Chapter 8

8

Céleste

Russ’s old truck chugs along highway 90 toward Terrebonne Parish. The interior still smells like him—like metal and cigarettes—and although I should be grossed out by that, it’s oddly comforting, having his memory along for the long drive down. In an effort to hang onto as much cash as possible, I’ve slept a couple times in the truck. One time was at a rest stop while passing through a short stretch of Missouri--an act that would’ve had Tammy, the overprotective motherly type, lecturing me until my eyes glazed over.

About the only thing I’ll miss in that northerly town is her and Roy. Having to say goodbye to them hit me with the same punch to the chest as watching the first shovel of dirt fall onto Russ’s casket.

In the last two weeks that I was able to keep a roof over my head, I managed to track down the old estate where I grew up, and learned that it’s basically been sitting abandoned for the last ten years. Two families passed through it in the early part of the decade, but never stayed longer than a couple months. Probably didn’t help that a few hundred yards behind the house is the Charpentier Cemetery, where generations of the Charpentier family had been buried over the course of a century. Although I remember playing there as a child, hiding behind the gravestones and talking to ‘friends’, even back then, it was a somewhat creepy place. One of the families even reported sightings of ghosts, while the other expressed a feeling of unrest inside the walls. They were the only two, as far as I read, and it’s gone unoccupied ever since.

Over time, the house began to sort of decompose, with neglect and vandalism. Even those images--as unsettling as they were, with the house in disrepair, overgrown with so much vegetation it looked like a lost ancient civilization--didn’t trigger any memories or emotions. Perhaps it just didn’t look like the house I recall from my childhood, with well-kempt gardens against a backdrop of sunny afternoons. This house was dreary and worn, weighed down by the burden of neglect.

From what I was able to Google, I found that the neighbors petitioned to have the house torn down, believing it to be haunted and cursed, an eyesore to the community, but the request never went through. I’ve no idea who owns it now, if it might be part of an unknown inheritance my father might’ve left behind for me, or if it’s become property of the state. Either way, I doubt anyone will be troubled, if I camp there for a few nights.

According to a legal site I researched, most trusts are forfeited, if a reasonable attempt is made to contact the beneficiary to no avail. Unfortunately, my father had no records, or evidence, aside from some grainy shots caught on security camera, of having had a child, for reasons I’m hoping to understand better on this little excursion. Therefore, since nobody knew I even existed, I’m guessing I fit the forfeiture criteria. Which means, if it had been left to me in a will, and I actually wanted the house, I likely no longer have any claim to it, not without some kind of legal representation. And I surely can’t afford that.

This trip could be a complete waste of time, but it’s not as if I have anything better to do, and who knows, maybe returning will be cathartic. Maybe the reign of nightmares and sleepwalking, and daytime hallucinations of things I know aren’t real, will come to an end.

The goals are simple: To figure out who my mother was, what happened to her, what the hell this key belongs to, why my father kept me a secret, and get on with my life.

Okay, so maybe not quite so simple.

An overcast afternoon sky greets me as I enter Terrebonne parish, parish being what they basically call counties back in Michigan. Objects sit off the side of the road, and as I drive up on them, I notice three crosses of varying sizes.

A few miles down the road is a propped sign that reads Prepare to meet thy God, and I smirk, shaking my head. There was no religion growing up with Russ. The only significant thing about Sundays was football, and the only prayers that took place were the ones he quietly muttered to himself when his team happened to be winning. I don’t recall my real father ever taking me to church in the before life, either.

Or maybe he did, and I just don’t remember it.

Another sign greets me a few miles down from the first. All sinners beware.

Even if I was born in this place, and lived here a good chunk of my life, I already feel like a foreigner. An outcast.

It’s weird being a drifter, where everywhere and nowhere is home. For a short time, I might’ve felt a small sense of belonging in that cramped cabin in the woods, but I’ve found over the years that home is a fleeting thing. As temporary as the people who come and go in our lives.

Sprawled beside me on the truck’s bench is a map of Louisiana that I bought at the welcome center, where the clerk made a point to inform me he hadn’t sold one in almost a decade. Unfortunately, I had to let my phone lapse after Russ passed, otherwise I’d be like every other human being who doesn’t bother with paper maps anymore. Russ never used a cellphone, always said they were nothing but a means for the government to spy, so it was from him that I learned how to read a physical map.

A light on my dashboard flickers, indicating I have about five more miles before the truck is out of gas, and thankfully, the next sign I pass marks an exit with a gas station two miles off the highway.

Jesus. I’ll only just make it.

Warm humid air breezes through the open window of the truck, the damp heat of early summer settling over my skin in a sheen of sweat. A far cry from the cooler temperatures I grew accustomed to for this time of year while living in the north. Damn the broken air conditioner in this tired rust-bucket. Almost suffocating.

I turn off the exit, onto a two-lane highway that’s flanked by twisted trees with Spanish moss dripping from their branches. A strange familiarity nestles deep in my bones, bristling when I pull into an ancient-looking gas station, with a faded sign and chipping paint on its exterior. Only two pumps stand out in front, neither one of them resembling the modern variety, with a credit card reader. A bell rings out, as I steer the truck alongside one of the pumps, but thankfully, no one comes out to greet me. Another truck, newer than mine, is parked alongside the building, and two older men lean against it, talking. Tingles flare across my neck, and I tuck the knife that Russ gave me into my calf-high leather hunting boots and tug down the ripped-up jean shorts that barely reach mid-thigh.

The air is stagnant when I hop out of the truck, feeling the stares of those men on me all the while. Uncapping the tank with one hand, I reach for the pump with the other, and the moment my hand makes contact, an unbidden clip of memory flickers on inside my head.

Daddy, can I pump the gas?

I recoil at the visual, drawing my hand away from the pump, and glance up to the faded sign propped at the road. Benny’s. Shaking it off, I slide the pump into the truck, and twist to find the men staring back at me. Neither friendly, nor threatening. Just staring.

I crook my ankle just enough to feel the blade press against my skin, a comfort in this place where I don’t know a single soul. The sun’s heat blazes through those clouds overhead, and I run my arm over my forehead, wiping away the sweat trickling down my temples. Minutes later, the pump clicks, and after hanging it up, I stride across the lot to the small building.

The inside is cramped, but the cool air is a blessing while I scan over shelves of groceries for a restroom. Not spying the sign inside, I grab a couple of Cokes, a gallon of water, and a few bags of chips, then head for the checkout.

“I’ve got forty on pump two,” I say, setting down the food onto a counter cluttered with useless trinkets and candy. “You got a bathroom?”

“Side of the building.” The thick Louisiana accent reverberates in some long-forgotten memory locked inside my head. “Lock’s broke.”

Of course it is.

She takes her time ringing me up, not that I mind, because it’s longer I get to stay in the air conditioning. On the wall across from me is a corkboard covered in missing persons. So many of them, they’re hanging off the edges and dangling by pushpins.

All women.

The most recent date, from what I can see, is just three days ago, and I study the picture of the woman, about my age, with mid-length brown hair and dark eyes. A bright smile stares back at me that morphs into a terrified scream echoing inside my head, as I imagine her horrific end. I clamp my eyes on a gasp to shut it up and tune it out. Happens sometimes, when I look at people. I don’t even know who the screams belong to, but they’re so real and vivid. So loud inside my head that it pounds against my skull like a drum.

“Forty-seven twenty-two.” The clerk’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn to see her tapping a pink, painted nail against the counter.

Waiting on me now.

After leaving the cash, I exit the store and dump the bags into the truck. The men are still there when I make my way toward the bathroom, and just as before, I focus my attention on the blade tucked inside my boot. Tension winds inside my muscles, the closer I get to these men, my mind spinning with the image of that missing girl’s face. So many of those girls, it’s a wonder this place isn’t on some Dateline show.

“Bonjour,” one of the men says as I pass him, tipping his head in greeting. His accent is Cajun, which, I understand, is more common for the mainlanders than those from Chevalier Isle, who speak what’s known as Valir.

After a bit of reading, I learned that, back when Chevalier Isle was first settled in by the Cajuns who moved there from the mainland, they were referred to as Les Chevaliers which essentially translates to The Knights. Refusing to call a bunch of farmers something so noble, the mainlanders eventually referred to them as Les Valiers, which over time, became known as Valirs. The language is a sub-dialect of Cajun, sharing many of the same words, but it’s the pronunciation of them that seems to be a distinguishing factor. That, and it apparently incorporates more European French, from what I’ve read.

Not that I’d know the difference, since I can’t speak a lick of it.

With a quick nod toward the man who greeted me, I duck into the restroom and flip the light on. Toying with the knob fails to release the stiff lock that keeps it from closing entirely, and I huff in frustration, seriously pondering the idea of dropping trou somewhere alongside the road instead of here. At least I wouldn’t hear conversation while I try to relieve myself.

The bathroom itself is clean and quaint and smells like disinfectant, which is nice. Ears piqued, I do my business as quickly as I can, keeping my eyes fixed through the crack in the door for any peeping Toms. A brief wash of my hands, and I wet some paper towels in the cool water to drag across the sweat gathered on the nape of my neck. Outside the door, the men keep on with their chatter, and I nod once more as I pass, on my way to the truck.

I don’t know when my distrust of people began, really. If it was always there, or just became more pronounced the older I got and began to notice the stares. At home, they tended to be rife with animosity, while here, they seem more curious. Wary, maybe.

Or welcoming, and I’ve just become too jaded to know what a friendly gesture looks like these days.

Once back at my truck, I fire up the engine and head out to the highway. A few miles off stands the Veilleux Bridge that connects Chevalier Isle to the mainland. Only about two miles long, it’s not quite as lengthy as the Mackinac Bridge back at home, but it’s vertical height and the slight curve of it makes the thing look like a treacherous rollercoaster hill.

The island, shrouded in mystery, prides itself on the number of tourists that visit for its beaches and Festival des Morts that happens every summer. A carnival that, I’ve read, is a cross between Mardi Gras and Mexico’s Day of the Dead. Rich in its own Valir culture, the island’s dark folklore has always given me the impression of a southern French Transylvania, darkly enchanting, and the locals are said to be friendly, if not a little strange for their beliefs in the spectral and macabre. This island alone boasts more ghost stories than all of Louisiana combined.

And I’m one of them.

Every steel deck panel that passes beneath my wheels feels like the clink of the track, and a thrill winds in my stomach while I drive across. At either side, Veilleux Bay stretches out into the Gulf in a bird-speckled, endless blue horizon, and with the height of the bridge, it’s almost as if I’m flying over it. For as long as I can remember, the ocean has always been a fascination of mine. It’s creatures, unfathomable depths, and mystery, call to me like a siren, and I would give anything to, one day, sail the open sea.

Highly unlikely, seeing as I can’t afford a boat, let alone sail it, but hey, a girl can dream.

The scenery soon gives way to a stretch of stilted houses along the shoreline, whose weathered exteriors are a testament to the many storms that pummel this island during hurricane season. Spike-tipped palmettos and white sand give the place a tropical island feel, but it’s further down the causeway, when the scenery begins to shift to long stretches of crepuscular woods and swamplands, dotted with the occasional forlorn-looking house, that I’m reminded it’s no paradise. The isle itself carries a strange and eerie ambience that somehow seems to exist under a constant layer of fog, even in afternoon daylight. Darkly spellbinding, and almost otherworldly when compared to the mainland.

Another ten minutes on the road, and a tightness pulls like a rope across my chest. The closer I get to the place that was once my home, the thicker the air in my lungs. Will I recognize the house when I see it? Will I remember everything that happened? What if I suffer a panic attack, alone, by myself?

I pull the truck off to the side of the road just before Magnolia Lane, where the pavement turns to dirt. The trees at either side bend over the road, creating what looks like a tunnel, which I stare along the length of, hands gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles burn. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six …” The count is interrupted by a deep breath through my nose, and I pick up again, “Five, four, three …”

The trees themselves don’t jar any memory of my time here, it’s merely the anticipation building inside of me. Preoccupations over how I’ll react when I do stumble upon something vividly familiar. The edginess thrums a nervous beating in my chest. Breathe. Just breathe.

After another minute, I throw the truck in drive and turn onto the road named for its abundance of magnolias, most of which, as I understand, grew on my father’s property. Beneath the canopy of oak trees, the overcast sky dims even more than before, the air oddly cooler, unless it’s just my own body temperature dropping with my anxiety. The place should be easy to spot, seeing as there are no other houses along this road and the closest neighbor is about a mile away.

At the end of the road stands the iron gate to the dreary Charpentier House, one of the older plantations in Chevalier, and the home where I was born. In my mind’s eye, I can almost see the days when that gate was the proud sentry, the very first line of defense in keeping others out. Now, it stands cocked and bent, hanging by its broken hinge.

Truck still running, I grab my camera from behind the seat, and hop out. Jagged chunks of gravel press into my knees as I kneel down and capture a few angular shots. Ones set against the looming trees overhead. After a few good snaps, I hop back into the truck and drive right through the opened gate, taking note of the busted angel sculpture over where Charpentier House is etched into the iron.

Overgrown with grass and weeds, the expanse of the estate stretches out before me, where unseen borders give the appearance that this territory that once belonged my father is endless. As the only psychiatrist on the island, he certainly could’ve afforded it on his own, but he’d also come from money, having inherited his father’s estate.

The canopy of leaves gives way to open sky, where the trees at either side of the driveway stand scattered about the yard, save for a majestic spidery oak, with its long threads of Spanish moss, situated smack in the middle of the yard. Vague speckles of memory paint it as the one my childhood friend, Gabrielle, or Brie, as everyone called her, and I would often climb in play.

Statues of animals, and angels with half-busted wings, hide in the unkempt lawn, many of which are broken and chipped.

Vibrant green leaves of the few magnolia trees peppered throughout the property add a glimmer of life to the surrounding decay, even if the blossoms have disappeared for the summer. I vaguely remember their short-lived, crisp white petals and lemony fragrance. How beautifully tragic they must look now, when fully bloomed against this time-ravaged backdrop. A wordless testament that life goes on, no matter what.

And in the distance, waits the house.

My heart catches in my throat at the unsightly condition of the place that, at one time, was the most beautiful in the parish. That much I do remember--feeling like a princess in a castle. In my reading, I learned the home was architecturally unusual for its time period, with cruciform hallways on both upper and lower floors, and each end aligned with the four cardinal directions. Essentially a cross.

Two outdoor winding staircases at either side of the main entrance converge up on the top level, at a second entrance. The once stately house now stands boarded up, with its weak bedraggled roof and disheveled porches at both levels.

I park the truck off to the side of the house, where vandals have graffitied the wall with what I’d guess are bible verses, given the numbers that follow. Also from my reading, I learned that the house was thought to be haunted, even before what happened when I lived here, based on a massacre that took place in the late 1800s, when a white paramilitary group attacked African plantation workers after tensions rose. Hundreds were murdered, some of whom hid on the grounds of this plantation, only to be hunted down and slaughtered.

An unsettling nausea stirs in my gut as I exit the truck and make my way up to the front of the house, where more graffiti adorns the front door.

Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

An obnoxious creaking chases the opening of the door, as I push against those threatening words scrawled across the panels. The moment I peer inside, another snapshot fires off inside my head, and the drab dilapidated interior before me morphs into the colorful visuals of my past.

“Maw Maw Day is dropping the three of you off and picking you up, right?” My father sits at his desk, adjusting the glasses that slipped down his nose, while hovering over piles of paperwork. “And you’ll be staying the night at their house?”

“Yes.” Standing before his desk, I wring the hem of my shirt, waiting for him to hand me the cash.

“What movie do you plan to watch?” He doesn’t look up at me once as he asks me questions and scribbles something onto the pages below his nose.

“Just a … kids’ movie. Rated PG.” Guilt winds inside my stomach as the lie tumbles from my lips. In truth, Brie’s older sister is coming with us, to buy the tickets for an R-rated horror movie my best friend somehow talked me into. One where a family is terrorized by a mask-wearing group that hunts them while vacationing at their weekend estate.

Thankfully, he still doesn’t look up at me, because I can’t bring myself to lie to my daddy’s face. Instead, he reaches into his back pocket and draws out his wallet, offering up a twenty-dollar bill. When I reach out to grab it, he snaps the cash back, and his eyes finally meet mine.

“You got the pepper spray?”

With a nod, I tug the small bottle from my pocket and hold it up for him to see. My father insists that I carry it everywhere, even if I think it’s the dumbest thing ever. I hate the way it bulges out of my pants.

“Good. No talkin’ to any strangers, hear? No one. No one knows who you are, or where you live. Clear?”

“I promise.”

The stern look in his eyes from before softens only a little. “I want to give you the freedoms of a normal childhood, Cely, but you must be careful.”

“I know.”

A quick jerk of his hand, and he passes over the cash, and the victory explodes like fireworks inside of me. I’ve only been allowed to the movies a couple times with just me and Brie, and those occasions took a whole lot of coaxing from Maw Maw to change his mind, but this time? I have a feeling it’ll be the best night ever.

The memory slips away, like all the others, and once again, I’m staring off at the surrounding destruction.

Grit, garbage and broken wood lay scattered across the floor, the gravely surface crunching beneath my boots. The walls have been stripped of the paintings I recall hanging throughout the house, spray paint graffiti now in their place. More bible verses in black. Curse words scribbled over them in red. It looks like a war between good and evil inside this house.

Beneath all that, though, is a thrum of something I can’t quite pinpoint. Like a pulse, still beating, but faint. An atrophied heart too weak to do little more than pump a small bit of life.

I kneel down to the floor and set my hand against the gritty surface, eyes closed. Focusing. On what, I’m not even sure, just that I feel a steady hum, like electricity. The unsettling sensation of knowing something was buried alive.

Memories, in my case.

Mindlessly running the key back and forth over its chain, I push to my feet and make my way through the main foyer and pass the parlor on the right. The library on the left. Neither of them like I remember, from the few snippets of memory that flicker and fade. I don’t bother with the once-grand staircase straight ahead of me. Not yet, anyway.

In spite of the heat outside, an uncanny chill lingers inside the house, tickling the sweat gathered across the back of my neck. Feels like something crawling across my skin.

A room beyond the staircase is one I remember as a family, or sitting, room, with an enormous fireplace along the back wall. Like the rest of the house, the floor is cluttered in dirt and debris, its sparse furniture so broken down and ramshackle, it’s a wonder any of it still stands.

I continue on and find the kitchen, a completely unusable bathroom, a pantry, and a few rooms I don’t recall much about. Perhaps just guest rooms at the time, though I don’t remember many guests, aside from Brie, Marcelle, and Maw Maw.

I head up the staircase to the second floor, sweeping through the various rooms, but without the furnishings to identify them, they hold nothing for me. No memory. No feeling. Just empty rooms destroyed by time and abuse.

And no red door, either, which tells me I must’ve dreamed it. How vivid that dream, though, that I could recall so many details of the door.

At the end of the hallway, I peek inside a room with dirty white walls and built in shelves. A faint familiarity lingers here, as I trail my gaze over the simple furniture that gives no insight into whether it belonged to a boy, or girl. A few of the books lay splayed open on the floor, their spines stomped and busted with no care, or concern. I turn one over to a page of faded print, and close it to Grimm’s Complete Fairytales on the cover. It could’ve belonged to any one of the owners who lived here after me, but I distinctly remember reading this book as a child. The one that began my love affair with reading at such a young age.

I set it down to continue my trek through the house.

It’s not until I reach the mouth of a dark hallway that the first trickle of fear skates across the nape of my neck. I flick on the flashlight to expose an empty corridor with no doors. Just one, long alcove that stretches toward an empty wall that’s decorated in red and reflective gold paisley paper and covered in more graffiti.

Confused, I run the flashlight over the surface, trying to recall a doorless corridor from my memories. Surely, a kid looking for places to hide away and read would’ve considered this dark spot prime real estate, but nothing comes to mind. And perhaps I wouldn’t have been so struck by the oddity of a completely useless hallway back when I was a child. Even if I find it utterly strange now.

Not bothering with the empty corridor, I finish my sweep of the house.

Whatever life still pumps through its arteries is faint and hardly palpable anymore.