NINE
I’m in trouble. And I don’t know what to do.
Last night, not even Bob Marley could sing me to sleep. Instead, I listened for every creak in the hallway, any potential rattle of my doorknob. I played everything over in my mind until the sun came up and the morning bell rang.
And now here I am, dead on my feet. Just me and this lump in my throat. Wondering who wants me gone and why they won’t give up.
I get the kids settled in the basement theater to watch The Lion King. The pitch-black walls swallow all light. Luis picks a fine leather seat right up front, and I help Jada climb into the chair of her choice—next to her brother. She’s petite for her age. A baby doll pretending she’s a big kid.
Ninety minutes. I need ninety minutes. To shut my mind off. To sit in the dark and breathe.
“I want a snack,” Luis demands as I dim the ceiling lights.
“And what would you like?” I sound as if someone’s squeezing my throat. The pitch of barely contained anxiety.
“Something good,” he gripes. Like he’s upset I’m not already in the kitchen. “Just make it for me.”
I trek upstairs and head for the kitchen, which is mercifully unoccupied in this brief lull between breakfast and lunch. I grab a few mangoes on the counter. Fresh off the huge tree out back—and Luis’s favorite fruit. This should keep the kids calm for a little while. I bring the knife’s edge to the mango’s skin.
“Playing chef?” Aaron asks.
Jesus. I nearly nick myself. Aaron places an approved bouquet on the kitchen island—not a single white bloom in the bunch. Still don’t know why that’s a rule.
“Luis demanded a treat,” I tell him.
“Yeah, little prince. Will rule your life and not feel bad, not one bit. Can you handle him?”
“Up for debate.”
Aaron moves next to me and leans against the kitchen counter. I wish he wouldn’t. I’m glad he does.
“You seem tired. He run you ragged already?”
I focus on the knife sliding through the golden-yellow flesh. Careful cuts, careful words. “Just didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Banquet no fun?”
Be calm. Be normal. “Very pretty. Elegant. Not my style, but the Halls know how to throw—”
“Where’s the snack!?” Luis’s shriek whips through the air like a lightning strike. I jump.
My hand slips.
The knife’s edge slashes down my palm. Time stretches out.
Blood rises, pools, drips onto the granite countertop.
The sight turns my stomach. I can’t handle blood. “Shit.”
Then the gash starts to throb. My vision blurs, warps Luis’s frowning face as he runs over. A shaky chuckle escapes me. “Your mom will kill me if I get this on the floor.”
Aaron sucks his teeth, gently pulls my hand over the sink. “Stay. I find something for the bleeding. Luis, back downstairs, friend.”
I barely notice when Aaron steps away. Don’t know if Luis leaves. The blood gathers in the center of my hand before dripping into the sink. One drop after another, into the bone-white porcelain basin, then down the drain.
But one drop doesn’t budge.
My eyes settle on it. And it grows.
Morphs.
Two crimson horns emerge.
Ready to crash through the ring, impale us with his horns.
It sort of has the shape of… a bull.
It charged right at us.
I swallow hard.
The silence that permeates Blackbead. The heat that scorches me from the inside out.
The clank and rattle of metal chains.
It charged… right… at…
I can’t look away.
The bull pins me in place, a death grip without touching me. Hooves thud in my ears. I can’t hear my heart pounding.
But I feel it.
A scream claws at my throat.
I need to go.
But it won’t let me go.
It won’t let me—
Then the blood slips down the drain.
Gone.
Like it was never there.
Aaron’s hand sits on my shoulder. “Bambi? You still with me?” He wraps one of the dish towels around my hand, applies pressure. The sting brings me back to my body. Everything’s buzzing.
I examine the drain again. Nausea sweeps through me.
“You in shock?” Aaron asks.
That crisp, sweet scent.
“Might be.”
“Talk to me, then. And hold the towel.” I keep it steady while he rummages for Wesley’s first aid kit. Aaron comes back and starts cleansing the wound. “You okay?”
I want to lie. I want to say, “Yes, I’m fantastic. Nothing weird is happening at all.”
But I’m so tired.
So when the words start to spill out, I don’t stop them. “I was watching the blood, and the droplet just… turned into a bull. The horns, the chains, all that shit.” I laugh. Nothing is funny. Not the slice in my hand, or the phone, or the lipstick, or the sweltering heat of my room. None of it makes sense, and none of it is funny.
I inhale—citrus and honey again. “And now there’s that fucking smell.”
Aaron stops cleaning my cut. “You smell it?” he asks. “Sweet? Stays with you for hours?”
Oh, thank god it’s not just me.
“I know it’s the garden,” I start, “but it’s like every time I smell it, something bad happens… I think I’m losing my mind.”
“You been feeling hot lately? Out of nowhere?”
Yes. “Jamaica’s always hot. What are you saying?”
Aaron’s attention is unwavering. His silence—his seriousness—gives me pause. “Bambi,” he says slowly, “that smell? Honeysuckle. The Halls don’t have honeysuckle on the property.”
There’s something wedged into the spaces between his words. “What does that mean?”
Aaron hesitates. “What do you know ’bout duppy?”
He’s joking. “You think a ghost did this?” Warmth rises to my cheeks. If I’d known he’d mock me, I never would have said anything.
Aaron says, “The others would laugh if they heard this… and Ora might send me straight to the church but… some say if you smell honeysuckle, feel the heat, it mean a duppy nearby. Always thought Blackbead have ’em.” He’s got this sheepish face, but his words are stable, like he really believes what he’s telling me. “When people pass on, we give ’em dead yard. For nine nights, we remember them, celebrate them, then cast ’em out this world. If they don’t get a proper dead yard, they can linger. Or if they angry, can fight to stay here to even the score. Break an arm, take a life—all the same to them. Duppy cause trouble when they can’t move on.”
My vision goes dark at the edges, tunnels into a pinhole. Aaron’s words fade.
My skin crawls like I’m covered in spiders. Like I can feel someone’s stare piercing the back of my skull.
I try to breathe. A gasp breaks through instead.
Careful.
The only thing worse than the living trying to ruin me?
A ghost.
If they angry, can fight to stay here to even the score.
And if someone from the other side wants revenge?
I know who it is.
I know it’s Joy.
Evening descends on Blackbead House. The chaotic playroom sprawls before me, toys and art supplies scattered across every surface. With my bandaged hand, I pick up a storybook with a glittery cover. This room is the brightest place in Blackbead, a mix of primary colors and too many games.
It doesn’t match what I’ve felt the last two days.
For a few nights after Joy died, I would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling as if she were somehow on the other side of it. I begged her to come back. Because if disappearing was all part of some scheme to make me regret hurting her, then I got the message, loud and clear. But to be gone—to die—was a step too far. Make me grovel. Make me plead. But come back.
She never did.
And with each passing day, my denial loosened and reality settled. I lived in a world without Joy, and it was because of me. Her mischievous smirk was no more. We’d never again gossip in the middle of the night, curled up in her massive bed. Our memories were only mine.
Now she’s here. Just like I’d asked. And I’m petrified.
Because Joy is angry. She deserves to be. And I deserve whatever else is coming.
That doesn’t make me fear it any less.
“The Halls like everything a certain way, you know.” Ora appears at my side and slides the storybook from my hand. Today, she wears tiny yellow-gold hoops that bring out the warmth in her deep skin. “Can I help out?” she asks, gesturing toward the mess from a day’s worth of play. “Will go faster.”
I nod my thanks. The kids have only an hour of quiet time before we sit for dinner, and I’ve already wasted ten minutes lost in my own head. I follow Ora’s lead. She gathers everything meant for the bookshelf and I create piles for other items. Stuffed animals here, art supplies there, action figures by the window.
Ora reminds me a little of Joy. Givers, both of them. If they can lend a hand somehow, they do. I never had to ask Joy for anything, and Ora’s just the same. Naturally helpful. I watch Ora arrange the kids’ books by height and spine color. The Halls are lucky to have her helping them, even with little nitpicky stuff like this.
Then it occurs to me: What if Ora could help me with the duppy? At the rum bar, she briefly mentioned losing her brother. And she doesn’t seem haunted in the same way I am. So maybe she has some experience, then, with helping to send off the dead peacefully. Knows something about closure.
My stomach twists. Using a new friend to get rid of an old one… I’m not proud. Still, I need some guidance. And maybe some self-defense.
But how do I even broach this big topic with Ora?
Toys, I guess.
I pick up a plastic bull, long separated from its set of shiny ranch animals. “Damn. Luis has not let up on this Rolling Calf bit. He spent half the morning chasing Jada with this thing.”
Ora eyes the toy and laughs. “Serves him right. Someone was trying to tell him he was being naughty.”
“Give him the benefit of the doubt,” I say, my tone light. “Maybe he’s being bothered by some spirit, and that’s why he acts so… Luis-y.”
Ora chuckles more, finishes organizing the books so she can tidy up another corner of the playroom. “He does have a way about him, yeah? But don’t let him blame it on some duppy. He’s just spoiled.”
“Maybe not. Mrs. Hall talks about him sometimes like he used to be such a good boy.” I shrug. “Couldn’t a ghost or something affect how he acts?”
“Imagine if a man tried to tell you that he cheat on you because a duppy possessed him. Would you believe him?”
“No.”
“Of course not. You’d burn his things and break his nose. And I’d help you do it.” Ora tosses a stuffed animal in a labeled bin. “Duppies are not real. People just don’t want to take responsibility for any bad they do. And that starts when they’re young, like Luis.”
She isn’t wrong. But she has such a different take on duppies than Aaron. Or even my mom.
The fading sunlight bounces off the gold chain around Ora’s neck; its cross lies tucked away in her work uniform. That’s the piece I’m forgetting. The other day, Aaron said Ora would ship him to church if he mentioned duppies around her. So she doesn’t believe in ghosts. But I know what I’ve experienced. I know it’s not all in my head now. Could Ora ever consider the possibility?
“If duppies aren’t real,” I wonder quietly, “then where do you think your brother is right now? He’s not still with you as a spirit?”
Ora silently places the last stuffed animal into a basket and slides it into the appropriate cubby. Long seconds pass. She doesn’t speak—not like her. I regret opening my big mouth. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You don’t have to answer that. That was rude.”
“It’s good. Glad you asked. I miss talking about Omari.” Ora grabs a cloth to wipe down some toys. “No, don’t think he’s a spirit. He’s in heaven, for sure.” She digs her rag into the crevices of a plastic car. Her forehead creases as she focuses. It’s too intense. Like she’s distracting herself from something else. “It’s not fair, how he died. Because now, nobody but me and Mama believes he made it to the Kingdom. But know he did. Was a good person. Best brother.”
Ora’s voice is steady and melancholy. Her sadness is pure. It doesn’t matter how Omari passed; she loves and misses him anyway. I miss Joy with everything in me, but it’s not the same as what Ora feels. The night Joy died, I jumped back and forth between rage and grief, and even now, I can’t always keep it straight.
That night, I wanted Joy to get hurt.
So what right do I have to miss her in such a messed-up way?
“Could I ask what happened to him?”
She sighs. “He was running in a bad crowd. Gang stuff.” I wait for more detail, but she busies herself with dumping all the plastic blocks into a bin instead. So I fill in the rest of the sad story myself.
“Now everyone talk about Omari like he was some heartless man. But he only did all that stuff to look out for me and Mama. He deserved more than the world. Deserved heaven.”
Ora’s wrong. Omari deserved more than heaven. He deserved to live.
Joy deserved to live.
“How did you handle it? Losing him?” My best friend died and I couldn’t function. I didn’t know how. Still don’t.
Ora adjusts her gold chain. “Prayed.” She lowers her voice. “Then my mother and I decide to visit an obeahman. Wanted to make sure Omari’s soul was protected as he move into eternal life.” She leans in and says, “Don’t tell anyone, though. Not trying to go to jail.” She’s joking, but her heart doesn’t seem in it.
“What did the obeahman do?” I whisper back.
“His work,” she replies vaguely. Yeah, Mom didn’t like talking about Obeah either. I couldn’t tell if it spooked her or she just didn’t know how best to explain it to me. Maybe two things can be true at once. “Then he gave us a ring. As long as Mama wear it, Omari’s okay. Or so the man say.”
“Why not see a pastor?” I ask. “I know you go to church and everything. So why go to some obeahman you don’t totally trust?”
Ora hums in thought. “It’s complicated. It can be hard to tell one belief from another. Can’t agree on what is what, what’s good or bad. Say I get crazy again and decide to go see a ‘mother’ this time. Say she prays to the same God as me. Is that Obeah or Revival? White magic or black?” She kisses her teeth. “Don’t know what we’re messing with. That’s why I never dabble in it.”
“Until you lost Omari,” I murmur.
“That was new,” she admits. “And difficult. But I did what felt right at the time. Wouldn’t do it again.”
I straighten a stack of construction paper on Jada’s activity table. It was already straight, but I need something to do with my hands. “I don’t blame you, though.”
“Well, the Lord might.” Ora shrugs. “I repented, but I don’t regret going. Don’t think it’s a sin to want my brother to be okay. After all, demons ferocious as hell.”
“How can you tell a duppy from a demon?”
“Be serious! Demon actually real!” Ora laughs.
I chuckle along. But inside, my heart hurts. For Ora and her loss. For me and mine. For realizing that Ora can’t help me with the duppy because she doesn’t believe it even exists. Maybe I could convince her if she knew everything, if she knew why I ran to Jamaica. But that sacrifice feels too big. My truth is ugly, a poison that will kill a friendship that’s only just been born.
I am on my own.
I will have to make it work.