Mutilated Dreams

by Hadena James

  This only applied to tobacco products packaged for smoking. Incense burned inside the shops, released toxic fumes to be breathed in by patrons. It could trigger migraines and seizures. Stores sold curses, hexes, and potions to bring afflictions to your enemies, or so they proclaimed. In Cajun voodoo, gris gris bags were considered a form of black magic, yet stores were still selling them.

  “You look a little pale today,” Xavier said, breaking the silence that had been building since we parked almost twenty minutes earlier.

  “I did Taser the hell out of myself yesterday.”

  “Yeah, that isn’t it. What’s up?”

  “It is complicated.” I shrugged, refusing to meet his face.

  “Is it physical or mental?”

  “Both,” I answered and stopped walking. “Do you believe in black magic?”

  “Not really.”

  “I do.”

  “That seems strange coming from you. Science has never proven black magic works. It’s the process of suggestion causing symptoms.”

  “Many years ago, I would have agreed with you. Now, I do not. I have seen it work. New Orleans reminds me of it.”

  “You came in contact with voodoo at a younger age, that’s interesting.”

  “Yes, but not Cajun voodoo. Haitian voodoo and it is significantly different. However, different or not, when someone decides to practice black magic, it can still be a problem.”

  “I get that you try to keep an open mind on everything, but magic?” Xavier looked doubtful.

  “Someday, I will explain,” I told him, stopping in front of a store. There was a woman sitting outside. She looked like a witch, an honest to God witch. She had white hair, sallow skin, sunken eyes, and cataracts, which made her pupils and irises appear white. “Are you completely blind?” I asked the woman who looked like she was at least as old as the Great Pyramid.

  “Nope,” her voice was still strong. She smoked a cigarette. By the looks of the can next to her, she sat here every day, all day, and did nothing but smoke cigarettes. Nevertheless, she had a smile on her face, and despite the ragged appearance, she gave off a vibe that said she had enjoyed her life.

  “Could you look at a picture, let us know if you have seen them?” I asked.

  “I could,” the woman answered, “but it wouldn’t do no good. I ain’t seen them.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I don’t sit here after dark.” She answered. “This ain’t no place for a lady after dark.”

  “Why? Ghosts and vampires wander the French Quarter after dark?” Xavier smirked.

  “You’re an idiot,” the woman told him. “Daytime tourists bring money; nighttime tourists bring crime.” The smirk disappeared from Xavier’s face and moved to mine. The woman was right. Tourists did bring crime, even when they didn’t mean to do it. Muggers, rapists, killers, they were all predators for those weakened by drugs, alcohol, and the promise of a good time.

  “What time does the store close?” I asked.

  “We close up early here. Only got one priestess and she don’t like it here after dark.”

  “Night time tourists spend more money,” I answered.

  “Yeah, but they never want anything good.” She looked at me. “You need some protection down here.”

  “I am fine,” I assured her.

  “Nah, you’ve been touched, sweetie. Every evil doer in the French Quarter will be licking their chops to get a piece of you.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Xavier said.

  “Your friend don’t believe in magic.”

  “No, he does not.”

  “You do though and you know I’m not talking about magic, don’t you.” Since she phrased it as a statement and not a question, I just stood there. “Lenetta, bring me out my bag, girl, and make it fast.”

  “You are the priestess,” I said.

  “Best one on the street. Don’t do no black magic though. I wanna keep my soul clean. I give you a talisman and most of the local thugs will leave you alone. They don’t wanna bring down my wrath.”

  “Thought you didn’t dabble in black magic?”

  “I don’t, that’s my sister’s job.” She gave a cackle that made me smile. Xavier stepped in a little closer to me. “She don’t leave home much anymore, but when she do, lock the doors. How far back does the sickness go?”

  “Generations,” I answered.

  “I figured as much. Met a lot of people in my line of work, some of them good people with bad genes, like you. Never met one quite like you though. You got some stains on your soul and you been touched by the black.”

  “I have.” I agreed, unwilling to disagree with this woman who claimed to see my soul. “If you were going to be up to no good in this area, where would you go?”

  “I wouldn’t,” she answered. “Lenetta, hurry it up child, we ain’t got all day. We all dying and you taking your sweet time.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “This neighborhood? Too many thugs and hoodlums. A couple blocks down, they got an old nunnery that they say has vampires. Your friend wants a fright. You should take him there. But mostly, this area is too flooded with tourists to be up to really nasty business. You want a serial killer lair, it ain’t gonna be here. They may hunt here, but they ain’t killing here.”

  “You know who we are?” Xavier asked.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Don’t change the fact that this lady been touched. Or that her presence here is gonna make a few waves.”

  “You keep saying touched,” Xavier started. The old woman looked at him with an eyebrow raised.

  “Touched by madness,” I told Xavier. “In other words, she believes I am bat shit crazy and the amulet is more about protecting people of New Orleans than us.”

  “Oh,” Xavier answered.

  “So, where would you go to do nefarious work if you were a serial killer?” I asked.

  “The swamps, but you being here means they ain’t that smart. Hard to get a lot of privacy in a place like this. Haven’t heard of any deaths. You ain’t here on vacation, so what you really looking for?”

  “A serial killer that has failed to realize they are one yet.”

  “Ah,” the woman nodded as another woman joined us. She looked to be in her late teens. I guessed she was the old woman’s granddaughter or great granddaughter. The old woman reached inside the bag and pulled out an amulet on a leather cord. The pendant had small bones surrounding a round disk. The disk was made of amber with something in the center of it. She handed it to me. I pulled out my wallet. “Nah, no money. I don’t think you’re crazy. I also ain’t worried about the thugs in New Orleans, you can have ’em all. It’s to stop you from having trouble with any Voduns. You been touched by both madness and black magic.”

  “Thank you.” I slipped it over my head.

  “Lenetta, where the teens hang out to do bad things?”

  “Lots of places, why?” The younger woman asked.

  “These folks are Marshals looking for a serial killer. I don’t get around much anymore, but you do. Tell them where the bad folks hang out.”

  “Locals hang out around the cemeteries,” Lenetta answered. The old woman threw her head back and laughed.

  “Stupid kids don’t know what they messin’ with hanging around those places. More than one gonna end up with souls sucking the life out of ’em. Serve ’em right, too, disrespecting the dead like that.”

  “We appreciate your assistance,” I told both women. Xavier thanked them too.

  “One last thing,” Lenetta stopped us. We both turned around to face her. “Avoid the dark house.”

  “No problem, she isn’t welcome in places like that,” Xavier assured her.

  “I’m serious,” Lenetta pleaded.

  “We will do what we can,” I told her. We continued on our way, leaving Lenetta frowning, her eyebrows drawn together and her chewing on her nail.

  “Ace,” Xavier said as we crossed to the next block, still searching f
or the club where our victim had visited.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That was the single strangest encounter I have ever had around you. I sort of understand the serial killer attraction, but old voodoo priestesses who can see your soul are new.”

  “Xavier, do you believe that Gabriel once saw a wendigo? Honestly believe it?”

  “Maybe. He saw something that scarred him for life and made him a little unhinged.”

  “Maybe? Okay. So, Gabriel may have seen a Native American demonic being eating a child, but voodoo is less believable?”

  “When you put it that way,” Xavier gave a weak grin and stuck his hands in his pocket.

  “Do you admonish Lucas when he says he believes in ghosts? Fiona has a friend that is a psychic. She believes in his abilities.” I gave him a sideways glance.

  “Yeah, you don’t have to brow beat me with it. I get your point. I just can’t believe that you believe in it.”

  “If I am willing to entertain the idea that Gabriel saw a wendigo and Nyleena believes there is a super electrical net in space protecting earth, magic does not seem like a stretch.”

  “Maybe you should have asked if the cuts were ritualistic.” Xavier stopped to look at something in a store window.

  “They are not,” I informed him. “I am not an expert, mind you, but I have never seen such things associated with voodoo, unless you are willing to believe in voodoo dolls, which I do not.”

  “How do you believe in voodoo but not voodoo dolls?” He pointed at one, which was what he had stopped to look at.

  “The symbolism of a voodoo doll is overwhelming. To think that someone has stolen some piece of you to implant in a voodoo doll is terrifying. But the history of the voodoo doll is evidence that they work only based upon the power of suggestion. Otherwise, slaves practicing voodoo would have been making the dolls by the truckload to eliminate terrible masters. A single vodun could churn out ten a day. No one would be safe if they worked.”

  “In other words, you are cherry picking which parts of magic you believe in.”

  “No, I just believe in the parts that are provable.”

  “I’m going to lose this argument and I’m not sure why, since all evidence points to the power of suggestion.”

  “Not all evidence.” I decided to start walking again. We went down another block and found the club. It was closed at the moment, which was fine. Bars in daylight were even more depressing than bars at night. I had a feeling this bar would be extra depressing.

  “This is a goth club,” Xavier said reading the sign near the front door.

  “Yes, it is. Does Brady seem like the type of guy to hang out with goths?”

  “Nope, he was slumming. Lots of pretty, vulnerable women who have unrealistic expectations of relationships inside, after dark.”

  “I think that describes every bar.”

  “Yeah, it does. He was still slumming in here.”

  “That I do not disagree with.”

  Eight

  We walked ten blocks in each direction from the area around the bar. There were apartments, hotels, motels, and even residences. One direction brought us into a neighborhood full of older houses with beautiful architecture. There were bars, restaurants, nightclubs, and stores. Brady could have been in practically any of these places during his missing hours. Now that we knew he was trolling for women to pick up, it became a little bit more difficult. He could have been drugged in the bar, but picked up by someone different once he was outside. For the first time, I wondered if we were dealing with a killer couple.

  Personally, I really hoped that we weren’t. When partners were involved, the killings and aftermath tended to get really messy. They fed upon each other’s energies, fueling their own rage, hate and bloodlust. With partners, it was double the rage, double the hate, and double the bloodlust. At least with cults, the motivators were slightly different. Partnerships usually had to crumble on their own before one person broke down. Of course, once that happened, it was usually a race to see who killed whom, which was an effective way to find a killer. Or one partner would sabotage the other by going to the police and making a deal. Neither option was appealing to me. I preferred to catch predators before they turned on each other.

  Brady Wilchek didn’t seem like the type to follow a male out of a bar. However, there was a large number of androgynous figures in the goth crowd. I didn’t know why this was, I just knew that it was. He might follow someone he didn’t realize was male out of the bar. There was also the possibility that he had followed a transvestite out of the bar. Transvestites were rarely violent though and unlikely to enter into high risk relationships that would result in violent behaviors. Despite the misconceptions, most transvestites were fine with being male and were rarely submissives. The same could not be said for androgynous people. For some reason, they were more likely to be submissives. Again, I didn’t know why, but I had some experience with the goth lifestyle and every androgynous person I had ever met was a submissive. It was statistically improbable that every single one of them was a submissive, but I could only go off my own interactions with the groups.

  We passed a small, depressed house. It looked like it should have housed a demon. The ivy had a stranglehold on the bricks. Nothing short of burning the place to the ground was going to remove it. Moss draped from the trees in the yard. A lamp burned in one of the lower windows, despite the daylight. Leaves had accumulated on the front porch. Freebie newspapers littered the yard, as if the paperboy was too frightened to drop them on the doorstep. The shutters showed time and damage. A list had developed in the stairs.

  It wasn’t a mansion, like several of the houses we had seen in New Orleans, but it had a presence. Something about it just caught one’s attention. It also screamed that anyone entering was unlikely to exit. A large iron fence surrounded it. I touched the gate and jerked away as if shocked by electricity. Hanging just to the left of the latch was a gris gris bag. In most forms of voodoo, gris gris bags were good. In Cajun Voodoo, they were evil. Hanging a gris gris bag on the gate was a sure way to keep out the superstitious.

  As I stared at the bag, other things began to come into view. There were markings on the sidewalk leading up to the door. They were faded with time, barely perceptible in the early afternoon sun. I didn’t know what they meant, but I was sure they related to the gris gris bag. Mixed into a pile of grass clippings were feathers. Whoever had mowed it the last time had run over some sort of sacrifice in the yard.

  My feet stepped back, away from the gate, without input from my brain. I tried not to be superstitious. I was hyper-logical. However, when it came to magic, it was hard to be logical and sometimes, it was hard not to believe. For whatever reason, the locals did not like this house. We needed to investigate. My brain told my body this, but my body refused to move.

  “Creepy house.” Xavier was staring at the small monstrosity. There was something in the architecture, something that was different from all the other houses. My brain knew it, but my eyes couldn’t find it.

  “Go check it out, ring the doorbell, and look in the windows,” I said, drawing a gun from a holster. I preferred non-lethal weapons as much as possible. I was gaining a reputation, but at this exact moment, I didn’t think even my amped up Taser would be much help. I wasn’t entirely convinced a gun would.

  “Me?” Xavier frowned at the gun. “What exactly do you think I’ll find?”

  “I do not know, but someone sacrificed a chicken in the yard recently, so it warrants further investigating.”

  “Those can’t just be pigeon feathers and a natural death. It has to be chicken sacrifice and there are no other options?” Xavier pointed out.

  “Pretty much.”

  “We are going to need to do a lot more tests on your brain. I think the mamba proteins damaged it or the Tasering did.” Xavier pushed open the gate. It didn’t squeak, screech, or squeal. It was well oiled, despite the look of the place. This didn’t make me relax. As he pas
sed, he grabbed the gris gris bag off the iron and put it in his pocket. I started to point out that this was bad juju, but I kept my mouth shut. I looked silly enough and I knew it.

  Xavier, unfazed by my unease, sauntered up the off kilter steps and rang the doorbell. He waited, his head turning to survey the porch. It seemed odd for an abandoned house to have a light in the window. However, I was positive it was abandoned. I was just as positive that we had stumbled upon the Dark House that we had been warned against.

  No one came to the door. Xavier didn’t fall into some hidden trap door. Bees didn’t swarm out of an exterior light that fell when he knocked on the door. Essentially, nothing happened and I felt stupid holding my gun, but I didn’t put it away. Instead, I used my other hand to motion him out.

  “It’s a house,” he said as he closed the gate. “Aside from the fact that it appears to have zero furniture, and yet, isn’t vandalized within an inch of its life, is astounding, but otherwise, it’s just a house.”

  “You did not enter it. There could be a demon hanging out in the smoking room or salon.” I finally relinquished the gun to the holster and felt lost without it.

  “Do you believe in demons?”

  “I do not disbelieve in demons.”

  “Do you think they hang around smoking rooms and salons?” He asked.

  “I do not know; I am not a demon. Demons might play backgammon for all you know.”

  “I’m seriously concerned about your mental health.” Xavier brought out his flashlight. “Demons and magic have no place in your reality.”

  “How do you explain the fact that an abandoned house near the French Quarter is in perfect condition and has a light in a window?”

  “It isn’t perfect and the reason for the light in the window could be that it obviously has a caretaker. People are not breaking in to mow the yard.” Xavier pulled out his phone and began pressing buttons. After a few seconds, he turned the screen to me. It was a Google search and there were a lot of hits on this address. It had been home to two serial killers in the past one hundred and fifty years. It had also belonged to a voodoo priest who was accused of performing black magic in it. “Okay, so it might have a demon. Maybe this is the house from The Scarlet Gospels.”