Chapter Fourteen

He found her seated on a bench on the edge of the View Carré facing a small fountain, her Flying W resting at her feet like faithful pet. She was making little voodoo dolls out of bunched yarn and pieces of colored string, the crookedness of her fingers belying their dexterity. Jerry was reminded of his grandmother, who could still shuck snap-peas like a fiend decades after the rest of her body had succumbed to arthritis.

“So, you finally decided to come an’ see me.” She did not look up from her work as she spoke. “I was beginnin’ to wonder if I was wrong about you, but you come round in time.”

“What the hell did you do to me?” Jerry rasped. “Did you put some kind of hallucinogenic shit in that candle?”

Aggie fixed him with her good eye, delivering a stare that laid his psyche open as easily as a butcher gutting a calf. “I woke you up is what I did.”

Jerry felt a finger made of ice travel down his back. “You’re the woman I saw in my dream!” He dropped down beside her, unable to stay on his feet. “But—how?”

“People live their lives asleep,” Aggie said with a despairing sigh. “Not asleep in bed, but here,” she touched her forehead, “and in here,” she tapped her heart. “They think they are awake, but they merely dream. Their world is the dream, and the dream is their world. What they do not wish to dream about does not exist. Or so they think. The wakin’ world is all around them, but the sleepers are oblivious to it. Sometimes the wakin’ world intrudes, and then their dream becomes a nightmare. Some are more sensitive to the wakin’ world than others—artists, poets, and other madmen. You had that sensitivity within you since birth. I simply prodded it, that’s all. You might say I lifted the veil and allowed a beam of light to strike your eyes. Not too much, mind you—just enough to get your attention.”

Jerry stared at the wizened old woman with a mixture of awe and fear. He dully realized that somewhere along the line her street patois had been replaced by that of an educated woman. “I don’t understand—if you’re capable of what I think I saw, what possible use could you have for me?”

“You were drawn into this game by chance, as were all the other players. It is fortunate you already possessed the seed--a normal sleeper would have been no use to me. I was lucky you were already sleepin’ uneasy. But the woman...the woman sleeps deep. She could very well lose her mind, if she is wakened at the wrong time. That is always a danger when a sleeper is shaken from the dream. But you are made of strong stuff, and the love you have for the woman will make you stronger still.

“I know you’re afraid you’re losin’ your mind. But the opposite is true. If anything, you’re now saner than you ever were before. I know it don’t seem that way right now, but give it time. As to what I expect from you...right now all I need you to do is go to the Tulane University Library. On the second floor you will find the Louisiana Collection Reading Room. Tell the woman in charge that you want to see the Seraphine File. If she gives you grief, show her this.” Aggie stuffed one of the little yarn poppets into his hand. “If you read what is shown you, you will have some understandin’ of what has happened, what is happenin’, and what might happen.”

“And if I choose not to do as you say?”

“Do you remember what I showed you in the dream?”

Jerry’s mouth went dry. “I remember.”

“Then it will be on your head.”

He wanted to throw the wretched little doll in her face and denounce her as a lunatic. He wanted to seal his eyes and ears to shut out her madness, but he knew he could not deny her so easily. He got to his feet and stuffed the fetish into his pocket. He’d better get going; the university library didn’t stay open very late during the summer session.

The Louisiana Collection Reading Room was a large, glass-encased section within the main library, with a couple of tables and a coin-operated Xerox machine stuck in the corner. A woman with harlequin glasses and lipstick the color of ripe plums sat at a desk guarding the collection’s private archives, a stack of local magazines at her elbow. Jerry watched as she systematically snipped out articles with scissors big enough to use in a knife fight. The nameplate on her desk read ‘Mrs. Kresse.’

“May I help you, young man?” she whispered.

Jerry fought the urge to turn and flee the enforced quiet of the building. “I was told to come here.”

Mrs. Kresse put aside her scissors and lifted her penciled-on eyebrows. “Yes?”

He shuffled his feet, feeling foolish. “I would like to see the Seraphine File.”

Mrs. Kresse’s expression did not change. “I’m sorry, but we have no such item.”

Jerry’s cheeks grew hot. Of course there was no such file! Aggie was only a crazy old bag lady, not a voodoo priestess. As he turned to leave, the fetish she had given him twitched violently in his pocket, as if it had just kicked him. He pulled out the little yarn doll and placed it on the desk. The librarian quickly scooped it into an open drawer without looking at him. “Sit over there,” she said, motioning to the table farthest from the door.

Jerry did as she was told, and a few minutes later Mrs. Kresse returned, wheeling a book trolley containing a large cardboard archive box, its lid secured with parcel twine. The librarian placed it on the table and returned to her desk without comment.

Jerry stared at the box for a long moment. He felt like Pandora preparing to set free the imps. He could stop now, if he wanted to. There was still time for him to turn his back on the voodoo gods and their bag-lady oracle who had invaded his life and reclaim what was left of his sanity. He could leave the box untouched and walk out of the library a free man. It was that simple. He closed his eyes and tried to summon the will power to do the sensible thing, but all he could see was Charlie’s dead body, hanging by her ankles, split open from crotch to throat like a slaughtered pig.

Jerry’s eyes snapped open and he caught his breath in a short, sharp gasp. He felt dizzy and sick and more frightened than he had ever been before in his life. His hands shook as he untied the string and opened the box. He wrinkled his nose at the musty smell of old paper and began carefully arranging the contents before him.

Inside the archive box were a couple of old ledgers, what looked like a diary, a sheaf of yellowed documents held together by rusty paper clips, and a handful of antique clippings sealed in protective plastic sleeves. The most unusual item was an old locket opened to reveal a pair of miniature hand-drawn portraits.

The picture on the left hand side was that of a woman in her late twenties. Judging from her hairstyle and clothes, Jerry guessed the dated from around the Civil War. While the woman was not ugly, neither was she beautiful. At best she would have been considered ordinary, if not outright plain, although it was clear the portraitist had tried his best to show her in a flattering light. The opposing picture, however, was that of an astonishingly handsome dark-haired man. Yet, despite his dashing appearance, there was something about the cruel set of his mouth and the look in his eyes that Jerry found unsettling.

The documents sealed inside the plastic sleeves were public records of various kinds that predated the Civil War. There was a baptismal record for a Placide Henri Legendre, dated 1800, as well as one for a Donatien Alexander Legendre dated 1822. There were also death certificates for a Narcisse Alexander Legendre, dated 1815; Placide Legendre, dated 1843; and one for a Eugenie Legendre, dated 1859. There did not seem to be one for Donatien Legendre.

The marriage licenses spanned three generations, beginning with Narcisse Legendre, who had married an Adelaide Moreau in 1794, when he was sixty and his bride barely sixteen. The second marriage certificate was for Placide Legendre, aged twenty, and one Janelle Bocage, aged nineteen. The last license marked the marriage of Donatien Legendre, seventeen, to a Eugenie Sebastian, aged twenty-five.

A sheaf of loose-leaf paper, the yellowed pages covered in a feminine longhand, proved to be notes for what looked to be a biography of the Legendre family.

‘Early 1700s: The Legendre family emigrates from France to the colony of Haiti. Start sugar plantation 1725(?). Alphonse Legendre marries woman known only as Celeste. 1734: Narcisse born. Not much information on Narcisse’s early years, save that he meets and marries Imogene Turpin in 1754. Legendre plantation does well. Narcisse buys large parcel of land in Louisiana in what would become Redeemer Parish in 1770s. There is no record of Narcisse and Imogene having issue.

‘While visiting relatives at the Turpin Plantation, Imogene is killed in slave uprising that marked the beginning of the Haitian Revolution. Shortly thereafter Narcisse’s own plantation is burned to the ground. Narcisse, along with many other Haitian colonists, relocates to Louisiana in 1792. He meets and later marries his second wife, Adelaide Moreau, daughter of a wealthy cotton merchant, in 1794. In 1795 Narcisse commissions the building of Seraphine, the Legendre plantation house, in Redeemer Parish. It is five years before the Legendre family finally moves in for good.

‘Early 1800s: Seraphine is the largest and most elegant plantation house in Louisiana. Exotic marble and stained glass is shipped in from Europe. No expense is spared. However, Seraphine’s beauty comes at the expense of the slaves, who were worked until they died. Even in the Antebellum South, Legendre’s treatment of his human chattel was notorious. It is believed that the fictional character of Simon Legree in Uncle Tom’s Cabin was based, in part, on Narcisse Legendre. During the building of Seraphine, Narcisse spends most of his time at the site, while his bride Adelaide and son Placide remain in New Orleans. In early 1815 Narcisse Legendre dies of a stroke while climbing the grand staircase at Seraphine. He is eighty years old at the time of his death.’

Attached to the last page was a Xerox identified, in the same feminine scrawl, as being from Southern Discomfort: Ghost Stories of the Old South.

‘...as seen in the repeated image of the “Haunted Hitchhiker: and “Lavender Lace”. Another reoccurring folk myth is the ever-popular Swamp Creature. Perhaps the most colorful legends belong to the Louisiana’s Cajuns, who expertly combined their Western European superstitions with their New World surroundings. Along with a fondness for sauces and wine, the French speaking Cajuns retained their forefathers’ legends of the loup-garou, or werewolf. Bayou Goula is reputed to be the gathering place for all loup-garou and where they hold their monthly full-moon balls. Another Cajun swamp creature is the letiche; the soul of an unbaptised infant who haunts small children and is held responsible for mysterious crib deaths. In Terrebonne Parish, the folklore mentions mermaids with bodies of beautiful women and the heads of catfish, while the Tempter of Redeemer Parish is an evil spirit that lurks outside the shacks of the poor, waiting for someone—usually a child or young girl—to make the mistake of looking out the window. The Tempter then lures the hapless victim from the safety of their home and into the night, where they’re never heard from again. Similar assimilation of Old World folklore is especially common in areas settled by Irish, Welsh and Scots immigrants, with the will o’the wisp being the most common transplant between the cultures. The hill country of Kentucky is especially rich in...’

Jerry frowned and flipped the page over, but there was nothing else. What did these things have in common? They all mentioned Redeemer Parish, a small county located between the far larger and Plaquemines and St. Bernard, but that was about it.

He turned his attention to the old ledgers, bound in cracked green leather. As he picked up the first book in the stack, it fell open at a particular page. The smell of moldering paper made his nose itch. The pages were covered in a schooled hand, and although the ink had faded to pale lavender, it was still legible,

Curious, Jerry flipped to the front of the ledger and found the owner’s name and occupation on the flyleaf: Lucien Napier, Attorney-At-Law.

***

August 11, 1843:

I was called out to Seraphine on sad business today. My old friend and client, Placide Legendre, is dying from the same fever that took his wife, Janelle, not six weeks ago. Placide would have me arrange his affairs, as he is willing to admit the inevitability of his situation. He confided to me that he does not see death as so horrible a thing, as it will reunite him with his beloved. The one thing he regrets is that he will never see his grandchild. He was quite specific, despite his illness, as to what he wanted done with the family’s fortune. He has persuaded me to oversee the estate’s finances and serve as executor for a special trust created for any and all future grandchildren. His opinion of Donatien’s business acumen is low. I did not see Donatien while there, although the butler, Auguste, informs me the young master spends his time locked in Narcisse’s old study, drinking brandy and smoking cigars. Eugenie is quite distraught, as she is as close to Placide as a blood daughter. Dr. Drummond refuses to allow her to come anywhere near her father-in-law, however, for fear that she might contract the fever.’

***

August, 14, 1843:

I was called to Seraphine once again, this time to serve as a witness upon the signing of Placide’s death certificate. Donatien could not be bothered to emerge from his den for the occasion. He has long had a tendency towards callousness, but his recent behavior towards his father is unconscionable. It saddens me to admit such things, as I am the boy’s godfather. It was left to me to step in and console poor Eugenie instead of her husband. Dear Placide was as good and kind a man ever born, but I fear Donatien temperament is closer to that of his grandfather, God help us. Seraphine’s new master has much to learn. Let us hope he does not prove uneducable.’

***

January 5, 1844:

The most terrible thing happened today. I was seated in my study, going over some papers, when my houseboy, Puck, informed me that the Legendre’s butler was at the door. This concerned me, as I knew Auguste to be no simple messenger. The old boy was in quite a state, and I feared he might suffer a fit. He managed to inform me that there had been an accident at Seraphine involving Miz Eugenie. She fell down the stairs, triggering her labor. When I inquired why he was carrying the news instead of one of the cook’s boys, Auguste informed me that no one knew he was off the plantation.

‘Who is seeing to Miss Eugenie?’ I asked.

‘Mamma John, the chasse-femme. She is the one who helps the slaves birth their babies.’

I was aghast at this news and insisted that Auguste accompany Puck to Dr. Drummond’s. I hurried to Seraphine, expecting to find Donatien pacing the floor, awaiting news as to the fate of his wife and child, but he was nowhere to found. The little parlor maid, Ester, informed me that Master Donatien had left for New Orleans to celebrate Twelfth Night and the commencement of the Carnival season. I doubt Eugenie’s screams of agony—audible throughout the entire house—suited his taste. Not long after I arrived Dr. Drummond appeared, but Auguste was conspicuous by his absence.

When Drummond went to relieve Mamma John of her duties, the old midwife simply shook her head and said: ‘T’aint’ no good. She all broke-up inside. Don’t need to be no school doctor to see that.’

When Drummond finally left Eugenie’s room he was a horrible sight to behold, with his shirt and vest stained with blood. He cradled a pathetic bundle of bloody linen in his hands. ‘She’ll live, but any more children are out of the question. I've got her heavily sedated with laudanum.’

‘Laudanum? Is it safe?’ I gasped.

‘Queen Victoria swears by it.’

‘And the baby?’

‘It died in the womb. Her pelvis was so badly broken there was no way she could have delivered it, even if it had lived. I pray I got to her before childbed fever had a chance to set in. For all its worth, it would have been a boy.’ He handed what would have been Placide Legendre’s grandson to the stony-faced midwife. ‘See that the priest blesses it. And, for the love of God, don’t let Miz Eugenie see it.’

Drummond and I retired to my home, where we drank coffee and whiskey well into the night. It was then that I realized that I had not seen Auguste since I sent him to fetch the doctor. I had Puck awakened and quizzed the boy regarding Auguste’s whereabouts. Poor Puck burst into tears and confessed that he had promised Auguste not to tell anyone. Once I assured Puck I meant no harm, he told me that Auguste had run away. I was baffled. Why should Auguste run off? It’s not like he’s a field hand.

‘He said he were skeered, Master Lucien.’

‘Scared? Scared of what?’

‘The Master.’

‘Why should he be scared of Master Donatien? Auguste has known him since he was in diapers.’

‘He was skeered on account of what he seen.’

‘And what was that?’

Puck simply shrugged and shook his head. I thanked him for being honest with me and sent the boy back to bed. I’ve known Auguste since I myself was a youth. He served Placide for the better part of forty years. He is not the type to turn rabbit. As an officer of the court, I am duty-bound to report his escape to the authorities. And I would do so, without the slightest hesitation, if I did not feel that there is more to his desertion than meets the eye.

Jerry thumbed through the rest of the entries, most of which were dry accounts of petty lawsuits and notary functions in a small, rural parish. He closed the book and picked up the second volume, which, like the first, fell open to a certain passage.

***

May 25, 1850:

Went out to Seraphine today on business and spent some time with Eugenie. She seems to be doing better. Before his death last spring, Dr. Drummond claimed Eugenie was a laudanum addict. Not surprising, really, seeing how much pain that hip has given her over the years. The rise in Eugenie’s spirits seems to be caused by her maid, Jazrel. The girl is obedient and adores her mistress, and Eugenie seems to delight in her company as well, but I cannot help but feel that their attachment is an unhealthy one. If Donatien were a proper husband to his wife, Eugenie would not be forced to seek company amongst the darkies. Donatien never takes her with him on his trips to New Orleans, and Eugenie’s bad hip has made her a virtual prisoner of that rambling old house. It does not help matter that what little family she has are all in Mobile. I suspect that aside from visits from Father Jean-Luc, I am the only white company she receives.

***

July 22, 1851:

Donatien stopped by my offices today. He was in as foul a temper as I’ve ever seen him, which is saying something. He was waving a copy of The National Era, one of those wretched abolitionist newspapers, and ranting about libel. It seems The Era has been running a serialized antislavery fiction and that the villain of the piece bears a strong resemblance to Narcisse Legendre, Donatien’s late grandfather. The authoress, sister to that troublemaking Yankee preacher Beecher, has no doubt heard some third-or-fourth hand gossip and used it to her advantage.

After listening to Donatien carry on, I hastened to assure him that suing a publication like the Era would only be playing into their hands. Once the serialization is finished, it will be quickly forgotten. After all, it’s just a story. What harm can it possibly do? This seems to mollify him somewhat, and he left my offices in a slightly better mood.

Jerry flipped through the pages, scanning for further mention of the Legendre family, but found nothing of real interest. He picked up the third volume and let it fall open. He could tell a good deal of time had passed, as the attorney’s well-mannered penmanship showed the tell-tale tremble of advanced age.

***

September 19, 1859:

How can I begin? My hands still shake. Whether from grief or rage, I cannot say. Eugenie is dead. Father Jean-Luc officiated at the service, for none know the truth behind her demise save for a handful of loyal servants, Donatien and myself. I am certain Our Savior will forgive my sweet Eugenie her trespasses. It happened two days ago. I received a note from her, delivered by one of the cook’s myriad children. It was a sad and rambling letter, relating how Donatien, resentful of anything that might make her happy, had taken away her precious Jazrel and sold her to a sporting house in New Orleans. I was already well aware of Donatien’s perverse jealousy regarding her wife when the little lap dog I gave her disappeared without a trace years ago. But this was truly vicious behavior, even for Donatien. Unnerved by the tone of her letter, I hurried out to Seraphine, but I was too late. Eugenie had already consumed enough laudanum to kill a brace of mules. Donatien was nowhere to be found and did not even bother to put in an appearance at his own wife’s funeral. I am told he is in Kentucky, looking at horses.

***

October 9, 1859:

I promised myself I would have no more dealings with Donatien Legendre following the shameful treatment of his unhappy wife. Today he sought me out, as contrite and self-effacing as monk. It seems he has gotten himself in trouble, the kind that even a double handful of Legendre money stuffed in a judge’s pocket cannot fix. Donatien shot and killed a gambler while playing cards at a notorious whorehouse in New Orleans. That, in and of itself, would not be much to worry about, save that the victim was the nephew of a highly placed politician. After his repeatedly throwing his late father in my face, I caved in and agreed to help him. I recommended that he leave the country as soon as possible and that he sign power of attorney over the plantation and the Legendre business interests to me. He is leaving for France tonight. Whatever Europe holds for him, he could do no worse than he already has in his native land.

The rest of the ledger was filled with elaborate accountings of the Legendre finances spanning the years of the Civil War. It was evident from the bookkeeping that Napier had been successful in keeping Seraphine out of the hands of usurers and carpetbaggers. However, it was also clear that the war had a deleterious effect on the Legendre fortunes. Although Donatien was far from destitute, he was no longer the heir to vast wealth he had once been. Jerry opened the fourth book, curious as to see how things would turn out when the murderous profligate came home.

***

February 10, 1867:

Seraphine’s master has returned. I wish I could say I am glad to see my godson resume his place as the rightful head of the Legendre estate, but there is no percentage in lying to myself. Donatien’s self-imposed exile in Europe has not improved him; if anything, he is actually worse than before. I tried to explain to him the depredations done the Legendre monies by the recent misfortune, but he is unwilling to hear the truth. Instead of showing me any appreciation for the work I have done on his behalf, he chose to verbally abuse me. He was outraged that I have been paying the field hands. I told him that they are freemen now and must be paid if they are to work, but he refused to listen to me. As it is, there are barely enough hands on the place to keep Seraphine from returning to the swamp.

***

March 31, 1867:

Donatien continues to ignore my counsel regarding his diminished financial status. I have before me a sheaf of IOUs from various gambling houses, wine merchants and clothiers in New Orleans. After all the time I spent keeping Seraphine secure during the recent misfortune, it saddens me to see my godson so determined to throw it all away.

I fear Donatien’s cruel streak has finally blossomed into madness. Last week he set fire to the old slave shacks. Hired field hands occupied over half of the cabins. Luckily, no one was killed, but fifteen of the twenty-five sharecroppers working the place walked off. A neighbor who saw the fire from his house went out to investigate and claims to have seen Donatien running about stark naked, chasing the frightened workers and their families with a bullwhip. If this story gets out, it will be impossible to find anyone, colored or white, willing to work Seraphine.

***

June 26, 1867:

I am glad my friend Placide is already dead, for his son’s scandalous behavior would certainly kill him. I found it necessary to travel out to Seraphine today to get Donatien’s signature on some papers. When I arrived, I found myself in the middle of something out of Petronius. Gamblers, whores, carpetbaggers, pimps, white trash and worse filled the grand rooms that once hosted the most elegant and refined Creole families. The sound of their bestial merrymaking was everywhere, with the women screaming like cats in heat while the men guffawed and fired their pistols into the ceiling.

Donatien was holding court in the old dining room. Two men were sharing a woman in plain sight of the other guests, while a pair of sodomites manipulated one another in a most lewd and disgusting display. In the middle of the table stood a naked whore who was performing the infamous oyster dance, while those in attendance accompanied her obscene movements by clapping their hands and stomping their feet.

Although debauchery and perversion rioted and roared about him like a whirlwind, Donatien looked profoundly bored. Disgusted and appalled by the depth to which my godson had sunk, I left Seraphine determined to abandon him to the fate he so richly deserves.

***

January 18, 1868:

I have received the first news of Donatien in nearly a year. While I remain firm in my decision to no longer aid him, I cannot help but feel some concern for his welfare. I am an old man and closer to God’s kingdom with each passing day, and I wonder if there was not something more I could have done when he was a lad that might have saved him from this life of sin and degradation. After all, I was the boy’s godfather and, thus, nominally responsible for his moral and religious education. Perhaps if Placide had not elected to send the boy to France, or if he had not insisted on Donatien marrying Eugenie so young, things would have turned out differently. Then again, perhaps not, for I fear the key that locked Donatien’s heart was turned at birth. Narcisse Legendre’s cruelty and madness has found new life in the grandson he never knew.

It seems Donatien’s motley retinue abandoned him once he proved no longer capable of financing their weeklong orgies. In the months since I last saw him, Donatien has discovered the hard truth concerning his circumstances. While the Legendre name is still influential in certain circles, it can no longer command instant credit. His creditors are busy dismantling what little is left of his inheritance. It is rumored that Donatien has sold every stick of furniture in Seraphine, save for the contents of his grandfather’s study on the second floor.

The vast Legendre holdings have been carved up like winter calves. If he is lucky, Donatien will be able to keep the house itself from the moneylenders and brothel-keepers. To think I have lived to see the Legendre name reduced to such shameful circumstances.

The next page the book opened to was covered in a rushed, spiky hand, with numerous cross-outs and blots of ink in the margins. Over the course of reading Napier’s journal entries, Jerry had developed a mental picture of the lawyer as a soft-spoken, orderly bachelor, with a keen sense of pride in his work. For some reason, the sight of such uncharacteristic sloppiness unnerved him.

***

May 12, 1868:

This will be my last entry in this journal. As of midnight tonight I hope to be a on a train headed west. I will not be coming back to Redeemer Parish. I have lived my life in Louisiana, and I do not pretend that so dramatic a change at my age will be easy. I do not leave my home out of bitterness or with hopes of building a new and better life elsewhere. I am too old for such romantic claptrap; I am leaving because I fear for my life...and my immortal soul.

I came across some papers yesterday that escaped my notice when I ended my business relationship with Donatien Legendre last year. I decided to ride out to Seraphine on my own, to see for myself if the rumors concerning the mansion’s decline were true. I also hoped that perhaps this experience might have humbled and humanized Donatien somewhat. I was of the mind that if my godson showed any sign of remorse, I would volunteer my help and make sure that Placide’s only child would, at least, not go naked or hungry.

Due to complications at my office, it was nearly dusk by the time I reached Seraphine. Although the light was bad, it was easy to see, even with these old, tired eyes, that the tales of the plantation’s neglect were painfully accurate. The gardens, once Janelle’s pride and joy, are now overgrown, the rosebushes reverting to their wild state and threatening to turn the front yard into a briar patch; the creeping vines are busy reclaiming the south wing of the mansion, and all the windows have been shuttered.

The beveled glass that decorates the front door was thick with grime, but I could still see the grandly curving staircase that leads from the foyer to the second floor—the very same staircase Narcisse Legendre died upon, long decades ago. My knocks echoed through the house, but no one answered.

I made my way towards the servant’s entrance at the back of the house. The garden that once provided the family with fresh vegetables now smells of things rotting on the vine. The kitchen door squealed as I opened it, its jamb warped just enough to keep it from shutting properly. I called out Donatien’s name, but there was no answer. As I entered the kitchen, I could not help but notice the thick layer of dust that covered the cabinets and counter tops. There was a butcher knife with a rusty blade lying in the sink, but nothing else in sight, not even a chipped tea cup.

I have visited Seraphine on a hundred different occasions, but this was the first time I ever felt like an intruder. Stripped of its familiar furnishings, it seemed as alien and forbidding to me as the surface of the moon. I moved down the narrow serving passage that connected the kitchen to the dining hall, doing my best not to choke on the dust. The room where once I dined on fine china with Placide and his family was now barren, but there was still enough light leaking in through the shutters for me to see the pentagram scrawled in chalk on the bare boards, its points anchored by black candles. I turned and fled back in the direction of the kitchen. Once there, I paused to catch my breath. It was only then that I became aware of the smell emanating from the pantry...and the steady drone of flies.

As I reached for the pantry door’s white enamel knob, the sound of the flies grew so loud it made my head ache. I am afraid my courage failed me at that point and I fled that horrible place as fast I as could. On the way home I found myself thinking about how Alcide Rigaud’s boy, Theo, had disappeared without a trace last week. I do not know why such thoughts should haunt me so.

My boy Puck is long since gone, and I have no one to share the house with now. It wasn’t until I arrived home that I realized I had left the papers I had meant to deliver sitting on the counter in the kitchen at Seraphine, a next to what I had assumed was a rusty knife. I shuttered the windows, both upstairs and down, and spent the rest of the night locked in my study, saying my rosary and drinking my cellar dry. I dared not sleep, and kept my pistol loaded and within reach.

Shortly after the grandfather clock in the hallway tolled midnight, I heard something scratching at the shutters. I was so frightened I thought my heart would stop beating. After a few seconds the scratching stopped, only to resume again at another, secured window. At one point I thought I heard footsteps on the roof and there was a tiny spill of displaced soot in the fireplace before me. Luckily, the chimney of my home is so narrow it can barely accommodate a sweeper’s broom, much less a grown man. The horrid scraping, scrambling, scratching and rattling went on until the very break of day, when it finally halted altogether.

Mustering my courage, I unlocked my front door and stepped out onto my front porch, gun in hand. The sight of the deep gouges in the wood of the shutters, as well as my front and back doors, was enough to make me swoon. It was then I decided what I must do.

I have yet to sleep, and do not plan to do so until I am safely away from Redeemer Parish. I admit that the thought of death is frightening to me. I do not doubt that he will try to visit me again tonight, but I shall be gone come the dusk, and by the next morning I hope to be even further away. When I make my final destination, I will send a letter to the authorities detailing what I saw. No doubt they will think me a coward or a senile fool. Perhaps the Good Lord, in His infinite wisdom and mercy, will be able to forgive the madness that drove my godson to such evil. And I pray that He will forgive me as well.