I do, absorbing what she’s told me. She rustles around in the other room and then brings out a lamp with no shade and sets it on the table beside me. She plugs it and turns it on, the bare bulb casting long, harsh shadows in the kitchen.
“Come,” she says, summoning me. “Stand here. Please.”
I do, and she puts her hands on my shoulders to position me.
“Face the wall.”
I turn and look at the wall, and her shadow joins mine as she comes to stand next to me.
“Sometimes, in the late afternoon sunlight, the body casts more than one shadow. A darker core within a fainter outline. Do you see?”
“Yes.” I did see, but I didn’t yet understand.
“The lighter shadow is your ti bon ange. People think of it as your aura, but it’s actually the Little Angel, part of your soul. The dark image is your gros bon ange, or Big Angel, the other part of your soul.
Gros bon ange is responsible for the functions of the body. And ti bon ange, the source of personality, character, emotion. Morality. Love.”
“Why does mine look different?” In the yellow light from the lamp, our shadows have the two parts she described, but the outer one of mine is lighter, bigger, wavery like heat shimmer on a summer road.
“The ti bon ange has a more tenuous connection with the body, even under normal circumstances.” Her shadow gestures with her. “After resurrection, the bonds fray over time.
When you died, your ti bon ange would not leave, would not move on. What I did for you, is to tie your body, your big soul, and your little soul back together before your souls departed. They are all tied together in your ring.
But when you wait too long to eat, gros bon ange takes over, weakens ti bon ange. Each time this happens, the bond is even weaker. If it happens too much, your Little Angel will break from the rest. Your Big Angel will be all that is left, and your humanity will fade until you are a mindless shell.”
I can already feel it fading away, my humanity. In those moments where my consciousness slips into darkness and I can’t remember anything afterward. And the things I did during those times... the blackout was probably a blessing.
“If your little soul breaks free from your body, from your ring, it wanders the world evermore—trapped, lost—while your body rampages, concerned only with hunger. Until it rots or the head is removed.” She makes a slicing motion across her neck, and any uncertainty I had is gone.
I’m a damn zombie.
“Only you can apparently heal, regenerate,” she continues. “You are in fine health after being killed. So the danger would be much greater, and there would be only the one way to stop you. And who knows how much pain and grief you would wreak on the world before that happened.”
An insatiable zombie that could heal damage. It was the stuff of nightmares and Hollywood B-movies. And my life.
Ms. Josephine reaches over and turns off the lamp and sits back on her side. I take that as a sign that I should do the same.
“Now. Tell me what you remember from that night, please.” She crosses her hands on the table and waits.
Trying to form words to describe the images in my head is frustrating as always. “I remember the sounds of the machines. I remember a bright light. I assume it’s the light I went back to turn off.
I remember these red barrels with a black symbol on the side, and lots of warnings that I couldn’t read. I hear voices, see the shapes of people, but the only face I see is the bottom half of a skull. And I feel pain. Lots of pain, and fear, and regret. I remember feeling like I was being crushed, suffocated. And then I—I died.”
It’s my first time saying it out loud. “I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. And then there was nothing but darkness.” I look away from her and into the distance, my entire body aching with the ghost of the tremendous pain I’d felt. Then I look back at her. “Yet I remember you singing.”
She’s silent a long minute until, expression thoughtful, she asks, “These barrels, do you remember anything else about them?”
I shake my head. “No. I remember the stuff in them was leaking out in places. It had a smell, a bad one.” I shrug. “That’s really about it.”
“Whatever was in those barrels must also be responsible for this situation.”
“What do you mean? Didn’t you do this to me?”
“For you,” she says, tipping her head. “And yes, technically. But I have a theory. Do you want to hear it?”
“Of course,” I say, leaning towards her.
She dabs her mouth with a napkin and sets it down before looking at me pointedly. “If I had not cast my spell, you would have risen anyway, from the chemicals in the barrels that you were buried with.”
I’m still trying to think of a reply when she continues.
“I had the dirt tested,” she says, surprising me.
Not only because she thought of it in the first place, but because this doesn’t seem like a situation science can help.
“I do not know what even half of what the chemicals and substances are, but I recognize a few of them.” She shakes her head. “Raising a zonbi is serious business. It cannot be accomplished without strong poisons, and even stronger magic. Only a very powerful se’vite’ can do this. It is very bad juju.”
Not all the words make sense to me, but I get the gist. “But... you raised me.”
“Yes, but—How to explain.” She shakes her head as she searches for words. “There are those who practice Vodou with the right hand of magic, like me—” She holds her right hand out, palm up. “—and those who practice with the left.” She holds her left hand out the same way. “Light and dark, you see? I practice only with the right hand,” she says, holding that hand out to me. “I do only the work the spirits and God himself requests of me.
The barrels contained poisons that would have raised you, And you would have risen, with nothing tying your soul, wandering the earth with insatiable hunger. The spirits intervened. They had me step in, and raise you the right way first.”
“Raise me as a zombie with Voodoo,” I murmur.
“Vodou,” she corrects me. “And yes, but it could be worse. While your soul was vulnerable, it could have been stolen by whoever is responsible for the chemicals. You would be under someone else’s control.”
“That’s worse?” I half joke.
She doesn’t smile. Instead she sits back in her chair and stares at me. “In Haiti, the fear of zombies is not the same as in the westernized world. It is not the fear of being attacked by zombies, or hurt by them, but rather of becoming one. Under someone else’s control.”
I digest that a minute, and then she continues, voice grave.
“Trapped, unable to escape, yet conscious and forced to do whatever the person who tied your soul commands. Anything at all, no matter how much it horrifies you. An eternal slave, you would do it and be aware of it and be unable to stop. It is an unspeakable horror.
Stealing a soul...It is some of the darkest magic there is.” She crosses herself before continuing. “When I resurrected you, I tied your soul to your wedding ring. Whoever holds the ring has control of you. I gave it back to you, so that you would have your own will, ownership of your own soul. As it should be.”
So that’s why I followed her around without question before, when she had my ring. That’s why she’d asked for it in the first place, to make sure I did what I was told, for her safety. She controlled me while she fed me.
I feel inexplicably betrayed, and I kind of get it now, why being an eternal slave would be a nightmare.
She sees the expression on my face and nods. “I had to make sure that I was safe until and while you ate, so I could help you. You have let yourself go too long without eating.”
I guess I’m thankful she’s the kind of person who gave it back.
She taps a finger on the table. “Listen, listen. This is very serious,” she says. “Be sure to eat often. Don’t get too hungry, or your baser urges will take over. You will r
egret it.” Voice firming, she continues. “And so will any creature around you. Do you understand this?”
“Yes.” I think I do understand. I’m an animal, a danger, when I’m hungry. To dogs and chickens and deer, and maybe humans too. I have to eat raw meat. Not just raw meat, fresh raw meat. The freshest I can find. I bury my face in my hands. “I’m a monster.”
“You need not feel bad for killing animals for food. You are no different than anyone else in that regard. What you do need to be careful of, is getting too hungry and doing something else you’ll regret. And remember that each time that happens, it weakens the little soul, and eventually, your time will be up.”
“Up? As in permanently?”
She nods gravely.
Damn. I still haven’t coped with the fact that I was given a second chance at life, and now I learn that it will be taken away again at some point. “What can I do?” Hopelessness weighs my soul down the way the dirt had trapped my body.
“Don’t let yourself get too hungry, and eat something you shouldn't.” The or someone was implied. “Other than that? Nothing.”
That’s when the anger comes back. It’s easier to feel, easier to manage than all the fear.
“I didn’t have a choice in this. I hate it. I had no choice in my murder, no choice in my resurrection. I have no choice but to eat raw meat. No choice but to have to deal with this. It’s not fair. Not to me, not to my family, not to Maisie.”
“Life is not fair.” She swirls a hand in the air, sounding unconcerned. “And often, neither is death.” She shrugs one shoulder.
The anger propping me up evaporates, and I feel tears burning my eyes. She’s right.
“You must tell your wife.”
“Not yet,” I mumble. I’ve not been able to think of a way to broach the subject of my...condition...yet. And exactly how is that conversation supposed to go? By the way, Honey, I’m undead. And dangerous.
“You have to tell her.”
I shake my head. I can’t even believe it’s real myself, even though I remember my death and crawling out of my grave, and I need to eat raw, warm flesh for god’s sake. “I don’t know how to.”
“She deserves to know. She needs to know.”
Yes, Maisie deserved to know that I’d been murdered. That I was a zombie. That I might hurt her if I got too hungry.
That I wouldn’t be able to stay with her.
I drop my head to the table, resting on it. I feel all the shame and embarrassment and regret, and utter hopelessness that I’d feel if I had to tell her I’d cheated on her. I never would, ever do that, but somehow that feels like a preferable conversation to have. She might love me enough to forgive me for that.
I don’t know if she loves me enough for this.
I’m not too proud to beg. Throat tight, I meet Ms. Josephine’s warm brown eyes. “Is there anything you can do? Another spell? I can pay you—”
But she’s shaking her head, hands spread. “I’ve already done everything I can. It is out of my hands.”
I close my eyes, sinking into a deep internal blackness. Darker than the grave.
“Mr. Grady.”
This is the first time she’s used my name, and it stops my descent, makes me open my eyes and look at her.
“The time you have remaining is out of my hands, but what you do with that time is still in yours.” She pats my hand and sits back. “So what will you do with it?”
That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it?
“You have something everyone wants but no one gets: a second chance,” she continues. “A chance to get justice, a chance to spend more time with your loved ones.” Her voice softens. “And a chance to say goodbye, on your terms.”
Now I knew what was happening, had happened—would happen. What would I do with the time I had left?
Sitting at the small table in this eighties bridesmaid’s dress-colored house, I suddenly knew with complete clarity.
I’m going to love Maisie with all my might. I’m going to save those future families from the toxic waste in the soil where I’d died. I’m going to make sure the lab can’t do whatever it is they are doing with those chemicals.
And I am going to make sure that whoever killed me paid for everything he’d done to me, to my family, to everyone.
I meet Ms. Josephine’s gaze, the fire of life re-lit within me. Even if just temporarily. “I’m going to live.”
***
Maisie
When I pick Grady up a bit later, the sun is far behind the horizon, making Ms. Josephine’s house a spooky black silhouette against the dim orange and purple ombre of the sky. The lights in the windows of the upper story seem like eyes, watching me.
He waves goodbye to Ms. Josephine at the door. She’s smiling, but he’s not. He’s somber, and he gets in the car without saying a word. I can’t take that, I’ve never been able to.
“So how’d it go?”
“She made me dinner.” He glances over at me, looking a little bewildered. “Chicken.”
“Ooookay,” I say, putting the car in gear. I want to know more, but he’s quiet as we drive. He seems a little lost. “That was all? She just made you dinner? Did she ask for money?”
“Not even once.” He says it defensively, like I’ve insulted her. “She helped me.”
I don’t mean to, it’s just, the things she’d told him before...
Guilt pricks at me. I’d seen a black woman pretending to be homeless, and made terrible assumptions about her based on what she’d said to Grady. I’d have to work on that. Maybe she really believed the things she’d said and had not been trying to take advantage of him. “Okay, I’m sorry. I was wrong about her. Did you learn anything else?”
He turns from the window to meet my eyes. “Yes. A lot more.” But then he looks out again. “I’m just not ready to talk about it yet.”
Alarmed, I look him over and ask, “Are you okay?” I should’ve known better than to let him go to that crazy old lady’s house alone—
“I don’t know yet.” He puts his hand on my leg. “But she didn’t hurt me.” He gives my knee a little squeeze, and I try to calm my racing heart. “Then, or now. She just gave me some information I didn’t like.”
I take a deep breath in because, damn it, I want to ask so bad, I want to know. I feel like I deserve to know. But he needs time to process, so, fine. I have to wait.
I try to find something to say that isn’t prying. “Krissy came by.”
He peers at me. “How was she?”
I turn back to the road and shrug. “She’s... as good as can be expected.” Which was depressed, weepy, and hurting. “She’s in a lot of emotional pain.” Understandably. “To her, you’re still dead. Her brother is dead. It’s hard to see her pain, knowing we could fix it, and I really don’t feel comfortable keeping this from her any longer. We have to tell her soon—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No. Not yet.” His answer is emphatic and final, and he won’t meet my eyes.
He’s hiding something. Now I’m sure of it. What happened at Ms. Josephine’s? What did she say? What did she tell him?
“Grady, we can’t keep this a secret any longer, especially from your family. They deserve to know that you’re okay, that you’re alive. Your sister, your parents. They’re suffering! We have to tell them—”
“We can’t.” His voice is quiet, but has all the force of a yell, and I realize how upset he actually is. Quiet-angry is one step past loud-angry for him.
I take a deep breath and blow it out. “Okay. I don’t want to make you mad by insisting, but I need to understand why.”
After all, it wasn’t too long ago that I’d learned he was still alive. Not knowing sooner filled me with guilt and an anger I hadn’t had the time to deal with yet.
How could I have accepted it so easily?
“I—” He stops, then restarts, voice hoarse. “I died, Maisie. Someone hurt me, and I died, and I was buried in ch
emicals. Ms. Josephine brought me back to life with Voodoo, and the magic is what healed the damage to my body over the six weeks I was gone—”
I interrupt him with a huffing laugh as I look over at him, but he looks completely serious. He speaks again while my mouth is still open with shock.
“But I don’t know if it’s permanent or not, so I don’t want to tell anyone yet if...” He gestures into the air. “If it’s not. It would just hurt everyone again.”
“Is that what she told you?” My temperature is rising. “I can’t believe it, and I can’t believe you believe it. That’s ridiculous.”
What reason did she have to tell him that? Why would she take advantage of his mental state by telling him crazy stories like that?
“I knew you wouldn’t accept it,” he mutters, hunching into his seat and staring hard out the window.
“I know you’re desperate to find out what happened to you, Honey, but that is not it. That’s insane. She must be running a long con.” I shake my head, because of course. Voodoo and chemicals and magic. I scoff. “Grady. Seriously, you can’t believe that.” But it was clear that he did. He stays quiet through my ranting, slouching down into his seat, eyes dejected but jaw angry.
I don’t know what else I can possibly say at this point, so I say nothing.
Chapter Eleven
Maisie
When we get home, I heat up a portion of the casserole Krissy brought over, and we sit and eat in silence. Well, I do. He just pushes his food around. His stomach still isn’t great, so I cover his plate and go to put it in the fridge. But when I open it up, there’s no place to put it. After a few days, the refrigerator is overflowing with covered plates. He’s not eating. At all, by the looks of it.
And now I know why he looks worse. I have to get him to eat.
“Grady, aren’t you hungry?”
“Yes, I’m starving.”
“Then why don’t you eat any of the food I make you?” I cross my arms, but I’m more worried than mad.
He looks at me, and I can tell he was hoping I wouldn’t notice the food thing.
He shakes his head. “I can’t. Everything smells bad, tastes bad. I can’t stomach any of it. It’s not your cooking,” he reassures me, “my stomach is just weird.”
A Cursed All Hallows' Eve Page 23