Blood Roots

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  Olivia lifted her eyes and stared at her face.

  Tears coursed down her cheeks and trickled onto the shelf below.

  She didn’t know why she was crying.

  She hadn’t even realized she was …

  Annoyed with herself, she shut the dress away in the armoire. The room was pathetic and old and depressing—how could she have ever thought otherwise? Crossing to the door, she stared out for a long time into a fine, gray mist, then let herself out onto the gallery.

  There was no sun on this side of the house, yet the shadows had lightened considerably since the night before. Now they were the same dull color as the moss that hung down thickly between the columns along the balustrade. Parting some of it with her hands, Olivia could see huge old tree limbs entwined like snakes as well as patches of drizzly sky and thick tangles of leaves and half-dead vines. She understood now why there hadn’t been a sky last night—the moss formed a veritable screen between the house and the rest of the world. Determinedly she leaned out over the railing and pulled down several more clumps so she could see out.

  She seemed to be overlooking the rear of the property. Fields and marshland, forests and barren stubble stretched on and on like mirages into the mist, halted at last by a twisting band of water bordered by thick woods. There were more buildings huddled below—smaller ones dwarfed by the main house and the encircling jungle of immense trees. The buildings staggered on for quite a distance, ghostly and abandoned in tall weeds. Olivia let the branches fall back into place and turned away with a frown.

  She had no idea now how long she’d be able to stay here at the house—what would happen to her this morning when she went downstairs. There were so many things she wanted to know … needed to find out. She paused for a moment and rested one hand against the crumbling bricks of the walls. She held her palm there until the wall grew warm, and then she molded her body as flat as she could against the bricks. She wanted to hold the house to her … to clutch it against her heart. She wanted it to know her.

  Closing her eyes, Olivia began to hum. It was a strange song … a haunting song … one that Mama had hummed and hummed when she was well and when she wasn’t. Olivia knew the tune by heart, but she’d never heard the words and didn’t even know if there were any. She only knew that Mama took the song with her, deep inside her, every time she slipped into the dark-fear places where no one else could go, humming and rocking, humming and crying, long, silent dry-eyed tears …

  Olivia opened her eyes. She was confused now—she didn’t know how many times she’d hummed the song to herself or to the house. She didn’t know how much time had gone by …

  The wall was warm and sturdy beneath her. Warm in the shape of Olivia … warm in the shape of me …

  And it was strange, she thought vaguely, pushing herself away from the wall, standing straight again. It was almost as if she’d always been here—right here in the middle of this rotting old house. Like she’d always, always been here all these years.

  A roach scuttled down the wall and disappeared between two broken bricks. Olivia watched it and felt sad.

  I don’t want to go … I shouldn’t have to leave this place … not ever—

  She stopped herself, wryly amused. After what had happened last night, any normal person would have been miles away from here by this time. Yet somehow, yesterday’s terrors seemed almost like a bad dream now, spirited away by the slow, balmy breeze blowing along the gallery. Olivia fingered the bandage on her thigh and cried out sharply, surprised that it was still so painful.

  But of course, it must have been the mirror … just like Yoly said.

  What else could it possibly have been?

  She continued her leisurely inspection of the upstairs, but all the other rooms seemed to be locked. From time to time she wiped at a grimy windowpane, but the interiors were deep and murky with shadows, and she couldn’t see well enough to make anything out. She had nearly completed her circuit of the gallery. There was only one room left she hadn’t tried, and that was the one at the other rear corner of the house, directly across the center hallway from her own bedroom. It startled her, then, when she pushed on the door and found it open.

  At first Olivia stood in the threshold, scarcely able to believe her eyes.

  It was a child’s room.

  At first glance, it was as dark and musty as the rest of what she’d seen, but as Olivia moved cautiously into the middle of the floor, she felt her heart catch within her. There was something about this room that she hadn’t felt in any of the others … a curious sort of charm … yet something else, too … something almost tragic.

  She crossed to the small canopied bed and gently ran her hand down the sheer pink netting. A quilt lay crumpled upon the rosy coverlet as if it had been tossed there just that morning. There was a low wooden chest at the foot of the bed, and a bureau stood alongside, holding a basin and pitcher. Olivia picked the bowl up carefully, running one fingertip along the finely veined cracks in the porcelain. She saw a hairbrush lying there … a comb … pale pink ribbons. She put the bowl down and let her eyes wander slowly over the toys scattered around the room. A doll with a painted china face reclined in a miniature cradle. A half-finished sampler lay on a tiny footstool. On the bedside table were several books with ragged bindings, and a bonnet hung from a peg on the wall. And in the far corner of the room stood a dollhouse—elaborately decorated and nearly four feet high—that looked amazingly like Devereaux House.

  Totally captivated, Olivia went over to the wall where a group of framed and faded photographs was displayed. Smiling little girls gazed back at her with fixed eyes, just their faces showing above necklets of flowers. The pictures were all in black and white, some in more faded condition than others, yet there was nothing to date them, not even a glimpse of the children’s clothing. None of the little girls seemed to be over five years of age, and as Olivia studied each of them in turn, she found herself wondering who they all were and if they had all lived here. Mama? Could she ever have been this innocent and sweet? They looked amazingly identical with their cute, babyish expressions, yet there was something distinctly individual and different about each of them, too—something Olivia wouldn’t have thought would show up until they were much older. She couldn’t stop staring at their sweet, sweet faces, and as she bent to examine them one more time, her heart wrenched again with a curious ache.

  Olivia straightened up and glanced around the room.

  She had only dimly sensed this feeling when she’d first come in, but now it was too strong to ignore.

  Something sad and regretful that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  As if something, somehow, were missing, yet she didn’t know what it was or what it could possibly mean.

  She rubbed a chill from her arms and turned back toward the door—passing the fireplace, stopping in surprise. Even in the overpowering mustiness, the scent of woodsmoke and ashes hung heavy, and as she approached the hearth, she could still see the telltale glow of dying embers among charred bits of wood. Strange … why would anyone need a fire in this heat?

  There was a footstool pulled near the hearth and beside it, a low round table set neatly with a porcelain tea service. As Olivia stared in wonder, she saw that one china cup still held a residue of damp tea leaves in its bottom … that the lid was off the sugar bowl … that three drops of liquid had splashed across a hastily folded linen napkin. She put out a fingertip and touched the tea in the cup.

  Still warm.

  “I know you said something to him—I know you did!”

  The voice burst out of nowhere, so unexpectedly that Olivia jumped back in alarm. In her haste, she knocked one of the cups off the table, and it hit the floor, breaking apart with a splintery crash.

  “What was that?”

  There were two voices—coming from outside on the gallery—and as Olivia heard the swift sound of approaching feet, she panicked and looked for a place to hide. There wasn’t time to think. As a shadow f
ell across the doorway, she ran across the room and ducked down between the bed and the wall.

  She scarcely made it in time. Flattening herself onto the floor, she held her breath and peered out beneath the bedspread. Bare brown feet padded in … slowed … stopped. Olivia saw a frayed red hemline swishing around slender ankles … saw the skirt flutter as the body made a sudden, graceful turn.

  “It’s only this. Probably a mouse knocked it over.”

  Delicate hands swept the broken cup aside. The fingers were long and slender, their pointed nails a bright blood red.

  “See?” The voice spoke again—a woman’s voice, with a thick, lilting French accent. “Jesse’s been in here. Making crumbs for the rats to eat. Using the fire because he can’t ever stay warm.” The dainty feet planted themselves firmly apart. “You must talk to him.”

  “No, I must talk to you. I want to know about that fucking cab driver.”

  Olivia recognized this second voice and instinctively stiffened. As she molded herself to the floorboards, she heard Skyler saunter across the room.

  “I saw him leave her,” he muttered. “Where’d he find this one?”

  “At the bus station. And can you believe it—she asked to come out here.”

  “What do you mean, she asked?”

  “It seems that someone on the bus told her to take a sight-seeing trip to our house. Do you think she’ll enjoy … the sights?” Mathilde gave a soft laugh, but Skyler broke in, incredulous.

  “You mean someone on the bus knew she was coming here?”

  “Oh, what does it matter,” Mathilde said crossly. “Whoever they are, they’re miles away by now. Why are you upset? We needed someone to work here, didn’t we? Some nice young girl who’s willing to work very, very hard?”

  Skyler sounded annoyed. “I want you to take care of this. That cab driver’s getting too careless—we’ll have to find another source.”

  “And just what do you suggest I do?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be coming back here soon to be paid,” Skyler said sarcastically.

  “They always do.”

  “And what did you promise him this time?”

  “What I always promise.” Her voice was cold. “Who should know better than you?”

  “You’re a fool, Mathilde. Just do it. Before something happens.”

  “And what could happen?” she shot back. “I’d think you’d be grateful to me—for Jesse’s sake—since Antoinette’s unfortunate accident.”

  “We both know better than that.”

  “The point is,” the woman went on angrily, “this new girl is here somewhere, and I can’t find her. Now where do you think she’s gone?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “You know. You always know. But I know what you’re thinking—and you were in her room last night—I can always tell—”

  “Only to comfort her,” Skyler soothed, but there was a hint of laughter there, and the woman’s voice rose sharply.

  “Don’t play these games with me. I’m the only one who—”

  “Ssh … the walls have ears …”

  “I mean it, Skyler—”

  “Look, Mathilde—you just do your job and let me do mine. I don’t take orders from you.”

  The woman’s bare feet moved toward him … stopped between his. “You’ll do what I say …” she murmured, “if you want what I have …”

  “If I want what you have, I’ll just take it.”

  A long moment of silence followed, broken only by one breathless moan. Olivia closed her eyes as something ached inside her, warm and deep and disturbing. When at last she opened them again, the room was empty, and she got unsteadily to her feet. Her leg was throbbing again from being pressed to the floor, and she was covered with dust and sweat. After listening to make sure it was safe, she hurried to her room but stopped abruptly in the doorway.

  Someone had been here.

  Last night’s supper tray was on the floor—dishes broken and scattered, the supper she’d left now in globs across the rug and sprayed upon the wall.

  She saw a quick movement from the corner of her eye and was just in time to see a rat scurry behind the armoire.

  Shuddering, Olivia started forward, then stopped again as she noticed her clothes. She’d left them hanging over the back of a chair, but now they were in a tangled heap at the foot of the bed.

  Even from where she stood, Olivia could see blood on them.

  “What—”

  Her head jerked up as she heard a soft thud. It seemed to be very close by, and yet the room was deserted. As she looked wildly around for its source, the strange sound came again, and there was a deep, grating groan as one door of the armoire began to open.

  Olivia stood frozen, her eyes rooted in fear upon the massive cabinet.

  Slowly she went toward it, her hand outstretched and trembling.

  The door stopped.

  Olivia waited.

  And it seemed like forever before she could move again, before she could make herself touch that slightly open door, before it swung out at her without warning, revealing the awful thing that lay just inside—

  And as Olivia screamed and jumped away, the body tumbled out onto the floor like a pile of wet, bloody rags.

  7

  FOR ONE HORRIBLE INSTANT, time flew backward, and it was Mama’s face—Mama’s face there on the floor—tangled up in bloody clothes and bloody hair and dead eyes staring, staring, accusing her through all the blood—

  “No … no …”

  Olivia stumbled backward into something solid, and as she spun around with a scream, Yoly looked back deep into her eyes and gave her a shake.

  “You shut up now, you hear? Ain’t gonna do her no good, you yellin’ like that—”

  Olivia stared at her, too stunned even to answer.

  “I’ll just take her downstairs, and you get yourself dressed,” Yoly went on calmly. “You shouldn’t be runnin’ around in that thing anyhow.”

  Without hesitation, she walked past Olivia and leaned down over the body. She seemed to be studying it, and for a brief instant, Olivia thought she looked angry. She slid her arms beneath it and lifted it effortlessly against her broad chest. A girl’s head lolled down behind a wave of matted hair, but Olivia couldn’t really see what she looked like.

  “Is … is she dead?” Olivia managed to whisper at last.

  Yoly seemed to hesitate. “Sometimes dead’s better off,” she muttered. “She’ll come around in a while, don’t you worry about it. It happens like this—she won’t remember a thing. Now hurry and come on down. I’ll be back for that tray later on. Miss Rose wants to see you.”

  “Wait—” Olivia stepped back as Yoly marched to the door. “Wait a minute—what happened to her? Who is she?”

  Yoly didn’t answer. Olivia heard her heavy footsteps along the gallery, and then they faded down the stairs.

  It took her a few minutes to collect herself. She fastened the door on the armoire and reluctantly picked up her clothes, wishing she had something else she could wear. She had no choice but to put the same things on again, and as she stole a glimpse at herself in the mirror, she ran her fingers slowly over the stains. Someone else’s blood … someone else’s life flowing away.

  It made her think of things she didn’t want to think about.

  She hurried outside and went down to the first-floor veranda.

  There was still no sign of the sun. Mist drizzled down from the trees overhead and formed a gray cocoon around the house. Olivia could see old paint and plaster flaking off the columns, showing powdery bricks beneath. Dying shades of pink hung from the walls like big scabs. There were splintered frames around the dirty windows, and lopsided shutters on rusty hinges, and gaping holes in the veranda where weeds choked through. And she could smell mold and fog and stagnant water … dampness and mud and the cloying scent of flowers, rain-swollen skies and greasy meat and strange herbs and coffee so strong it made her choke.

 
; She wasn’t quite sure where she was supposed to go. She let herself into the long, wide hallway and recognized the doors where she’d eavesdropped the night before. They were closed now as they had been then, but when she heard voices beyond them, she reached down quietly and turned the knobs. The doors swung open with a loud groan, and as Olivia peeked in cautiously, she caught a glimpse of a huge table and dancing light and eyes looking back at her.

  The dining room, like the world outside its windows, was bathed in gray, but a candelabra on the long, oval table cast a shimmering glow over the occupants of the chairs.

  “Don’t be afraid, child. Come closer.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Olivia took a step forward, her heart catching at the sound of the frail, elderly voice.

  “I am Rosalee Devereaux.” The voice spoke quietly. “And who might you be?”

  And somehow Olivia managed to answer—but with a mind only aware of her, her voice, her face, her whole presence, scarcely even seeing anything else but the old woman sitting at that table.

  And suddenly Olivia realized that she would have known that face anywhere—without even a photograph or a description—for she had imagined Rosalee Devereaux her whole life, and somehow her fantasies had been true.

  Grandmother …

  She was beautiful. Beautiful and grand and regal like a queen—a calm, gracious matriarch holding court around the huge mahogany table—seated at the very head as she should have been, in a great oaken chair like a throne, with carved armrests and finials along the high rounded back. Her face was composed beneath wrinkled yet still flawless skin, her mouth a perfect rosebud, her eyes faded but kind. She had a delicate nose, and her snowy hair was swept up into a smooth, neat bun. Her neck was long, encircled with pearls, and her lavender dress was soft and girlish. As one frail hand gripped a cane by the side of her chair, the other motioned Olivia to come closer.

  “So. Olivia.”

  Perhaps her name had even been spoken several times, for Olivia felt that she’d slipped beneath some sort of spell. She saw the old woman’s eyes sweeping her thoroughly from head to foot, and she tried to concentrate.