Blake left to take care of his mysterious errands and Dixie stood at the door grinning as he walked away through the courtyard. She loved the way his low-flung jeans clung to his thighs, how his t-shirt was too tight across his chest and shoulders, but most of all she loved how he showed up every day.
Dixie had no intentions of waiting for him to explore the history of the place. She’d seen some books in the attic, and at the least, she wanted to see if there was any other information in the house. She strolled into the kitchen and grabbed a notebook she’d stashed in the drawer beneath the coffee maker. Before heading upstairs, she opened it to a new page and wrote down what she knew.
Bindi worked for Holland Aucoin.
House was a brothel.
Holland abusive/but loved her.
Bindi left money outside to pay off politicians.
Holland showered her with expensive gifts.
Bindi handled things for him — but wasn’t a working girl.
Those were the only things she knew for sure. She made another list of “occurrences” in the house.
Sounds of knocking and dragging.
Whispered female voice.
GET OUT on mirror.
Was touched in the attic.
Dragged across the living room floor.
She’d always felt better when she’d written things down and put them in order. Besides, when Blake interrogated her, she’d have a reminder. Having put everything in the proper place in her brain, she started up the stairs.
She’d grabbed the key from the brass key rack in the kitchen before she started for the attic. When she reached the landing, she had a view of the attic door and the ten stairs leading to it. The door was too small for its opening, possibly having shrunk in the weather over the years. Beams of light created by the one dormer window shot through the cracks around it. She gasped. Had this been Bindi’s room? It would have made sense for her to be separated from the other girls. This room was the source of all the activity in the house. She shook her head and jotted the idea in her notebook.
Her feet moved without haste up the stairs. Part of her feared she’d awaken whatever lived in the room. She pressed her palm to the door and then her ear. There was no dragging or banging, so she cracked the door, took a deep breath, and went inside.
There was nothing frightening about the room except the drop cloths on the furniture. Piece by piece, Dixie uncovered them. Judging by the extravagant furnishings, no doubt left from Bindi’s days there, Holland had spent a fortune trying to win her over.
The vanity top was porcelain and the wood mahogany. An exquisite oriental screen hid a stack of boxes. After one look at the beautiful screen, Dixie thought of a place for it in the foyer. An armoire made of some exotic wood she wasn’t familiar with filled the back corner of the room.
Dixie pulled the doors open, exposing more deliciously colored dresses like the one she’d found in the trunk. In the bottom of the closet was a pile of magazine-like books. Each one was from a different year bearing the title Stories from the Brothels and Bordellos of New Orleans, Louisiana.
She sat on a velvet footstool near the papers and pulled the top one into her lap. Dixie flipped through the pages until she saw a picture of her home. The section was separated from the rest of the magazine by a crimson piece of tissue paper. On the first page was a picture of an elderly woman and a man. Dixie took a closer look. She was sure it was Holland.
He wore the same type of waistcoat and top hat as in the other photos. The only difference in his attire was a cravat wrapped around his collar and tied at his throat. The lady was a robust woman, dressed in a plain white dress and apron. Above the picture in large letters the headline read, “Holland House Bordello Ran by the Infamous House Mother, Ms. Millie Watts”
Dixie turned the page and realized the premise of the book. It was an advertisement of sorts. The pages were filled with interviews from the girls who lived in the houses, along with their short stories and poetry.
Sometimes they’re only children,
Fresh of face and deed.
They’re imprisoned by the angry one,
Fulfilling each man’s need.
To hear their talk, all things are good,
They say they’re treated well.
But the truth is something darker
And dreams of privilege have become their jail.
I wish I’d never seen these things.
Perhaps if I’d been born in another land,
I’d live above what I’ve seen.
Yes, my life would surely then be grand.
Bindi Lanoux
Below the poem, was a segment about the girl who’d written it.
Bindi Lanoux handles Mr. Aucoin’s books. He took her in at fifteen, and she has lived at The Holland House since. Because Bindi was a minor when she came to the house, Ms. Millie was appointed her Guardian.
Dixie wondered why no one had been outraged by a child living in a brothel, but the kind of folks who read the magazine and frequented bordellos weren’t the type to be concerned with a girl’s age. She also considered that the girl had, without doubt, been berated over the poem she’d submitted to the magazine.
She was lost in thought about these things when the room grew cold, and she heard the trill of nervous laughter. Dixie stood. Her gaze hopped around the room from wall to crevice to corner. When her eyes wandered to the alcove near the door, she froze. The lovely young girl stood… or maybe stood wasn’t the word, since she had no discernable feet or legs. Her white shift grazed the floor and her corset was tied tight to accentuate her ample bosom.
The apparition’s skin was olive but somehow transparent too. Bindi’s hair was just as Dixie had seen it in pictures; long and dark, falling in soft curls across her shoulders. Dixie gripped the hem of her shorts, feeling she should hold on to something. The girl seemed to drift across the room until she reached the brick fireplace on the wall where her vanity sat. Glancing over her shoulder at Dixie, the girl wiped at the tears that flowed in streams down her cheeks.
The woman-child had moved like graceful fluid up until this point. In a burst of energy, she began to pound with clenched fists on the brick wall. Her head moved several times as though she wanted to make sure Dixie was still with her.
Dixie hadn’t moved. Terror glued her feet to the panels beneath her. In fact, she barely breathed, even when Bindi shrieked as she drove her hands into the wall over and over. Despite the disturbing sight, she didn’t feel in harm’s way until the girl stopped banging and whispered, “Go. Go now. He’s coming.”
Dixie didn’t wait around to see if the girl’s warning was true. She commanded her legs to move and headed for the door. Once again, the clutter in the attic hindered her progress. Her foot caught on the footstool, and she fell on her hands and knees.
The air in the room became heavy, making breathing a chore. As she struggled to get her lungs to function, she looked over at the fireplace and Bindi was gone. At that second, an unseen hand grabbed the back of her neck and pushed her face toward the floor.
She recognized the bony grip. Her nosy presence in Bindi’s room had set Holland off again, and Dixie watched in horror as the ghost drew letters in the dust beneath her face.
DON’T COME BACK
He released his hold. Dixie jumped up, stumbled forward toward the door, and flew down the stairs. Her legs and arms burned, but she was relieved to be away from the angry entity.