My dad glanced at Piers for his opinion.
“It couldn’t hurt,” Piers said.
Surprisingly, my dad didn’t argue. “I’ll leave that to you, then.”
“We’ll start with a simple invocation for protection, and then I’ll scrub the whole place here with sage. Never hurts to be too careful.”
I couldn’t believe my dad, my reasonable “there’s no such thing as ghosts” dad, was actively encouraging a Voodoo woman to cleanse anything for him, much less an acquisition as important as the cabin. As Mama Legba got herself ready to begin, I tugged on my dad’s arm. “Can I talk to you?” I whispered, so that the others couldn’t hear.
We walked away from the group a bit. “What’s wrong, Luce?”
“Are you really letting her do that?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Tell me you don’t really believe there could be evil spirits lurking around.” I really, really wanted him to say no.
He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and angled me so I could see across the field, forcing me to look out toward the grassy levees of the river. A small group of people had gathered to watch. “It doesn’t matter what I believe,” he said. “It does matter what they believe, though. Look, Luce. The university had a heck of a time getting this land. It’s important to the people around here, and many of them do believe in spirits. If letting Ms. Legba perform some of her rituals eases the community’s anxiety about our involvement here, then it can’t hurt now, can it?”
“I suppose not.” It made a certain sense, the way he explained it, but the whole thing still made me uneasy.
“Come on, Luce. This should be interesting. Ms. Legba said many of her practices were passed down through the generations of her family. In a lot of ways, she’s like a living history book.”
Mama Legba was already chanting unfamiliar words, her eyes closed and hands to the sky. Piers watched her and jotted down notes occasionally on the pad he always seemed to carry, while Byron busied himself with organizing his equipment. When Mama Legba finished, she lit a stick that looked like a thicker version of the hemp necklaces people bring back from beach vacations. It burned with an earthy, spicy fragrance as she worked to deliberately move the smoke up the dirt path to the cabin and over the porch.
My SLR still wasn’t fixed, so I’d brought one of my other cameras with me that day—an old thirty-five that had once been owned by a guy at the Tribune. I took pictures as Mama Legba cleansed the house with the smoking stick, until the mustiness of years gone by was replaced with the sweet smell of the burning sage. It took forever.
When she was done, she extinguished the stick using some red dirt she’d brought with her in a jar and smiled warmly at my dad. “That should do it for you,” she told him.
“Can’t thank you enough.” My dad returned her smile. “I would like to show you what we found last week, if you have some time?”
Mama Legba nodded, and we all followed my dad into the cabin’s back room. I tried not to focus on the daguerreotype lying on the table nearby as my dad opened the blackened box and pulled out the primitive doll. “Piers wasn’t sure what to make of these carvings. We thought maybe you would know something about them.”
“I’ve searched all my sources,” Piers added. “But I couldn’t find any markings in them that matched these. Any idea what they are?”
I raised my camera and focused in on the doll, trying to capture the carvings on its surface. As they came into focus through my viewfinder, my vision swam.
Lila’s body. The bloody map carved into her chest.
I lowered the camera, shaken. But no one seemed to notice—they were all too busy watching Mama Legba examine the tiny figure.
She turned it over in her hand, her smooth face creasing as she studied it, and then she made a low noise in her throat that sounded like disgust. “These marks ain’t nothing to do with Voodoo.”
“But it looks like a Voodoo doll.” Piers sounded surprised.
“Maybe so, but Voodoo doesn’t deal in this kind of magic.” She made the disgusted sound again. “Look here, this red thread. The red is for power, but if this is what I think it might be, you’re dealing with something dangerous here. Something dark.”
“What do you think it might be?” I raised my camera again, trying to focus on the moment in front of me instead of on the images of Lila that kept threatening to surface in my mind.
“When I was younger, my mama told me the story of a powerful shaman who lived deep in the heart of an unknown jungle. It was her version of a fairy tale, you see?” Mama Legba looked up before continuing. “Just a story. He was obsessed with understanding the makings of life itself. He lived alone, working long hours to discover the secrets of life and death, of the spirit world around us. In the story, he went mad when he started dabbling in the black arts. He used to bind his spells with thread like this. He made the thread himself from the silk of charmed insects, and he soaked it in the blood of innocent young boys who wandered too deep into the jungle. More powerful than Clotho’s thread of life, though, because the shaman’s thread could bind a person’s very soul. It was the sacrificed innocence that gave it so much power.” Her voice had taken on a hypnotic quality that even had Byron entranced. “This piece reminds me of those old stories. It feels like it’s been touched by that kind of darkness.”
My dad was clearly captivated by the idea. “Imagine that. Maybe we could get some documentation on those old tales and put them together with a display in the university museum?”
Mama Legba clucked at them. “You want my opinion, you’ll get rid of that thing right now. Burn it or bury it, but don’t let it out in the light of day.”
“Oh, we couldn’t do that,” my dad said with a tone didn’t allow for argument. He was a stickler about preserving the past, and I could tell his opinion of Mama Legba had just dropped a few notches. There was no way he was going to destroy the ugly little doll, dangerous or not. “But we’ll take your recommendations under advisement. Thank you again for coming. You’ll have to come back when we get everything reconstructed.”
Mama Legba seemed to get the message. “Lucy-girl. You walk me out?”
She gathered her bag and we started out across the field. When we came out into the sunlight of the clearing by the pond, she finally spoke. “I was serious about you coming to see me.”
“I don’t know … ” I started.
“That’s obvious,” she said, turning to look at me. “But you need to start knowing. You already on your road, but you can’t see what’s coming down it. You need to figure it out, and soon.”
I started to chafe under the perceptiveness of her comments, but as I was about to look away, her gaze shifted from me to something over my shoulder. Her expression hardened, and the nape of my neck pricked.
I turned slowly, not knowing what was behind me, and was relieved to see it was only Alex standing at the edge of the woods. It felt like it had been so long since I’d seen him in anything but a dream, he might as well have been an apparition. It had been so long that I’d started to worry—and to hope—that maybe he wasn’t anything but a figment of my imagination.
But there he was, calling out to me from across the open expanse of the pond. His usually tussled hair glinted darkly in the sunlight and my heart lurched at how familiar the strong lines of his face had become to me. But his eyes weren’t on me. They were focused behind me, on Mama Legba, as he stalked around the pond toward us.
“Stay away from her,” he told the old woman, halting a few yards away from us. His voice was more a growl than anything human.
Mama Legba ignored the threat in his tone. “Well, well now.”
“I said stay away, old woman.” He glanced at me. “Lucy, please, come away from her. You’re not safe with her kind.”
“And you think she gonna be safe with your kind?” There was a hint of laughter in Mama Legba’s voice. “What you think you can do to protect her?”
Alex’s face grew
hard, the beautifully sharp planes of it solidifying into a dangerous mask.
“That’s what I thought.” Mama Legba turned to me, ignoring Alex once again.
“You can see him?” I whispered.
“Why wouldn’t I see what’s right in front of me?” Mama Legba gave me a soft, conspiratorial smile. “When you ready, you gonna come see me. We got ourselves a lot to discuss, child.”
I shifted back, uneasy with how sure of herself she seemed. At how similar her words to me were to Thisbe’s words to Armantine. When I glanced over at Alex, his hands were clenched tightly in fists at his side.
“Lucy, stay away from her,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
I’d spent so much time in Armantine’s mind, experiencing her emotions, that for a moment I hadn’t cared who or what Alex was—just that he was real. But the command in his voice brought me back to myself. I wasn’t Armantine—I didn’t have to feel for him what she felt, and I didn’t have to stand for him growling orders at me like he had some right to.
“What is your problem?” I asked, taking a step closer to Mama Legba. However much her words had shaken me, at least I knew she was real. Human.
He blinked, clearly surprise by my reaction.
“I haven’t seen you in weeks. And then you come popping out of nowhere, telling me who I can’t talk to and what I shouldn’t be doing? I don’t think so.” I turned my back on him. “Come on, I’ll walk you the rest of the way to your car.”
Mama Legba laughed. “You sure gonna be an interesting one to watch, Lucy-girl. With the company you keeping, who knows what’s gonna happen.”
I wasn’t sure I was any more pleased with Mama Legba, but I didn’t shy away when she slung her arm across my shoulder as we walked. I didn’t look back to see what Alex would do. I’d had enough for the day.
When we reached the parking lot, Mama Legba withdrew her arm and rested her hands on my shoulders. “How’s Chloe?”
“Not good,” I told her truthfully. She was still not talking to anyone—even Piers.
“I heard the girl they found dead that night was her friend. So much pain.” Mama Legba’s eyes clouded. “You try to get Chloe to come see me too. She needs some healing to get through dark days like this. Here.” She handed me a small pouch. “You give this to her and tell her I said it’ll keep her safe.”
I nodded and took the pouch. It was surprisingly heavy.
“You said, back there, that I wasn’t safe with his ‘kind,’” I said carefully, staring at the pouch. “What did you mean by that?”
She raised her brows. “Just what I said, child.”
“But what is his kind?”
“Well, now.” She frowned thoughtfully, as though she was considering her words. “I’d say if you don’t know that by now, it ain’t my place to be telling you, is it?” She touched my cheek softly. “You come see me, Lucy-girl. You been letting your dreams walk all over you. I can help you with that, child. But you be careful with that boy there. I don’t see how nothing good can come from it. Nothing at all.”
Seventeen
After Mama Legba’s purple van turned out of the gate, I headed back toward the pond. I was tired of going in circles. I was sick of evasive answers.
“Alex!” I shouted when I reached the clearing. My voice seemed to be eaten up by the stillness. “Alexandre Jourdain,” I called again, taking a leap. “I know you’re here somewhere. I want to talk to you.”
I waited in the stillness of the mid-morning heat. The trees rustled faintly in some undetectable breeze, and then, just when I thought he wouldn’t appear, he emerged from the edge of the treeline beyond, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slumped against the day.
I took a few steps toward him, trying to hide my fear by putting every ounce of frustration I felt into the fire in my eyes. But the fire couldn’t hold. There you are, I thought, wanting to reach for him. To hold on to him this time. But I pushed my feelings—Armantine’s feelings—away.
Alex, at least, had the grace to look doubtful. That’s when I realized he also looked tired. He seemed thinner, and dark smudges lay beneath his eyes. Something was wrong.
“What are you?” I asked before I lost my nerve.
He ignored my question. “That woman is not your friend.” His voice was suddenly cold. “You should stay far from her kind, Lucy.”
“Let’s get one thing straight, Alex. I will do what I want, when I want to do it. If I want to go run around and chant Voodoo songs at the top of my lungs, naked under a full moon, you won’t have a thing to say about it. Got it?”
A ghost of a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Naked?”
I huffed out a sigh in exasperation. “You know what I mean.”
“I understand. But I also know you are new here and you may not exactly understand how dangerous a woman like that can be.”
“Just like I don’t know exactly how dangerous you might be?”
“You would think that of me?” He looked genuinely surprised.
“I don’t know what to think of you! That’s the whole point.” I huffed out an exasperated breath. “You’re here and then you’re not. You tell me half-truths and keep secrets. Sometimes I think you’re a figment of my imagination. Sometimes I think you’re something … else,” I finished softly, finally giving voice to my greatest fear about him. “What are you, Alex?”
He studied me, but didn’t speak.
“Please. Just tell me.”
“You could ask me that?” He sounded frustrated, angry … hurt?
“Why wouldn’t I ask you that?”
“How can you possibly be so blind?” His voice was tired and brittle, an edge of anger cutting through it.
My head jerked up at his words. “Blind?”
“You look through your little camera and draw out the life in everything around you, and yet you cannot see what is right in front of you. What you already know.”
His words infuriated me. “Then maybe I should look at you through my lee-tle camera,” I snapped, mimicking the cadence of his voice.
“Maybe you should.” His tone was flat. Cold. “Look at me now and see me. Stop ignoring what you know to be true. Finally, Lucy, see me.”
I hesitated, but eventually raised the camera and focused. He had a look that was somewhere between anger and lust, contempt and admiration, or maybe it was all of those things together. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
The shutter release snapped, a satisfying click that obscured Alex’s face for a moment as the viewfinder went black. I lowered the camera and, avoiding his eyes, took my time as I focused on advancing the film.
When I looked up, he was gone. But the coldness of his voice when he’d said I was blind—that still echoed clearly in my mind.
Eighteen
Developing film by hand is a tedious, delicate process. Usually I found it soothing, but after that strange meeting with Alex, I cursed my broken digital camera and all the time it would take to develop his picture. Somewhere on the roll of film, though, were answers.
My parents had given me the bedroom with the large walk-in closet, which they’d converted into a makeshift darkroom—their attempt to keep me happy over the summer. At first I’d been irritated at their obvious bribe, but that day, I was glad they’d done it.
It’s an expensive hobby, but there’s just something about working that way. In a darkroom, time is measured in short bursts, and after a while it’s hard to even tell if it’s night or day. The whole process requires intense concentration—focusing on a single objective and measuring time carefully, so that the mix of chemicals and light transform a bit of paper into an image. Like alchemy. Or magic.
Usually, I loved the whole process, but that day, I wished it went a little faster. When I was sure that everything was in place, I switched on the red safety light and plunged the closet room into darkness. After making the proof sheet, I looked for the picture I’d taken of Alex. Then I looked again, not
sure of what I was seeing. The silence that had seemed calming just minutes before now seemed oppressive.
My hands shook as I put the active photo paper into place, and I took an unsteady breath as I clicked on the enlarger and listened to the drum of my own heartbeat as the print was exposed. Endless seconds ticked by before the light clicked off and I could put the paper into the chemicals that would develop it. Endless seconds more before an image swam up from the submersed page.
And then I had it. Just as I knew it would be, the photo I’d taken of Alex was almost nothing but a wide arch of almost pure light, as though the sun itself had come out of the clouds the instant I’d taken the shot and overexposed it. But I knew that wasn’t what happened.
I clipped the still-wet image up to dry and then sank to the floor. Not a trick of the light, I knew, as I looked up at that bright sweep of light hanging on the line above. I was too good to make a mistake that big.
I thought of the picture I’d taken of him that first day by the pond, the one where he was a blur heading into the woods. But that wasn’t why the blur of light seemed so familiar to me, I realized. No, the blur of brightness was the same as the one I’d seen countless times in that framed picture on my parents’ bureau—the one of a happy young couple flanked by the major players from the War Between the States. The one I’d always thought had captured a ghost.
I hadn’t wanted to believe it. Even with the dreams of Armantine, even with the daguerreotype in Thisbe’s cabin and the letters carved into the tree, I hadn’t wanted to see what was right in front of me. But in that moment, I knew Alex was right. In that moment, I knew I couldn’t deny what he was any longer.
I stared at the picture that should have shown me the face of a man, but instead showed me nothing but light. The picture of a ghost.
I don’t know how long I sat like that, staring up at the page, before I moved again. But I had to do something—I was strung too tight to just sit there—and photography is the one thing I really know how to do. So I picked a few other shots I’d taken that morning—the close-ups of the voodoo doll’s carvings—and worked on developing some of those.
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