Chapter Fourteen

fourteen

DESPITE LAURENCE'S HELP, JEMMA HADN'T been able to find out much more to break the curse over the family. Also, the missing ledger page bothered her. Someone had deliberately torn it out, probably to prevent anyone from finding out whatever information was there.

Another secret.

Although the Duchons couldn't leave their property now, at one point they'd had the freedom to go about the city. People knew them and had interacted with them. They had to know something about the family, something that could help Jemma.

She hopped off the bus in Tremé. Laurence had given her not only bus fare but a couple of extra dollars in case she wanted to eat while she was in town. He'd also given her the names and addresses of several families that used to visit them. A couple were in the French Quarter and the rest were in Tremé.

But at each of the homes she went to, her hopes were dashed. The people were friendly until Jemma mentioned the Duchons.

The first home wasn't quite as grand as her family's, but the two-story structure loomed large between the smaller houses on either side. A maid answered the door and hurried away to summon the lady of the house.

Jemma introduced herself, fully expecting to be invited inside. The curt response she received reminded her of her first day in the city.

"I understand you know the Duchons," Jemma said.

The woman sniffed. "Knew them. Can I help you?"

The maid stood well behind her employer, not trying to hide the fact that she was eavesdropping.

"I wanted some information about the family."

"Well, if you work for them, you can get this information yourself."

The door shut in Jemma's face.

As she spent the next couple of hours going from house to house, they diminished in size and impressiveness. But the reactions were the same.

One woman's eyes widened at the mention of the Duchons, and she crossed herself before shutting Jemma out. At one house Jemma assumed someone had phoned ahead, because when she knocked on the door, a man yelled from inside, "If you're here about the Duchons, go away!"

In Tremé now, she found a squat cottage much like its neighbors, in need of a fresh coat of paint. She noted odd symbols carved into the screen door's frame, as well as a few small bundles of dried flowers and herbs stuck there. Behind it, the front door stood open, allowing her a view of the dim interior. She knocked. After several moments of silence, she knocked again.

"Who's out there?" called a man.

"My name is Jemma Barker. I'm looking for Henry Marsbrook."

The man made his careful way to the door. Wavy white hair framed his face; his light brown eyes squinted. Two ragged holes dotted a white T-shirt, and a peeling belt cinched the waist of his chinos.

"I'm Henry. Can I help you?"

"Hello. I work for the Duchon family. I understand you used to work for them."

A small frown creased his forehead. His gaze moved behind Jemma, as if he was looking for someone else.

"I wanted to talk to you. I need some information."

"What kind of information?" His Southern lilt cooled about ten degrees.

Jemma had no answer for him, as she hadn't even considered what to ask. According to Laurence, Henry hadn't worked for the Duchons in at least a decade. As she stood on the other side of the old screen door, failing to find anything to say, the man suddenly pushed it open, waving her inside. She hesitated only a moment before following him down a short hallway. Piles of old books lined both sides.

"You work for the Duchons?" he asked, his head turned to the side.

"Yes." That's all she wanted to reveal for now.

He gestured to a square table pushed against a wall before busying himself with a coffee press at the counter. Jemma took the next few silent moments to take in the room, which was as old and cluttered as the rest of the house. Plates and glasses formed an untidy pile in the sink. Another stack of books teetered precariously on a stool next to the stained stove. She hoped he wouldn't offer her a drink, but that's exactly what he did, placing a chipped teacup in front of her.

"Don't worry—it's clean," he said, pouring.

Once both their cups were full, he sat across from her, leaning forward.

"Where are you from?"

Frustration welled up in Jemma. She'd spent the last few hours trying to get someone to tell her anything about the Duchons, having door after door closed in her face. She was here to ask the questions and had no patience for even the smallest of pleasantries.

But looking at the cup in front of her, as well as the mess around her, she figured Henry probably didn't get a lot of company. Maybe he was happy to have someone to talk to. She sipped her coffee and gave him the abbreviated version of events, leaving out all of the weirdness. Seemingly satisfied, he nodded.

"What do you want to know?"

"How well do you know the family?"

"Used to know them fairly well. I tutored the kids for a few years."

"Fosette and Laurence?"

"Yes, that's right—that's their names. I taught them the basics, math and English and a bit of science."

"How old were they then?"

Henry studied the ceiling for a moment.

"Ten, twelve or thirteen, somewhere around there when I started." He shook his head slightly. "Strange family."

"Strange how?"

"Besides the fact they never set a foot off the property? I don't know. I just got a feeling about the place. The young girl was very pretty but skittish, like an alley cat. But at least she talked. The boy hardly ever said anything, only answered if I asked him a direct question. I asked the grandmother once if we could take a field trip just down the road and she screamed holy hell at me, told me under no circumstances was I to take the children even a step outside the front gates. After that, she stood guard over me when we did lessons in the parlor. Oh, she acted like she was just sitting there having her tea or reading, but she was making sure I didn't put a toe out of line. They had a maid, too. Striking woman. But they treated her worse than a dog, even the kids. Always calling her stupid or worse. One time, I saw the grandmother slap her across the face! And the poor woman never said a word, just took it. Each time I went out there, I thought for sure she'd have quit. But every week, she opened that door for me." He paused. "Is she still there?"

Jemma nodded.

Henry cursed under his breath before asking, "What about the children? What are they doing? Did they ever get away?"

"They never left."

He cursed again. "You know, here in town, we'd all heard things about them. Conjure women and psychics going to the house for God knows what. Then, when my cousin Pete told me the story of how our grandfather died there, that was it for me."

"What?" Prickles worked their way along Jemma's skin.

"I thought it was just a family legend, you know, one of those stories the old people pass on. I'd heard it before, when I was growing up. But when I told Pete who I was working for, he asked me how I could do it when our grandfather had died in the house."

"How did he die?"

Henry shrugged. "That's the only part of the story no one knows for sure. We know he was a slave, so his life wasn't worth much to the people who owned him."

Jemma thought of the list of names in the ledger, wishing she could remember them. One of them could be the man Henry was talking about.

"The family said he disappeared one day. Now, even though they didn't care about him as a person, they cared about him as property. If he'd run off, they would've looked for him. Next thing my family knows, someone said he'd died there, but they never gave my grandmother a body. She worked on the next plantation over. When she couldn't bury her husband, she took sick and died not too long after."

"So you never met them?"

"No. My mama was young when they went. After Pete told me that story and I was convinced it really happened, that it wasn't just some family legend, I tried to talk to the grandmother once about the Duchons' history. They had all those big portraits along the stairs. I asked who was who, and oh, was she proud to give me those names. So-and-so was her grandmother, this man was her great-grandfather, on and on. Then I asked if the family had owned slaves and she looked at me like she wanted to kill me. I guess I was feeling kind of reckless that day, on account of them being strange and mean. I told her our family history, that my grandfather had died there under mysterious circumstances." Henry paused before raising his eyes to meet Jemma's. In them she saw vestiges of fright, not years old but fresh. "The way Honorine looked at me, I thought I might die the same way he did. Luckily, all she did was fire me. Told me to get the hell off their property and never come back. I was glad to do it, although I felt sorry for the children."

They finished their coffee in silence. The Duchons that Henry described sounded exactly the same.

"I'm sorry about what happened to your grandfather, but thank you for talking to me," Jemma said at the door.

"It's water under the bridge now. I just don't see how you can keep working for those crazy folks."

Jemma had no answer for that, so she turned to the steps, just as Henry called her back.

"I just remembered something else. The smell."

A curious look passed over her face, but she knew what he was talking about. If she'd had any doubt, it was banished when he continued.

"It always smelled like something was burning there."

—

IT WAS NEARLY TEN O'CLOCK when Jemma returned to the Duchons'. The buses had stopped running a couple of hours before, so she'd walked from town, not feeling any pain in her feet or legs because her mind was so busy turning over her conversation with Henry. How had his grandfather died? Where was his body? Why hadn't the family given his body to his wife? Of course, their owners wouldn't have recognized their union as legal, but still. And what did Honorine know?

Jemma was so relieved to finally reach the property that she'd forgotten she'd missed dinner.

Honorine had not.

Jemma knew there was no point in locking herself in her room to escape the punishment, so when she saw the family gathered in the parlor, she joined them, hoping her grandmother would tire before Jemma lost her mind. Honorine stood in front of the cold fireplace, reading in her monotonous tone. Simone shot Jemma a dirty look, as if blaming her for this, although the rest of them could leave the room if they wanted. The chastisement was only for her.

A sudden chill descended, like a hand laid flat on Jemma's arm. As she looked up, it was clear they all felt it. Honorine stopped reading to glance around the room.

"Where's that draft coming from?" Laurence asked.

Right before the spirit appeared, Jemma hoped it was only a breeze, although a part of her knew exactly what it was.

The ghost of a man stood a few feet from Honorine, his baggy shirt hanging off one shoulder, his hair an uneven bush.

Five, four, three…

Russell stared directly at the spirit, surprising Jemma and stopping her counting.

"Do you see him?" she asked her uncle, her voice trembling.

"Who?" Fosette looked around, her eyes wide, her hands gripping the arms of her chair.

Russell faced Jemma, shaking his head and rising from his seat. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're lying!"

Russell screamed back, "I don't see anything!"

Simone rubbed her arms and peered around, while Laurence approached the fireplace, looking into it as if it were the source of the sudden coolness.

Go away, Jemma thought. Before she could shut her eyes, another spirit appeared, a woman dressed in similar shabby attire as the man. They both looked at her, freezing her in place.

They see me.

The man's mouth was moving, but no sound came from it. The woman gestured, her arms waving in the air. She, too, spoke, but Jemma heard nothing at first.

Then a whispering reached her ears, and she clapped her hands over them. She didn't want to hear anything they said; she didn't want to see their faces.

Something bumped her.

It was Fosette, on the floor, one of her hands at her throat. Jemma looked on in horror as she realized that all the Duchons appeared to be choking. Laurence's hands scrabbled at his throat while Russell tore at his own collar. Simone's nails raked her neck, her mouth open in a soundless scream. Honorine had fallen into a chair, the Bible dropped on the floor, her eyes wild and her fingers ripping the high neck of her dress.

What's happening?

Thick plumes of black smoke poured from their mouths. Each of the family members, save Jemma, sat or stood rooted in place, their jaws wide, as blackness streamed forth and rose to the ceiling. In a flash, the room filled with smoke, and only Jemma could cough or move. The rest of her family seemed frozen and helpless.

Through the thick haze, she saw the spirits. She'd forgotten all about them. They gazed at the smoke with fear in their eyes, and something else as well. A malignant knowing.

"Stop!" she yelled at them, although she didn't know if they could. She didn't know where the smoke had come from, but since it had appeared with their presence, maybe the ghosts were responsible. "Stop it! You're killing them! Please!"

The two spirits gazed at Jemma and, in the next instant, were gone.

Hacking and sobbing broke the silence. Honorine was still seated, but the other family members were sprawled on the floor. One by one, as they realized they were no longer choking, their eyes turned to Jemma, the dissipating of the smoke making it easier to see.

"Who were you talking to?" Honorine asked.

Jemma glanced at Russell, but he faced the floor, his wrists resting loosely on his knees.

"I…I saw two people. A man and a woman."

Simone's wild gaze took in the room, the red welts on her neck painfully visible. Fosette clutched Laurence while she wept into his chest.

"There's no one here besides us."

"They were ghosts," Jemma whispered.

Fosette wailed more loudly.

"You wanted them to kill us?" Simone snapped.

"No! I asked them to stop."

"And they listened to you," Honorine said in a flat voice, rising to her feet. "They did your bidding. You talk to them."

"I don't. I mean, I don't want to. I don't want to see them, but what else was I supposed to do? I asked them to stop!" Jemma repeated, unable to believe the blame the family was placing on her. As if she'd caused them to choke, as if she'd brought forth the billowing smoke.

Laurence and Fosette left first, not bothering to glance behind them. Simone and Russell followed, with Honorine sparing Jemma one last look, a look that held just enough fright in it to stay her sharp tongue. The sounds of several bedroom doors shutting reached downstairs.

Alone, Jemma sank to the floor.

The spirits had heard her. Not only that, they'd obeyed her when she'd pleaded with them to stop choking the Duchons. What did it all mean?

Before she could examine that, her gaze fell on the Bible.

Honorine had forgotten to take it in all the chaos.

Greedily, Jemma pulled it to her, glancing at the entranceway to make sure no one was coming back to collect it. No, she'd make sure no one took it from her. She rushed upstairs to her room and locked the door behind her. It was almost midnight now, and the low lamplight made the room as gloomy as the parlor had been. She placed the Bible in the middle of the desk.

Inside the front cover was a small stack of newspaper clippings. Death notices. Jemma read each one, each name ringing a tiny bell in the back of her mind. These were the dead Duchons. Not all of them had died from Inès's curse, as some of the notices went back well before Jemma was born. After she'd gone through the entire stack, she went through them again, more slowly.

There wasn't a notice for her mother.

Jemma flipped through the Bible, thinking maybe it was stuck between other pages. She didn't find it, but she did find a family tree, right in the middle of the book. A careful hand had written in names, most with the surname Duchon. Jemma's finger trailed down the page, bypassing Alexandre, Bridgit, Thierry and Adaline, all with birth dates and dates of death underneath. She slowed when she reached Raymond, Honorine's husband, Jemma's grandfather. There was a birth year and date of death. Four lines fanned out from Honorine and Raymond: Simone, born in 1909; Russell, in 1910; André, born in 1913; and Inès, in 1915.

There was no date of death.

But Inès's name was barely visible beneath black scribbles. Someone had tried to obliterate her name and drawn a line next to it, with another name written in.

Agnes.