Louisiana Moon (8 page)

Old mold and dampness, with a hint of death, floated in the air. The wet, chilled basement air formed goosebumps. Everything that could puckered into painful peaks and her teeth chattered hard. Kris stifled a shudder and rubbed her hands up and down her arms.

The house swelled and shifted with the rising currents enveloping the outside, moaning and creaking before settling onto its natural foundation. Fog crept in through the now-unprotected window. Coming to her feet with lightning speed, she stood, arms akimbo. She needed to find a way out and fast. It hadn’t been her smartest move to go into the house, rather than sprint to the front and back over the gate. It was too late now. Why such foolishness? Her only excuse was the scattered thoughts left behind by Ryant’s visit.

Looking up, she spotted a narrow flight of stairs and a door to the first level. Kris took the stairs two at a time. She covered her nose and mouth as to not breathe in the malevolence trailing her. She slammed into the door, bursting through, smashing the doorknob into the wall behind it. Shoving the door closed behind her, she whirled to see where she was. Her breath escaped in a hiss.

The kitchen was filled with hoodoo ritual trinkets. Some appeared unrecognizable. Symbols and spell works etched the baseboards. Chicken bones were scattered across the bright yellow tabletop. Unshielded cupboards held root work spell bottles with shrunken heads as stoppers. Red and white beads and feathers hung like gruesome jewelry around the base of each head. A huge, single basin-style sink contained more heads. She didn’t believe in hoodoo. It was like a put-on show for carnivals using colored beads and king cakes.

This didn’t look like any hoodoo magic she’d ever witnessed.

The smell of rotted flesh stank to high heaven. She covered her nose, blocking out the putrid scent. The house creaked and moaned louder. Below her feet, the floorboards shifted. They rolled like an earthquake, making her nauseous.

Kris moved from the basement door, her balance shaky at best. She searched the room for possible exits. With too many doors to choose from, she paused. Old plantation homes had been built for servants to move to most anywhere from the kitchen. They could lead her out or deeper into the house.

“I so do not want to go further into this hell hole.” The sound of her voice was strangely comforting.

Bits of plaster fell from the ceiling, breaking on the floor in powered splats. The danger inside the house lived a life of its own, much like the fog outside. It was like some kind of spell that invited people in, but made sure they never left.

Kris exited the kitchen, finding a long main hallway with a grand staircase leading up. Paintings covered in gray, tattered sheets hung on the walls. Dust motes swirled from her passing. She suppressed the urge to run, screaming for the outside. She had to move with care. This house likely had more than a few tricks left to play.

Scratching came from behind the walls on the staircase. She edged away from the stairs, not daring to go up when she needed out. More plaster beside her feet.
Fuck.

Something brushed her hair. She yelped and jumped, turning to face… A cover fell from a mirror. The material fluttered to the ground like a ghost. In the half-light, crimson fingerprints smeared the mirror in the shape of an X, right over her reflection. Her thudding heart almost beat out of her chest.

She stumbled into a drawing room. A large scarecrow sat on the couch with metal rods protruding from its chest. Somebody in this house harbored a grudge for scarecrow men. She made a dash for the rotted front door and stopped at the sight of a daguerreotype picture over the fireplace. Inside the frame, a group of young women stood outside this house, dressed in virginal white as though prepped for a cotillion presentation.

In very clear script, a list of names was printed from
left to right: Madeleine Forsythe, Agnes Shuster, Sarah Carter, Vanessa Adams, Constance Rutherford and Elizabeth Harkin, spring 1858.

Vanessa Adams. Fourth from the left, a smiling young miss, not much beyond fifteen years, stood with her hands on her hips. There was something sly in her smile. Knowledge gleamed in her eyes, defying the innocence of her youth. Kris didn’t trust that smile, not one damn bit.

Lightning clashed and crackled, transmitting sizzling electricity into the air. Goosebumps rose over her flesh as the fine hairs stood on end. A seventh reflection appeared in the photograph’s glass with the lightning strike. Kris’s eyes went wide. She snatched the picture off the wall and wheeled around…

…and faced a hoodoo witch.

Thunder crashed, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. A high-pitched keening filled the space between her and the crone. Kris ached to cover her ears, but braved the noise to keep her hold on the picture. Her jaw tightened as pain ripped through her eardrums. Something popped, and the noise stopped.

A dead calm remained.

She stared at the witch.

Cataract eyes glared malignant holes into nothing. The frizzy-haired, toothless lady gummed her jaws together. “Who’s there?” A fragile voice escaped, like a child asking for a tasty treat.

Kris didn’t reply. No way. She didn’t dare try after hearing the woman speak. She had no idea what the lady might do and didn’t want to find out.

It would be funny if she wasn’t so damned scared. She’d scoffed at Sparky for being effeminate, thinking he had no real power. Now she stood, quaking in her Nikes, her inner child afraid of the dark because a tiny blind woman with a child’s sugary, sweet voice asked who occupied her home uninvited. The difference was the power rolling off the woman smacked against Kris like waves on the high seas.

The old lady held up a voodoo rosary with rattlesnake tails and bones, shaking the thing in Kris’s direction. Words she didn’t understand escaped a toothless mouth and dripped from a blackened tongue.

Certain she was being cursed, Kris backed toward the door with the picture clutched to her chest. She bumped into a low table. A noxious concoction spilled and dripped brown liquid on her bare leg. Bubbling pain peeled her skin like boiling grease.

She stifled the need to yell. Nothing came out, not even a squeak. She remained calm and quiet. Hot tears stung and threatened to spill. Sizzling hissed from the spot on her calf.

A howling gust of wind forced open the front door.

She ran, limping down the porch stairs, falling on the gravel below and scuffing her knees and palms. The picture flew from her hands. She held her throbbing knees close to her chest, careful not to connect with the burn. As she turned on her back to face the house, the old woman stood near the door. Kris swallowed hard. Her eyes opened wide and her heart leapt into next week.

Dark shadows swept across the house from the graveyard, shooting to the gargoyles that were perched on the stone staircase. The cement on the guard dogs cracked. Their eyes lit with a shiny green glare. Necks turned, grinding rocks. Snarling lips showed pointy cement teeth.

Her mouth dropped open. Damn Ryant for being right. She wouldn’t have believed it true if not for her own eyes.

At the top of the stairs, the old woman pointed a crooked finger in her direction, continuing with the eerie chant. Lightning slashed through the sky. The supernatural fog filled in faster around Kris’s cradled position, sticking to her skin. She flung her arms to pull away from the miasma as she watched the statues.

Another demon shot into the briar thorn goddess. Raising the spear to its head, the demon-inhabited stone reared back to throw its weapon.

Kris scrambled for the picture and jumped to her feet just as the spear burrowed deep into the dirt where her body had curled moments before.

Not stopping to look back, she limped for the gate as fast as she could. Ten feet away, she willed her wolf out, for its own survival and hers. She leapt from the ground with a burst of power as her arms and legs flailed. She hurtled to the other side of the gate and landed on the roof of her car with a crash. Pain wracked her body.

Pushing down the agony, Kris shimmied off the car roof and over the trunk. She shoved her way through the brush then, from the rear, yanked open the driver’s door. Metal creaked and groaned. With a hell of a lot of wiggling, she managed to squeeze her body through the small space.

Inside, she locked the doors. After flinging the picture into the passenger seat, she dug for the key in her bra. Then dug some more.
Holy Christ on a cracker.
The blasted thing had moved. Now wasn’t the time for a wardrobe malfunction. Finally, she located the key tucked deeper, near her underwire.

She jammed the key into the ignition and cranked the engine. It turned without hesitation. She breathed a sigh of relief as she flipped the headlights on. There in front of the car, on the other side of the gate, hunched the holey white t-shirt-wearing zombies and Grabby.

Oh hell.

Grabby. They’d gotten to him at the bar today. Right under her and Josh’s very noses.
Oh shit.

With eyes the color of soot, they stared at her and groaned as if she were a fresh cut T-bone at a cattlemen’s convention. Grabby even drooled, his tongue snaking over blue-tinted lips. Pasty skin, tarnished by peeling patches of dead flesh, glowed white in the bright halogen beams.

With her nerves jangling, she slammed the car into reverse and pressed the gas pedal flat. Bumpy road and all, she’d get the hell out of there.

Rain poured from the sky, obstructing her view. With her arm flung over the passenger headrest, she craned her neck as she navigated the car backward down the winding, overgrown path the best she could.

A loud crash from the front made her flinch. She twisted to see what had caused the commotion, but kept her foot on the gas.

Grabby had jumped on the hood of her car. With his head tilted to the side and a hungry expression pinching his skin, he gaped at her then pounded his forehead on the windshield. Blood smears and skin splatters ran down the glass. He snarled, saliva dribbling from his teeth and banged his head again.

Her wolf growled.

With a crunch, the glass splintered, and Grabby slipped his hand through the hole.

Kris screamed, “You’re wrecking my car, you fucker!”

With part of her attention on the grabby even when dead zombie, she used her mirrors to navigate her car. Grabby’s fingers curled and grasped at her face. She turned her head, smashing her cheek into the headrest.

The car punched through the underbrush and swerved onto blacktop. She whipped the wheel sharply to the left. The car skidded across the narrow lane, and Grabby rolled in the opposite direction. Her head thunked into the steering wheel as the car spun, came to an abrupt halt and stalled.

Lightheaded and stomach churning, she resisted the urge to spew her guts onto the floorboard. When she looked around to catch her bearings, she noticed she’d wound up facing the opposite direction. She turned the key. The car sputtered and failed.

“Come on, baby, don’t quit on me now, damn it.” She took a calming breath and counted to ten.

A glance out the back window showed Grabby silhouetted in the red glow of the brake lights. Mangled and twisted, yet moving.

She tried the key again, and the car coughed to life. Never again would she cuss her stalled battery or one-point-four liter engine. Cranking the car into reverse, she spun the wheel doing a one eighty and the glow of headlights replaced taillights. Grabby hadn’t done more than get to his feet and now stood with hunched shoulders in the center of the road. Parts of his face were ripped and drooped past his jaw.
Ain’t karma a bitch?

He raised his good arm, hobbling toward her.

A movement from the corner of her eye brought her attention around to see the other two zombies ambling her way. Only one way out. Forward.

She stomped on the gas pedal. “Come on, baby. Do this right and there’s an oil change and a paint job in it for you.”

The car barreled through Grabby. If the pop and squish of something…not bone…beneath the wheels didn’t prove a hit, well, she didn’t let it slow her determination. Pedal to the floor most of the time, she drove back to New Orleans.

The further away she got from the house, the more the adrenaline that had carried her through much of the night wore off. Her breath came short and shallow. Sweat formed on her skin despite the fact that she was frozen from the air conditioning. She gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles ached as she reviewed the events of the past hour.

Soulscapes were in Louisiana.

Gods help everyone.

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