Wait, that’s coming from inside this drawer.
I eased it open again and noticed something I hadn’t seen before; a yellowed envelope with neat handwriting on the outside. Gingerly, in case there really were unwanted guests in my dresser, I plucked the envelope out and rubbed the surface of the paper with my finger. Derek Wright was the name scrawled on it. Even though I hadn’t seen her handwriting in more than a decade, I knew immediately that my mother wrote this letter. Curious now, I opened the envelope and held my breath as I read the scant paragraph inside.
Derek,
You know what it is I want to say, but I cannot. Not again. I should never have said it to begin with. I am sorry, D. It wouldn’t be fair to you to say it again. It has to be this way. Just think about it, D. Think about what it would mean if we continued. This has to be the end.
Candace
What in the world? I turned the letter over in my hand but found no other writing, no other message. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Did this mean that Uncle Derek and my mother…? No, it couldn’t mean that.
Think about what that would mean…
Nope, not going there.
My first instinct was to shred the note, tear it into twelve thousand pieces and burn it. That would make it not real, right? Hell no, it wouldn’t. Something happened between those two, and I would never know what because they were both gone. I knew I shouldn’t infer anything from these few lines, but my heart told me otherwise. I couldn’t believe how angry I felt at having read a note my uncle hid in a drawer. I could be wrong; this could be someone else’s handwriting. Someone else named Candace, Cassidy? I slid the note into my pocket until I could decide what to do with it. I closed the drawer and left my room.
Someone or something wanted me to find that note. But who? Uncle Derek? Certainly not a mouse or any other rodent. I had the familiar sensation that something paranormal was occurring, that the other world was reaching out to me. But who and why?
And with that tug came the compulsion to paint. Domino trekked behind me, obviously intending to go with me to the studio. I shook my head at him and closed the door, leaving him in the main house. I could hear his disapproving meows and suspected he’d dig up his litter box to punish me, but I couldn’t stop to explain. I couldn’t wait another moment.
It was time to paint.
Breathing in the smells of fresh paint, I flipped on the heater, tugged on a smock and opened the curtains to allow the light in. I chose a smaller canvas for this project. This would be a series of paintings, not just one.
The first image was already springing up in my mind. I could see a ship, an old ship churning through stormy seas. And there was a young woman. She stood on the deck, her hair flying around her, and salt spray swirled around her. I could feel her fear, smell the salt air, and hear another woman yelling at her.
Speak to me now. I’m ready, I thought as I reached for the colors and dabbed them together on the palette. The woman—no, she wasn’t old enough to be a woman. She was a girl still, a teenager. She wanted to jump, to sink to the bottom of the ocean, to never be found. So much pain, so much despair.
Her father had died on this ship, horribly and quickly, leaving her all alone. She had no one. I know how you feel. I blinked back my own emotions and focused before adding more paint. I didn’t need a sketch for her face; I could clearly see her and hear her thoughts. He had been her everything, her entire world, and now she was headed into the Unknown all by herself. Even her fellow passengers were strangers to her. No one knew her, no one at all. Her father had died, and someone had robbed his body.
Someone had stolen the last of her wealth, a bag of silver coins, and now she had nothing.
What would become of her?
Chapter Two—Gabrielle Bonet
1704
What do I do, Poppa? Let me come with you. Take me with you, Poppa.
The emerald seas had turned foamy and cruel. Salt water stung my face, but I couldn’t stop staring. Father Huve invited me to stand with him, but I could not move. With a heave, two sailors tossed my father’s wrapped body in the angry sea and he was gone.
“Let me come with you! Take me with you!” To my surprise, I realized I was not thinking these words but saying them. Saying them out loud, screaming them into the storm as I clung to the wooden railing of the ship. They’d thrown Poppa’s body into the stormy sea, and I’d run with all my might after him. My hands gripped the wood. If I slung my whole body, I could make the distance. Even with these skirts, I could clear the railing; I was still strong enough to do that. I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes. In the next breath, I would do it. I wouldn’t fight the seas, either. I would slide under the raging waves and swallow the salty water until I was no more.
But then arms were around me pulling me away. Jean! Sweet Jean. The English girl was crying and speaking softly to me. I did not understand English well, but I understood her tone. “No, Gabrielle. No, you must not. Please, come inside. I will take care of you. You will be my sister. I will help you, dearest. Come inside, Gabrielle.”
Clutching Jean now, I weakened; my grip slipped, and the two of us fell on the deck. Jean held me as the water splashed over us, nearly drowning us. I did not wish for Jean to die. That should not be her destiny. But I couldn’t leave the deck, not yet. Poor Claudette; her Momma was sick and could not come say goodbye to her. I would remain and witness her passing into the sea, and I was loath to return to the passengers’ hold. Another sea awaited me, a sea of hopeless faces, all pale and gaunt from hunger, evidence of our long weeks on the ship Pelican.
Perhaps we were all dead anyway. What if we never landed but sailed until we all died? Why delay the inevitable? Yet, I did not pity them—one of them had robbed me.
Jean held me close as we shivered together. I watched as the bodies of two sailors were unceremoniously tossed into the water. There was no one to weep for the men, and I did not weep for them either. Finally, Claudette’s shrouded figure was lifted and carried to the ship’s railing.
But then she moved.
I could swear to the heavens I saw her body move. I rubbed the salt water from my eyes and then clutched my friend’s hand. “She’s alive, Jean!” I screamed into the angry wind. “She’s alive! Stop, now!” Nobody heard me, or if they did, they did not listen. Surely they felt her squirming. I could very clearly see her moving. I thought I heard her high, piercing scream over the roaring wind, or was that my own?
“Stop!” I yelled as Jean grabbed me from behind and would not let me go.
She whispered savagely in my ear, “There is no help for her. She is dead.” Father Huve glared at me and waved at the men to continue.
“No, stop! She’s alive. Please…just look!”
It was too late. Sweet Claudette, the youngest of us all, the girl with the blond curls and dimpled cheeks, was now thrown into the sea forever. And Jean and I were witnesses. And then I did collapse onto the deck and cry until I could no longer walk or speak or fight my rescuers.
For the next week, I hunkered in a dark corner of the passenger quarters with Jean. She had no parental chaperone either, but she was older than I, nearly twenty, as far as I could guess, and a wealthy young woman with some social standing. Jean was well connected, whereas I was now penniless and had no one to speak for me. Thankfully, my new friend kept me close to her at all times.
When Poppa and I left France, there were over seventy of us on board, including twenty-three young ladies who were all winners of the French Crown’s Lottery. We, the selected, were destined to be the wives of French patriots, brave men who explored and conquered the New World in the name of the king. We would be mothers of a new nation, progenitors of a New France, and all the world would be French. This was our beloved King Louis’ desire, the priest told me during one of my many interviews with him. My answer had been, “Vive la France!” which pleased my father and the priest who met with me.
The following week, the messenger came. I, Gabriell
e Bonet, a girl with no status other than her father’s military service, had won the Lottery. I had been approved. My “virtuousness and beauty” had secured my spot and placed me on the path to a marvelous destiny. Our small village celebrated with a feast in my honor. My father had been elated, and I was too, until we arrived at the dock some weeks later. Then I laid eyes on the ship Pelican, and the fullness of what was happening became apparent to me. How to account for the sick feeling I had? Was it some type of foreshadowing? I begged Poppa that we should stay in France, that we should go back home to our village.
“My dear, we have no home to go back to.” I did not know then but would later discover that Poppa had sold all his worldly possessions, including our home and furnishings, for my trousseau and his passage. All that was left to us was a small bag of silver coins. I would never see France again. Poppa and I—and all these others, all strangers, obviously all much wealthier than I—would travel toward the setting sun. And we could never return home.
Poppa frowned at my tears and quickly ordered me to stop my crying. “You have excelled over hundreds of young women—you are the hope of France. The king himself approved of you, Gabrielle Louise. Consider yourself the luckiest of all young women. No more tears.”
His words did nothing to abate my fears, but I did not speak openly of them again. I never wanted to displease Poppa. The course would take us twelve weeks, three months of life at sea, and then we would see for ourselves this New World. I had many questions about what we would encounter. Before I knew of any such Lottery, I had heard the rumors of this heretofore undiscovered country. Such treasures in the New World! Papa loved telling me the stories he heard from the merchants. Gold, silver and jewels, of course, but even more interesting, strange creatures and even stranger people. How delightful those stories had been when they were only stories. But the priests and the Sisters of Charity disapproved of such conversations now. We were to devote ourselves to the study of the scriptures, meditation on God’s laws and prayer for the king and his family.
Poppa and I stayed close, entertaining ourselves with other topics of conversation until he got sick. Until we were separated.
As the ship lurched through another storm, Jean prompted me to eat the stale bread she offered and bade me taste a few bites of the questionable stew. My rescuer would not allow me to starve myself to death. I did as she asked.
In the days following my rescue, I began teaching Jean a few more French words. She had a grasp on basic conversation but wanted to learn more. I was not the best teacher, but she was clever and soon we spoke only in French. Father Huve helped us from time to time, but he frequently had other matters to attend to…like keeping the sailors from talking to the female passengers. Even though such conversations were strictly forbidden, some of the young women broke those rules. One in particular, Mary Madeline, repeatedly spent too much time collecting water and food. I supposed because she was a rather plain-faced young woman, the Sisters thought it would be safe to send her to the galley, but they underestimated the tastes of the sailors. They cared nothing for her face, as Jean whispered. In fact, there was much flirting going on aboard the ship, all of which Jean disapproved of and reminded me constantly to refrain from. She needn’t have bothered. I had no desire to flirt with anyone. Eventually, all the lottery winners were housed in one room, a change many heartily objected to at first.
“There is no light in here! Do you want us all to become mushrooms?” one mother, a Madame du Mesnit, complained. Unfortunately for her, she was not important enough to change Father Huve’s mind. Too bad Father Huve had not issued such a rule when Poppa still lived. Surely it was one of the sailors who had sickened him, for sick passengers were not allowed on board. Yes, if Father Huve had confined us earlier, then my Poppa would still be alive. This thought made me hate the old priest. That and the way his hand lingered too long on my shoulder.
How Poppa had suffered! Struck with headaches so excruciating that he would scream in pain, his strength diminished quickly. As soon as he began vomiting, he was moved to a makeshift hospital room where he and a few others were housed to keep them away from the general population. I was not permitted to accompany him.
Whispers of yellow fever began to circulate, and although I was forbidden to leave our quarters, I did so in the middle of the night while the lazy guard slept. I threw myself on Poppa, who was unconscious and unaware of my presence. Once I was inside, Father Huve could not allow me to return to the other girls, nor did I wish to do so.
I recalled that moment with perfect clarity. Yes, it was as if I were living it all over again. What day was it? I could not tell. Was Poppa truly gone, or had I imagined it all?
I shuddered. No, this was not a dream. He was dead. I remembered everything. They thought they would separate us forever, but I would not be denied. I had gone to him, and oh… Oh, Poppa!
Poppa was sicker than when he had left me, much sicker, and he was clearly wasting away. When he finally opened his eyes, they were bloodshot; his skin sweated constantly and felt clammy to the touch. His yellowed eyes were wide open the morning I found him dead. They were wide open, and I could not shut them. I wept as they wrapped his body in his own dirty blanket and secured it with ropes. Others died too, including one of the Lottery winners, Claudette Catherine Toussaint. She was younger than me, and she died the same morning as Poppa. Father Huve prayed over the bodies of the four dead, and when his ministrations ended I accompanied Poppa to the deck. At first, it didn’t seem real.
Maybe it wasn’t real. Yes, that was it. This was all a horrible dream.
“Please, God, let me awaken. Let me find Poppa snoring or playing cards with Jacques. Let me wake up. Please, God…”
I repeated the prayer until I could no longer speak. No one was listening.
Chapter Three—Midas Demopolis
“Unbelievable,” I muttered as I hit the ignore button for the sixth or seventh time today. Even though I had deleted Sara’s contact information from my phone just as a precaution against temptation, I still recognized her number.
“What did you say?” Pete asked as he opened his new kit and pulled out a black sensor and a small remote.
“Nothing important.” I put my cell phone on the table and rubbed my hands over my face. Focus on the moment. “This technology, is this something you picked up in Los Angeles? I guess you got a chance to play with all kinds of things.” I didn’t mean for the comment to sound like a cheap dig, but somehow I managed just that. Peter froze and gave a nervous laugh, but then I reminded myself that I didn’t do this. I wasn’t the one who sold my soul to Hollywood and took off with my best friend’s girl. Come to think of it, what were the chances that the guy Sara cheated with would be in my dining room today? She hadn’t called me at all since we’d settled up our business. Until today. True, I’d forgiven my longtime friend Peter Broadus. Hell, he’d taken a bullet for me. But Sara? She didn’t give a damn about the destruction she’d left behind. Or Pete. She never really cared about him. Pete was a way to get back at me. She’d never forgiven me. She thought for sure I’d be ready to give up Gulf Coast Paranormal for the chance to appear on a paranormal television show. That hadn’t been the case. All Sara cared about was her career, about making it to the big time. As it turned out, she and her lame paranormal show hadn’t lasted more than one season. Pete had seemingly been disappointed with the experience; he’d moved back to Mobile before they’d even completed filming. But I didn’t know for sure. I didn’t want to ask him either. Pride and all that. The less I knew, the better.
“Nope. This was some of the technology demonstrated at the convention in Pensacola a few years ago. You remember, don’t you? We all went and spent two days over there. It’s actually a really innovative approach to collecting evidence of the paranormal.”
“Okay, I’m curious. How does it work?”
Peter seemed happy to demonstrate his new toy. “The sensor here, that’s this bar, it connects to a computer, laptop
or tablet. The remote isn’t really necessary, but it’s useful if you want to use two or more at the same time. So, the sensor shoots about a million tiny infrared dots of light across the room or whatever space you want to monitor. From experience, I can tell you that it can cover a huge amount of space. If anything moves into the light field, the software grabs the figure and displays the movement on the screen. Unfortunately, you can only see anomalies as stick figures, but we’re just at the beginning of using this technology. Instead of seeing shadows and light play, someday, we may see a human figure. Right now, it’s just a basic form.”
“You mean a stick figure,” I corrected him as I turned off the light and pulled the blinds closed. Pete handed me the tablet and showed me what he looked like. Yep, pretty basic, but even that was cool.
“Right, but you get the point. No more straining at shadows in the dark. This software makes what’s invisible visible. Is that cool or what?”
“Have you field tested this yet? Any other paranormal investigation groups using this gaming software?”
“Yeah, lots of folks. If you say okay, I’m hoping to test this unit out on our next Gulf Coast Paranormal case. I hope you can appreciate what a great tool this could be.” Pete looked frustrated at my lack of enthusiasm. He flicked on the lights as my phone vibrated and buzzed again.
What the heck? Why is she calling me again?
Pete’s eyes fell on the phone. He obviously recognized the number too. “Oh. When did she start calling?” I could see the hurt on his face. I felt sorry for the guy but not too sorry. I’d been with Sara for years, while Pete was only with her a few months.
“She started calling today. Something I should know about?”
With a disgusted expression, Pete began packing up his equipment. “Nothing that I know of, Midas. I haven’t talked to her since I came home. You know Sara doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me, but then again, I don’t believe she ever really did.” Man, Pete was lying his ass off.
Spooked on the Gulf Coast (Gulf Coast Paranormal Trilogy Book 3) Page 2