by Hunt, James
“GAH!” Blood spurted from Chuck’s mouth, and blood seeped from the wounds on his chest as Bacalou lifted the impaled heir of his foe into the air. The blood that covered his shirt started off red, and then transformed into the same black that covered the floor and rained from the ceiling.
Bacalou’s eyes glowed white, and then the creature roared again, flinging some spittle over Chuck’s face, and then jammed its second pair of claws into Chuck’s lower abdomen, which elicited a second wail from the creature and a second animalistic howl from Chuck.
More blood, more pain, more death, it all oozed from Bacalou and Chuck’s union. The creature’s eyes glowed brighter, and it opened its mouth wide.
“Open fire!” Bellingham pulled the trigger first, and after that first thunderous crack bellowed from his pistol, a cacophony of gunshots followed from his deputies.
Bullets ricocheted off Bacalou’s hide impotently, but the creature turned with its black eyes and roared, a stench of death and maggots filling into the air as the officers continued to shoot.
“NO!” Madame Crepaux thrust her hands out, and a powerful wave of air thrust the sheriff and his deputies backward violently into the wall. The similar golden glow from her eyes also radiated from her hands and pinned the officers where they lay. “You must see now! You must see the truth.” She turned her head back around, her arms remaining outstretched, and locked eyes with Bacalou. “Show them.”
Chuck’s body spasmed, his head flinging forward, and his limp arms rocking forward then back in a harsh jerk. A force tugged at something deep within Chuck’s body. It was like his insides were being ripped out. The pain was tremendous, and as the pull from within grew stronger, he noticed that he was moving. Not him necessarily, but a part of him. It was the part of him that was alive, the part of him that comprised all of the emotions and happiness and life of his past, his present, and his future. It was his soul.
And as Chuck’s soul was pulled from his body, he looked back and cried at the sight of his mortal self, and suddenly he was set ablaze with fire, skin melting, hair burning, the smell and taste of burnt flesh filling the room.
Chuck watched himself burn and his soul be consumed into the creature’s black heart. He caught one brief glimpse of Owen Cooley, who was still rocking his boy in his arms, praying that he would survive. And as if to prove he should be damned, Chuck Toussaint wished that the boy would die right there in front of his father. And with that, he was gone.
Bacalou removed its claws from Chuck’s dead body and let it collapse to the floor. Its eyes still glowed white, and it roared. It was a victorious and righteous cry. And as the creature turned, the black water on the floor receded, and the ooze dripping from the ceiling ended.
Madame Crepaux approached the creature, smiling, tears streaming down her face that looked as golden as the flecks in her eyes. “Queen, you are free.”
The beast wailed, and black smoke sprouted from its head, shoulders, chest, legs, and stomach. It swirled into the ceiling, dissipating into nothing. And as Bacalou’s body evaporated, it slowly exposed light. Beautiful, white light with flashes of green.
Bellingham and his officers gawked at the sight, their guns limp in their hands at their sides. And then, as the officers approached the light, drawn to it like moths to a flame, Owen rocked his boy, clutching him close to his chest, checking his breathing and sobbing lightly to himself. He saw the blue lips, the pale face, and the fluttering eyes. His son was fading in and out of consciousness. “Stay with me, Matt.”
His son answered with a rattling gasp. His eyes rolled back into his head and his mouth went slack.
“No,” Owen said, gently grazing Matt’s lips with his fingers. “Stay with me, son. Come on.” He gave Matt a little shake, but there was no more wheezing, no more movement. Just still coldness. “God, no.” Owen sobbed. Tears burst from his eyes, and he wept. “God, please, no.” He lowered his head and gently placed his forehead against his son’s. “Not now. Don’t take him from me now.”
Suddenly, and almost as mysteriously as the coldness appeared, it thawed, and the light approached both Owen and Matt.
Owen lifted his head, the light shimmering down from the dismantled creature. He blinked, unsure of the mirage as the light took the shape of a woman. She had thick black hair, wild and untamed, and she possessed the sharpest green eyes that Owen had ever seen.
“You have suffered much.” Her voice drifted softly, floating through the air as the light around her took shape into a womanly form. “I have caused much of that suffering.” She lowered her green eyes to Matt. “His soul, it is leaving him.”
“Save him,” Owen said, his eyes bulging with the pleading mercy of a father. “Take me if you have to. Just please, save him.”
The woman moved closer and reached down to lift Owen’s chin. She smiled. “The love of a father can do much in this world. It can make a son’s memory live on even after he’s gone. Our children never leave us, not even in the next world.”
Owen’s lower lip quivered. “I don’t know what the next world has in store for me.” More tears broke loose from his eyes. “But I know my son deserves better.”
The woman nodded and then pressed her palm against Matt’s head. She closed her eyes and lifted her face toward the ceiling. She hummed, low and deep, and vibrations channeled through Matt’s body and Owen’s arms. He felt the tremor, then a warmth radiated from his son.
The light illuminated through Matt’s skin, and Owen’s boy glowed like moonlight. It was beautiful and translucent. And just as the light faded and the woman removed her hand from Matt’s head, there was silence.
Owen’s world, his future, his own life paused for the next few moments. He watched his son for any movements, any sign, any chance that he was going to come out of this alive. And just when those moments stretched to the point of despair, Matt gasped for breath.
“Matt? Matt, can you hear me?” He ran his fingers through his boy’s hair and clutched him tightly. And as Matt opened his eyes, Owen burst into tears.
“Sacrifices do not go unnoticed,” the woman said, and then turned to Madame Crepaux. “You never lost faith, and for that, I thank you.” She gave a light bow.
Madame Crepaux immediately dropped to her knees. “I do not deserve such honor.” She bowed until her head touched the floor.
Queen Samba lifted Crepaux’s chin. “You deserve that, and much more.”
“Take me with you.” Madame Crepaux latched onto the Queen in longing. “I beg you.”
“You still have work to do here, my child.” Queen Samba looked around the walls of her old house, basking in the glow of nostalgia. “My gris-gris is now yours. It will serve you well.” She turned to the officers, every single one of their jaws slack save the sheriff. “You are men of law. I am a woman of nature and earth. It is rare the pair see eye to eye, but I believe we serve the same cause.”
And as Queen Samba spoke her last words, the brilliant light started to dissipate and spread out into the air. The last to leave was her face, and when all that remained was her brilliant green eyes, the light finally ended.
One Week Later
The black lace veil that hung from Claire’s head provided a distorted view of the inside of the car as well as the scenery they passed. Her hands rested in her lap, and a dull throb suddenly radiated from them. She glanced down and discovered that her hands were clenched tight into fists. She uncurled her fingers and the aching subsided.
“Mommy? Are we almost there?” Chloe asked, looking up from her seat right next to her mother.
Claire kissed the top of her head. “Almost, bug.” She looked to Matt, who sat on the other side of his sister. His face was glued to the passing buildings outside the cab’s window. “Matt, are you all right?”
“Yeah.” The answer was short, quiet. It was the response he gave for most things these days. Yeah, okay, fine, or no were about all she could muster from him.
Claire did her best to control her
breathing. She closed her eyes, trying to calm that growing ball of anxiousness nesting in the pit of her stomach. It randomly ballooned to the rest of her body without her consent throughout the day. But she couldn’t lose it where they were going. Not today.
She glanced out the window of the car from the backseat. The sky was blue and it was beautifully sunny outside. A fact that she thought her dad would have appreciated.
Chloe leaned up against Claire’s arm. It had been a long twelve hours. Between the mess with the courts and Owen still in jail, she had to coordinate this little trip back to Baltimore herself. And while there wasn’t a body to bury, she wasn’t about to have her father’s headstone rest in a state or a town that he never really knew. Louisiana wasn’t their home. And that’s where she needed to go. That’s where he would have wanted to go.
The cab’s brakes squealed to a stop and the cabbie’s eyes appeared in the rearview mirror. “We’re here.”
Claire reached for her purse. “Matt, you take your sister out to the sidewalk. And hold hands. I need to pay the fare.”
“That’s all right,” the cabbie said.
Claire waved him off, rummaging through the cavernous purse until she found her wallet. “No, it’s fine, I—”
“Ma’am.”
Claire looked up, finding that the cabbie had turned around.
“I’m very sorry for your loss. I wish you and your family the best.”
It could have been the fact that she was burying her father, or the fact that she hadn’t slept in over a week, or maybe it was just the simple gesture from a stranger to help make her life easier, but Claire Cooley had never been so glad to be home and so thankful to find a piece of kindness amidst all the struggle. “Thank you.”
The cabbie nodded, and Claire joined Matt and Chloe on the sidewalk. She wiped her eyes as the cab drove off and then reached for her children’s hands. “All right, guys. Let’s go.”
The cemetery was a small plot of land on Baltimore’s west side. It was the same cemetery where her mother was buried, and there was already a spot reserved for her father right next door. Her parents had picked the location without her knowing, and her father had already taken care of and paid for most of the arrangements after he discovered he had Alzheimer’s. But that was her dad, always thinking ahead, always trying to make the hard stuff easier for her to deal with.
Claire navigated her way through the headstones, her heart pounding harder and faster in her chest the closer she moved to the plot of land. She gripped Matt’s hand tighter and as if the boy knew what it meant, he squeezed back and she stopped.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Matt said. “We’re all here.”
The strength of her reserve finally broke as her lips creased tight across her mouth and her eyes watered. “Yeah. I know, sweetheart.” But that wasn’t the truth. Not everyone was here. And while she knew that her oldest child, her only son, would do his best to take up the mantle of “the man of the house” while his father was away, it wasn’t the same without Owen.
She wanted to be taken care of. She wanted her husband at her side as she grieved the loss of her father. After everything that happened, was that really too much to ask? Was that stretching the credit of her pain too far? She didn’t think so, but life never cared about what you wanted. It gave you what it had, and right now this was it.
Claire took a few breaths, the snot rattling violently in her nose, and then she walked forward. Her steps were slower, and she kept her eyes glued to the pair of headstones at the end of the row. One had been weathered a little bit, but the other was unmistakably brand new.
Both Chloe and Matt stared at the fresh piece of stone, and Claire knelt to get a better look at the engraving. The name and years of life were all neatly and professionally carved, and in quotes was the phrase her father had requested in his will.
Keep hold of hope even when it’s dark.
Claire covered her mouth and stifled a whimper. She collapsed forward on her hands and clutched the dirt as both Matt and Chloe came rushing to her side. She couldn’t fight back the grief any longer and she cried, sobbing loudly and wildly as she clutched her children tight.
Her father wasn’t supposed to die like this. This wasn’t how she pictured the end. But in a way, she was grateful that he didn’t have to suffer anymore. She knew the burden the disease had placed on him. He was an intelligent man, a man with pride and dignity. Alzheimer’s had stripped those things from Roger Templeton.
“I hope you found your peace, Dad.” Claire wiped her eyes, and Matt pulled a tissue out of her purse, handing it over to his mother. “I love you, and I’ll always miss you. Every day.”
“Me too, Grandpa,” Chloe said, and then blew the headstone a kiss.
“Yeah,” Matt said. “Me too.”
They sat there for a while in silence, just holding onto one another. Claire knew that she needed to get back to Ocoee. Things needed to be taken care of for Owen’s trial, and she needed to coordinate with that prick of an attorney of his. But for the time being, for the next twenty minutes, she let herself forget about that. She closed her eyes and let the memories of her father flood her mind. They were all good ones, which she was thankful for, and for a moment, it was as though all was right with the world. She had her kids, she was back home, and the sun was shining.
* * *
Three Months Later
That house at the end of the dirt road on Cypress Lane could barely be seen from the road. The branches of the cypress trees that stretched over the road swayed in a rare afternoon breeze that offered a reprieve from the late summer heat.
A moving truck sat alone at the end of the drive, and every few minutes a man would exit the house and haul another box out of the back. The boxes were large, and small, and after that, furniture was moved inside. Mostly bedframes and mattresses, still covered in brand-new plastic from the store.
Madame Crepaux stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, watching the beds being carried up to the second-floor bedrooms, and then she drifted her eyes down to the boxes that contained all of her books and bottles and elixirs.
“All right, Miss.” The movers exited the room that once belonged to Matt Cooley and wiped their brows, the inside of the house just as hot as the weather outside. “That’s everything out of the truck.” He descended the steps and pointed to the cluster of boxes that littered the floor. “You need any of these taken upstairs?”
“No,” Madame Crepaux answered. “Thank you.”
“All right then.” The mover had a ring of sweat around his collar, which he plucked at. He fanned himself and grimaced from the heat. “Is your A/C not working? My brother and I can take a look at it if it’s not.”
“I enjoy the heat.” Madame Crepaux flashed a pretty smile, and the two men smiled nervously in return. She’d hired out of town movers, and neither men knew of her reputation in Ocoee.
“All right then,” he said. “Have a good rest of your day.” He tipped the front of his ball cap, and he and his brother walked toward the front door, glancing around at the house on their way out. The truck rumbled as they started the engine, and the noise faded as they drove away.
Once alone, Madame Crepaux closed her eyes. The open windows and doors welcomed the sounds of nature. Frogs, birds, insects, all humming in the orchestra of life. It had been a long time since this house had experienced those sounds.
She opened her eyes and glided through the dining room, up the staircase, and then back toward the room that belonged to Matt Cooley. She knew that Bacalou was gone, and she knew that the Queen had vanished into the next life, but still her steps were hesitant.
Recent history had a way of clinging to the present like a morning dew. It would eventually give way to the heat of the day, evaporated and forgotten. But in those first few hours, after the events when the wounds and memories were still fresh, the world was still fragile.
Crepaux lingered at the doorway to Matt’s room. Inside were two
beds with a table next to each bedside. The mattresses were bare of sheets, which were packed somewhere in the boxes downstairs. She drifted her eyes from ceiling to floor and from left to right.
“It will be as it was, Queen Samba.” Madame Crepaux spoke softly, almost as if she were whispering a prayer. “The sick will come to be healed, and I will use everything that you have taught me. This will be a house of life again.” She crossed the threshold of the doorway and stopped at the window.
The treetops of the swamp swayed back and forth from the breeze, which Madame Crepaux caught from the open window. Clear blue skies allowed the warmth of the sun to beat against her cheeks, and she smiled.
After nearly two centuries of closed doors and barred windows, and death and misery, the house that had taken so much was finally ready to give back. Wrongs had been righted. And with a mind that had already lived a lifetime in a rejuvenated body, Madame Crepaux felt hope rise within her. It was the hope of tomorrow. It was the hope of change. It was a hope emerged from the ashes of pain. And that kind of hope always burned so much brighter and stronger than anything else.
* * *
At three o’clock in the afternoon on Sunday, no traffic ran through Main Street in Ocoee, Louisiana. Which wasn’t an irregularity, but after the media circus of the past three months, Sheriff Bellingham was glad to be done with it.
The shine and sexy of the trial had worn off in the public eyes, and the audience had moved on to newer and more exciting things.
But while the public had moved on, Bellingham was still dealing with the aftermath of the trial and subsequent events. And today was the final piece of that puzzle.
Charles Toussaint VII had no heirs, and there were no other branches left in the family tree. Chuck’s will had stated that in the event of his death that all of his wealth would go to his first ex-wife. Bellingham had met the woman last month when she came to collect what she had been bequeathed. Their interaction was short, and Bellingham could tell that underneath the business-like demeanor, she was hurting.