My mom must have noticed something was wrong, because when I finally settled myself and turned back around, she’d propped her glasses on top of her head and was watching me. “Have you been having problems sleeping since we got here?” she asked gently, pausing to give me a chance to respond. When I didn’t, she tried again. “Your dad heard you get up a couple days ago, even earlier than this.”
I took a sip to give myself time to control my expression, but I drank too quickly and inwardly cursed when the hot liquid scalded my tongue. “Yeah, well,” I said, trying to recover. “New place and all that. You could always send me back home if you’re worried.” I’d tried to make it sound like a joke, but my voice came out strained.
My mom frowned. “Are you really that unhappy here?”
I wondered what she would do if I said yes. I wondered if these new dreams would follow me back to Chicago the way the old Dream had followed me here. “No,” I told her. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
I wasn’t sure. But admitting it meant also admitting that my dreams had gotten the better of me. I wasn’t ready to let myself accept that. “Yes,” I said, nodding as surely as I could, but my mom is the master of the silent interrogation. After a few moments of uneasy silence, I couldn’t help but talk. “I mean, Chloe seems really nice, and I’m enjoying my work up at the house.”
“Really?” my mom asked dryly.
“Okay, maybe ‘enjoy’ is too strong a word. But I enjoyed it when Byron let me have the afternoon off the other day.” I lifted up the laptop I’d brought with me into the kitchen. “Finally gave me a chance to take some shots for my senior project.”
My mom stared for another few seconds, taking me in with eyes that had uncovered every lie I’ve ever told. Finally she put her glasses back on and turned back to her papers, the clear signal the interrogation was over. “Get any good ones?”
“I’m about to find out.”
I opened up my computer. I’d already downloaded the memory card onto the hard drive, but I hadn’t taken a close look at the images yet because I wanted to see them for the first time with fresh eyes. It took a second to pull up the files. Once I did, I started going through them, looking for material for my senior project and for the book my dad was putting together to sell in the gift shop.
We worked in a companionable silence for a while, as I looked through the pictures left over from my life in Chicago and then the ones I’d taken by the pond. Most were just as I thought they’d be, too perfect to have any real character.
It hit me suddenly that I didn’t see the picture I’d taken of Alex, so I looked through the files again. It took two passes before I realized I’d been looking at it the whole time. Unfortunately, Alex was no more than a blur at the edge of the trees.
“Something wrong?”
“Huh?” I shook off the disappointment I felt. “No, I thought I had a picture of something but I didn’t get the shot.”
My mom turned back to her work as I stared at my screen in frustration. After the strange dreams I’d been having, part of me needed to see Alex in the picture, if for nothing else but to prove that I hadn’t made him up. Eventually I gave up and shut the laptop.
“Don’t go too far, Luce,” my mom said when I started to get up. “Dad said something last night about taking you with him this morning when he goes to see the new piece of property the university just acquired.”
I perked up. “Is it nearby?”
She nodded. “It wasn’t part of the original property, but it’s adjacent to some fields on the other side of the pond.”
“Why would they buy a property that’s not part of the plantation?”
My mom set her pen down. “I’m not exactly sure. You’ll have to talk to Dad.”
“Talk to me about what?” My dad walked into the kitchen already dressed in his usual button-up shirt and perfectly creased pants. He smelled like the drug store aftershave that he insisted was just as good as the designer brands.
“Mom said the university got some new property?”
“Giving away my secrets again, are you Sara?” His eyes were soft with affection.
“Never,” my mom said as she tilted her head up to receive a kiss.
My dad turned back to me. “Did your mom also tell you I’m going to need you to take some pictures for me?”
“No, not yet. What’s the property? Mom said it wasn’t part of the original plantation.”
“It wasn’t. But it was important to life here. It’s actually part of another plantation, but a freewoman lived there who was important to the area.”
“Thisbe?” The name came out before I even had a chance to think about it, but the instant I said it, I knew I was right. I just didn’t understand how I could be right.
“Yeah.” My dad seemed as surprised as I was at the mention of the name. “How did you know that?”
The air in the room suddenly felt very close, and disjointed images from the dream I’d just woken from flashed in my mind. A tall woman wearing a snake and calling forth who-knows-what powers. The blossom of blood across an innocent throat.
I grasped my now-empty cup of coffee with both hands to keep them from shaking. “You must have mentioned it the other day when you were showing me around,” I said, trying to convince myself as well. He had to have mentioned her name before, or, if he hadn’t, then someone else had. It was the only thing that made sense. My imagination must have put her together with Alex, but I shuddered when I thought about how it had put the two together.
I hoped my parents didn’t notice how shaken I was. I concentrated on looking composed, even as I wondered if it was just my imagination or if the faint scent of sulfur and sweat really did hang in the air.
“Huh. I guess I must have.” He blinked and took another sip. “Anyway, this woman lived on a patch of land at the edge of the next plantation over. Locals around here still talk about her. Some say she was a witch, some call her a Voodoo Queen, and some say she was just a woman who wanted too much and deserved whatever she got.”
“What did she get?” I asked, still focusing on the cup in front of me.
“No one was ever sure what happened to her,” he said. “She disappeared not long after Le Ciel was finished. Anyway, as I was saying, there’s still a cabin there. It’s remarkably well preserved, actually. I’d like you to come with us today and take some general inventory shots.”
I had time to grab a shower and get my equipment together before I went to meet my dad. It was just enough time to settle my nerves, but not enough to feel completely confident about going to Thisbe’s cabin. When I went out the front door, though, my dad was already waiting for me with Piers.
“Lucy, you’ve met Piers?”
I nodded, smiling. “Chloe introduced us the other day.”
“Good. We’re lucky to have someone with his experience on this project.”
“Oh?” I looked at Piers in surprise.
“Absolutely,” my dad said, clapping Piers on the shoulder. “He studied with Dr. Lamont in Haiti and is much more familiar with occult rituals than I am. He’s done some excellent work of his own already.”
Piers looked embarrassed by the praise. “It’s nothing compared to your work, Dr. Aimes. I’m just starting out, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to learn from a scholar as well respected as you are.”
“Right,” I broke in, interrupting their academic lovefest, even though I was surprised and more than a little impressed that Piers’s tone didn’t have the phoniness of my dad’s usual supplicants. “So, which direction are we heading?”
My dad pointed to the woods behind out house. “Just to the far side of the pond. We can walk if that’s okay with you two?”
We set off, following my dad’s lead.
“Well, well,” I said to Piers in a low-enough voice that my dad wouldn’t hear. “Someone undersold his abilities.”
Piers looked over at me sheepishly. “I haven’t done that much. I’m jus
t here to learn.”
“I thought you were in college.”
“No, I’m actually in my second year of grad school.”
“Oh.” I frowned. “I thought you were younger.”
He grinned. “I didn’t spend much time as an undergrad. I’m twenty-two.”
“So you’re a genius or something?”
“I prefer to think of it as focused.”
“Right.” We’d passed through the cool canopy of the woods and were circling the pond. I couldn’t help but scan the trees for Alex.
“What’re you looking for?”
I hadn’t been aware Piers was watching me, but when I blinked up at him, I could tell from his expression that he was considering me much the same way I suspected he would consider a research problem that wasn’t unraveling itself fast enough.
“Nothing,” I said too quickly. He seemed to know it was a lie, but didn’t call me on it.
As we started making our way through the copse of trees on the other side of the pond, toward the field that lay beyond it, Piers broke the tension. “You know, some people say these woods are haunted.”
My dad turned back to us, interest brightening his dark eyes. “I’ve heard stories of ghosts haunting the plantation, but not the woods.”
“Oh, yeah. I grew up not too far from here, and we used to come down here and scare each other silly by going into the woods at night. Used to drive our parents nuts, because none of us would be able to sleep for weeks after,” he said, chuckling.
“Any idea who haunts them?” I asked.
“There are a couple of stories.” Piers stepped carefully over a fallen limb and reached back to help me across. “Some people think Roman used the woods as a burial ground for the slaves he killed and that those unsettled spirits are all around.”
“But you don’t think that.” It was in the tone of his voice—the way he clearly didn’t include himself as “some people.”
He glanced at me. “No, I don’t. It never made much sense that someone would put bodies so close to that pond. You’ve seen it.”
I nodded. Even as overgrown as it was, it was clear that the pond had been built for pleasure and relaxation.
“You’re probably right,” my dad said. “That pond would have been used for family picnics and maybe even swimming.”
“What are the other stories?” I asked.
“Some people believe it’s Thisbe’s ghost,” Piers told us. “They say she’s still guarding her property. Some think maybe Roman had a hand in her disappearance.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if he did kill the old woman to get what he wanted,” my dad added. “He was a ruthless sonofabitch from what we’ve been able to tell from his papers and journals. There’s not much documentation about Thisbe, though.”
“People still talk about what a powerful conjure woman she was. Marie Laveau might be New Orleans’ most famous Voodoo Queen, but Thisbe—” Piers stopped walking, but I didn’t notice at first.
I looked back when I realized he wasn’t next to me, and watched for a second as his gaze darted around the trees surrounding us like he sensed an unseen danger. After a moment, he continued walking as though nothing was amiss. “Like I was saying, Thisbe—that woman had her finger on something.”
Piers seemed like such a smart guy, a grounded and rational guy, so I couldn’t help but think he had to know that the tales of ghosts in the woods were just stories. “You actually believe in that stuff?” I asked him.
“You don’t?” His brows went up in mock surprise.
“I just think it sounds ridiculous, all this talk of Voodoo and ghosts and haunted land.”
“And yet you asked Chloe to talk to Mama Legba for you,” he said, amused.
What could I say to that? “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I said under my breath, turning away and lengthening my strides to catch up to my dad.
“Just watch out for the ghost in the woods. Maybe it’s looking for a body to posses.” He’d snuck up behind me to whisper it in my ear, and I about jumped out of my skin. My dad, of course, was oblivious.
“Here we are,” my dad declared.
Having crossed the expanse of land that was once a field, we now stood at the edge of another small grove of spindly trees. Through intertwined branches, I could make out faded bottles hanging from rust-colored cords and clanking in the breeze. They were the same sort of bottle Mina had brought that first day. Some had fallen, and multicolor shards of glass made the overgrown yard surrounding the home look like it was hiding some forgotten treasure.
My dad led the way, stepping gingerly through the tangle of weeds and debris as he made his way toward the old structure. As we approached the cabin, I took some shots of the grime-covered bottles to keep myself from looking too closely at the house itself.
It was a small, squat structure with a single-gabled roof covered in rusted-out tin that ran horizontally across the front. It didn’t look like much now, but I knew that to a woman who’d once been a slave, it must have seemed like a mansion. The front was anchored with the same wide porch that was characteristic of almost every house I’d seen in Louisiana. It featured two sets of French doors, each flanked by a single window. Had one of its double chimneys not fallen down, the cabin would have been a study in symmetry. But the whole place seemed to be grinning darkly at me.
“Hey, Piers. Come take a look at this.” My dad was pointing to the doorway.
“Red brick dust,” Piers said. “Believers think that scrubbing the steps with it or putting a line in front of doors and windows will keep out spirits and people who mean you harm. Look here, by the window. There’s more of it.”
I crouched down to take a closer look and, with a couple clicks of my camera, documented the strange line of fine powder in the doorway. “It’s funny how it’s still so neat,” I said. “I mean, if this Thisbe person disappeared way back when, you’d think it would have blown away by now.”
“This was done recently,” Piers said. “This kind of charm needs to be reapplied fairly regularly if it’s going to retain its power. That’s why the steps are that funny russet color while the rest of the porch is just worn wood. Someone must still be scrubbing these steps with dust on a regular basis.”
“Who would go to so much trouble to protect an old shack?” I wondered.
“Could be any number of people around here, Luce,” my dad said. “The university has been trying to get this place for a couple of years now, but there were people in the community who made it difficult. From what I understand, people around here were brought up on stories about Thisbe.”
“That’s also probably why the cottage hasn’t tumbled down to nothing by now,” Piers added. “A hundred and fifty years of Louisiana summers and this old place shouldn’t be anything more than a ruin.” He bounced a bit on the porch to demonstrate his point. It lurched but held.
“So, someone’s been taking care of this place?”
“And keeping up the charms on it,” Piers confirmed.
“We’re going to have to make sure security knows about that,” my dad told Piers.
Piers nodded and made a note on the pad he was carrying. With a quick swipe of his foot, he scattered the red line before opening one of the French doors and going in.
“Come on in,” he called from somewhere deep inside the house.
My dad and I stepped carefully over the threshold and looked around.
“This is incredible,” Piers said, returning to the front room. “It’s like this house hasn’t been empty for more than a few years.”
The dust we’d disturbed tickled my nose, and I fought back a sneeze. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized Piers was right. Except for a thick coat of dust and wisps of gauzy cobwebs draping from every surface, the house didn’t look like it had been abandoned for more than a century.
“Someone must have been living here,” my dad said.
“Maybe,” Piers agreed. “But if that were the case, you’d
think there’d be some more modern stuff lying around. Trash or something. I don’t see anything that indicates the twentieth century has ever come through this door.”
“Maybe someone’s been treating it like a shrine,” I ventured as I set up my equipment to get some pictures of the front entryway. My dad had already wandered into a room farther back.
“You may be onto something there,” Piers said.
“Piers, can you come take a look at this?” My dad’s voice carried from one of the back rooms.
Walking through the musty darkness of the house, Piers and I came to a long room lined with shelves. On one end were the remains of one of the home’s two brick fireplaces; on the other, a low, cot-like bed and a roughly made table.
“What do you make of this?” My father showed Piers a wooden box he’d pulled out of a cabinet. Mold blackened its exterior.
When my dad opened it, Piers took out a small, gnarled-looking starfish. When I came closer for a better look, I realized he was holding was a small, primitive doll. Someone had wrapped a reddish string around its torso, under and around its arms and legs, so that the string formed an inverted star against the figure’s body.
“Looks like a hand-carved voodoo doll.” Piers studied it thoughtfully as he turned it over in his hand. “I’ve seen a lot of old dolls and poppets, but I’ve never seen one carved quite like this.”
“What’s different about it?” I asked, raising my camera to document the find.
“These markings, for one,” Piers told me, pointing to a series of tiny indentions in the doll’s arms and legs. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s some kind of additional charm. I’ll have to do a little work to find out what it means.”
“Well, what do we have here?” my dad murmured, having already moved on to something else in the room.
I went over to see what he’d found. He was crouched down, carefully brushing at the debris with his gloved hand until he revealed a crumpled mass of fabric. Even with his gentle touch, he couldn’t keep it from crumbling in places as he unfolded it. It was a painstaking process, but little by little I started to make out the shape of a shirt or coat.
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