by Hunt, James
A man cheered, and it triggered a chain reaction that rippled through the crowd. They were all drunk off the hate that Toussaint had funneled down their throats.
Samba could only keep her eyes locked to the night sky as the heavy doses of oil were then flung over her clothes. “Please, Bon Dieu,” she whispered. “Take me quickly.”
Toussaint grabbed one of the torches and stepped to the edge of piled wood, his cheeks a cherry red. “To hell with you, witch.” He raised the torch high, and Samba closed her eyes, but just before Toussaint dropped the torch, a cry echoed from the house.
“Maman!”
Isadora stood on the porch, crying and alone. Toussaint and the crowd turned just as Damas reached for her arm, giving her a harsh yank backward.
“NO!” Samba tugged against the restraints as Toussaint tossed the torch into the dirt and reached for the pistol at his side. He aimed for Damas, his eyes white and fearful in the glowing firelight.
A gunshot shattered the night air. Damas twisted his body violently on his collapse to the floor. Isadora screamed as the blood oozed from his chest.
Toussaint snatched Isadora off the porch, and Samba fought impotently against the ropes that bound her. “Let her go! She has done nothing!”
Toussaint manhandled Isadora and dropped her at the edge of the wooden pile. He handed the pistol to a man on his left. “Reload it.”
“NO!” Samba cried.
“Maman!”
“QUIET!” Toussaint accompanied his bark with a harsh jerk that rattled Isadora like a doll. He looked to Samba, smiling, his eyes reflecting the fire of the torches. “You have always preached of the balance of life and death.” He held out his hand, and his associate gave him the reloaded pistol. “A child for a child.”
Samba shuddered when Toussaint pressed the end of the barrel against Isadora’s head, his free hand on the back of her neck, keeping her in place. “Take my life. Torture me, but don’t harm my daughter.” Tears dripped from her chin and she tasted the snot from her nose. “You know the pain of losing a child. Taking mine won’t ease your suffering.”
Toussaint cocked the pistol’s hammer.
“Maman,” Isadora wept and trembled. “Save me.”
Samba smiled with tears in her eyes. “It’s okay, baby. Everything will be fine. Everything will—”
Smoke filled the air in a swirling puff of grey. Isadora collapsed into a small, lifeless pile at Toussaint’s feet.
Samba screamed, the veins and muscles along her neck tight as her throat grew raw. She convulsed and heaved against the restraints. She shook her head, her grieving howls born from the depths of her womb where Isadora was born, a light shining in the dark. But now that light had been snuffed out, so had Queen Samba’s sense of balance and peace. She lowered her head. “If Bon Dieu will not hear me, then I will call on death to listen.”
Her eyes flashed a bright green, and her voice started low and deep, then grew into a fast rhythm as she called upon Baron Samedie and Demballah-Wedo for justice. “Calla-Wen-eee-ooo-la. Calla-Wen-eee-ooo-la. Calla-Wen-eee-ooo-la. CALLA-WEN-EEE-OOO-LA!”
A black darkness swirled around the house, around the crowd of angered townspeople, who suddenly gasped in horror. All but Toussaint cowered.
“Hear me, Baron Samedie! Hear me, Demballah!” Queen Samba lifted her head and locked eyes with Toussaint, her face greying and flecking with scales. “I call upon you to drain the life from the Toussaint name. For as long as a first-born son of the Toussaint family walks this earth, they will not be safe! Their souls will be taken, trapped in the underworld and cast to wander aimlessly in eternity.” She convulsed, and she saw Baron Samedie smiling down on her. He was willing, but it would take a sacrifice, one that she was more than willing to give. “I offer you my soul for vengeance! Hear me, Baron Samedie! HEAR ME!”
Wind swirled all around, and the hot summer air suddenly grew cold. Charles Toussaint snatched a torch from one of the townspeople, its fire nearly gone, and tossed it over the oil-soaked wood. The tiny embers caught quickly, and fire swirled up and around Queen Samba, the glow from her green eyes suddenly blacker than the night that surrounded them.
“Your heirs will never be safe,” Samba said, her voice low, growling and ominous. “I will snap every branch of your family tree!” The fire took hold of her clothes, the flames crawling up her body as the laughter turned into the same high-pitched screams of her daughter.
Through the fire, Queen Samba caught one last glimpse of Charles Toussaint, and as her soul passed from this world and into the hands of Baron Samedie, she felt the cold touch of revenge. She was no longer Queen Samba. Until her curse ended, she would be known only as Bacalou.
Present Day
Owen stared at his reflection in the one-way mirror of the sheriff’s interrogation room. He kept expecting his face to break out into the scaly grey flesh of that monster. But so far it had not surfaced. Owen shuddered at what it might do.
A whisper tickled his ear, and Owen shook his head in annoyance. The voice was weak, tired. Ever since he saw Bacalou’s image in the mirror at the hospital he’d heard whispers. Sometimes they were coherent, other times they were nonsense.
First it was a man, then a woman, suddenly a child. He turned as fast as he could toward the noises to where he thought they were coming, but saw nothing. And with every whisper came a chill that stiffened his spine and raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
But for the moment, the whispers and Bacalou were the least of Owen’s worries. With Chuck gone, and Madame Crepaux missing, Owen was the only suspect in custody for the murder of Billy Rouche and Jake Martin. According to the sheriff, Owen had motive and no alibi.
Owen conceded the motive, but he did have an alibi, it just wasn’t believable. Because despite everything that happened, Bellingham still wasn’t convinced that Owen’s son was taken by an evil Voodoo spirit that had cursed the Toussaint family.
The door opened and two deputies stepped inside, followed by Sheriff Bellingham, who shut the door behind him. He was a tall man with broad shoulders. Thinning white hair complemented a bristly mustache.
“We’ve sent all the evidence we have to the lab,” Deputy Hurt said as Bellingham stood against the one-way glass, arms crossed over his stomach, staring at Owen. “If the bullets found in those bodies match the ones on your gun then you’ll get a one way ticket to federal prison.” He leaned against the table, smirking at Owen.
“The bullets weren’t from my gun,” Owen said, talking to the sheriff and bypassing the deputy. “I’m telling the truth, Sheriff. I don’t have any reason to lie.”
“Yeah, except for going to jail,” Hurt replied.
“Give us a minute, boys,” Bellingham said, his eyes locked onto Owen. “And turn the cameras off.”
“Sheriff, I don’t think—”
Bellingham’s glare shut Deputy Hurt down, and the young man nodded and escorted the other deputy out. A few seconds after the door was shut Owen saw the tiny red light on the camera in the corner turn off. Bellingham walked to the table, took the seat directly across from Owen, and folded his hands on the table.
“You’re in a bad spot, Owen,” Bellingham said. “The sooner you tell me the truth, the sooner we can put the whole thing behind us.”
Owen chuckled in exasperation, his motions limited by the restraints on his wrists and ankles. “I don’t know what else I can say, Sheriff, that I haven’t already said. I told you everything. It was Chuck who was behind my son’s abduction. But it was the creature that took him.”
“The creature from the curse,” Bellingham said. “The curse from some ancient Voodoo Queen.” He arched his eyebrows. “You do understand how that sounds, right? There isn’t a judge in this country that’s going to believe you.”
Owen shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. Matt’s safe. That’s all that matters.” That had been the one pillar keeping his sanity from collapsing. His son was alive.
“Owen—” Bellingham
cut himself off with a sigh. He drummed his fingers on the table and then leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think you murdered those people. I don’t. But you need to give me something other than what you’ve got.” He stood and walked back to the door. “Because I can tell you that even if an autopsy report comes back on Billy Rouche, Jake Martin is still missing. And that’s a body that can still be pinned on you.” He opened the door and leaned his head out. “Hurt! You can come back.”
After Bellingham disappeared Owen was escorted back to his cell. Because of the murder charge, he was isolated from the other inmates. Hurt removed the restraints and the pressure around his ankles and wrists were alleviated.
The metal bruised his skin, and Owen gently messaged the imprints left behind by the shackles. He collapsed onto his cot, its thin mattress springs squeaking as he bounced up and down twice before coming to a rest. He was still caught in a nightmare, one that he no longer believed he could wake up from.
He slouched in despair, his eyes on the tips of his shoes, when a spider crawled between them from under the cot. It crawled on top of his shoe and traveled up his pant leg until it came to rest on his knee.
Owen tilted his head to the left, and the spider moved left. He tilted his head to the right, and the spider moved right. He motioned backward, and the spider crawled back down his leg. Owen let out a hysterical chuckle, short and loud.
“This can’t be real.” But the longer Owen stared at the spider, the longer he shared that connection, the clearer that hum in the back his head became. The spider was speaking to him. And in that telepathic bridge, Owen was speaking to it as well.
Owen thought about the whispers, about the flash of the creature he’d seen in the mirror at the hospital. Did he now possess the creature’s powers? Could he control the creatures of this world like it could? Could he raise the dead to walk again?
The dead. Those whispers.
That’s what those voices were. He was listening to the dead in the next world. Like his connection to the spider, he was also connected to the souls in the afterlife. If he could control the spider, talk to it, then maybe he could talk to the dead as well. And if he could find Jake Martin’s soul, then he might be able to find out where his body was slain. It was a long shot, but it was Owen’s only shot.
* * *
Claire chewed the end of her left pinky nail raw. Her eyes were glued to Matt, who sat on the cot as the doctor looked him over. She hovered close by and finally lowered her pinky when she drew a prick of blood. “He’s okay?”
“I feel fine, Mom,” Matt said, his cheeks flushing red with embarrassment.
The doctor lowered his stethoscope and crossed his arms. “Everything checks out. We’ll run some blood work to make sure everything’s okay on the inside, but from what I can tell here, he’s fine. Just needs to eat, drink plenty of liquids, and rest.”
But despite the doctor’s prognosis, Claire was hesitant to enjoy the good news. She hadn’t told the doctors what really happened to her son, not that they’d believe her if she did. “So, nothing out of the ordinary?”
The doctor hesitated and then gestured to the hallway. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course.” Claire kissed Matt on the cheek before she followed the doctor out of the room, who closed the door after she stepped out.
“Mrs. Cooley, I’m aware that your son was abducted,” the doctor said. “The authorities filled me in on the details.”
Not all the details, Claire thought. “I just want to make sure there aren’t any lingering health issues that could affect him in the future.”
“I can’t imagine how difficult all of this has been for you, but I think it’s important for your son to start working through what happened to him.” The doctor placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder and gave a light squeeze. “But I can tell you from a medical standpoint there doesn’t seem to be any findings of sexual misconduct.”
“What?” Claire gasped, taking a step backward. “Is that what you think happened?”
The doctor held up his hands defensively. “I’m sorry, it’s just that in the room—” He pointed toward the door, cutting himself off. “If you weren’t concerned about a sexual assault, then what other health problems would you be worried about?”
“I just…” Claire slouched, arms flapping at her side, and leaned back into the wall, her head down and staring at the tile. “I just don’t want to lose him again.”
“Mrs. Cooley, your son is safe,” the doctor said. “Matt will have quite a few mental obstacles in the future, finding a way to cope with what happened. And it’ll be hard for you to relive it as well. But he is safe.”
“I know.” Claire wiped the tears away before they fell and nodded. “Thank you.”
The doctor reached for the doorknob. “I’ll just finish making my notes on his file and give you some time alone with your family.”
Claire lingered in the hallway as the doctor stepped back into the room. She took a few deep breaths, gathering her strength, trying to heed the doctor’s advice. But no matter how hard she tried, the anxiousness remained.
Matt hadn’t exhibited any of the odd symptoms as before. He wasn’t speaking to snakes, his skin wasn’t cold, nothing wrong with his eyes. He looked normal, sounded normal, and it all added up to having her son back, safe and healthy. She just needed to start believing it.
Claire returned to the room and found the doctor done with his notes. Chloe smiled from her chair, and Claire picked her daughter up and kissed her cheek. “How are you doing, sweetheart?”
“I’m okay,” Chloe answered. “I’m glad Matt’s back.”
“Me too.”
“I’ll give you a call when the bloodwork comes back from the lab, but you guys are all done if you want to head home,” the doctor said, then ruffled Matt’s hair. “You’ve been a very brave young man.” He looked to Claire and extended his card. “It’s the hospital number, but I’ll be on call all day if you have any questions.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Claire replied, taking the card from him. “For everything.”
After the doctor left, Claire took hold of Matt’s hand, Chloe still in her left arm, and lowered herself to his eye level. “You doing all right?”
Matt nodded sheepishly. “Fine. A little hungry maybe.”
“Well, we can fix that.” Claire grunted from Chloe’s added weight as she stood upright, taking hold of Matt’s hand, the doctor’s words ringing in her ears. Head home.
What home? The place where that creature had tormented her son? The place where her father had lost his mind? The house where her family was nearly killed?
Just when they had something going for them, the floor was pulled from beneath their feet. And Claire was facing all of it alone. The only other person she could speak to about it had lost his mind. Since Madame Crepaux had used him to send Owen into that other world, his Alzheimer’s had only worsened.
And so Claire walked down the hospital halls, slowly, with Chloe in one arm and holding Matt’s hand with the other. Her husband was in jail. Her father was dying. And they didn’t have a penny to their name. If it was always darkest just before dawn, then the sunrise couldn’t come soon enough.
1
Six. That was the number of dead roaches that Chuck had counted in Nate Covers’s basement. He was sure there was more hiding behind boxes and the dozens of yard signs that had Nate’s face plastered all over them.
Cockroaches and Nate Covers’s grinning face, those were the new realities of Chuck Toussaint’s life. The police had come again this morning, a few follow-up questions for Nate about his friend, and so his “friend” had shoved him downstairs so he wouldn’t be seen.
Chuck reached for the black duffel bag next to him. He unzipped the top and opened it halfway. He peeked inside at the reassuring sight of his cash and jewelry. It was everything in his safe. Close to half a million. It was more than enough to start over somewhere. He could get into Mexico easily en
ough. He’d spend a few weeks getting liquored up and laid and figure out his next move.
The unknown was the worst part. The creature could be anywhere now, appear at any time. That unknown had haunted Chuck since he was a child, a creature designed for no other purpose than to hunt and kill him, just like it had so many others of his family.
Every first-born male of the Toussaint name will be taken until no more remain.
And for the first time in two centuries, a first-born Toussaint male could not reproduce. He’d been to every doctor in this country and a few abroad, but all of them told him the same thing: he was sterile.
At first, it was relief that flooded through him at the news. He wouldn’t spawn a child that would have to live with the fear and terror that he did as a boy. But then the fear took control. Fear for his future. If he couldn’t produce a son, then the curse would stay with him, and that creature would hunt him for the rest of his life. And because of that, every twenty-five years he would need to produce a sacrifice for Bacalou in order to survive.
Chuck had done everything to convince himself that he had no other choice. It wasn’t his fault his family was cursed. He hadn’t burned that Voodoo Queen. He didn’t want to die, so someone else had to. And that’s how he’d viewed life for as long as he could remember, like numbers on a balance sheet.
The basement door creaked open at the top of the stairs, and Chuck saw Nate’s shadowed figure. “Chuck,” he whispered. “You all right?”
“What the hell are you whispering for? Cops are gone, aren’t they?” Chuck pushed himself off the floor, grabbing the duffel bag of money as he rounded the bottom of the stairs.
“Yeah, they’re gone,” Nate answered.
“Good.” Chuck stomped up the stairs and shouldered the door open, stepping into Nate’s living room as he stretched his back. “When was the last time you cleaned down there?”