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Lafayette, Louisiana, USA
24th of January, 3:45 p.m. (GMT-6)
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Zoe Miller paused, her hand hovering just over the intercom button as she intently watched the antique clock on the wall. It didn’t matter that it was already 3:45 on her phone; the office clock was the official time as far as the boss was concerned. Every so often, she would climb on a chair and reset it when the lag became too unbearable, but there was never a question of replacing it with one of those radio-controlled clocks. Accurate time was hardly worth sacrificing all that history and charm.
Her grandmother always said a watched pot never boils, but she couldn’t help herself. All afternoon, her eyes kept wandering back to the bold black Roman numerals against the white enamel that had yellowed over time. Tomorrow was the Lunar New Year, which meant tonight would be filled with fireworks and dragon dances, if one knew where to look for such things in Louisiana.
Last year’s celebration had opened her up to a whole new world of Chinese food beyond fried rice and sweet and sour pork. Poultry and fish with the heads still on, mounds of noodles made from different kinds of flour, steamed cakes, fried dumplings both sweet and savory, and those little sweet toffees wrapped in rice paper that melted on her tongue... Just the thought made her salivate and she’d eaten a light lunch to make sure she brought her appetite to the festivities.
Zoe rolled her eyes as the minute hand tortuously twitched, not quite mustering the momentum to inch toward the nine on the dial. Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her other hand with an update: a picture of the latest batch of golden sesame balls fresh from the fryer. She could almost taste the sweetened red bean paste encased in the chewy, crusty exterior.
Her friend, who had taken the day off work to cook up a storm with her family, had been sending pictures all day. Zoe liked the photo and tapped out a quick one-handed reply in emojis that essentially translated to: you’re killing me, Smalls!
Message sent, she swept her large brown eyes back to the chipped enamel face and glared hard, as if sheer will were enough to hasten the passage of time. When the minute hand finally lurched forward, she depressed the button, worn smooth by years of wear and use. A crackle came over the speakers dotted throughout the premises.
She leaned into the microphone and employed her customer service voice. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the time is 3:45. We will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please wrap up your visit in a timely fashion. Thank you for visiting the Acadian Village and come on back another day. Au revoir!” She simultaneously released the button and her cheerful facade and started closing up the office.
She did one last scan of the paperwork before filing it behind last week’s. As a nonprofit, they had to keep meticulous records of everything to retain their status, and her knack for numbers and navigating bureaucracy had been quickly recognized and put to good use. She collected the cash from the drop box and collated it for deposit. As a necessity of the times, they accepted credit cards but they preferred cash. Accepting hard currency didn’t cost merchant fees, and every penny added up.
Zoe systematically locked all the cupboards and filing cabinets, giving them a slight jiggle for confirmation. She grabbed the walkie-talkie from the charging station to check in with the event coordinator before making the rounds. “Eva, it’s Zoe. How’s everything going? Over.”
“Like herding cats with a shoddy broom. Over,” a voice came over the line with a drawl so thick it managed to find two syllables in broom.
Zoe curtly laughed before replying. “Listen, I’m about to do the closing pass. Am I supposed to keep any of the buildings open for tonight? Over.”
“No, you can close everything else up except for the chapel. Just make sure there are no malingering guests. The mother of the bride is chomping at the bit to get it ready for the ceremony. I have never seen so much tulle,” she confessed before addressing someone else in the room, “Hey, you can’t put that there. It’s blocking a fire exit.” Zoe heard Eva’s tinny rebuke scratch through the small speaker; even the walkie-talkies were old. “You wanna trade jobs, just for tonight? Over.” The tone was light but there was earnestness behind the veneer of humor.
“Not for all the tea in China. You do people, I do numbers. Never shall the twain meet. Over,” Zoe stated emphatically as she grabbed her windbreaker and the hefty ring of keys from the closet.
“All right, but don’t blame me if bridezilla or her mother ends up in the canal. Over,” Eva said sweetly under her breath.
“Why not both? The canal’s big enough. Over,” Zoe offered drily.
Eva feigned innocence. “You’re gonna get me in trouble. Don’t you have work to do? Over.”
“I’m leaving the office now. Holler if you need me to stop you from chucking anyone off a bridge. Over and out.” Zoe signed off and clipped the walkie-talkie to her belt. She stepped out into the dying light of late afternoon and was immediately transported back two hundred years. A gust of wind rustled the leaves of the majestic canopies surrounding the stalwart cypress homes. They had survived this long and on different soil; a little wind wasn’t going to knock them over now.
The Acadian Village was a recreation of a typical 1800s Cajun village, complete with its own manufactured bayou crossed with bridges. It was owned and operated by the Lafayette Association for Retarded Citizens, which now went by the acronym LARC to avoid the problematic language of the past. In the 1970s, the association transformed ten acres of its land into what it hoped would become a tourism destination to supplement the ever-dwindling government funding. Little did LARC know how popular it would become to locals and tourists alike.
All the structures in the village proper were of historic value, seven of which were authentic homes taken from all over Louisiana— donations from the families whose ancestors once lived under those high-peaked roofs. They were painstakingly moved to Lafayette piece-by-piece and sympathetically restored, down to the deer hair plaster and whitewashed brick.
Inside, many of the homes were converted to showcase different aspects of 1800s life. What wasn’t original were faithful reproductions built with period materials, true to the resourceful spirit of the Cajuns. The blacksmith’s workshop was constructed out of aged, weather-beaten cypress boards, the preferred wood used by the Cajuns due to its resistance to rot and insects in the warm, wet environment they made their homes. And then, there was La Chapelle de Nouvel Espoir—New Hope Chapel for those that didn’t speak French. It was a replica of an 1850 Acadian chapel, built with a cypress ceiling and a sealed and waxed floor of Louisiana long leaf pine that was two hundred years old.
When Zoe first started working here, she hadn’t intended to stay long. It was just something to pay the bills until she found something better. However, the longer she remained, the less appealing moving on became. The pay wasn’t great, but it was enough and she was doing something meaningful. She never had been all that interested in Cajun culture, but if it helped fund those with intellectual and developmental disabilities live as independently as possible with dignity and self-worth, then laissez les bons temps rouler.
Zoe locked the door to the office, inconspicuously located within the donated 1890 home of Lafayette’s first resident dentist, and zipped up her jacket. It was cool, but hardly cold; it was what passed for winter in these parts.
Zoe systematically made a circuit along the winding brick-laid paths and wooden bridges, gently encouraging any stragglers she encountered toward the exit. Along the way, she entered each building to check the displays, turn off any lights, and lock the doors on her way out.
Zoe veered toward the bridge leading to the chapel, her last stop of the night. Her steps resonated on the wooden planks and off the still water below. It was a straight shot to the front door of the chapel, making it one long procession into the house of worship. The limbs of a willow languidly draped and skirted the ground on the other side, lending the approach some natural grace.
The New Hope Chapel bore all the marks of Acadian construction. A simple cross topped the bell tower and the narrow front vestibule stood proud against the wings, all covered by a sharply angled cypress-shingled roof. The structure was whitewashed brick, and inside, the large beams and wooden ceiling were exposed. There were ten short rows of hand-carved wooden pews on either side of the center aisle, all but one replicas, fashioned after the twentieth pew—a 150-year-old original. The chapel’s reconstruction was a love letter to Cajun craftsmanship; even the pews’ joints were pegged with wooden nails. However, there were a few concessions that had to be made for modern times, notably electricity and air conditioning.
By modern standards, it was quite modest in size, holding less than 100 people by the village’s recommendation, but it was quite impressive for the time and would have been the center of village life in the 1800s. It was perfect for small weddings, especially daytime ceremonies in summer when the light streamed in through the arched stain glass windows and the air conditioning spared everyone the indignity of melting in the heat.
Historically, Acadians were Catholic with a capital C, and wherever they landed, they kept their faith, music, food, and their French language, even if it had evolved into its own dialect during their time in Louisiana. Although the chapel was a non-denominational space that had not been consecrated by the Catholic Church, there was plenty of iconography to harken back to Acadian religious roots: a hand-carved Stations of the Cross, the plaster of paris main altar—the type used before Vatican Council II —and a side altar with the Last Supper scene.
Zoe entered the chapel and unzipped her jacket once the door had closed behind her and cut out the wind. She walked up the center aisle, as so many brides had done before and one would do later tonight, but her purpose was altogether different. She was taking stock of the chapel’s condition before giving the wedding party access. The renters would be liable for any damage sustained during their event, including set up and tear down.
She was looking over the main altar behind its protective wooden frame when a chill ran down her spine and goose bumps erupted along her skin. She reflexively rubbed her hands over her arms to warm them.
“Où est Pauline?” a baritone voice echoed in the high ceiling, causing Zoe to nearly jumped out of her skin. She hadn’t heard the door open, but clearly, she wasn’t alone.
She turned around and spotted a figure standing in the front vestibule, dressed in a vintage suit, top hat, and dress shoes polished to a high shine. Zoe searched her memory. Was that the bride’s name? Or maybe her mother or one of the bridesmaids? The surname was the only one listed on the event schedule, so she covered all bases as she answered back in French.
“The girls are getting ready in the bridal suite while the mother of the bride is overseeing the reception site in the Stutes Building. Down the path. If you come to the pavilion, you’ve gone too far.”
“Merci beaucoup,” he replied, touching the brim of his hat before disappearing.
Someone is dressed to impress, she commented to herself as she resumed her inspection—that getup certainly wasn’t something purchased off the rack at a big box store, but the smart money was that someone picked it out for him and told him to wear it.
Zoe pulled the walkie-talkie off her belt and opened a channel. “I think I found your groom. I sent him your way. Over.”
“Roger,” Eva answered in the affirmative. “Can I send the mother of the bride to the chapel yet? Over.” And get her out of my hair was implied.
“Give me five more minutes and it’s all yours. Over and out,” Zoe promised. She scanned her checklist one more time. She kept getting the niggling notion that something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. She had checked everything and nothing was amiss. She came to the conclusion that the uneasiness in her stomach was hunger and grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Eva, it’s Zoe. The chapel’s all clear. Over.”
She waited for a reply but it was mostly static with snippets of words. “Old piece of junk,” she muttered as she slapped it a few times against her thigh before pressing the button again. “I didn’t catch that. Can you repeat? Over.”
As soon as she released the button, the walkie-talkie crackled and filled with music. Good old Cajun music, complete with foot stomping to keep time in the background. Then the screams started, cutting through the soulful melody.
“Eva, are you all right?” Zoe spoke louder into the walkie-talkie. When there was no answer, her stomach bottomed out and she took off out the chapel’s front door. She didn’t have a plan, but she hurried even more once she caught the dulcet bow strokes of a fiddle in three-quarter time.
She was nearly at the Stutes Building when the fiddle suddenly stopped and a wail came from within. “Oh pa janvier, donne moi Pauline!” A wave of sadness descended upon her and made her steps falter.
As the final notes dissipated, she shrugged off her melancholy and found her footing. As she reached the entrance, however, good sense finally came to her—what if someone dangerous was inside? Her heart was pounding, and she could see her rapid breath in front of her face. She pulled out her phone and tapped 911 on her number pad, with her thumb hovering over “send.”
She threw open the door and found the room wrecked. The tables were knocked over and chairs on their sides. A few of the fixtures were shattered, casting uneven light at odd angles on the floor. Balls of tulle rolled across the floor like frosted pink tumbleweed across the marbles that once filled the toppled centerpieces. Not even the three-tiered wedding cake had been spared, splattered against the wall like raspberry and buttercream plaster.
Unwilling to step inside, she shouted from the threshold, “Eva, are you in there? Is everyone okay?” The quiet was deafening.
She quickly checked the bridal suite and found it in a similar state. Everything had been tossed about, and there was makeup, bobby pins, and flower petals from the battered bouquets strewn across the room. She called out and again was met with silence. Shaken, she hit “send” on her phone and brought it to her ear.
“911, what’s your emergency?"
“This is Zoe Miller at the Acadian Village,” she conscientiously identified herself and her location. “There was supposed to be a wedding here this evening and something has happened to the wedding party. The place is trashed.”
“Is anyone hurt?” the operated asked over his rapid typing.
“I’m not sure,” Zoe answered honestly. “Everyone’s just up and disappeared.”