by Amanda Rose
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Voodoo Kisses Link
Spirited Cover
Allison's Adventures in Underland By C.M. Stunich Cover
By C.M. Stunich Chapter 1
About the Author
Voodoo Knights
Voodoo Knights © Amanda Rose Carroll 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478.
www.sarianroyal.com
Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal
"Caviar Dreams" Font © Lauren Thompson
"Fancy Card Text" Font © Deiter Steffmann
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.
this book is dedicated to Caitlin without you this would never have been possible
My new house looks like a funeral home, which is actually way cooler than it sounds. It's got this old-world creep factor with fancy wrought iron gates at the end of the mile-long tree-lined driveway.
Looks haunted. I mean if any house were going to have ghosts, this would be it. I snort at the stupid thought. Casper doesn't exist; ghosts aren't real outside of Hollywood. The house itself is this massive freaking colonial that's as old as the state of Louisiana. I can't believe I get to live here, haunted or not. I've never even seen a place this cool before today. Alaska just doesn't have awesome old houses like this.
The cab screeches to a halt in front of the grand entry steps. I turn off my music, take off my headphones, and stuff them in my pocket with my phone.
“Fare's ninety-eight, seventy-five,” the driver says without looking back. His hands are glued to the steering wheel and he's gripping it so tight his knuckles are turning white. It only takes me a minute to dig out the cash, but the cabbie keeps nervously glancing at the rearview mirror like he can't get off my new property fast enough. I feel like I'm walking into a horror movie.
Creepy old house inherited from a relative I've never met? Check.
In the middle of nowhere? Check.
Alone? Check.
Scared cab driver that must know something I don't? Check.
Trapped without any means of escape? Check.
God, I hope I'm not walking into my own version of the Amityville House.
“Here you go,” I say, handing the guy a couple of bills. I grab my backpack and my skateboard, and get out of the car.
As soon as my feet hit the ground, the cab is peeling out, a gust of wind picking up leaves as he goes. What a weirdo. Shrugging, I decide not to let the creeper rain on my parade and turn back toward the house. The building is so big, I have to back up a couple dozen steps to get a good look at my new home.
I stand there in shock for a moment at how grand Laveau Manor really is. Holy shit this place is huge. This house would be creepy enough if my dad were here with me, but I'm completely alone for what feels like the first time in forever.
My phone buzzes.
'Let me know as soon as you arrive.' Speak of the devil—it's my dad. If I don't text him back immediately, he'll start panicking.
'I'm already here. This place is the coolest.' As soon as I hit send, I glance up and look around, Spanish moss hanging on every branch and dancing in the gentle breeze. The movement causes the light to reflect off of something small and shiny dangling in the trees’ branches. I squint to get a better look. There’s not just one something, but hundreds of little ornaments, strange things like dolls made of cloth and sticks, coins, little glass bottles.
'Okay. I want you to check in with Mrs. DeBellevue next door before it gets dark.' Mrs. DeBellevue is the next-door neighbor my father arranged for me to check in with. I sigh. He treats me like I'm ten, not seventeen.
'Come on dad, I'm tired! Can't I just call her and stop by tomorrow?' I reply, even though I already know what he's going to say.
'Will you just do it, please? She's expecting you. She doesn't have a phone anyway.' Doesn't have a phone? Puh-lease. This is Louisiana not Timbuktu.
'Fine,' I text back with a sigh. There’s no point in arguing with my dad: he always gets his way.
'I love you.'
'See you Monday.' Monday is only three nights away and he acts like it's a million years. I roll my eyes then pause for a moment, quickly typing 'I love you too' before shoving my phone back in my pocket and turning my attention to the house itself. If I like, die in there or whatever, I’d rather have my last words to Dear Old Dad be something pleasant.
I start forward, trudging toward my creepy new domicile with my bag hanging over one shoulder, my skateboard tucked under the opposite arm. Just a few stops later, I stop to gawk again. At this rate, I might never make it inside. But holy crap, what the hell am I seeing right now?!
Dozens of what I thought were normal metal wind chimes are blowing in the warm breeze, but now I can see they’re actually made up of gross things like teeth and bone and hair instead. Eww. Damn, apparently Grandma Rosette really was one of those crazy bayou hermits or something.
I cross the circular driveway, the crunching of leaves echoing as I walk. There's a line of red-brown powder that seems to circle the whole house. I take a few more steps and a chill goes down my spine like I'm being watched; the hair on the back of my neck stands straight up. I check behind me even though I know I'm just jumpy because this is the first time my overprotective dad has ever let me stay overnight somewhere without—and I quote—mature, responsible adult supervision.
Heading up the steps, I can't help but think that as beautiful as this house is, it definitely needs some work. The paint is peeling on the porch, the wood creaks below my purple Chucks with every step, and the front door is painted a hideous primary kindergarten blue. I dig around in my backpack until I find the key. It's this massive black skeleton key with a fancy monogrammed L. But before I can even put the key in the lock, the door clicks then swings open with a gust of wind. O-kay, that's not creepy at all.
I take a deep breath and step into the dark foyer.
“Hello. Mrs. DeBellevue? It's Serefine Laveau,” I call out. I thought I was supposed to go over to her house, not the other way around, but maybe she came over to meet me? Who else would’ve unlocked the door? But there’s no answer, just dead silence. She must’ve left the place unlocked in case I didn't have a key. It's either that or ghosts. Chuckling stupidly to myself, I take several more careful steps into the darkness and the lights flick on all by themselves to reveal a grand entryway. A large wrought iron chandelier with strange symbols hangs from the ceiling and the wall on either side is covered in old oil paintings of different women. I'm not sure if I should be worried that the lights turned on all by themselves or just glad it's not dark anymore.
In the center o
f the room, drawn on the floor in white chalk, is a circle and right in the center of that circle is a black cat sitting stone-still and staring right at me.
His golden eyes seem to bore into me, taking in every detail as though he's sizing me up. I move cautiously towards him.
“Hey, kitty-kitty,” I say, setting my backpack and skateboard down gingerly so as to not scare him. I crouch low and slowly inch my way forward. The cat doesn't move at all, not even so much as a twitch or a blink. I reach out to pet him—it just feels like a him to me but what the hell do I know—but as I'm about to touch the sleek black fur, he moves lightning fast to the base of the stairs at the far side of the room. Is there a white 'X' of fur on his right side? I wonder as he stops on the bottom step, tail lightly flicking, and looks me up and down. Then I swear on my shitty sneakers, he winks at me before taking off up the stairs. Wow, I must be tired cause now I'm seeing things.
Cats do not give flirty winks.
I pick up my backpack and skateboard, choosing to explore a door on the right at random because who the hell knows what else is hiding in this house? The oak floors creak beneath my shoes as I walk cautiously, fully prepared for something else to leap out at me at any moment. After the wind chimes made of bone and the weird cloth dolls, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if I stumbled on something a little more sinister than a weird cat.
At first, I move slowly and carefully through each room, like there could be a ghost in every corner. But, considering my stubborn ass personality—Dad used to say I got that bit from Mom, when he still talked about her anyway—that doesn’t last very long. By the third room, which just so happens to be a huge kitchen that my dad is going to love, I’ve completely forgotten to be scared of the weird stuff. I take off, running from room to room like an overexcited five-year-old, laughing because I'm so stoked. Don't get me wrong: there are some weird things like mirrors (all the mirrors) covered with white sheets, but overall, this place isn’t as bad as I’d first thought. There’s even a stash of fresh food in the fridge, courtesy of a grocery delivery my dad arranged for this morning; Mrs. DeBellevue was supposed to let them in. Well, that helps explain the unlocked door, right?
My bedroom. The thought hits me all of a sudden that I haven't even seen my room yet. I take the stairs two at a time. I already knew there were ten massive bedrooms, but what I didn't know was that each door would be painted a different color … or that sitting on the floor in front of several of them would be stuff. Weird stuff. Really weird stuff. I’m talking Ripley’s Believe it or Not! level strange.
The first door is black, and on the floor in front of it is a wrought iron cross, a rock with a skull and crossbones carved on the face, a bottle of rum with chili peppers floating in it, candles that look like they were lit at some point, a pack of cigarettes, a really cool looking old top hat, and a bunch of other shit I don't recognize. I try the door, but it won’t budge. Drafty old house—it’s stuck. Or else there’s a pile of crap holding it closed, some hoarder stash like the one sitting in front of it. As soon as Dad gets here, I'll make him crowbar it open. Heck, if I can find a crowbar in this mess, I'll do it myself.
Abandoning the rest of the colored doors and their eccentric little piles, I decide to open the white door at the end of the hall, the only one without garbage stacked in front of it.
“Holy crap,” I blurt because, well, my new room is epic. I saw the pictures the lawyer sent over, but it's so much cooler in person. Stacks of boxes labeled ‘Bedroom, end of hallway, MINE!’ and scrawled in my messy handwriting are sitting where the movers left them. The room used to belong to my grandmother which is a weird thought considering I never even met the lady.
Right away, I know I'm keeping most of the fancy antebellum furniture, but getting rid of almost everything else. Unlike the rest of the house, this room looks pretty normal. No teeth wind chimes or creepy oil paintings, and the sunlight streaming in makes it seem bright and cheerful compared to the rest of the place.
I maneuver through the sea of boxes, dropping my backpack and skateboard at the foot of my new bed. The best part of this room though, is that one wall has a big window with built-in shelves and a seat that overlooks the back garden. I couldn't have imagined a better reading nook than this! Score! Fantasy novels and manga galore were most definitely in my future.
In the center of the yard is a massive live oak, easily twice the size of the ones lining the driveway. There’re little trinkets hanging from the moss-covered branches, and the trunk has white symbols painted all over it. It's really beautiful and magical in a creepy sort of a way. I wonder if it was like this when my mother lived here or if Gram lost her marbles after Mom finally left?
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, zipping across the yard toward the tree. It's a man. A gorgeous, shirtless man. I reach up and adjust my glasses. I can't make out his face, but he has a thick mane of brown hair, tanned skin, and some sort of tattoo covering his entire back. I lean forward to get a better look, but the handsome stranger is just gone like he was never there. I blink several times in shock.
Holy shit, did I just see a ghost?! No, it was probably a trick of the light or else some creeper running around our new property—good thing I remembered to lock the damn door. Either way, the sexy guy near the tree didn't seem very threatening … although I do move over to the door of my new bedroom and lock that, too, just in case.
Scrubbing the image from my mind—because the guy really did just disappear into thin air, so he can’t possibly be real, right?—I decide to do some serious unpacking before I head over to the neighbor's house. I don't really want to go to sleep surrounded by all of my dead grandma's stuff. If I can put my own stamp on this room in some small way, I'll feel much better.
I pull my laptop out of my backpack and toss it on the window seat, planning to turn on some music while I unbox my stuff. I glance at the time. It's already midday, so I need to get a move on. I Google how long I have until sunset because the last thing I want to be doing is walking through the middle of the bayou at night. There are gators and stuff out here—and also, possibly, sexy men without shirts? Ugh. According to the glory of the world wide web, I have five hours left which should be plenty of time to get started on my room, go over to Mrs. DeBellevue’s, and still get back before dark.
I find my box with the word 'Bedding' scrawled across the top in purple Sharpie. After I make my new bed, I use the empty box to put my grandmother's stuff away. I keep a few things: an old-fashioned hand mirror, a ring of small skeleton keys, a leather journal written in French—which I don't speak but maybe I can get translated—and a small jewelry box full of items I probably won't ever wear. Having a few keepsakes from my grandmother makes me wonder if one of the sealed rooms belonged to my mom, or if there are keepsakes or pictures of her in the attic. As soon as I get my room in order, I'm going to find some way to get into those other rooms with the stuck doors.
Next, I set up my TV and PS4, sitting on my bed and trying to connect them both to the internet when I hear loud thumping coming from the far wall. The noise is far too loud to be a rat or mouse. Not knowing what’s causing it freaks me the hell out. I dig around one of my boxes, pull out a baseball bat, and sit on the end of my bed just listening. For several minutes, it's silent. I'm starting to feel completely off my rocker, clutching a baseball bat listening for imaginary noises.
Then, I hear it again.
Convinced it's a possum or raccoon or something, I bang on the wall three times with my fist. Whatever it is, it bangs right back.
“Holy shit,” I start, jumping a little. That did not just happen. I bang on the wall again, but this time, there’s no answer. Thank God. For a second there, I was convinced my new house was haunted—or else the weirdo from the backyard got in and is living in the walls like come clichéd horror movie. Maybe it's time to check in with Mrs. DeBellevue and get out of this house for a second?
When I turn around, the cat is just there and sitting on my bed,
his rich golden eyes following my every move. How did he get in here? My bedroom door is closed and locked.
He yawns, flashing a pink tongue and tiny white teeth.
“Was that you?” I ask, standing up and leaning the baseball bat against the wall. “Were you the one making all that crazy noise?” I cross my arms over my chest and stare the tiny beast down, wondering if he got into the room through, like, some rat hole or something. That would be just my luck, right? To pick the room with a rodent’s nest in it. “Well, if it was, you suck. You scared the shit of me.”
The cat just stands up, flashing that strange white ‘X’ on his side before he stretches, arching his back before he curls into a ball and folds his paws tightly against his chest. He looks at me with lazy gold eyes that glimmer with mischief.
Huh.
“You’re kind of a weirdo, you know that?” I start, shaking my head and starting toward the bedroom door to head for the neighbor’s. I pause before I unlock it, looking at the cat one more time. It feels like someone’s watching me and indeed, the cat is. But it’s more than that. Chills sweep across the skin of my arms and I take a few steps back, grabbing the baseball bat in hand again.
Oddly enough, the little black feline seems to nod his head in approval.
And the weirdest part about that … is that it’s not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me today.
Welcome to your new life, Serefine Laveau; it’s bound to be a strange one.
Mrs. DeBellevue is a heck of a lot taller than me, with skin the color of deep rich chocolate—just a few shades darker than my own—and an elegant, commanding voice. But the first thing I notice when she opens her door to me are her eyes. They’re milky white, no pupils, no irises, nothing. Standing on her porch, staring down at me with those unnatural eyes, she looks like some old-world priestess or oracle or something. Her porch is even weirder and creepier than the one at my new house, yet she has the same dangling bone, hair, and teeth wind chimes, not to mention a few dead rabbits strung up by their feet while chickens and goats roam free across the rest of the property.