by Rhodi Hawk
“Where you goin now?” her father said.
She spread her hands. “I want to see it! Don’t you?”
“I thought we was just gonna drive by! You wastin your time, baby.”
Madeleine’s exasperation arced. “What’s gotten into you? If you don’t want to come then just stay here. I won’t be long.”
She got out and strode in the direction of the old plantation. After a half a minute she heard the truck door slam, then Daddy’s footfalls.
“Hard-headed.”
They slipped through a torn section of the old chain-link fence. Daddy grumbled at the No TRESPASSING signs, but Madeleine ignored them.
The bramble, however, was a much more formidable barrier than the fence. Coils of blackberry bushes towered above their heads, and they had to plod through a labyrinth of tunnels that seemed to deadend at every turn.
Eventually, though a little scratched, they emerged on the other side at an overgrown dirt road, and beyond it they could clearly see the remains of an old Creole house. The west end had crumbled and the roof splintered, revealing black gaping holes. Nevertheless, the massive size and the fact that it sat high on piers gave it an imposing presence. A porch wrapped around the entire perimeter, and a staircase sagged like an accordion at its center. But the bottom steps were a pile of rubble with no visible way to get to the top.
Madeleine’s forehead glistened with sweat, but not just from the heat and exertion. Her mind raced with the possibilities of who had once inhabited the place.
“What do you think,” she said. “Distinguished old gentlemen and gracious southern belles?”
Daddy finally began to warm to her enthusiasm and smiled. “Probably.”
“Our ancestors,” she said. “I wish I could have known them. All we got is Chloe.”
“You met your grandparents too. And your great auntie. You were just too young to remember.”
A sea of vines and branches seemed to blanket every inch of space beyond the house. Madeleine and her father picked their way around the side, peering under the great porch where through broken windows they could see remnants of black and white marble tiles in the basement.
Madeleine was dying to get in there.
“What time is it, Daddy?”
He took out his pocket watch and regarded it. “Five to six.”
She believed him. Daddy had a knack for telling the time of day, and it had nothing to do with his engraved golden pocket watch, which was just a ruse. That thing hadn’t ticked in years. But for whatever reason, he consulted it when asked, and reported the time of day based on his much more accurate internal clock.
She figured they had about forty-five minutes before sundown. At the rear of the house, the side facing away from River Road, a smaller staircase wound to the top. It, too, was in disrepair, though not nearly as hopeless as the one in the front. Several lower steps were missing, leaving about a five-foot drop. In that space, a twisted ladder bridged the remaining gap, the wood so old and warped that it spiraled upward as if it were some hybrid strain of the bramble that surrounded it.
Madeleine took hold.
“Careful. This thing’s got dry rot,” Daddy said, then muttered, “Guess that proves it’s from the LeBlanc family.”
He followed her, carefully maneuvering up and onto the stairs, avoiding broken steps. At the top, they could look out over the rear of the property from the broad veranda.
Over the wall of vines, outbuildings emerged, most of which were either overgrown or caving in. Two neat rows of what must have been housing were divided by a thin dirt road that had been so compacted from use at one time that the foliage still could barely penetrate the soil.
To the east, the pointed roof of a small building rose from a choking nest of vines. Remnants of white paint curled from the old brick of the top. They could see a row of perfectly spaced round holes, and under each hole, a peg.
Madeleine asked, “What is that?”
Her father squinted at the structure. “Dove cote. Or I guess a pigeon house, not that I know the difference between the two.”
“One’s for doves and the other’s for pigeons, I suppose,” she said.
“Dunno the difference between those either.”
“I read somewhere that they used to use the bird droppings to help fertilize gardens.”
But as they surveyed the savage tangles of brush around the pigeon house, she found it difficult to imagine someone might have once had a cultivated garden there. Beyond the scattered outbuildings, the ancient trees obscured all but a sliver of the great bayou, already singing with frogs and insects beginning their early evening banter. Madeleine and her father walked along the porch to the front where the swell of the earthen levee came into view. Beyond it would be the Mississippi.
“I guess before the modern levee had been built up, they had a clear view of the river,” Madeleine said.
She tried to imagine her ancestors looking out over the great Mississippi from this porch. A thick breeze suddenly chilled the damp of her neck, and with it, something changed. The air, to be sure; but something else, too. She shivered.
And as she looked at her father, that cold air seemed to have affected him, too, clearing away the warmth. His face changed, a tension at the brow, and his shoulders rose and held.
“Let’s take a look inside before it gets too late,” she said, turning back toward the rear door.
“I don’t know why you’re hell-bent on seeing these devils,” her father muttered under his breath.
She halted, startled, and turned to him. “What?”
She watched him closely. His jaw clenched and he looked away, but said nothing more.
A cold tremor crept down her back. Daddy had made a slip. Was he changing? But something else was happening, too. Something indefinable. She felt as if she had stumbled into a great spider’s web.
“Come on, Daddy. Let’s go inside.”
“I ain’t goin’ in there!”
Her brow furrowed. She knew better than to push him when he was agitated. She kept her voice gentle, and even managed part of a smile.
“Alright then. Why don’t you wait here in the fresh air where it’s nice and cool. I just want to take a quick look around.”
MADELEINE RETURNED TO THE open door near the back stairs. When she stepped through, darkness engulfed her. Plywood covered the windows, and sparse patches of light spilled through the doorway and gaps in the roof. Her nostrils flared against a barrage of odors—the faintest hint of herbs and flowers, though musty and laced with mold, animal hair, and rotting wood and fabric. But beneath it all she found the odor of something far more sinister. Something had died in the house.
Again, she felt the wave of dread, as though a cold drop of oil was spiraling down her vertebrae. Her senses grew taut. It seemed natural that the condemned house would smell like dead animals. Probably possum, raccoons, and all kinds of creatures had nested there.
A few steps deeper inside the house, and shapes began to take form in the darkness. She was standing inside some sort of pantry just opposite a dining room. The interior did not have any of the grand woodwork or moldings of the mansion in the Quarter, though a carved mantel framed the tiled fireplace. Layers of torn wallpaper covered the plaster walls, much of which had chunked away, revealing slats of wood beneath.
Beyond the dining room, light flooded in from where the roof had smashed through on what must have been a living area. The east walls were still standing, covered in black and white toile, but the entire west section was rubble. A credenza, a secretary, and odd pieces of furniture stood amid the debris. She opened the door to the secretary, found it empty, and closed it again. Madeleine shook her head at the notion that the beautiful antique should fall to rot.
A sudden movement caught in her periphery, and she thought she saw a male figure hulking just a few feet away. She gasped and stepped backward, but realized that it was a trick of shadows. The wind had stirred the limbs of the oak and magnolia, ec
lipsing the splashes of sunlight in an erratic shadow dance. But the movement drew her attention toward a dim corner where a rolltop desk stood.
A fine old piece, made from the same bayou cypress wood as many of the furnishings in the mansion on Esplanade. Not ornate, but sturdily constructed and obviously crafted by someone who took pride in the work.
Madeleine raised the rolltop, made from a single piece of wood that had mellowed over time to a honey and cinnamon color. Inside, she found small drawers and cubby holes for sorting. One by one, she opened each drawer and closed it, admiring the hand-crafted dovetails that formed the joints. The desk appeared empty, and she was about to turn away when she realized something was out of place.
Inside the center cubby hole, a wooden peg protruded slightly. She reached in and removed it, and then felt around until she found a piece of loose molding. When she tugged at it, it pulled, revealing a small hidden compartment.
Inside were a blank-faced wooden doll and a small metal flask leaning against the panel. The doll was not painted and had no dressing, but its face had distinct cheekbones and recessed eyes. The wood was smooth and dark.
She unscrewed the cap to the flask and smelled lingering fumes of old whiskey that disappeared after a single whiff. Behind where the flask had been sitting, she saw a small leather-bound book. She opened it and tried to read, but found only handwritten French filling the pages, and she was not exactly proficient. She gingerly scanned through, spotting words she recognized: voudrais, fenêtre, LeBlanc.
Madeleine felt a jump of excitement to see her family name. She flipped to the first page. A single line in French:
“Le Livre de Marie-Rose LeBlanc”
“Mémée,” Madeleine exclaimed aloud.
Her grandmother’s name, her grandmother’s diary. Madeleine scanned through pages again. If she had a little time, she could probably translate it. Mémée might even have written about her own father, whom Chloe’d referred to as having a “river devil” just like Daddy.
She bit her lip. She had no idea who might be the current owner of Terrefleurs, but obviously someone had cared enough to leave a ladder outside. She had no claim on the property, was indeed trespassing, and certainly had no right to rummage through its contents.
Nevertheless, she took the book.
She reasoned that once she got a good peek and translated it properly, she would contact the current owners to return it. She arranged the desk back to the condition in which she found it, leaving the flask and the doll in place.
She followed a hallway to her right, where an unusually narrow door opened to another room. The stench of the house grew much stronger here and she covered her mouth. She could also hear insects buzzing. Obviously, this room was the source of the worst smells.
She pushed the door open wider. A gaping hole in the ceiling and roof illuminated the room. A chifforobe, the only item of furniture, stood on the west wall, and in the east corner she saw a large, sticky-looking black stain on the floor. It was crawling with flies.
Madeleine recoiled, gagging.
The desire to take flight gripped her. But she clamped the fabric of her t-shirt over her mouth and forced herself to breathe evenly until the room stopped tilting. No dead animal nearby. No hint at what had shed this slick of rotting blood. The flies were fat and sluggish; their sick humming almost as intolerable as the smell.
In the shadows opposite the blood lay a pile of objects. She could see a glint of glass and some sort of dark canvas material. She took a shaky step deeper inside the room.
She saw a camping lantern and a dark blue knapsack and some folded newspaper lying amid cigarette butts. Flies hovered like zeppelins. The newspaper had not begun to yellow, so she guessed that it was fairly current, though she could not bring herself to examine it more closely with all the drunken flies waiting in her path.
She’d seen enough.
“Termites.”
She jumped, and turned to see her father standing in the doorway.
“What, Daddy?”
He didn’t reply.
“Let’s get out of here, Daddy. This room is awful. There was a hunter here or something.”
She gestured at the stain that swirled with flies each time she moved. “Someone must have butchered an animal. A deer maybe.” She could think of no other explanation. “We should go.”
But her father remained framed by the door, blocking her way.
“Rats and termites,” he said.
“What?” She swallowed, trying not to allow the fetid air into her lungs. “The house is rotting away. Termites are the least of its problems.”
“Right there.” He pointed at the wall beneath the window. “You see?”
She kept her eyes on him for a long moment, then turned to look where he was pointing. Nothing there. She grimaced; he had changed so swiftly.
“Honestly Daddy, it’s time to—”
“You wanna come here to raise Cain, had to stir it all up, now, you take a look.” He grabbed her arm and turned her toward the wall. Flies ballooned up from the black stain and bounced against her skin.
“Daddy, please!”
He held her with force. The sound of her own heartbeat drummed in her ears.
“You look,” he seethed, gripping her arm. “Like putting stars to sleep, only backwards. They’ve been there. Right there! The whole time. You tell’m to show themselves to you!”
His words grew louder, mounting to a near-shout at the end, and Madeleine could not tell whether he was addressing her or the wall.
She stood, eyes wide, staring where her father pointed.
Despite dread and worry, despite all sense of reason, she let the thought come into focus:
Let me see.
In the darkness . . . movement.
A tuft of hair. A glint of wing. Ripples in the shadows.
Madeleine broke free from her father’s grasp. A heavy fly spiraled from the dark mass and buzzed her face. She fled the room, fled outside to the porch. She was coughing and spitting, filling her lungs with fresh air, leaning over the railing to catch her breath.
Her father emerged from the doorway and stood beside her.
The breeze sighed from the river, and the crickets chirped in unison among the stretching shadows. Madeleine’s lungs caught with intermittent shudders.
“I’m sorry, kitten,” he whispered.
She regarded him warily, her hand at her stomach. Given the intensity of his manner only moments ago, it seemed impossible that this fugue could be so short-lived. Cognitive, yes, but too cognitive. Almost as if he had not slipped at all, but had acted with clarity.
“We should go,” she said.
The creature sounds from the nearby swamp reminded her of Bayou Black, and offered some comfort, however slight. She descended the rear steps and realized they had just enough daylight to make it back to River Road.
She took one last glance toward the bayou at the far end of the property, and stopped. A shape moved through a clearing in the distance and disappeared into the foliage. It looked like a man, a black man clad in overalls.
“Somebody’s here,” Madeleine said.
They scanned the clearing and caught another glimpse of the shape.
It was a man. He was not wearing overalls, however, but instead wore jeans and a t-shirt with a baseball cap. And he was coming toward the house.
MADELEINE FROZE ON THE rear stair of the Terrefleurs main house, then realized that the man had not seen them yet. He entered another large clump of brush and disappeared.
“Come on,” Daddy whispered.
They quickly and quietly finished their descent down the stairs and the ladder, and padded through the compact dirt around to the front of the house.
“Keep quiet,” Daddy said.
They ducked into the thicket of trees, pressing forward to the mouth of the blackberry bushes. The old house was still visible beyond the dirt road. They paused, hidden among the thorny tendrils, and watched. Madeleine felt a
rivulet of sweat slide from her temple.
They heard footsteps and the groan of rotten wood at the rear stairs. A shadowed figure appeared at the back of the wraparound porch and moved toward the front of the house. He lit a cigarette, illuminating cupped hands in a flare of light, then he leaned forward on the railing. His face emerged from shadow.
Zenon.
Madeleine gasped. But as her surprise dissipated, anger swelled to replace it. Zenon had attacked her that night in the flower shop, she was convinced of it. He had discovered a way to transmute thought. A sense of fury hatched inside her, so dark and savage that she felt her lips peel back in a grimace. She began to rise from her hiding place but Daddy caught her arm, clamping his hand over her mouth. He frowned and shook his head, releasing her, tapping a finger to his lips in a hushing gesture.
Madeleine glared at him. He was right though; this was not the time or place for a confrontation. They waited, motionless in their hiding place. Zenon seemed unaware of their presence, taking slow drags from his cigarette and looking out in the direction of the Mississippi. He looked comfortable, completely at ease, and yet he was a trespasser same as they. Sheriff Cavanaugh’s warning percolated in her mind. She would have wondered if perhaps Zenon had been the hunter responsible for the bloodstain in the bedroom, except that she suspected that Chloe had sent him here. Sent him to come looking for Madeleine.
But if that were true, why hadn’t he approached the house from the road, as she had? Zenon had come up from the bayou.
The mosquitoes, waiting amid the berries, began to sting. She resisted the urge to slap them, and instead regarded Zenon as he smoked. As children, she, Marc, and Zenon had in common that antisocial quality that made them outcasts. For Marc and Madeleine, it had stemmed from their mother abandoning them and their father fading in and out. Zenon’s parents had both been drunks, and he would often come to school with bruises and broken bones.
Madeleine remembered a day when she and Marc had been catching crawfish over by Zenon’s house and overheard his mother screaming at him. The door had swung open and Zenon had come running out, but not before his mother had struck him on the skull with a cast-iron skillet. He’d staggered and swayed. From where Marc and Madeleine had been sitting in their skiff, they could see blood flowing from Zenon’s ear as he ran into the woods. Both his parents beat him, but his mother—she was the worst.