Conjure Man - a short story

Mama Mulate is a recurring character in my French Quarter Mystery Series. She holds a Ph.D. in English literature from the University of South Carolina. She is now an English professor at Tulane University in New Orleans and a practicing voodoo mambo. In Conjure Man, we learn Mama has a grown daughter. The story begins when she has a drink at Pascal Manales during an approaching hurricane. Though Cray, the bartender, is much younger than Mama, she is powerfully attracted to him. In one of the French Quarter Mysteries (I am trying to remember which one), she meets Cray again and learns he is madly in love with her daughter. Trey and Mama's daughter eventually marry and have Mama's grandchild. In Conjure Man, Mama learns there are others with extraordinary powers. Some even greater than hers.

Conjure Man

 Mama Mulate had a horrible migraine. She thought about going straight home from work, but it was Monday. A creature of habit, she always went to Pascale’s for oysters and beer after work on Mondays. Despite her migraine and the persistent rain drumming on her windshield, she was ready for a break. Besides, one of her favorite ex-students shucked oysters in the bar.

Mama swallowed three aspirins and quickly found a spot in the empty parking lot, hoping no one would ding her fully restored 1960 Bugeye Sprite while eating. Cray Toussaint greeted her when she entered the restaurant.

“Professor Mulate, I didn’t think you’d make it tonight. The place is almost empty because of the hurricane heading our way.”

“You think I’d let a little rainstorm cause me to miss hearing some of the best new poetry in New Orleans? Not on your life!” Mama sat at the oyster bar and gazed around the largely empty room. "You’re right. I don’t recall seeing the place this dead.”

“All the tourists have left town and gone to Memphis or someplace safe. There’s just a skeleton crew here to care for the regulars.”

“Does that make me the only regular?”

Cray Toussaint grinned as he polished a beer mug. “There are several diners in the main part of the restaurant. Sarah’s working the tables, and Danno is cooking. I suspect we’ll get busier as the night draws on. What can I get for you?”

“Two dozen freshly shucked oysters and an ice-cold Dixie.”

Cray poured the local brew from the tap behind the bar. Before he handed the chilled mug to Mama Mulate, he shucked a single oyster and dropped the tasty mollusk into a vodka-filled shot glass.

“The oyster shooter’s on me. You look like you need it. Hard day?”

“Not if you like grading essays from eighteen freshmen nincompoops.”

“Haven’t heard that word in a while,” Cray said as he began shucking Mama’s oysters.

Realizing she’d probably just dated herself, Mama killed the oyster shooter. ”Better give me another one of those. And one for yourself—on my tab this time.”

“Why not,” Cray said. “Guess I can make my own rules tonight.”

“You bet you can,” Mama said. “That shot was what I needed. My head’s feeling better already.”

“I’d have thought an authentic voodoo mambo would have a powerful potion to handle a little headache. Or maybe a strong gris gris.”

Mama grinned.” Vodka and aspirin are hard to beat.”

By ten, Mama and Cray had polished off three dozen oysters, half a dozen oyster shooters, and a gallon or so of Dixie Beer. A strong wind blew up from the Gulf as they held hands and stared into each other’s eyes.

“Your last poem was superb,” Mama said.

“When can I come home with you?”

Mama was almost taken aback by Cray’s boldness. “I don’t date my students.”

“I dropped out two semesters ago.”

“Maybe so, but you’re not much older than my daughter.”

“I didn’t know you had a daughter. Is she here in New Orleans?”

Mama sipped her beer before answering. “I confess I don’t know where she is. We had a falling out and haven’t spoken in six months.”

Talk about Mama’s errant daughter brought a chill to the conversation. It was accompanied by a clap of thunder, a gust of wind, and rain pounding the windows and front door. Cray took the opportunity to change the subject.

“Nasty weather out there. Maybe I should take you home to ensure you make it okay.”

“And then what?”

“Have a nightcap or two while we wait for the storm to pass?”

“You are cute, but we need to get to know each other better.”

“I’ve known you three years, and we held hands just a minute ago. Do you always hold hands with people you don’t like?”

“I like you a lot, but I need to think about this awhile. And no buts, understand?”

Despite Cray’s continued protests, Mama finished her beer and left the restaurant, driving alone to her old two-story house. She found a late model Land Rover parked in the driveway, a somber couple waiting in the front seat. This, in itself, wasn’t unusual. As a voodoo mambo, Mama administered to the needy masses at almost any hour, but this couple was white. They followed Mama through the rain to the screened front porch.

“I’m John McGinty, and this is my wife Susan. I know it’s late, but we really need your help,” the man said as Mama pushed the creaky screen door shut with her shoulder.

John and Susan were an attractive, middle-aged couple—a financially successful couple from the looks of their expensive Land Rover parked in Mama’s driveway.

Despite the beer and oyster shooters she’d consumed, Mama Mulate was rarely affected by alcohol.” It is late,” she said. ”Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

Mama’s words caused Susan McGinty to start crying, and she hugged her husband tightly.”It’s our son. We don’t know where he is.”

“Have you called the police?”

“It’s not that simple,” the man explained.” We need information, and we were told you could help.”

“I’m a practitioner of the Vodoun religion. What you probably call voodoo. I’m a mambo or priestess, but I’m not psychic. What you need is a seer.”

Susan McGinty stopped crying for the first time. “You know such a person?”

“Yes,” Mama said. ”A man is old as time itself. His name is Zekiel. Those who know him call him the Conjure Man. He can tell you where your son is.”

“How can we find him?”

“You can’t,” Mama said.

“We’ll pay your fee if you’ll take us,” John McGinty said. ”And whatever the Conjure Man charges.”

In the tradition of Marie Laveau and other famous New Orleans voodoo practitioners, Mama subsidized her Tulane English professor salary by accepting money for her voodoo spells and potions. Knowing the amount would be sufficient without looking, she took McGinty’s check and stowed it in her kitchen teapot. She returned carrying a large bottle of rum.

“Zekiel doesn’t take money, though he does enjoy his alcohol. Let’s go before the storm grows worse.”

New Orleans is below sea level, the streets beginning to flood as Mama and the McGinty’s leave the house. The sky was black, and a robust and persistent wind blowing up from the Gulf. They headed out of town toward Gonzales, accompanied by no other cars and only a few large trucks on the highway. An hour passed before Mama spoke.

“Slow down. The bridge over the canal is hard to see, even in broad daylight.”

John McGinty steered the Land Rover onto a dirt road barely visible from the highway and crossed the raging canal on a wooden bridge. The road led through a desolate area that could only be described as a swamp. The City’s storm overflow area was where water was diverted when flooding occurred. McGinty followed the dirt road for two miles until Mama spoke again.

“Turn here. Zekiel has a shack on a little hill in the woods.”

They found the shack around an abrupt bend. An old black man sat in a rocking chair on its rickety front porch and made no attempt to rise as they parked the Land Rover. A lop-eared hound lay at his feet. He also had a black cat with a long tail that looped like a question mark over its back. The old man finally pulled himself up from the rocker and crossed the porch with the help of a cane. He was stooped with age and had no meat on his little body. Just ropy sinew, tendons, and furrowed skin stretched tightly over ancient bone.

“Didn’t know if you’d make it tonight with the weather and all.”

The McGintys exchanged dubious glances, wondering if they’d wasted their time and money. “You knew we were coming?” John McGinty asked.

The old man chuckled. “Old Zekiel knows just about everything. Come inside, out of the storm.”

Zekiel's accent was straight from the bayous of south Louisiana but imprinted softly with a hillbilly twang. Despite his apparent age, his voice was deep and clear, as were his anomalous blue eyes. Mama and the McGinty’s followed him into the ramshackle structure. Big trucks passing on the highway melded with wind whistling through pine boughs, strengthening the feeling of desolation. It was more than just a feeling. The black cat rushed between Mama’s feet, slipping through the screen door before she could close it.

“Watch out for Pancho,” Zekiel said. ”He’ll trip you if you aren’t careful. And the hound is Baxter. He doesn’t say much except when the moon is full.”

As if acknowledging their names, Baxter barked, and the black cat named Pancho rubbed against the old man’s legs. The shack was small and dark inside, and weathered cardboard papered its thin walls. A flowered curtain suspended from a wire quartered the single room. An old army green cot marked the spot where Zekiel slept. There was no indoor plumbing.

A table of stained oak occupied the center of the room. A coal oil lantern glowed on the table, lighting the shack’s cave-like darkness with a flickering flame. Scattered papers, various gemstones, and what looked like an antique microscope lay on the table. Boxes of old newspapers and magazines littered the floor, and multiple bottles containing who-knows-what lined the walls with homemade shelves. Boxes and crates scattered about the room were the only places to sit down.

Zekiel ambled over to a squatty icebox in the corner. It was an icebox of white porcelain, chipped and yellowed with time, and rust showed through flaking paint. He returned with cold drinks for the McGinty’s and a ceramic jug. Removing the cork from the jar, he tipped it over his scrawny old shoulder, holding it there until the clear liquid dribbled down his face before handing it to Mama.

“I need your help, and you'll need a dose of shine for what we're about to do.”

Mama tipped back the jug, instantly tasting some unknown fiery liquor. Zekiel gripped the jar in his gnarled hand, holding it until a near-lethal amount passed her lips. Then, he took two dark stones from a cigar box on the table.

“I know you have strong doubts,” he said, looking at John McGinty. “I need you to believe in me before I can help you. I want to show you something.”

After clearing a spot in front of him with his forearm, he held the two stones about six inches apart. They clashed together with a loud click when he released them.

“Lodestones?” John McGinty said.

Zekiel nodded. ”Powerful attraction. Agree?”

“Yes, but there's a scientific explanation.”

Ignoring McGinty’s skepticism, Zekiel said, “They have the same powerful attraction as between planets and stars.”

“Maybe . . .”

“Same powerful attraction the moon has on tides.”

“We’re here for answers, not a science lesson.”

Zekiel continued, ignoring the skepticism voiced in John McGinty’s words. “You believe lodestones have power? Do you believe in the attraction of stars, planets, moon, and tides? Why not believe in the power of all stones?”

“What power? As far as I know, other stones have no such ability, “John McGinty said.

“Oh, but they do. So does every stone.”

Zekiel reached into his cigar box, removing a translucent, blood-red gem. Beside the coal oil lamp sat a glass of water. Water in the glass plunked when he dropped the red stone into it.

“Bloodstone,” Zekiel said. “It gains power from water. Together they can suck a hurricane from a desert sky. “Distant thunder sounded outside the shack. “Storm's coming.”

Heavy raindrops began pelting the shack's tin roof within seconds as lightning flashed across the dirty window pane. The fetid odor of damp soil and crackling ozone flushed like a wave through cracks in the wall.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” John McGinty said. “There’s a hurricane in the Gulf, not fifty miles from New Orleans.”

Zekiel reached across the table and clasped John McGinty’s clinched fist in his gnarled old palm. “Son, you have a lot of pain. Too much pain. It sticks out like a red flush on your face. Now, lose your doubt and help me find your son.”

Again, John McGinty glanced at his wife. This time, the look was different. Zekiel took a deep breath. Dark skin, visible through the vee in his shirt, stretched across his ribs as he removed a crystal ball from a wooden box. Metallic needles pierced the ball’s transparent thickness. He placed it on an ebony stand and took another drink from the moonshine jug. After a second drink, he handed the jar to Mama.

“I need your help,” he said. “We got to work together to make this work.”

“Tell us what to do,” Mama said, drawing closer to the table.

The old man cocked his head and stared at Susan McGinty as if waiting for an answer to an unspoken question. Red light from the Bloodstone in the glass of water danced on the shack's dark wall. Outside, the storm raged, rain pummeling windows and tin roofs.

“Lock your gaze at the crystal. Won't nothing work till your eyes start to dim. Don't blink. Don't do nothing but gaze at the crystal ball.”

Zekiel kept up a low-voiced banter, imploring them to stare at the finely polished crystal. Soon, his words became a subliminal message, directed to some remote portion of the brain usually familiar only in one’s deepest dreams. Zekiel's banter continued for an interminable period. Soon, the crystal ball seemed to turn black and become fluid. The clouds parted, and everyone’s gaze penetrated the sphere. In it was a vivid panorama into another place and time.

The image of a young man appeared. He was alone, draped in darkness and water up to his neck. As they watched, he closed his eyes and disappeared beneath the water’s choppy surface. An explosion of noise jolted them back to reality. Nearby, lightning had struck a tall pine outside the window. As Mama watched, John and Susan held each other tightly, sobbing uncontrollably. Zekiel stood from the table and drew Mama aside.

“Their son drowned in an accident. Sometimes, the only way to finally accept anything so painful is to see it with your own eyes.”

***

The morning had dawned before the McGinty’s and Mama arrived back at her house. The hurricane had moved west toward the Texas coast and had miraculously missed New Orleans. All that remained was a dark sky filled with darker clouds. The slow rain that remained would continue throughout the day. Mama didn’t expect the reaction of John and Susan McGinty as they let her out of the Land Rover.

“We are so thankful,” Susan McGinty said. “At least now we know the reports of Robby’s death are accurate.”

“His body was never found, and for years, we thought he might somehow have survived,” John McGinty added.

“Now we can have a proper memorial service for him,” Susan McGinty said.

The McGinty’s had found their closure, Mama thought as she watched them drive away. The experience forced her to consider the plight of her own child. Later that day, she returned alone to Zekiel’s shack. This time, she took two sacks of groceries, two bags of ice, and a fifth of Jack Daniels. Zekiel, Pancho, and Baxter were waiting on the porch, and Zekiel smiled when she stepped out of the car.

“Been waiting for you,” he said. "I already have the answer to the question you must ask me.”

Mama retrieved the two bags of ice and groceries from the front seat of the Sprite and followed Zekiel into the shack. After stowing the canned goods in Zekiel’s grocery cabinet and placing the items that needed to be chilled in the ice box, she presented him with the bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Thanks, Mama,” he said. ”My favorite.”

Mama hugged the old man and held his shoulders as she stared into his deep blue eyes.”You know about my problem?”

“Your daughter. She’s waiting to hear from you.”

“How do you know?”

“I scryed it in the crystal ball.”

“Is she okay?”

“She misses you, but she’s fine. She’s waitressing at the Brown Hen in Mobile and has even saved a little money to return to college.”

“But I was paying for her college tuition when she ran away.”

“She wasn’t running away from college. She was running away from you.”

“But why? What more could I have given her?”

“No more buts,” Zekiel said. “You gave too much. She needed to experience things independently, without a mother looking over her shoulder.”

“But I . . .”

“I said, no more buts. Mama, the only thing you did wrong is try to hold on too tight. You’re a strong and imposing woman, making it tough on a daughter. Give her the space she needs, and she’ll surprise you with how much like you she really is. You could call the Brown Hen and tell her you’re thinking about her.”

“Thanks, Zekiel,” Mama said, hugging him again.

“You’re welcome. Let’s have a shot or two of that Black Jack.”

***

Storm clouds had cleared when Mama Mulate returned to New Orleans. She had lowered the top of the Bugeye Sprite to let her long hair blow in the breeze beneath the cloudless blue sky. When she got home, she would call the Brown Hen Restaurant in Mobile and talk to her daughter. Tell her she loved her and supported any decision she may have made about her life.

After that, an out-of-character Tuesday visit to Pascale’s, a dozen oysters, and a cold Dixie seemed very appealing. She thought she might even invite Cray back to her house to recite poetry. 

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.

Teenage Fantasies and Small-Town Ghosts - a short story

While attending college in Louisiana, my friend Larry and I decided to hitchhike to the small Webster Parish town of Cotton Valley. Larry’s grandparents lived in the former oil and gas boomtown and had invited us down for the weekend. The trip there was non-eventful, the trip home a story all its own. I’ll save that account for another time and tell you about our encounter with a ghost in the Cotton Valley cemetery instead.

Teenage Fantasies and Small-Town Ghosts

My buddy Larry had a twin sister named Leeann, who was also visiting her grandparents for the weekend. Her girlfriend Cindy had a car, and don’t ask me why we hitchhiked to Cotton Valley instead of riding with them, though I’m sure it had something to do with sibling rivalry.

Larry’s grandparents, I’ll call them the Bloomers, had a sizeable wood-framed house with many rooms that they had once rented to itinerant oil field workers. By the sixties, Cotton Valley had a population of less than two thousand. Still an oil town, it was no longer a boomtown. All of the Bloomer’s extra rooms were empty, and Larry and I had our pick of the lot.

Like her brother Larry, Leeann was tall and dark. That’s where their appearances diverged. Leeann looked like a young starlet and had a body like Jayne Mansfield. Tiny Cindy was as pretty as Leeann but was blond, svelte, and had a profound and lusty voice that belied her size.

I was in my teens, and the girls could have both been homely as sin, and I would still have had visions of a potential weekend liaison. Leeann and Larry, as I mentioned, had unresolved family differences, and my daydreams were squelched shortly after the girls arrived. I got my first clue when she and Cindy took rooms as far away as possible from us on the other side of the large house.

Friday night and most of Saturday passed without Larry and me seeing much of Cindy and Leeann as they were off in the car and we were on foot. At the time, Cotton Valley had neither a movie house nor any other form of recreation, and Larry and I soon grew bored. I managed to stem my boredom by keeping a running journal written in ink on a sheet of paper that I kept in my shirt pocket.

The seclusion Larry and I felt had also worked on Leeann and Cindy because shortly after a sit-down dinner with the grandparents, they asked us to go for a spin with them in the car. We quickly agreed.

We drove away from the grandparent’s house after dinner, Larry and I in the back seat of Cindy’s Fairlane. As I glanced over the bench at the half-hidden riches beneath Leeann’s plunging blouse and Cindy’s short skirt hiked high on her tanned thighs, my daydreams quickly re-emerged. They needn’t have.

We soon stopped at a house on the far edge of town and picked up Jim. Cindy and Jim, we learned, had met the prior semester at college. After flunking out, he’d moved back to Cotton Valley to work in the oil patch.

Cindy’s beau was a handsome fellow with a lifeguard’s tan. When Leeann climbed into the backseat with Larry and me and told me to push over to the middle of the bench seat, all my sexual fantasies flew out the car’s open window, and I could tell by her frown that I should keep my hands to myself. I thought so when she crossed her legs and pointed them away from me toward the door. I knew when she wrapped her arms tightly around her ample bosom.

It was just beginning to grow dark as we drove away from Jim’s house. A; good thing as I had trouble keeping my gaze away from Leeann’s ample body. Miniskirts were the vogue then, and the short garment barely qualified her as fully clothed. Feeling Larry’s cold stare over my shoulder, I somehow wrested my gaze from her gorgeous legs and luscious breasts, except for an occasional stolen glance.

There isn’t, as mentioned, much to do in Cotton Valley, and we were soon headed out of town on a stretch of lonely blacktop. By now, it was pitch dark, except for the stars and light of a full yellow moon. Jim and Cindy had a bit of a tiff earlier in the day. We didn’t know it then, but their relationship was near an end. Luckily for the rest of us, they remained cordial the remainder of the evening, and Jim covered up their quarrel skillfully by becoming our local tour guide.

“Slow down, and I’ll show you the hanging tree.” Cindy touched the brakes and pulled over as Jim pointed at a large oak tree on the side of the blacktop. A single large branch stretched across the road. Jim told us the tragic story of the rape of a white girl by a local black boy and the resultant retribution performed by an element of the town’s white population. ‘They buried his body in the cemetery up the road, and he supposedly still haunts it, especially on a full moon like tonight.”

“Have you ever seen the ghost?” Leeann asked.

There was a swagger in Jim’s voice when he said, “Lots of times. Once, it waved a knife at a friend and me.”

“Did it scare you?” Larry asked.

“No way,” Jim said

As we sat on the side of the road, listening to Jim’s story, a gentle summer breeze wafted the giant tree’s leaves and branches, causing shadows to dance across the warm blacktop. We didn't comment as Cindy applied the gas and started toward the cemetery.

As I recall the short ride to the suspected rapist’s place of internment, I realize that Jim probably had visions of mending fences with Cindy and perhaps a romantic connection induced by her anxiety at possibly seeing a ghost. When we reached the cemetery, I’m sure the visualization we soon saw caused his thoughts of romance to disappear out the open window, along with his phony boldness.

The little cemetery lay off the blacktop and had a small dirt parking lot. Cindy pulled into the lot and turned off the car’s lights. The night was moon-bright. It took only a few moments for our eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. A fence of wrought iron surrounded the cemetery, stretching before us like a silent metropolis of the lifeless.

“Hear it?” Jim asked. “The dead boy’s soul is calling out to us.”

I couldn’t hear anything except semis passing on a distant highway and a chorus of crickets and tree frogs. Still, Jim’s words evoked a certain anxiety. Cindy also felt it as she slid toward the car's center and closer to Jim. Leeann uncrossed her legs and grabbed my hand in a firm clasp. I couldn’t see Larry’s eyes but knew he must be frowning. We had all just noticed something that none of us could explain.

Leeann clutched my hand tighter when Cindy said, “Oh my God! What is that?”

Before us, an eerie blue light rose from the center of the little cemetery, stretching like the creepy luminescent beam of an ethereal spotlight pointing high into the sky. A slight breeze caused the shaft to fluctuate like the luminous arms of a ghostly hula dancer.

We all sat silently, waiting for the image to disappear so our minds could promptly deny what we had seen. It didn’t happen that way.

Talk of the ghost had elicited Jim’s desired effect on Cindy. By now, she was practically sitting in his lap, her arms clutched desperately around his neck. Jim didn’t seem to notice as his eyes in the reflected moonlight were big as proverbial saucers, his arms gripping Cindy as tightly as she held him.

They weren’t the only ones caught up in the spooky moment. Leeann clamped my right hand with both of her own. She couldn’t have drawn any closer without occupying the space where I sat. What Larry was thinking about the situation briefly crossed my mind.

“Let’s get out of here,” Leeann said.

Larry was having none of it. “No way, we need to find out what’s causing that light. I don’t believe for one minute it’s a ghost.”

When no one responded to his statement, Larry opened the back door and started for the cemetery gate. I was more interested in Leeann’s pressing warmth and tender softness than the ghost, but it quickly returned to my attention when the door slammed behind him. Concerned for her brother, Leeann released her grip and pushed me toward the door.

“You’re his friend. You go with him.”

When I glanced at Big Jim, his wide-open stare quickly told me he would be of no help. Leeann’s frown and folded arms had returned, so I opened the back door and followed Larry into the night.

“Larry, where are you?” I said.

“In front of you,” he said in a whisper. “The light is coming from over that rise.”

The little country cemetery was well kept, grass trimmed around the tombs. Some of the headstones were large and ornate. Most were old and crumbling, many little more than wooden crosses and rectangles of worn concrete. We needed no flashlight as there were few trees to block the stars and the bright glow of the full moon. A graveled path led up the hill toward the gleaming blue light.

Larry and I were in ROTC, and both were experienced in night maneuvers. The ghostly light that continued to beam from the center of the cemetery didn’t frighten my large companion, and I felt more anticipation than fear. As we crested the slight rise, we both saw the origin of the eerie light.

Larry halted in his tracks and held up his hand for me to stop. Moonlight was shining directly on a large piece of blue foil once used to wrap a flower pot. The light reflected off the foil and onto the polished marble surface of a headstone. The resultant glow shone like the beam of a spotlight straight up into the sky.

The light wasn’t all we saw. In the darkness, just beyond the spot where the little hill began to drop in elevation, an almost indistinguishable shadowy figure came into view. It remained a moment in one place before continuing slowly toward us, its amorphous shape wafting in the gentle summer breeze. Larry stepped forward to investigate. A shout from behind caused us both to turn and look.

“Larry, where are you?” It was Leeann. Worried about her brother, she had followed us. We watched as she picked her way up the little hill. Just as she reached us, she froze, put her hand to her mouth, and said, “Oh my God!”

A vivid flash of summer lightning accompanied Leeann’s exclamation, followed quickly by a clap of thunder that seemed as if it were right on top of us. Leeann didn’t appear to notice. She was staring at a spot behind us, still grasping her open mouth with her left hand as she pointed straight ahead with her right. Need I add how wide her eyes had grown?

Another flash of lightning lit the sky as Larry and I turned to see what she was pointing at. A sudden summer rainstorm had moved quickly overhead, already covering the stars and moon with puffy clouds. As lightning dissipated, only gloom remained, though not until Larry and I saw a shadowy nimbus floating up the hill toward us.

Before either of us could react, Leeann grabbed me from behind and screamed at the top of her lungs, trying to squeeze my breath out. As she did, clouds began unloading with heavy drops of warm precipitation lasting for a minute. Dark clouds passed with the rain, again revealing a clear sky with stars and full moonlight. Whatever we thought we had witnessed had disappeared along with the momentary storm.

“Did you see it?” Leeann asked, her long arms still wrapped tightly around my chest.

“I saw something, though I don’t know what it was,” I said.

When Larry said, “Just a low-lying cloud,” Leeann looked incredulous.

“My ass!” she said. “It was shaped like a man coming up the hill after us. You saw it, didn’t you, Eric?”

“I saw something. We turned away when you screamed.”

“It was only a cloud,” Larry said as he led us back to the Fairlane.

Leeann had already begun disbelieving her eyes as she followed her brother down the hill. I didn’t know what to believe, though I was already missing the warmth of her breasts against my back. We had to bang on the car door for Jim and Cindy to let us in.

“Did you see it?” Cindy asked.

“Yes, just before the rain started,” Leeann said.

“What rain?” Jim asked. “It’s been clear as a bell since you left the car.”

“It sure as hell rained on us, didn’t it, Larry?”

“For a minute or so,” he said.

Cindy and Jim stared at him and then at me. “You don’t look wet. Are you guys pulling our legs?”

My shirt and pants were almost dry, and I could do little more than shrug my shoulders. When we dropped Jim off at his house, talk of the ghost had ended.

Cindy and Leeann were gone the following day before Larry and I ate breakfast. Larry didn’t want to talk about the ghost except to say it was “bullshit,” I never spoke to either Leeann or Cindy again.

The mind plays tricks, and sometimes, what you think you see is nothing more than an invention of your imagination. Still, as Larry and I waited on the edge of I-20, trying to thumb a ride, I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out my scribbled journal. Out of clean clothes, I was wearing the same shirt and jeans as the previous night. Something prompted me to unfold the soggy journal and look at it, and I was shocked when I did.

Rain or sweat had caused the blue ink to bleed on the paper, rendering my scribbling indecipherable except for one word. In large blurry letters, it spelled out WRAITH.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.

Thief of Souls - chapters

In Thief of Souls, Book 11 of the French Quarter Mystery Series, a British pop singer hires disbarred attorney Wyatt Thomas to protect her from the devil. Scheduled as the Jazz Fest headliner, performer Dita Lika visits New Orleans early to seek the assistance of P.I. and paranormal investigator Wyatt Thomas. To help solve the dilemma, Wyatt enlists the assistance of a voodoo mambo, a defrocked priest, and a Harvard-educated historical researcher. What ensues is a whirlwind of paranormal adventure, fantasy, and mystery. Hope you love it.

 

Chapter 1 

Not every horror story begins with a shocking murder. This one does.

Smoke wafted to the ceiling from the bonfire in the center of the large room. Some of the wood in the fire was almost too green to burn and produced a smell neither Charles nor his son Gillet recognized. Instead of a floral fragrance, it smelled like death.

Black drummers dressed in field pants and no shirts sat in a semicircle around the fire, their drumming drowning out any attempt at conversation. When an explosion in the fire pit filled the room with smoke, a Bokor, a mystic of African descent, appeared behind the growing flames.

The Bokor’s skin was blacker than the fire’s coals, ridges of scar tissue marking every part of his body not covered with voodoo tattoos. He walked through the flames with impunity, touching the gleaming coals with nothing protecting his bare feet. The drumming intensified as the Bokor’s dance became more frenetic. When the drumming abruptly halted, he stopped dancing and stood in the middle of the fire.

The man’s voice was as deep and dark as his skin when he said, “Who is here to purchase a soul?”

Charles Marchand, dressed in the trappings of a wealthy plantation owner, sat cross-legged in front of the fire.

“It is I,” he said.

“Is the soul you wish to purchase for you or someone else?” the Bokor asked.

Dr. John smiled when Marchand said, “For my son, Gillet.”

“Twenty pieces of gold is the price I charge for salvation,” Dr. John said.

Charles Marchand stepped forward, pulling a money bag from his light blue silk jacket. Dr. John waited with a smile and an outstretched offering tray as Marchand began counting gold coins into it. When the final coin clanked into the ceremonial tray the drumming continued until the Bokor raised his hand. When he did, the room grew deathly silent.

“Bring the woman who is about to lose her soul to me,” he said.

Two muscular assistants herded a frightened woman into the room. She had raven hair and dark eyes from which tears rolled down her pretty face. In her last weeks of pregnancy, the young woman struggled against the men gripping her arms. When the Bokor addressed her, she refused to meet his gaze.

“What’s your name, girl?” he asked.

“Afrodita,” she said. “You know what it is.”

“What kind of name is that?” he asked.

When Afrodita didn’t answer, Dr. John backhanded her, snapping back her head. Afrodita tried not to cry, though couldn’t quell her tears as blood flowed from her nose.

“It’s my name,” she said.

“You are beautiful, Afrodita. Almost as beautiful as Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess you received your name from. Your beauty won’t save you. You are about to die, and someone has purchased your soul. Without a soul, your destiny is to burn in hell forever. Do you have anything to say?”

“Don’t take my baby. She is innocent,” Afrodita said.

“Such an act of kindness is not without cost. That cost is twenty pieces of gold. Do you have it?”

Afrodita’s blood and tears washed down her face. When she raised her head, Gillet’s eyes met hers. He glanced at the floor, refusing to continue looking into her pleading eyes.

“I have no money,” she said. “Please, spare my baby.”

“Take her to the fire,” Dr. John said.

“Wait,” someone called. It was Charles Marchand. “I will pay for the baby.”

A smile crossed the Bokor’s scarred face as he watched Marchand count out another twenty pieces of gold into the silver offering tray. The drumming began again when the last coin clanked into the tray.

Charles Marchand sat on the floor beside his son Gillet. The handsome young man refused to gaze into the accusing stare of the young woman named Afrodita. Covering his face with a grotesque African mask, the Bokor chanted as he danced in and out of the fire.

As the drumming grew louder, the Bokor’s dance grew more frenetic. Realizing her fate, Afrodita began to struggle. The two men shoved until they had positioned her directly in front of the Bokor. They released Afrodita’s arms, and then retreated to the recesses of the dark room.

A ceremonial knife appeared in Dr. John’s hand. Grabbing Afrodita by the neck, he stabbed the knife deeply into her belly, blood gushing and covering her dress as he plunged his hands into her womb and yanked out a crying baby. Gillet winced as Dr. John held the bloody newborn by an ankle. The drumming continued as Gillet threw up on the floor.

Holding his mouth, Gillet sprang to his feet and ran out of the room. The Bokor brought the crying baby to Charles Marchand as Afrodita lay dying on the floor.

“You have what you paid for,” Dr.  John said. “Take it.”

Charles Marchand cradled the bloody baby in his arms, his blue silk jacket ruined. With a nod, he walked to the door and disappeared into the darkness. 

Chapter 2 

Dita Lika awoke from a violent nightmare with a scream that pierced the walls. The distressed cry awoke her sister Adelina, and she sat straight up in bed. When she burst through Dita’s bedroom door, she sat beside her on the bed and grasped her sister’s shoulders.

“Sis, you were screaming. Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m good,” Dita said.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Just a nightmare. Go back to sleep.”

“It’s morning. I needed to get up anyway.”

“Not me,” Dita said. “I was planning on sleeping until noon.”

“Then go back to sleep. Your nightmare wasn’t real,” Adelina said.

“Maybe not to you.”

“What did you eat before going to sleep?”

“A cheese sandwich,” Dita said.

“That’s your problem. Never eat cheese before bedtime. It always causes nightmares,” Adelina said.

Unlike her sister Adelina’s blond hair and blue eyes, Dita’s hair and eyes were dark. Sharr, Dita’s Illyrian sheepdog puppy’s tail, wagged as he scooted beside her. It was Dita’s first time sleeping in bed in many weeks, and she cuddled the puppy to her breast.

“Miss me, baby?” Dita asked.

“You kidding?” Adelina said. “Sharr has the run of the place.”

“It isn’t fair,” Dita said. “You take care of Sharr; he loves you more than me.”

“Not true,” Adelina said. “He’s been so happy since you finished your tour.”

“I wish I could stay for a while. I love touring, though get so tired of the endless hotels.”

“Hah!” Adelina said. “I should be so lucky to order anything I want at any hour of the day or night.”

“You’d soon be as sick of it as I am,” Dita said, “It’s so lonely on the road. I wish I could take Sharr with me,”

“You have other things to consider when you’re touring,” Adelina said. “You have no time to care for a puppy.”

“And no one there to comfort me when I have nightmares,” Dita said. “I think I’m going crazy.”

“You aren’t crazy, Sis. Everyone has nightmares.”

“Not like mine, they don’t,” Dita said.

“Maybe you should consult a psychiatrist.”

“You just told me I’m not crazy,” Dita said. “Now you’re telling me to see a shrink?”

Adelina squeezed Dita’s hand. “You are so beautiful and sexy. Your fans love you.”

“Don’t change the subject, and stop patronizing me,” Dita said. “I’m nothing more than the flavor of the week. When someone else hits the scene, I’ll be little more than a fading memory.”

“Nonsense. You’re a superstar. The most talented musical performer to hit the stage in decades.”

Dita hugged Adelina. “You’re my sister. I wish others saw me the same as you do.”

“Though I may be your sister, I also know it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see how talented you are. You’re a star; most performers never experience a moment of stardom.”

Dita hugged Adelina and said, “Everyone tells me how beautiful and talented I am when I’m on tour. I must work at it to keep all the false compliments from going to my head. You ground me.”

“You’re as beautiful as you are talented,” Adelina said. “The truth is not a compliment.”

“I’m only your older sister,” Dita said. “You’re giving me the big head.”

“Because you know what I say is true. It isn’t wrong to love the attention and adoration. Now, tell me more about your nightmare.”

Dita pulled off her nightgown, tossing it to the floor.

“I’m awake now, my nightmare a dying memory. Let’s go skinny dipping. I’ll feel better after a swim.”

Adelina’s grin was mischievous as she stripped off her clothes and followed Dita and Sharr out the door. Dita lived in a palatial West Hampstead estate in north London. She’d paid eight million pounds for the house when her first song hit the charts and had begun putting her imprint on the property ever since.

When Dita dived into the courtyard pool, Sharr followed her. Water splashed when Adelina dive-bombed them. They frolicked in the water until all three were exhausted and struggled to climb out of the pool. They didn’t bother putting on clothes as they lay on plush towels.

“You still haven’t told me about your nightmare,” Adelina said.

Adelina shook her head when Dita asked, “Do you believe in Satan?”

“I try not to think about such things.”

“Have you ever had a dream about the devil?” Dita asked.

“I don’t eat cheese before I sleep,” Adelina said.

“That’s not my problem,” Dita said. “My nightmare has nothing to do with what I eat before I sleep. It’s recurrent and starting to scare me.”

Dita nodded when Adelina said, “Tell me about it.”

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. A car horn down the street honked as Dita stretched out on the plush bath towel and put her arms behind her head.

“It’s always the same,” she said. “I’m in a strange place I don’t recognize. There’s a young woman in the scene so pregnant she looks as if she’s ready to pop.”

“Then the woman in your nightmare can’t be you. You don’t even have a boyfriend,” Adelina said.

“Don’t be critical. Neither do you.”

“Just saying.”

“And, I’ve never been to the place in my nightmare. It seems so strange, exotic, and unknown to me.”

“Paint me a picture,” Adelina said.

“A room so dark and humid, it seems like a dungeon somewhere in the tropics. Men dripping with sweat, beating drums around a fire. It’s like a pagan ceremony, except all the men in the circle are black.”

“Africa?”

“America, I think, though not in this century,” Dita said. “We’re in a large room with an earthen floor. Maybe the basement of a huge house.”

“Who else is there?” Adelina asked.

“Two white men dressed in silk suits that look like something from a French history book. I believe it’s a wealthy man and his son who looks as if he’d like to be elsewhere.”

Adelina smiled and said, “Is he handsome?”

“Very. There is also a witch doctor named Dr. John. He’s presiding over a ceremony that always begins with the beating of drums and him dancing on burning coals.”

“Witch doctor? How do you know he’s a witch doctor?”

“Because of his scars, tattoos, and knowing smile. Someone in the room called him Bokor. I looked it up. It means a voodoo witch for hire who serves the loa with both hands.”

“What does that mean?” Adelina asked.

“A priest who practices good and evil. Bokors are Haitian mystics, though I don’t believe Haiti is where my dream occurs.”

“Where, then?”

“New Orleans.”

“You’ve never been to New Orleans. How would you recognize it?”

“Don’t know,” Dita said. She grinned when Sharr licked her face. “You smell like a wet dog.”

“So, how are you a part of this nightmare?” Adelina asked.

“An observer. The two white men are in the audience, watching though not participating in the ceremony.”

“You keep calling them white men. You’re white.”

“Maybe I wasn’t during another lifetime,” Dita said.

“Are you making this up as we go along?” Adelina asked.

“No way. It’s a different place and time. The men in the room treat the woman like a slave,” Dita said. ‘I had the feeling that perhaps I was a slave.”

“It must have been another time. There haven’t been enslaved people in New Orleans or anywhere else in centuries,” Adelina said.

“That’s what makes the nightmare so strange. It seems so real, yet it’s taking place somewhere I’ve never visited and during a time long before I was born.”

“So, what happened?”

“One of the white men had paid for the woman’s soul. Dr. John was preparing to kill her.”

“Get out of here,” Adelina said.

“It’s true. The woman was resigned to her imminent death but begged the Bokor not to take her baby. He informed her it would cost another twenty pieces of gold.”

Adelina’s hand went to her mouth. “The voodoo man was going to murder the woman and her baby?”

“Exactly. The woman didn’t have the money and was crying her eyes out. The older white man shelled out more gold to save the baby.”

“And then?”

“Dr. John cut the baby from the woman’s womb and gave it to the man who’d given him the gold.”

Adelina’s hand again went to her mouth. “Oh my God!” she said. “No wonder you were screaming. You aren’t pregnant, are you?’

Dita shook her head. “Everyone in the troupe is wary of losing their jobs and half afraid to approach me. I can’t even remember the last time I had sex.”

“Maybe that’s your problem,” Adelina said. “Perhaps you need someone to screw your brains out.”

“Maybe so. Let’s go to Soho and find a walkup,” Dita said.

“Kiss my ass,” Adelina said. “There are no male prostitutes in a walkup.”

“How do you know?” Dita said. “Have you ever visited one?”

“Women don’t have to pay for sex. Especially not you, the most popular female entertainer in the world.”

“You’re full of shit. If that’s true, then why am I so horny?”

“All you need is a few weeks off from the tour. Find a man and stay in bed for a few days.”

“Not a bad idea. What’s my next gig?” Dita asked.

“Jazz Fest in New Orleans. You’re headlining.”

“What’s Jazz Fest?” Dita asked.

“Don’t be a thicko. Jazz Fest is an important music event. Every musical group wants to perform there.”

“You have to be kidding. I can’t go to New Orleans.”

“Of course, you can,” Adelina asked.

“You don’t visit the place where your nightmares occur.”

“Why not?” Adelina said. “Maybe New Orleans holds the answers you seek.”

“I don’t think so.” Dita grabbed her cell phone and dialed her agent. “Raoul, I need to cancel my next engagement.”

“Cancel Jazz Fest? It’s the most prestigious event on your tour. Are you crazy?”

“I’ve never even heard of it,” Dita said. “Who else has played the event?”

“The question you should ask is, who hasn’t played it? The answer is every important musical act,” Raoul said.

“I have reasons for not going to New Orleans,” Dita said.

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

“Very personal. Going there frightens me to death.”

“Doesn’t matter what you want. You’re committed, and it’s too late to back out. Don’t argue with me on this.”

Dita was still talking into the phone when she realized Raoul had hung up.

“What did he say?” Adelina asked.

“He gave me no choice but to attend.”

“The Jazz Fest is in New Orleans, the very city where you are having your insane nightmare,” Adelina said. “Go there and find out what the problem is.”

“What if I lose my soul?”

“Now, what are you talking about?” Adelina said.

“I’m frightened,” Dita said.

“You’re fantasizing about your nightmare, and it’s been bothering you. Check it out while you’re at Jazz Fest.”

“I won’t have time to research my nightmare,” Dita said. “I’ll have a show to perform.”

“You’ll love the place. New Orleans is the birthplace of jazz,” Adelina said. “It’s an exotic city, unlike any other place. As you said, maybe you lived there in another life.”

“Now you’re the one doing the fantasizing,” Dita said.

“I read the brochure Raoul sent you. It seems reasonable your nightmare takes place in New Orleans. It’s just a nightmare. Why are you afraid to go there?”

Dita didn’t answer Adelina’s question. “When does Jazz Fest start?”

“A week from today,” Adelina said.

“Get me a ticket. I’m going tomorrow.”

“You can’t do that. You have to travel with your band,” Adelina said.

“Without me, there is no band,” Dita said. “I’ve made up my mind. Get me a ticket.”  

Chapter 3

New Orleans winters are generally warm, though the last one had seen temperatures below freezing twice. Tornadoes had blown through the old city, taking several roofs and a few lives. It made me wonder how many tornadoes New Orleans had survived in its more than three-hundred years of existence.

I’d gained a few extra pounds over the winter, a warm spring breeze begging me to get outdoors, exercise, and lose weight. Rain clouds raced over the French Quarter when I finally laced my jogging shoes and took the trolley to City Park.

City Park is an oasis of nature not far from the French Quarter. It’s bigger than New York’s Central Park and boasts the most extensive collection of live oak trees worldwide, some over six-hundred years old. I’d lost count of the times I’d jogged through the park. Its lagoons, wildlife, gardens, and beauty still amazed me every time I visited.

My run through the park invigorated me, and I’d worked up quite a sweat. Too sweaty to ride the trolley, I decided to continue on foot back to Bertram’s. My decision proved ill-advised when thunder sounded overhead, and the cloudy skies morphed into a spring rainstorm, my jogging shorts and tee shirt drenched long before I saw the neon lights of the French Quarter.

Bertram Picou, my landlord, and close friend, owned the most eclectic bar in the Quarter. His customers and tourists had gone home or to their hotels because of the rain. He caught my attention when I pushed through the door, pointing his Gallic nose at a woman sitting alone at the bar.

The attractive young woman was humming to herself as she filed her fingernails. She grinned and held her hand toward me as I stood dripping on Bertram’s old oiled-wood floor.

“Are you Wyatt Thomas?” she asked.

“Yes. I got caught in the rain during my jog.”

I noticed her British accent when she said, “I’m Dita. Can we talk?”

I pointed to the creaky staircase leading to my apartment. “I live upstairs. If you don’t mind waiting a bit longer, I’ll shower and change out of these damp clothes.”

“Take your time,” she said. “Bertram and I are having a lovely conversation.”

 Dita’s cut-off jeans were too short, and her cowboy boots and thigh-length red, white, and blue leggings were too brash. Her black cowboy hat paired with Lucy-in-the-Sky-With-Diamonds sunglasses was anything but understated. I turned around when Bertram called my name.

“I fed that mangy cat of yours. Her yowling was running off my customers.”

“Sure they didn’t leave because of the rain?”  I asked.

“Don’t be an ingrate,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.

Bertram had indeed fed my cat Kisses, and I found her asleep on my bed.

She didn’t open her eyes when I said, “Too wet to go tomcatting?”

I hung my sticky jogging shorts and tee shirt on the back of a chair, waited for the water to get hot, and then luxuriated in the steamy heat. Not more than fifteen minutes had passed when I returned to the bar dressed in khaki pants, sandals, and a blue Hawaiian shirt that would have made Elvis proud.

Dita smiled when she said, “Feeling better?”

“Think I’m going to live. Sorry for taking so long,” I said. “The hot water felt so good I had trouble leaving it. “What can I do for you, Dita?”

“I have a problem. Your name came up as someone who might help me.”

“What kind of problem,” I said.

“Something of a psychic nature. My people tell me you’re more than a private investigator,” Dita said.

“Oh?”

“They say you know about the paranormal, and voodoo in particular,” she said.

“Me and everyone else in New Orleans. Did Bertram bring you a drink?”

“I don’t drink when I’m discussing business.”

Bertram pushed a glass of lemonade across the bar toward me.

“Me either,” I said. “At least not alcoholic beverages. My coonass friend makes wonderful lemonade.”

Bertram’s elbows rested on the bar as he listened to every word we said.

Dita smiled when he said, “I brew a mean cup of Earl Grey.”

“You sell tea in a bar?” Dita asked.

“Whatever floats your boat,” Bertram said. “Costs the same as a lime mojito.”

“How much does a lime mojito cost?” Dita asked.

“Ten bucks,” Bertram said.

“I can get a lime mojito at any pub in London for seven pounds.”

“It’s a long way to London from here, pretty lady. Make you a deal. Buy one of my lime mojitos, and I’ll throw in a crumpet for free.”

“Deal,” she said.

Bertram grinned as he mixed Dita’s mojito and presented her with the drink and a fresh pastry.

“This isn’t a crumpet,” she said.

“It’s a beignet,” he said. “Try it.”

Dita took a bite of the succulent pastry and then another. “This is good,” she said. “What is it?”

“A beignet from down the street,” Bertram said.

“You didn’t make it yourself?”

“I’m a man of many talents. Making beignets isn’t one of them. Try the mojito,” he said.

Dita took a sip and said, “Very good. You could find work at any pub in London.”

“They couldn’t afford me,” Bertram said. “I’ll get you another beignet.”

“No,” she said. “I have to watch my figure.”

“You kidding? You got better legs than a movie star.”

“I’d gain weight in a heartbeat if I didn’t work out daily,” Dita said.

I interrupted their bantering and said, “Tell me about your problem.”

“It has to do with voodoo,” she said.

“I’m listening.”

“You’re not put off talking about voodoo?”

“Voodoo’s a common topic around the French Quarter,” I said.

Thunder shook the roof, rattling the light fixtures.

“Is it always this stormy?” she asked.

“Pretty much,” I said. “At least this time of year. Hope it doesn’t scare you.”

“Few things frighten me,” Dita said. “My nightmare that recurs practically every night is disturbing, even to me.”

“Please tell me about it,” I said.

“It concerns a voodoo man named Dr. John. Did such a person ever exist in New Orleans?”

“Marie Laveau is the most famous female voodoo person from the past, Dr. John, the most notorious male voodoo practitioner,” I said.

“How long ago?” Dita asked.

“1840s,” I said. “Your nightmare involves Dr. John?”

“The devil and Doctor John are villains in my nightmare. It’s always the same. A voodoo ceremony in an empty room with a dirt floor. Shirtless men are beating drums, their driving rhythm the percussive music for Dr. John’s walk across a bed of hot coals.”

When she paused, I said, “Go on.”

“Dr. John’s face and body are covered with scar tissue. It appears symbolic and looks like someone administered the cuts with a scalpel or sharp knife. He looked quite frightening in the light of the fire.”

“You said you’re in a dark room,” I said.

Dita nodded and said, “Like the basement of a large house.”

She shook her head when I asked, “Where does the smoke go?”

We both turned our attention to Bertram and said, “It’s a nightmare. It don’t have to make sense.”

Bertram didn’t reply when I said, “Dita feels her nightmare is real. She wouldn’t have traveled from London to tell us about it if she didn’t. Am I right about that?”

Dita nodded. “I don’t know where the smoke went. There must be a plausible explanation because everything seems so real.”

“Then tell me more,” I said.

“Dr. John addresses a woman brought from somewhere as Afrodita.”

“Your name,” I said. “Are you the woman in the dream?”

Dita shook her head. “She is about my age, though someone I don’t recognize. She is also pregnant. Dr. John tells the woman someone has purchased her soul and he will kill her as a sacrifice to Satan.”

“Damn!” Bertram said. “Your story’s scary. I need a lemon drop.”

“What’s a lemon drop?” Dita asked.

“Vodka, lemon juice, and sugar,” Bertram said.

Thunder shook the rafters again as Bertram grabbed three shot glasses from beneath the bar, filling mine with lemonade and the others with the lemon drop concoction he’d mixed in a blender.

We clicked glasses, drained them, and said, “Bottoms up.”

“Good?” Bertram asked when she licked her lips.

“Tastes like lemon drop candy,” she said.

“Just the way it’s supposed to taste,” Bertram said. “Sorry I interrupted you.”

“Finish your story,” I said.

“Where was I?” Dita said.

“Dr. John told the pregnant woman named Afrodita that he was about to kill her,” I said.

“An older white man responded when Dr. John asked who was paying for the soul.”

“Did you recognize him?” I asked. Dita shook her head. “Then describe him for me.”

Dita nodded. “A handsome man. Early fifties. Dark hair and eyes. His clothes were regal. Blue velvet coat, hand-sewn vest, and brown silk pants custom made and from a different century. He gave Dr. John twenty pieces of gold.”

“There must have been a reason he was buying a soul,” I said.

“For his son, Gillet. His father called him by his first name,” Dita said.

“That’s a place to start,” I said. “What did Gillet look like?”

“Long brown hair. Delicate facial features. He was crying and couldn’t look the woman in the eye when she begged Dr. John not to kill her baby. The voodoo man told her it would cost another twenty pieces of gold.”

“Heartless bastard,” Bertram said.

The lights flickered, the storm raging outside. An unexpected gust of wind rustled the front door.

“A ghost?” Dita asked.

“More than likely,” I said. “Lots of ghosts in the French Quarter.”

“Are you trying to frighten me?” Dita said.

“There are ghosts in this bar,” Bertram said.

“Get out of here!” Dita said.

“I’ve seen them,” Bertram said. “Some of them are famous.”

“Like who, for instance?”

“Louis Armstrong. He came around one morning early,” Bertram said. “Sang and played his horn for me until sunrise.”

“You’re full of it,” Dita said.

“If I’m lying, I’m dying,” he said.

Dita glanced at me and said, “Have you ever seen a ghost?”

“More than you can imagine,” I said.

“You’re both full of it,” Dita said. “Don’t be stingy with your lemon drops.”

Bertram poured more shots. “I’ll fix another batch if you help me drink it.”

Dita fumbled in her Gucci bag for a fifty-pound note and handed it to Bertram.

“Why not?” she said.

Bertram grinned and stashed the note in his shirt pocket.

“You were telling us about Gillet,” I said.

“After Dr. John collected the twenty pieces of gold, he cut the baby from Afrodita’s womb. Gillet grabbed his mouth and ran out of the room. His father ruined his beautiful clothes when he took the bloody baby in his arms.”

“Damn!” Bertram said.

“Afrodita didn’t scream when Dr. John took the baby. I believe she had a smile on her face as she lay on the floor bleeding to death.”

“Double damn!” Bertram said.

“What exactly do you need me to do?” I asked. “Nightmares can’t kill you.”

“Are you quite sure about that?” she said. “The answer to your question is I haven’t a clue as to what to do,” she said.

Dita flinched when thunder rattled the rafters. She was young, probably no older than in her early twenties. Her accent and outfit labeled her as worldly. Her unsure questions informed me she was grasping at straws. She raised her psychedelic sunglasses to let me see her face. When I didn’t react, she smiled.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“You’re Dita Lika,” I said.

“Oh, my God! I underestimated you. Have you caught one of my shows?”

“I’m an information junkie. I soak it up like a sponge. I saw your picture in the Picayune. You’re headlining this year’s Jazz Fest.”

It took Dita a moment to say, “Amazing. You’ve never seen me perform?”

“I like music, though I rarely listen to it.”

“You live in New Orleans and aren’t a music maven?”

“I don’t go to movies, either,” I said.

“You are strange.”

“I hear that,” Bertram said.

“You know who I am, don’t you, Bertram?”

“You got the best set of legs I ever seen,” Bertram said. “I’d know if I ever saw you before now.”

Dita pulled out her cell phone, calling up a music video on YouTube. Bertram and I drew close to the phone as the video began to play. The primary performer was Dita Lika. After watching the video, I realized it didn’t take a musical genius to see she was a generational talent.

“Damn, girl!” Bertram said. “You dance as good as you sing. No wonder you got class-A legs.”

When Dita put away her phone with a smug smile, I said, “I’m available to help.”

“I’ve been here before,” she said.

“At Bertram’s?” I said.

“New Orleans. Jazz Fest begins next week. I want you to stay close to me.”

“Jazz Fest has lots of security. You don’t need me. You’ll never be in danger.”

Before Dita could continue, thunder shook the rafters again, and the electricity went out. From the darkness outside the front door, Bertram’s wasn’t the only French Quarter establishment affected.

“Does this happen often?” Dita asked.

Bertram lit a candle and placed it on the bar between us.

“Enough so that I keep candles and storm lanterns under the counter,” Bertram said. “Hope you don’t mind drinking by candlelight?”

Dita was grinning. “Love it,” she said. “The lights should go out more often.”

Bertram grabbed his cell phone. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

After hanging up, he poured us another shot.

“What happened?” I asked.

“An electrical fire at the Roosevelt,” he said.

“Bad?” I asked.

“The lights are out, and the hotel is full of smoke,” Bertram said.

“Damn!” Dita said. “I was booked at the Roosevelt.”

“Not tonight,” Bertram said.

 “It’s still early, and we can worry about your hotel accommodations when they restore the electricity,” I said.

Realizing the blender was empty, Bertram poured lemon juice, vodka, and sugar into his blender.

“No electricity,” I said. “Remember?”

He grabbed a wooden spoon from beneath the bar and said, “Right. I’ll have to fix the next batch like my mama used to do.”

“I better call a cab and find a room,” Dita said when they’d finished drinking the last batch of lemon drop shots.

“I live in a suite of rooms behind the bar,” Bertram said. “There’s an extra bedroom with its own bathroom. You’re welcome to stay there for the night.”

Dita glanced at me and said, “Is Bertram trustworthy?”

“You don’t run a bar in the French Quarter for as long as Bertram has without being trustworthy. If you can trust anyone, it’s him.”

“I’ll take you up on your offer,” she said. “Jet lag has caught up to me. I need some sleep and feel good about the two of you.”

Dita grinned when Bertram said, “Except for the whipping part, we’ll treat you just like your mama.”

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You might also like checking out his Facebook page.