Brown Eyed Ghoul

by H. P. Mallory

  “Hey!” I replied as I playfully swatted his cut, rounded bicep. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I said,” he answered, taking a few more steps into the room before circling around as he glanced at all of my decorations. “Well, does all this crap mean we won’t be finishing your living room any time soon?”

  “Yes! And all this crap is festive!” I railed back at him. Feigning offense, I dramatically crossed my arms against my chest. “And if you feel so inclined, you can go ahead and start working on the second floor,” I finished.

  “I might just have to do that,” he answered with a smile before poking me in the belly with his index finger. “But first, I need to ask you a favor.”

  “Oh, great,” I said as I rolled my eyes and shook my head, “here it comes!”

  He chuckled, and that great, deep laugh of his brought another smile to my face. “I’m not sure this will be something you are even capable of doin’, but I thought I’d give it a try anyway.”

  “Okay, my curiosity is piqued,” I said as I studied him for a few more seconds.

  “Word is startin’ to spread about your ability,” he started.

  “My ability?” I repeated, shaking my head to let him know I wasn’t following.

  “Yeah … your ability to see and communicate with spirits,” he corrected himself. Then he cleared his throat and added, “And when I say word’s startin’ to spread, I mean, Trina’s been runnin’ her fat mouth off to anyone who’ll listen.”

  Trina was Ryan’s sister. Although she fancied herself a voodoo practitioner, she wasn’t one, not by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, I’m pretty sure Trina had released the spirit of the Axeman into my house in the first place. After she’d talked me into using a Ouija board at my house, all hell broke loose … and I mean that literally. But Trina meant well and she was my friend, so I figured I’d just let bygones be bygones.

  “Ah,” I said with a quick smile. “So who was listening?”

  “An old family friend of ours,” Ryan started, “his name is Peter MacGregor.”

  “And how does he think I can help him?” I asked, still grasping for clues.

  “Well, back in 1959, his first wife was murdered. The case was never solved,” Ryan replied.

  “Ah, so he wants me to solve it?” I asked. Ryan nodded and I proceeded to shake my head. “You realize, of course, there are no guarantees that I can contact her spirit,” I started.

  “I think he’s expectin’ more than just contactin’ her, Pey,” he said. “Trina made the crucial mistake of tellin’ him how you went back in time to stop the Axeman in 1919.”

  “He wants me to go back in time?” I asked, utterly shocked. “That would mean making another trip to Guarda! I’m definitely not signing up for that again,” I railed as Ryan shook his head.

  “Even if you were willin’ to go back to that crazy, old broad, there’s no way I would allow you to. No, Guarda doesn’t enter into this equation.”

  “Then how …?” I started, but Ryan interrupted me.

  “Just talk to the old man, Pey, and tell him what your limitations are. I think he’s just overly excited that he might finally be able to shed some light on this mystery, even after all these years.”

  “I’m happy to meet with him,” I started, I then sighed deeply. “But I’m not really sure what I can do for him.”

  “I know,” Ryan admitted with a nod and a sweet smile. “Just say you’ll try.”

  “You know I will.”

  “Yep, I knew you would,” he answered before leaning down and kissing my all-too-eager lips once more.

  TWO

  Mon chaton, Drake started, calling me by my other French nickname. It meant “my kitten.” Je ne sais pas, I do not understand what this man expects from us?

  Neither do I, but I suppose we will find out in due time, I answered mentally. I was trying to maintain the façade of a proper hostess paying strict attention to her houseguest. In this case, my houseguest was none other than Peter MacGregor, the man who wanted me to travel back in time to find out what happened to his first wife. It was something I was neither prepared for nor willing to do …

  “My dear, your attempts at sweet tea are a bit too heavy on the tea and not heavy enough on the sweet,” Peter said. His wide smile, jovial personality, long, snow-white beard, and round, twinkling eyes made him look like Santa Claus.

  I laughed along with him, eyeing my glass of tea with a frown. I briefly swirled the libation around and wondered if I’d ever get any Southern recipes right. “Well, the attempt was there,” I replied, returning my attention to him. “It’s not my fault that everyone refuses to divulge their family recipes!”

  Peter chuckled and nodded as if he didn’t find that information surprising in the least. “Yes, folks around here cling to their recipes like family heirlooms.”

  “You’re telling me!” I agreed as I shook my head and feigned offense.

  “One of these days, Peyton’s gonna get the hang of what it means to be a true Southerner,” Ryan added as he smiled at me sweetly. “She’s learnin’ more and more every day.” He finished with a chuckle and gave me an encouraging little pat on my back. Seeing how Peter was his friend, Ryan decided to join us for our first meeting. That was fine by me, and even made the situation much more comfortable. It also didn’t hurt that, in general, I liked having Ryan around.

  Peter laughed before growing silent as his eyes settled on me. I had a feeling the reason for his visit was about to be unveiled. “Perhaps we should get down to business, as it were,” he started with a brief nod of encouragement toward me.

  “Sure,” I said. I swallowed a healthy sip of tea, which tasted plenty sweet to me. ’Course, I wasn’t a bona fide Southerner, so what did I really know? Not a lot, it seemed.

  “Now, I’m not sayin’ that I put much stock in believin’ stories ’bout the other side, or things that go bump in the night,” Peter started, still bobbing his head up and down.

  Then why is he here, speaking with us? Drake interrupted, sounding almost bored. I didn’t bother to respond lest I encourage him.

  “But I’m also not a disbeliever, I have to admit,” Peter continued with a sigh. He put his glass of sweet tea back on top of the table. We were all sitting at my square, wooden breakfast table, circa 1882. I’d found it at an antique store in town. The rosy fingers of the late morning sunshine streamed through the bay window in my breakfast nook that overlooked Prytania Street. Pretty soon, the soft light would throw itself right into our eyes. That reminded me I needed to add “kitchen curtains” to my ever-growing to-do list.

  “It’s just that I’ve had to live with the mystery of what happened to Adele, my first wife, for so long now that I’m ready to pretty much believe in anything as long as it gets me somewhere,” Peter finished. His haunted eyes sought mine.

  “I understand,” I said in a compassionate voice. I couldn’t imagine having to live with such a burden for so long. And based on how ancient Peter MacGregor looked, I imagined he must’ve lugged this anchor for more than a very long while.

  “Now, of course, Ryan already enlightened me as to the nature of your … gifts, Ms. Clark,” Peter continued, despite me telling him to call me Peyton more than once. “But if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to hear more about your skills and abilities, you know, from the horse’s mouth, as it were.”

  I laughed at his reference to me as “the horse’s mouth,” but wondered what he was inquiring about. “Well, what would you like to know?” I asked once it was clear he wasn’t going to say more.

  Peter cleared his throat and eyed me narrowly, as if he were trying to see right through me. “Ryan said you underwent a possession through beneficent voodoo magic and white witchcraft in order to embed the spirit of a policeman from the turn of the twentieth century inside you. Is that accurate?”

  I nodded. “Yes, it is.”

  “And Ryan’s dear sister, Trina, told me you managed to travel ba
ck in time ninety-six years ago to fulfill a mission and defeat a sinister entity that otherwise would have wreaked havoc on modern-day N’Awlins?” Peter continued.

  “Yes, that is so,” I confirmed.

  “How is such a thing possible?” Peter asked. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back into his chair, ignoring its creaks and groans.

  “That part I can’t answer,” I said honestly with a shrug. “All I can tell you is it involved a voodoo practitioner that I don’t trust and hope to never revisit … not ever again.” I clenched my jaw shut tightly to let him know, in no uncertain terms, that I would never deal with Guarda again voluntarily. Never. Not for him, not for anyone.

  “Ah, yes, an’ I’m just goin’ out on a limb here, but is this voodoo priestess, by any chance, called Guarda?” Peter asked. I immediately nodded, surprised. At my reaction, Peter began to nod, too, as if he understood my misgivings and why I refused to have anything more to do with her.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said as I studied him suspiciously. It seemed like something passed through his eyes, a kind of awareness. “Do you know her?”

  Peter took a long while before answering. He drummed his bony, wrinkly fingers against the dark oak tabletop and seemed to zone out. “Yes,” he said finally when he stopped piano-ing his fingers and brought his heavy gaze back to mine. “Though I wish that were not the case,” he finished. Now it was his turn to sigh. He didn’t offer any more information as to how he knew Guarda, but I didn’t want to push it, since it wasn’t any of my business. Instead, I wanted to clarify exactly what I was and wasn’t willing to do in order to help him.

  “Then you understand why I don’t want to have anything more to do with her?” I asked. I had to make sure he wouldn’t try to talk me into the whole time travel bit.

  He nodded. “Had I known Guarda was involved, I would never have spared a thought to request your assistance,” he said. He started to stand up as he clutched his hat in one of his hands, using the other to lean on the chair in order to sustain his balance. “I’m terribly sorry that I wasted your time.”

  Confused, I immediately stood up and put my hand on his shoulder to keep him from walking away. “Well, that doesn’t mean I can’t help you,” I started.

  Mon Dieu! We cannot help him! Drake interrupted, sounding very perturbed. And we were mere moments from getting rid of him! Ma minette!

  Oh, Drake, stop it! I yelled back at him in my mind. I was irritated at his balking because I did want to help Peter however I could. The old man was very endearing and deserved some peace of mind.

  Drake made a “humph” sort of noise, but grew quiet all the same, which was a relief.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Peter said as he faced me. He hesitated, but didn’t make any motion to sit back down again.

  “Well, even though I can’t travel back to 1959 to see what actually happened to your first wife,” I started.

  “Adele,” he interrupted, almost anxious for me to call her by her name.

  “Adele,” I repeated before taking a deep breath and continuing. “There are other things I can do,” I said while glancing down at his chair. Understanding my gist, he sat back down again.

  “Such as?” he asked, his hat still clutched in his hand.

  “I can interact with spirits,” I started and then paused for a few seconds. Sometimes, it still seemed hard for me to believe all the things that came out of my mouth. “Having Drake inside of me …” I began, but stopped once I caught a glimpse of Peter’s furrowed expression and obvious confusion.

  “Drake’s, uh, he’s the spirit of the policeman from 1919,” I supplied as Peter started to nod.

  “Carry on,” he said.

  “Drake allows me to see and hear things and people that I otherwise wouldn’t be able to,” I continued. “I have direct access to the spirit world.”

  “And what does that mean, exactly?” Peter asked.

  “It means that I can have a conversation, just like the one I’m having with you, only with someone who is deceased. As long as the spirit can communicate, I can communicate with them.”

  “As long as the spirit can communicate?” Peter repeated. “Are there some spirits who aren’t able to speak to you?”

  I nodded, realizing I’d have to explain a little bit about Ghosts 101. Since it would be a long conversation, I decided to take my seat again too. “There are four types of spirits,” I started, trying hard to remember the lessons I learned from Lovie, the voodoo priestess, and Christopher, the warlock. “The first type is just trapped energy. These spirits simply repeat actions, sounds, or words that occurred or were spoken when they were alive.”

  “Those are the types of haunts that relive their deaths over and over again, but have no sentient abilities,” Ryan added, probably making more sense than I did.

  “Yes!” I said with a grateful smile at him.

  “Okay, I understand,” Peter said. After a brief nod, I was encouraged and swiftly moved to point number two.

  “The second type of spirit is stuck on this plane and can never leave. These spirits usually died tragically or violently. The third type of haunt is one who stays on this plane purposely, either to protect someone, or because it’s attached to a person or a thing,” I continued.

  “And the fourth type?” Peter asked.

  “The fourth type of spirit is the most powerful. These can travel from the spirit plane to the earthly plane and can be good or bad. The good ones usually come to offer protection, or deliver messages to the living.”

  “And the bad ones?” Peter asked, a trace of alarm tainting his tone.

  “Those spirits come here with the single intention of harming us. We usually refer to them as demons.” I took a deep breath and slowly let it out again. “The spirit of the Axeman was one of those types of entities—a demon.”

  “I see,” Peter replied, “but I fail to understand why we are discussing demons; Adele would hardly be considered one!” he finished rather gruffly.

  “No; and no one is suggesting that,” I quickly interjected to ease his palpable irritation. “As long as Adele is one of the spirits who can travel to both planes, I can communicate with her.”

  “What if she’s one of the other types of spirits? The ones who won’t leave this plane for whatever reason? Or what if she’s simply trapped and reliving her fate over and over again?” Peter asked, sounding more and more agitated.

  “Well, how do you know that she’s even still a spirit?” I replied. That was probably a question I should have asked him a while ago, but better late than never …

  Peter began to nod in earnest. “I am convinced she still haunts the house she died in.”

  “Okay, so do you have access to this house?” I asked. That could pose its own problem if he didn’t.

  “Well, I should hope so, considering I live there too!” he responded quickly before erupting into an impatient, little laugh.

  I was slightly surprised to learn he was still living in the same house, but I tried not to show it. “Okay, well that makes things significantly easier then,” I answered. I didn’t bother asking why he thought she was haunting it. Chances were high, if he thought she was, she probably was.

  “So, if we assume that she is a spirit,” Peter continued. He obviously wanted to stay on the topic at hand. “How would you go about contacting her if she’s just stuck on this plane and not one of those sentient spirits you mentioned earlier?”

  I shrugged; I wasn’t sure of the answer to his question. When it came to summoning and communicating with the dead, I was a basic novice and then some. “I’m not exactly sure, but I imagine it could be a bit more difficult than reaching out to spirits who are sentient.”

  “Then you haven’t interacted with any spirits? Even though you have one living inside you?” Peter asked. The frown he aimed at me suggested he wanted a refund.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I replied with a laugh that was devoid of humor. “I’ve com
municated with the dead,” I said as I faced Peter and nodded while memories of the ordeal began to haunt me. “And it was something I will never forget, not as long as I live.”

  “Then this spirit you communicated with was one who could speak?” Peter asked.

  I nodded. “She was a slave from the LaLaurie House,” I said as my heart began to race. I forced the unpleasant memories back into the recesses of my mind.

  “Good Lord,” Peter said as he crossed himself. That was the normal reaction whenever anyone discussed the LaLaurie House or the atrocities that happened inside it. As far as the legend went, Madame LaLaurie lived in the late eighteen hundreds. She was a very wealthy and elite member of New Orleans. She was also an absolute psychopath. She took great pleasure in the torture and murder of her slaves. She kept them confined to a room at the top floor of her stately home on Royal Street.

  I’d unfortunately had to visit the LaLaurie House in order to make contact with the spirits who still resided there. And, even more unfortunately, I’d had to go inside that room where they were kept. The things I saw there will forever haunt me. Slaves were chained to the walls, some were dead, and those who weren’t certainly wished they were. Some were held in cages. All of them were being methodically starved. Many had broken limbs, and others were missing their limbs altogether. Body parts littered the room, crawling with maggots. Maybe the worst part was Madame LaLaurie’s penchant for performing experimentations on the slaves, even going so far as to force some of them to undergo sex changes.

  “Let’s just say I know how to contact sentient spirits,” I said before shoving the unhappy memories right out of my mind.

  I felt Ryan’s hand on my back and glanced over at him only to find him looking at me with deep concern in his eyes. I smiled at him to let him know I was okay, and he quickly nodded. I turned to face Peter again.

  “But how will you make contact with Adele?” Peter asked.

  I sighed. That was the part I hadn’t figured out. “Well, I don’t exactly know the answer to that yet,” I started as Peter released a pent-up breath of what I imagined was utter frustration. “But I do know a voodoo priestess and a warlock, and both are much more familiar with all of this stuff than I am. I’m sure they’d be willing to help me, er, us.”