Parts 1 - 4
“The city smells like liquor.” Mary said. Still stationed in Guam, she hadn’t seen Joe in six years. Joe still didn’t have the heart to tell her their abusive father, Peter, had returned from the grave and attempted to torture – and kill? – he and Sam a few months back. Joe had fading scars on his legs and arms, puffed up lines of skin where the wet towel had lashed and lashed. He was on his cell phone waiting for his luggage to come shooting down the conveyer belt onto the circling metal platform. Sam was beside him, absent-mindedly fiddling with a new Nordic rune he wore around his neck. He had explained it provided protection. On the simple square of quartz stone was a symbol in the shape of a lower-case N. Traveling to New Orleans had given him a strong case of the spiritual shivers. It was an old city, full of warmth, greenery and most importantly magic, some of it white magic surely, but a lot of it was black magic, the kind of energy that is old, wet and rotting. This type of magic is willing to pull you down and under its suffocating bog stench; much too like the swamps that surround the city … so much growth but with it came so much decay.
“Well, right now, all I smell is people who have been on airplanes too long. A shot of whiskey sounds pretty nice right about now, however.” Joe said softly laughing. Mary laughed also.
The past months had been a lesson in abject weirdness. For Joe, it had been certainly eye opening. He had never believed in the supernatural, and while he would never have dismissed Sam’s claims to the contrary – at least not to his face – he had been convinced. If not for Peter’s demonic invasion of their home, then perhaps being stabbed in the gut during a riot, only later to adopt a little girl named Violet while recovering in the hospital. Did he mention she was a dead little girl? Murdered by her abusive father? There seems to be a pattern forming here, Joe thought, disconnecting the line with Mary, assuring her they were looking forward to her visit next month. He was unsure how he would explain Violet. The little one did do a good job of remaining invisible, understanding through some ghostly intuition the need to remain invisible to those outside of their family. She had “teleported” to the airport, telling her new fathers that airplane travel was unnecessary for the dead. Joe sensed her near by … ah, yes, he could now make out her small frame, the purple of her Sunday dress and a hint of her raven black hair.
“There purpose of this trip is simple. We have our room at the Maison Dupuy in the French Quarter for the next three nights. I will contact Sylvia’s spirit guide at the voodoo shop and obtain the doll. It should be simple enough to destroy it after that … my sage and runes are in my backpack somewhere.” Sam said as he began to rummage through his stuffed pack. Joe nodded and spotted his luggage. There was little time for sightseeing. Neither of them had been to New Orleans, and with their new business now only two weeks old, this first case seemed a bit much to take on. The doll had to be destroyed quickly or Sylvia would be dead in three days time. She had warned before hiring them as paranormal investigators – their business’ primary function – that the voodoo doll was cursed and would not be willing to be dispatched easily. Joe found Sam’s use of the word “simple” amusing and a trifle alarming. Sam’s blind optimism, while charming, could get them in trouble.
“Don’t worry about the runes quite yet.” Violet whispered at Sam’s side. “Joe-Dad needs you to be more serious about this job.”
Mind reading again, Joe thought. Spirits it seems have many tricks. Get out of my head, Violet, Joe thought and sent her a picture of a big cartoon smile. He heard her giggle in the back of his mind. It tickled, like a mouse’s paw.
Joe picked up her bag, undid the handle pulling it up and out, and began his way to the airport exit. Sam, still trudging in his pack, Violet at his side – invisible to all but them – followed. The sun outside was heavy, as was the cloying moisture in the scented air. And wouldn’t you know it? It did smell like liquor, dark spiced rum. It was invigorating and delicious.
Sylvia Red was a large woman. That’s not to say she didn’t possess beauty or that beauty is about being svelte. It isn’t. No, it was more her persona that made her ugly. She’d shuffled into their apartment one week prior to their arrival in New Orleans. Their business was only a week old. Advertisements had gone out online with a focus on splashing their telephone number and business name – Phoenix Paranormal Investigators – onto websites that dealt in the strange and macabre. She was their first call and their first client. Having her come into their home gave Joe second thoughts about the whole endeavor. He thought: If this is the type of person we’re going to attract, I think I’ll pack it in and go back to bed.
She smelled. That’s what truly made her ugly. The smell of sweat and incense surrounded her like a thick balm. Sam noticed she wore a small satchel around her neck. It was the source of the incense smell. It was an odd mixture of lavender and cannabis.
“Look, assholes, I don’t care what you think of me, I need your help. Do you deal in the paranormal or not? I have exactly …” She played at looking at an imaginary watch. “… no time to deal with amateur bullshit.”
“Please have a seat and tell us how we may help.” Sam said putting on a cherubic smile. It usually disarmed the harshest of critics. Sylvia moved to the couch, her weight flattening the cushions until they almost disappeared beneath her bulk. Joe thought, cringing: She’s going to sweat the cushion through.
Sylvia stared at Joe, as if reading his less-than-polite thought, and began her story: “I’m a collector. I scavenge art stores, shops of the occult, you name it, be it online or in person, if it’s a rare mystical object, I buy it.”
“And what do you do with these rare objects?” Joe asked.
“What do you think I do with them? I use them on my enemies, and people who think less of me than they should.” She replied, her eyes narrowing into slits in her round face. Her hair was a matted clump, dark brown and short. The strands hung limply to her scalp. Her dress was black with ribbons of red stitching that made zigzag patterns like lightening strikes. Resting on her ample breasts was the satchel. Sam had recognized it immediately as a protection charm. Sweat stains circled her armpits. The salt deposits leaving a ring of white. “So I purchased a voodoo doll online. The auction labeled it has an extremely rare item. It supposedly belonged to Madame St. Claire.”
Sam gasped, his hand rising to his mouth in surprise. “That’s a very rare item indeed.” Joe looked perplexed. His eyes going from Sam to Sylvia and then back again.
“Your partner here needs to brush up on his history. Madame St. Claire was a voodoo priestess in the early 19th century. She used whatever means possible to free slaves in Louisiana, creating a cult of sorts, hidden away in the bayou. Her free city totaled over three hundred souls from what I can tell in the historical records. It was eventually discovered by angry slave owners, and they supposedly murdered Madame St. Claire, but not before re-enslaving those they could catch. They apparently cut off Madame’s head and limbs and buried them in dark, dank, nearly unreachable parts of the bayou, trying to prevent her from rising from the grave. They took this voodoo doll from her, something she had carried with her at all times. Supposedly, this doll has cursed the family lines of these slave owner families for over two centuries now. Whoever takes possession of the doll will typically meet an accident from which they don’t recover in fourteen days. Can’t say they didn’t have it coming, but I understand the temptation to hold onto power. It’s really the most precious commodity on Earth. It’s where all value stems from.” Sylvia said as she her brow with her hand. Joe watched her take the moisture and rub onto the cushion next to her.
“So, why did you purchase the damn thing?” Joe asked, truly perplexed that someone would want such a grisly piece of the arcane.
With unhidden contempt, she replied: “Because it has power, you shit! While I believe in the mystical, I often doubt such exaggerated tales. I figured I could use its historical power. Something so old and used in such a spiritual fashion would have raw energy that I could manipulate, turning it into a fine weapon. But as soon as I won my bid – placed online by some old shop owner in the heart of the French Quarter - the number fourteen started appearing everywhere I looked. I dropped a book I was reading and there it lay on the floor, turned to page fourteen. I ordered Chinese and behold, fourteen steaming orange flavored shrimp. You get the idea. The curse transferred to me as soon as I purchased the damned thing. The reason I’ve come to you is that as each day passes the number changes. All day today I have seen the number ten appear. My car’s clock is currently stuck at 10:10 am. Tomorrow it will undoubtedly be 9:09. I am desperate to be rid of it.”
“Do you honestly believe that we would buy this thing from you?” Joe asked.
“No, you fool, of course not. But you can retrieve it and bring it back to me, so we can destroy the curse. While you are without magic, your partner here is shining with it. The golden kind of magic … I saw it emanating from your ads. While I have no use for golden magic, you can safely pick the doll up for me and bring it back to Phoenix. I’ve discovered a ritual we can use to rid it of the curse.”
“Sam, this sounds far too risky. I’m sorry, Miss Red but we are unable to help you.” Joe said standing up and moving to the door.
“Hold on, Joe. She needs our help, regardless of her darker impulses.” Sam replied, moving over to Joe and placing his hand on his lower back.
“See? He can’t help but help. Bless the golden magic,” Sylvia replied, chuckling. Her hand found the incense satchel and she began to rub it. “I have purchased plane tickets for you both. It leaves in seven days. It’s the soonest – cheapest – I could get you out to the Quarter. Your daughter, Violet I believe she is called, can teleport there. I called this nasty old shopkeeper and told him to send the doll to my spirit guide who lives off Toulane and Bourbon. You will go there and retrieve it. He’s holding it now and is definitely eager to be rid of it.”
“That doesn’t make sense, why not ship it directly here?” Joe asked moving away from Sam’s soft touch.
“Because of your partner, your Sam … he can bide me time. I have to gather the necessary materials for the dispatching ritual. I can’t do that in ten days.”
“This is ridiculous. We won’t do it.” Joe said, now visibly angry.
“Ah, but you have no choice. I lie, you see. Do the math. Your ads online came up a week ago. I purchased the doll four days ago. Sorry, we purchased the doll four days ago. I’ve been dealing in the arcane for years now. While some tales of cursed objects are just that – tales – some are rich in fact. I couldn’t buy the doll without getting some needed insurance, now could I? When I bought the doll, I did so in our three names … Sylvia Red, and Joe and Sam East.” Sylvia said this standing up and moving towards the apartment door.
“How do you know so much about us?” Sam asked, afraid now. “We haven’t seen numbers counting down.”
“You don’t fuck with dark magic, Mr. East.” She replied, opening the front door, allowing a batch of cool, fresh smelling air to invade the living room. “And why would you see numbers? I used my name first, didn’t I? Joe, you will be next. We work together or we all die.”
She reached into her dress pocket and pulled out the plane tickets and a purchase order for the doll. It had their names listed on it. Sam took them with a trembling hand.
“Why do this?” Sam asked. Joe was in stunned silence, filling with rage.
“Because I want power, and you, well, Simple Sam … you help people get what they need. Now, be good boys and fetch me my doll.” Sylvia shut the door, sealing off the sunlight, leaving them in gloomy afternoon darkness. Her scent of sweat and incense would not leave their home for sometime.
“No, down a bit … wait, almost got it. Up a bit more … there! Push in.” Joe said and Sam did. The entry while at first clumsy became quickly flawless. The awkwardness of the struggle to form a union collapsed into a flushed rhythm. Sam normally received … penis size dictating the position, but tonight, in the humid heat of the French Quarter, Joe felt sexy and vulnerable, wanting to surrender to the spice in the air, the gas torches flickering as their wavering light touched their faces like rough fingertips as they strolled that first evening, and even the stink of evaporating liquor spilled with wild abandon on Bourbon Street filled his swollen senses with joy.
It felt good to have someone inside him. It felt immortal, as though he and his lover shared the same skin. While Sam thrust, he felt as though he’d become the primary component to the building of the universe. Energy! Desire! Deep, full-bodied desire … it thrust upwards to his core, and it spread him wide revealing brilliant flashes of color as he closed his eyes. He saw shapes. Diamonds sparkling. Emeralds. Rubies. Ah, yes … rubies. Their red sharpness – the sliver and shiver of the minutest edge – matched the shape and feel of Sam. Each push and pull was a flash of red and then blue and as Sam began to quicken it turned to yellow and then white … white … white … bright brilliant pure fucking white!
And then it was over. Sam was leaving him, leaving this void behind. Joe lamented its loss. He never felt quite as complete when sex was over. As though something elemental was briefly grasped and then lost. It was a small death.
Sam kissed Joe on the lips. Joe looked at him, knowing he would get up soon. He stared, soaking his cherubic face in. He saw the eyes, deeply set, masculine and kind. Joe reached up and touched the curls showering his head. Their blond highlights sparkled in the lamplight crawling in through the hotel window. It felt good to feel his semen, still warm, leaking from him. They smiled at each other and the world swirled back into focus. They were in their room at the Maison Dupuis. It was nearing eight at night. The voodoo doll still needed to be obtained and destroyed lest they die.
“All right, slugger. Into the shower we go.” Joe said, slipping out from under Sam.
“I was just getting ready for seconds.” Sam replied. “We may die soon after all and that … tender embrace needs re-embracing.”
“Too sore and besides we need to meet the Priest in a couple of hours remember?” Joe said walking to the modest bathroom. He flicked the switch and the bathroom light came blazing on. It hurt his eyes.
And then she was behind him: “Dad, why are you naked?”
Violet, their spirit daughter was behind him in the short hallway. Her translucent figure couldn’t hide the curiosity in her eyes. Joe blanched and then looked to Sam who quickly pulled a sheet over his private self.
“Your dads were expressing love for their physical lives, sweetheart.”
“Oh …” She said and giggled innocently. She covered her mouth while doing so. Joe refused to cover up, however. An abusive man had robbed his daughter of her body, and her wonder at his body was natural. The energy she shaped herself with only modeled what she saw. It was not atoms but liquid plasma formed by awareness, by intelligence brought on by millions of years of evolution. Or so Sam said and without another theory, Joe believed him.
“So, what is Sylvia up to?” Joe said turning on the shower. He could hear Sam turn on the television. And Violet, at times their tiny snoop, spilled her adventure.Violet stood outside of Sylvia Red's dingy one bedroom apartment for some time. She didn't like the place ... by sight - it was old and rundown - but also by feel. She didn't always see other spirits around her. They learn to cloak themselves in time, but she could feel them. A void where normal energy flows. She no longer wore skin so cold isn't the correct description ... it was more as though she connected with their energy, a shared food source that lived in the spaces between atoms. Coalesced waves of dark matter, perhaps.
Standing there for what seemed ages, she gathered the courage to slowly enter the apartment. Sam, her new alive father, had warned her of Sylvia's angry nature and of her psychic abilities. This scared her most of all ... the ability to detect her. Sam told her about the voodoo and spirit traps. She wasn't entirely sure what a spirit trap consisted of but she imagined it terribly unpleasant.
Still imagining she wore the purple dress she was buried in, Violet walked across the dry caked ground and slipped inside Sylvia Red's abode ... and the first spirit trap caught her instantly.
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