Mutilated Dreams

by Hadena James

  I ignored the jab and texted Fiona asking her to find out the current owners and caretakers. Something told me we needed to look inside the house. Technically, we could just go kick the door in, but there might be more consequences. Busting in on demons was probably considered rude.

  “You should hang the gris gris bag back on the fence. It is bad juju,” I told him.

  “Did you just say juju?”

  “Fine, it’s bad mojo. Someone hung that bag with the intention of warning people off and performing an evil spell.” His smile widened as I spoke. I sighed, “Okay, consider the unsanitary nature of a gris gris bag. They are filled with bones, hair, feathers, and other stuff. There could be any number of parasites living in it.” Xavier hung the bag back up.

  “Can we go?” He wiped his hand on his pants, as if that would remove any cooties he’d picked up from the bag.

  “No, I want permission to go inside.”

  “Morbid curiosity or forcing yourself to confront whatever demon might be hanging out in the smoking room?”

  “Previous home to two serial killers and a black magic priest, who knows what’s going on inside.”

  “Fine.” Xavier didn’t saunter this time, he stomped. His feet fell hard against the brick walkway covered in symbols I didn’t know.

  “Fiona says the caretaker lives a block away,” I called after him. “We should get him and come back.”

  “Now you want permission? Good grief, that mamba protein really screwed with your head.”

  “Humor me. If there is a demon on the other side, you are a prolific bleeder and I will have trouble explaining that a demon killed you.”

  “Whatever,” Xavier shook his head. “For the record, I’m recommending to Gabriel that you be sent home for a neurological work up.”

  “If I am wrong, you can do just that and I will buy you lunch.” I narrowed my eyes at him and pursed my lips. “If I am correct and this is more than just a house, I want you to keep an open mind to the possibility that voodoo might be real.”

  “Do you want me to show you the studies that prove magic isn’t real?”

  “No, I want you to treat voodoo as my wendigo. You refuse to disbelieve Gabriel, despite your doubts that demons exist. I would like the same.”

  “Deal,” Xavier said. We set off for the caretaker’s house. My stomach was filled with knots. Xavier was probably right. The house probably was a house and the chances that a demon was hanging around inside it were farfetched. It still raised my hackles. There had to be some reason for the voodoo and lack of vandalism.

  Nine

  The caretaker, Mr. Harry Haning, was ancient. If this guy was mowing the yard, he was still using a scythe. He had a full head of shocking white hair and dark brown eyes that matched his skin. His lips were dry and cracked. His tongue expertly darted out, wetting them, over and over again. The whites of his eyes had yellowed, which was a result of either smoking, age, or jaundice. Given the dry lips and slow walk, I guessed it was the third. I also guessed the cancer was terminal. However, if Harry Haning knew it was terminal, he didn’t show it. He didn’t walk with a stoop. His shoulders were straight, broad, and carried the weight of his years as if it were a light burden. His accent said he’d been born and raised in New Orleans and he was chatty. He chatted all the way to the house about the weather, the city, the best places to eat that weren’t tourist traps, and the ghost tours offered after dark. Not once did he mention the house we were headed towards or the history.

  He had even failed to ask why law enforcement, particularly the SCTU, was interested in the house. It was as if he knew it was evil and he was unimpressed by whatever we thought might be going on in it now. Of course, he might not have known about the history, but I had a feeling he did. He avoided the gris gris bag as he opened the gate. He walked in the grass and not on the path with symbols. He even sprang onto the first step, grabbing the railing as he did. I followed his footsteps. Xavier walked on the path.

  “Ain’t nobody lived here for nearly thirty years,” he said as we all clustered around the front door. “Keep the light burning to deter the vandals and curiosity seekers. They used to be a problem in the 70s, but not so much anymore. Just the locals, they don’t go in the house. They just try to keep the evil contained.”

  “Evil?” Xavier asked.

  “Entire house is full of evil. Since you ain’t from around here, I’ll tell you. This house has seen plenty of death and blood. There was a massacre here when it was first built. A slave killed everyone, including other slaves. He was hanged from the tree in the backyard. Then there was Mr. Bartell who might have been Jack the Ripper. After he moved out in 1882, they found a whole bunch of mutilated women in one of the back rooms. He went to England and was never heard from again. Again, in 1933, the police caught Mr. Nice, who ironically wasn’t very nice. He chopped up a bunch of kids. Another massacre took place about four years later when the new owner, Mr. Mathew Graham killed his entire family, even the dog, with an axe. Mr. Childs bought the house in the 1960s to practice black magic, casting spells to cause death and conjure evil souls. He was arrested in 1963 in connection with a murder, but it couldn’t be proved. Of course, it was 1963 and he was black, so proof wasn’t necessary. But then, everyone knew he was guilty. The last of the vandals visited the place in 1978. There were seven of them with spray paint. They went in alive enough, but died before they could get out. Their killer was never caught. And while it didn’t happen here, in 1917, the owner of the house was murdered on the street with an axe. Some think he was killed by the Axeman of New Orleans.”

  “How long have you been taking care of the house?” I asked.

  “Oh, I was raised where you found me. Before I was caretaker, my father was, and before him, my grandfather. My great grandfather was born in a house that used to stand next door, used to be slave quarters. He was just an infant when the first massacre took place, my great great grandmother gave birth to him just a few hours before the massacre and that saved both of them from being in the house when the massacre happened. She was the one that got the family some help. A little girl survived because of her.”

  “Why have you stayed so long?” Xavier asked.

  “Some things change, some things don’t,” Harry Haning replied with a shrug. “Since none of my family has been killed in the house, we figure we are somehow immune to the evil inside.” I was struck by his intelligence. He spoke like an educated man. Yet, he preferred to take care of an evil house that had his family had always taken care of. “I got three sons, two daughters, and seventeen grandchildren. When I die, one of them will take care of the house until the duty passes to someone else.”

  Stale air rushed to greet us. It didn’t smell like most derelict houses. They smelled moldy and dusty. They made the nose burn and created a tickle in the throat. The staleness of this air didn’t contain that. There was a sweet, tangy scent lacing it, cloyingly coating my throat with the smell of decomposition, not of flesh though. Blood has a different scent than flesh, even when it was decaying. Hints of it accompanied any decomposing body, but putrid flesh was far more pungent. The coppery hints were gone, meaning the blood had been there for more than a day or so. Fresh blood always smells like metal and sugar.

  It could be animal, I told myself. Some voodoo ritual in a bottle that had broken. However, I could not convince myself that this was the case. There was no evidence that any rituals had been performed inside the building in years, possibly decades. I crossed the threshold. The air was warmer in here, yet not as warm as I expected. Given that there was a lamp in the window, there had to be electricity. Someone was running air conditioning at temperatures that were uncomfortable, but not stifling. A gentle hum from another room bothered me. I followed the sound and found a dehumidifier running in the kitchen.

  Xavier had followed me in. Mr. Haning had not. I was willing to bet that unless the light bulb needed changing, Mr. Haning didn’t enter the house without good reason.

  �
��Mr. Haning!” I shouted back towards the living room. “What’s with the dehumidifier?”

  “Owners want to open it as a tourist attraction. They were restoring it to its original state when the money started drying up. It’s about half done. But the humidity in this city will suck the color out of the wallpaper and ruin the glue, so we keep it running,” he shouted back.

  “Smell it yet?” I asked Xavier quietly. Xavier shook his head and cocked it to the side, questioning what I was smelling. I didn’t answer.

  We went room by room searching for the source of the decaying blood. My eyes scanned the walls, floors, and ceilings in each room. When we finished the first floor, we headed upstairs. The smell was much stronger here. The air was staler. There was also a hint of flowers, maybe jasmine, a woman’s scent to be sure. I followed my nose down the hall, ignoring the rooms we passed. There were two closed doors left. One was at the very end of the hall, one standing sentinel at a ninety-degree angle from it. I turned to open the one that stared at the blank wall.

  The smell was overwhelming. Xavier coughed; I did the same. We were both digging in our pockets for our peppermint balm. A puddle of blood had dried on the carpet. The sweet tangy scent came from it. On the nightstand was an open and empty bottle of essential oil. It smelled strongly of jasmine and oranges. Decaying flesh also existed somewhere in the room, probably hidden within the fibers of the carpet. Xavier was already digging out his cell phone. My feet didn’t enter the room. Instead, my hands opened the other door. It was a bathroom.

  There was no jasmine and oranges in this room, just blood. Dried blood coated the tub, the sink, the floor. It had splashed on the ceiling and walls. Flies clung to dried streaks. They hummed and hovered over the pools. It looked like a slaughterhouse. There was too much blood for our victim. He’d be dead, not just scarred. Someone had been murdered inside the house, specifically in the bathroom. Yet again, the smell of decaying flesh was very faint. Caused by small pieces falling from the victim and being clogged inside the drains or crushed into the grout.

  The largest puddle was in the sink. It was still tacky to the touch. I slipped on a glove and ran my finger through it. My finger came away coated in brown slime. Xavier made a face while he talked on the phone. My finger had revealed another layer of blood. It was older and completely dried. It looked nearly black. Xavier hung up.

  “I hate being right,” I told him.

  “If you hated being right, you wouldn’t have gotten your Ph.D.,” Xavier pointed out.

  “Okay, I hate being right about death.”

  “Are you going to start telling me about voodoo rituals that require exsanguination?”

  “No.” I looked around the bathroom. “There are no symbols or amulets or gris gris bags. This is just a murder, no voodoo needed.”

  “Good, I prefer murders where you aren’t acting weird.”

  “Shall we go wait?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I have some questions for Mr. Haning, like when was the last time he walked through this place.”

  “I would be willing to wager it was before the voodoo priest took up residence. Bum hip which he hides well, cancer which he also hides well, he is not climbing these stairs. Plus, the house gives him the creeps,” I answered.

  “When did you become a doctor?” Xavier asked.

  “I admit I am not, am I wrong?”

  “No, he’s got jaundice, dry skin, cracked skin, his nail beds are showing discoloration, and he’s on chemotherapy, maybe radiation too. Could be why he has a hitch in his hip. It might not just be liver cancer. Hell, it might not have even started as liver cancer,” Xavier admitted. “Have you been reading medical books?”

  “Yes.” I looked at him. “I had a brain tumor. Of course, I read a bunch of medical books. I also borrowed Lucas’ library on neurology and psychology.”

  “That explains so much.” Xavier turned and walked down the hall. He opened doors as he went. These did not make the air quality any worse, but they did not improve it either. At some point, they had all seen a good deal of bloodshed. They had just dried by the time we arrived. “That’s four. Stab them here, move them to the bathroom to chop them up, and then dump them somewhere, like a swamp.”

  “You think the voodoo lady’s granddaughter is responsible for this?” I asked.

  “She did tell us to stay away.”

  “Good point, we will go see her again,” I said. I didn’t believe she was involved. I believed the house had a reputation. Some houses were like that. Most of the time, it was unearned. That was not proving to be the case here. This house had earned every ounce of its reputation, whatever that really was.

  Nikita Kozlov

  Nikita Kozlov had been born in the Soviet Union. It had decayed while he was still young and he was part of the new Russian demographic. He came to the United States shortly after 1991 with his father and uncle. He completed school in an American high school, gone on to attend an American university. He was fluent in Russian, English, French, German, and Czech. He excelled at science and had gotten a degree in chemistry.

  It was a degree that served him well. His official title was project manager for his father’s company, but in reality, he disposed of bodies. His father represented the Russian Mob in New Orleans. His uncle was an enforcer, as were his cousins. He simply cleaned up after them. It was a job he enjoyed. He was constantly improving his products to do a more effective and efficient job. He lived by the philosophy of work smarter, not harder.

  However, at forty, his life was missing something. His biological clock was ticking. He wanted a wife and children like his cousins had. However, he was unwilling to settle for the stupid women that they had chosen; women who were more interested in money and looks than personality. Unfortunately, he wasn’t what American women considered a hot Russian. They all seemed to picture Dolph Lundgren from Rocky when they thought of Russians. Lundgren was not Russian. Most people in this country couldn’t even identify Vladimir Putin or Josef Stalin.

  His eyes were a pale blue, just enough cobalt coloring to keep him from looking like he had cataracts. However, that was the end of his good looks. He had dark hair, olive tinted skin, and a prominent brow. Sure, some women found him attractive, but they weren’t the type to appreciate his job or his connections, which left Nikita at an impasse, and destined to be alone. He didn’t want to quit working for his father, if his father would even allow it. Yet, he couldn’t find a woman that wasn’t a bimbo because of it.

  However, that didn’t stop him from checking out the ladies at the gym. One had always held his fascination. She was beautiful and her reading choices said she was intelligent. Her face held scars that told of dark deeds that she had somehow survived. He had specifically changed his routine in the hopes of meeting her. Every time though, it was the same. She came in, worked out, and left. She entered the locker room for only a brief time, not nearly long enough to change clothes. Nikita was becoming more convinced that she walked into the place with her workout uniform on under her street wear. When her workout was done, she would go into the locker room and return with a bag, still in her gym clothes.

  Today, he vowed to follow her. He was just curious, he told himself. He wanted to see what she did when she left the gym. She spoke to no one. He couldn’t even find out her name. He finished his workout early and dashed into the men’s locker room. He showered as quickly as possible, knowing that he had a limited amount of time to catch her. He dressed with water still on his skin, tugging the fabric as he struggled to pull it over the water resistant spots. He exited the locker room just in time to see her exit the building.

  Nikita exited the building. She was gone. She’d disappeared into the people that walked the streets of downtown New Orleans. He swore vehemently under his breath in Russian. It might be two or three days before she returned. He would have to be prepared. This meant involving his father’s men. His father would probably be ecstatic that he had found a woman he might be interested in, or he may hate t
he idea of Nikita being interested in an American with a questionable past. One never knew with his father. It was obvious though that he would need someone to watch from the outside of the gym; someone who could help follow her, maybe someone who could sneak a peek at her driver’s license as she ordered coffee or whatever guilty pleasure she indulged in after the gym. A name would be very helpful.

  He moved out of pedestrian traffic, leaning against the wall of the building that housed the gym and made a few phone calls. His father seemed interested and he would of course help. The phones disconnected and he placed it in his pocket. He had no plans for the afternoon. He’d intended to be following a sweet looking brunette as she went about her day. With that nixed, he leaned against the building and just watched. He was still enamored with the city. The salty tang of the Gulf of Mexico could be smelled even this far from shore. It mixed with the fragrance of sickly sweet flowers that permeated the air. It was worse in the spring, but even in the fall, the smell was there. It was coupled with decay as the flowers died. Plus, New Orleans always had a subtle smell of decay. It leaked from the swamps, the gardens, and the markets where fishmongers peddled the day’s catch, and it came up from the very ground. The city was below sea level, which made for interesting topography and architectural engineering. Most of the city was artificially raised. The ground beneath sidewalks and roads was permanently saturated with briny water.

  It was also a good place to do business. The black markets and undergrounds were prolific. There was very little that couldn’t be bought or sold in New Orleans. That was why his father had set up shop here. The tourists made it so easy to do business. Not only were they customers, but they helped locals blend into crowds. There was no doubt that was why his mystery woman had disappeared. She had slipped into the ebbing flow of traffic and disappeared among the locals who looked busy and the tourists snapping photos with their smart phones.