywhere. A brush across my skin stirred goosebumps. I wasn’t alone.

  The screaming started; the howls of the dying. It was so loud I slapped my hands over my ears in a vain attempt to block it out. I felt death. It was all around me. Images of the fallen flashed before me; their lifeless eyes open but not seeing. The green earth turned black from the blood that saturated it.

  Yellow, menacing eyes looked out from the blackness, fear followed. Grotesque creatures came up through the floor, surrounding me, coming for me. I tried to fight, but I was chained, the metal cuffs cutting into my wrists. I struggled against my restraints, my arms protesting in pain, but I couldn’t break free. Helplessness and hopelessness filled me. Tears welled and rolled down my cheeks.

  I heard the demonic laugh as the walls pressed closer. Death came on pale wings.

  The spark lit then grew. It was so hot, the heat searing my skin. The flame danced as it sucked up the oxygen and took on a life of its own. I looked down at my hands; they were on fire; yet, my skin didn’t blister, and my flesh didn’t burn. I drew comfort watching the orange and yellow licking up the wall. The only word that repeated in my head as I was consumed by the fire was salvation.

  My eyes flew open. I rubbed at the ache in my chest, my eyes burning. Sitting up, I dropped my head into my hands and worked to calm my wildly beating heart.

  I looked around at my sparse room: the tile floors, the window that sat high up on one wall and the paintings I had done throughout the years—colorful brushstrokes and vibrant patterns. I didn’t know these images, but I felt connected to them—the old tree and black birds, a hill with grass swaying in the breeze, a symbol that was tribal in nature, dandelion clocks. These images had meaning even not understanding why.

  I reached for the notebook filled with words I didn’t remember writing; like the images and my dreams, I had no recollection of what I wrote. I believed they were just the ramblings of a troubled mind, but I enjoyed the glimpses into a life I would never have. I envied the part of me that could imagine such beauty, could live in the fantasy that was so much sweeter than any reality I had ever known. I flipped to the latest entry.

  He was the first person to hold my hand. We were walking down the hall in school, and he brushed his fingers down my arm. My heart raced, and my body tingled from my head down to my toes. His palm met mine, our fingers linked, and nothing had ever felt so natural. He was my first kiss, and my first love.

  We grew up, and life happened and still, every year, we made time to catch up.

  I was the first person he called when he found out, the first person to rally, to fight and the first person to accept. That hand that had held mine all those years ago was thinner, frailer, and still holding it felt so natural. We talked a lifetime’s worth in those weeks. I was there when he said his goodbyes, and I was there when he took his last breath. I didn’t let go of his hand, I couldn’t.

  He’s buried on a hill; wildflowers cover his grave. Every year I visit. My steps are slower these days, my body older, but I never miss a year. He’s a part of me; even gone, he owns a piece of me, and it all started with something as simple as reaching for my hand.

  I wiped the tear from my cheek and surrendered to the pain. I hadn’t gone to school. I hadn’t known a boy who held my hand. I’d never even had my hand held, but I felt the tingle of a palm against mine, the excitement that jump started my heart, the gift of young love, first love. And I experienced the sad and tragic beauty of a life coming to an end. I didn’t live these scenes, but I felt them…every single one.

  Clouds rolled in, cold swept through me, as a foreboding shiver worked its way down my spine. Real or imagined, darkness was creeping in. Something ugly was out there; I’d always felt it. My eyes drifted to the window, but it was growing stronger.

  Madame Fief’s art class was one of the constants in my life. I had been drawing every day for the past twenty-two years.

  “I want brushstrokes that mimic the wind through the trees.” Madame Fief demonstrated by swishing her brush into the air. “Think gentle breeze,” she sang. “Paint what you know. Paint what is in your heart.” She lifted her arm forming a heart. She was a loon: a member of the staff even though she acted more like a patient.

  We’d had this lesson so many times I could recite it word for word because it was the same lesson, word for word. She’d memorized it. She wore the same thing every day too. A long black housecoat covered in hot pink flowers and a hot pink turban. Huge black framed glasses covered dark blue eyes and were perched on a nose that was too small for her face. Her rotund body resembled a bowling pin, at least based on the pictures I’d viewed in the library. It wasn’t really a library, just a room with a lot of books. I’d read every one of them, many times.

  I glanced at my painting. It was a tombstone. Paint what you know. That seemed fitting for me. I did feel removed from the world, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say dead. My psyche was a bit melodramatic. I finished the painting, took it back to my room, and hung it up with the others. The sight of them together stirred something in me, but before I could grab onto it, it faded. I touched the grave marker I had drawn, my eyes burned at what it represented then I hurried out. I had an appointment.

  Dr. Nelson spritzed his plants as I sat in a chair across the room from him. His plants were dead, every single one of them. I glanced around his walls, but there were no diplomas or credentials, just pictures of dogs dressed like dead presidents. He had one bookcase, but it wasn’t filled with medical journals. He had a nice collection of rare books, ones I’d never seen in the hospital’s library even though I had read about the authors, people like Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Paine, and Jonathan Swift.

  He looked back at me from over his shoulder, crazy burning behind his eyes. It was bizarre how much he looked like Dr. Ellis. It wasn’t just the white coat either. Their features were very similar, but then I thought that Harold and Evelyn, at times, looked the same. I had been here so long that everyone was starting to look like everyone else. “I’ve been working on treatments, not the mainstream I grant you, but I have found success with some of my patients.” Dr. Nelson said out loud. He wasn’t talking to me; he was talking to himself, or whoever was in his head. His brows furrowed. “Not all take to it. Some are just made differently than others. It is all about the blood.”

  I’d heard it all before and still I wasn’t sure what part of his sentence disturbed me more, not mainstream treatments or success with only some of his patients. Had he really treated people at some point? When had his mind gone?

  “You have to work up to it. The strain on the mind could snap it. It has to be done lovingly, like these plants. Carefully or what one is trying to save one could kill.” He touched the dried leaf of the fern, and it immediately crumbled to dust. “Beautiful, I have a cocktail, it clears the mind…yellow label, takes the edge off,” he announced magnanimously. He waved me to the door. “I have an article for Medical Weekly to write, ‘Personality and the Mind, a Delicate Balance.’” He sat on his bed and started typing in thin air.

  That was my cue to leave. I stood to go. It was the same every time I visited him. I tried to reach him, but his mind was broken. I caught glimpses of things that made me shudder. Treatments that were barbaric. Treatments he had either lived through or had done to others. Either way it was horrific.

  “I’ll see you later, Dr. Nelson.”

  He didn’t answer, he never did. I had just reached the door when he said, “Thirty-three is a very powerful number.”

  That was a first. I looked back at him, but his focus was on his imaginary typewriter. He continued, “In religion, it represents the Three Goddesses and the Trinity, there are thirty-three vertebrae in the human spi
ne, in numerology thirty-three is one of the three master numbers. Yes, thirty-three is a very powerful number.” His focus shifted to me and for a second that crazy behind his eyes was gone. “Remember that number, Ivy.”

  The moment was over when he started typing again. Stepping from his room, I was a little unnerved. He was a man of routine. It was part of his illness. He didn’t stray from the routine, he didn’t know how, but he just did. Thirty-three. I was turning thirty-three was that all he meant or was there more to it?

  “It’s coming.”

  I glanced up at Emily. Every conversation with her, if you could even call them that, felt like you were entering in the middle of it. I never knew what she was talking about, but then there were very few lucid conversations in this ward.

  Blue eyes drilled into me. “The balance is off.”

  “What balance?”

  She waved her hand in the air. “Light and dark, right and wrong, good and evil. It’s off. The Ancestors will send someone.”

  “Ancestors?”

  “Yes. Their warrior is coming,” she shouted as she threw her arms into the air.

  I didn’t bat a lash at her behavior. “What warrior?”

  “The one who will restore the balance,” she said as if it made perfect sense.

  “How will this warrior restore the balance?”

  “With their power.”

  “What power?” I asked.

  “Limitless power,” she sang, her blue eyes bright with excitement and madness.

  “Will this warrior be coming soon?”

  Her expression changed, and I swear she sounded almost lucid when she said, “How do you know they aren’t already here?”