The Voodoo Prophecies and the Original Sinner

THE VOODOO PROPHECIES and the ORIGINAL SINNER CHRIS LUNDA

Prologue 1832

The beckoning glimmer of a Louisiana dawn whispers the arrival of the sunrise to the night. Rising from her straw stuffed mattress, she moves within the shadows of the carriage house towards the doorway. A fateful journey of ten years crosses her mind and she pauses to think of the better times, before the fear, before the other slaves began to disappear.

Her mistress, the Madame Delphine LaLaurie, a woman of great privilege, had purchased her in Havana, brought her to work in the kitchen of a grand New

Orleans mansion and named her Athalie. To those on the outside, the Madame LaLaurie was a gracious and sophisticated lady, a socialite of impeccable taste.

The Madame and her husband Dr. LaLaurie had a penchant for hosting extravagant affairs, placing them high among the city’s elite. But when she was not basking in the brilliant beams of light dispersed by the crystal pendants of the chandeliers, she was a stern, ill-tempered woman and afraid of no one. Only one thing made her dark soul tremble. Madame LaLaurie lived in absolute fear of fire.

The memory of her brother’s charred remains bound within the debris of the family plantation had twisted her psyche. Some claimed that her father’s slaves were responsible, so she offered enormous rewards for their capture, all eleven of them.

On the day she returned from the devastation of her parent’s estate she was altered by rage and paranoia. She ordered her kitchen slaves chained in leg irons and attached to the rings embedded in the flagstone near the mantel of the hearth or to one of the heavy oaken tables.

“Each of you will do well to mind the height of the flames in this hearth. If a fire ever threatens this house, your screams will only serve as an alarm to save my family and you alone will burn.” LaLaurie had warned.

That merciless decree from the Madame had occurred almost nine years ago and Athalie had become well accustomed to the sound of those chains dragging across the stone kitchen floor. Her sweat soaked skin had polished and smoothed the shackle, and the calloused flesh above her left ankle gave testament to the daily plight she shared with two others. But on this day the torment would end.

Walking towards the kitchen as the sun peeked over the horizon Athalie knew that this morning would in many ways be like any of the other days within the whitewashed walls. Toussaint and Emile would hang the heavy brass pots in place while she arranged the long handled skillets. The ten gallon cast iron pots, dripping pans and toasting forks would be made ready, and the same mockingbird hunting scraps of bread would perch atop the courtyard latticework to sing his raspy tune.

Athalie stoked the coals and placed the logs upon the andirons with a slight smile. She embraced the heat of the embers. The heat, the fever of the kitchen as she called it, was so uncomfortable to the Madame that once the new day’s timber was fully ablaze, it kept her away like a contagious disease.

Athalie’s moment of amusement was fleeting however. Her eyes had been drawn to the rag doll sitting alone on the corner stool, a doll once belonging to Melyssa.

Two weeks earlier Madame LaLaurie in a fury chased the young girl across the courtyard. Upwards Melyssa fled, from staircase to staircase finally taking refuge on the roof of the three story home. Cowering under the shouting of her infuriated mistress and the cracking of the bullwhip, the child in a panic lost her footing and

fell to her death. Quickly hidden away in the middle of the night, she was later buried beneath the fountain of the flower.

The young girl, whose only mistake had been to snag the Madame’s hair during a morning brushing, was dead, and all of the slaves had been warned to never speak of her or her death ever again.

The very next day the fugitives began to arrive. The other slaves for whom Madame LaLaurie had posted a bounty were captured one by one and brought to 1140 Royal Street. The house servants told tales of Dr. LaLaurie and the Madame retreating to the attic space most each and every night. They spoke of screams of agony mixed with the Madame’s laughter coming from behind the locked attic door.

In those recent nights Athalie’s sleep had been disturbed by hushed, soul wrenching tones of misery. The humid night breeze would oftentimes dampen and carry the sounds of anguish from the attic far away to die in the night sky. But when the wind was just right, the moaning would reach her ears. Haunting whispers of agony, terrible decaying echoes of pain would come to rest beside her in the carriage house where she laid yearning for rest.

The sounds did not come alone. They provided a hideous undertone for a faint scent, one that Athalie knew well. It was a stench she first understood during the revolution in Haiti and the reason her family fled to Cuba. It was the pungent fragrance of death and she knew something was terribly wrong.

Staring into the rising flames of the hearth that morning she felt a quiet confidence. Someone from the outside, someone in authority would be coming soon. She would make sure of that. The large stack of empty potato sacks she had carefully gathered and stacked over the past two weeks lie within reach of her chain.

Smearing lard between each layer when no one was looking, she had bound them together nicely.

She pushed the heap of burlap past the hearth and underneath the door of the dumbwaiter, opening its door to reveal the long dark shaft that led up through all three stories of the mansion. Emile and Toussaint watched her. They knew what she was doing. They had all agreed that this was the only way.

Only stopping when their chains drew taut; the two men moved three steps into the alleyway. They were the lucky ones. Athalie’s chain would not allow her to leave the kitchen even by a few steps but she was no longer afraid of death.

She had lost her husband to the fighting in Haiti and the young Melyssa had been her own child. Her daughter’s life would stand for something.

She took the three glass jars from the pantry and removed the wax seals on two of them. Placing one on the dumbwaiter tray she poured the contents of the other over

the bundle of gunny sacks beneath it. With one last look towards the alleyway she nodded at Emile and Toussaint who both peeked anxiously around the doorway.

Nodding towards them, she turned and the last jar of lamp oil flew from her hand towards the hearth, crashing into the firebrick wall above the logs. An eruption of flames leapt from the hearth onto the burlap pyre she had constructed. The sacks ignited, and in a moments time smoke was pouring from the two doorways of the kitchen and billowing up the dumbwaiter shaft.

“Fire! Fire!” someone screamed from the parlor above. Hurried footsteps on the stairs made their way down towards the kitchen while Athalie huddled on the floor behind the wash basin. The whitewashed walls were blackening now and the heat was smothering. Rolling to her side she saw the carriage driver Bastien crouched in the stairwell struggling to appraise the scene.

“Bring buckets to the alley! Hurry bring the water now and alert the fire brigade, quickly!” he screamed. Offering Athalie only a brief glance of contempt, he ran back up the stairs to safety.

Dr. LaLaurie was frantic and had already ordered a house slave to run towards Bienville Street and rouse the men of the local fire company. Athalie struggled to breathe beneath the thick black smoke but soon she heard the unfamiliar voices and then the hissing sound of water emptied from buckets onto flames.

A clamor of hooves rang out as a three horse team pulled the steam engine into the courtyard. The men of Volunteer Company Number One scrambled to set the hoses. More water came, and then steam gave birth to white smoke as the fire warden shouted out his orders.

“Free these slaves from their bonds Mr. Perret. Search every floor for the injured and dispatch fire buckets and axes to every quadrant. You Mr. Babin to the main floor; I will reposition the hoses. Mr. Mouton, take your men to the upper stories.”

The sledgehammer fell true upon the chisel; the chain was parted and Athalie was carried towards the fresh air of the courtyard. Placing a wet cloth upon her brow the warden himself kneeled next to her as she battled with consciousness. His face was soiled but kind. As his men continued to fight the blaze, he turned once more to give a final mandate that brought with it the words that eased her soul.

“And you Mr. Roussel inspect the roof timbers and report back to me.”

“From the attic sir?”

“Well of course from the attic young man. Now hurry.”

Chapter 1 - A Cloister for Demons Loudun, France May 1st 1632- Parish of St-Pierre-du-Marche “The centuries of man are but moments to demons.”

The convent had become a prison of sorts and the Mother Superior sat awake staring into the darkness as the other women slept. She had been fighting the entity within her for days and felt she would soon fall victim to the control of the demon.

A light tap on the small shuttered window caught her attention and as she slowly opened it, she was met with the figure of a man standing in the shadows who whispered, “Sister this is all I can offer to aid you. Study the marked leaves of this book and do so tonight. It can be your salvation.”

The shadowy figure then handed her a small beeswax altar candle and leather bound book. As he raised them both through the window, the candle’s flame shone brightly on the book's crimson cover. In the flickering light she could distinguish a fearsome dragon sitting atop a more familiar emblem, the triple crown and crossed keys of the Pope.

“Bless you sister and God be with you,” was all the man said as he quietly shrunk away into the darkness.

Sitting nearby in the cold of a sparsely furnished rectory, the three men of God were huddled together near a dying fire and struggling with their task at hand.

Fathers Tranquille, Lactance and Surin – of the Capuchin, Franciscan and Jesuit orders respectively, each an expert in exorcism, now comprised the trinity of hope that had been assembled by the Cardinal to rid the village of its demons and to investigate the claims made against their fellow priest, Father Grandier.

“There must be a way to stop this now Father Tranquille. We cannot wait much longer. The sisters are severely afflicted and seem to have lost all control of their senses. The possessions grow more acute by the hour so pray tell me what the Cardinal has decided,” demanded a distressed Father Lactance.

“It is true my brother; we must do something and do so quickly. The Cardinal has approved the exorcisms but sends a message that we must perform them publicly,” Tranquille replied.

“Father, the Mother Superior seems to be possessed by a demon that is the leader of the others, and while she is battling in a most righteous way to control the depravity, might I suggest that we begin with her,” added Father Surin as he placed a

log on the dwindling flames causing a small eruption and a shower of embers that briefly illuminated the troubled face of Father Tranquille.

The priests had been observing the bedeviled women in their confinement for three days, periodically bringing them into the chapel and learning as much as they could about their calamity. For each of those long days of demonic observation they had eagerly awaited the blessing of the Cardinal to perform the rites. The demons would now be exorcised and that was welcome news, though none of the holy men would have ever chosen to do it publicly.

A spectacle was the last thing needed in Loudun, a troubled town already on the threshold of satanic hysteria. However, it was not their place to question the Cardinal but only to do as he instructed. There was no time to waste and so for the remainder of the night they conferred and orchestrated how they would each play their own specific roles in the public exorcism of the Mother Superior Jeanne des Agnes and the sixteen nuns that must be performed the very next day.

The town of Loudun had been rampant with tales of the devil and demons for several weeks even before the nuns were sequestered. The nuns now restricted to the living area of the convent were safely locked behind a door to which only the convent caretaker and Father Tranquille held a key. The sisters were allowed in the chapel once a day and only one troubled soul was granted admittance at a time. It was in this chapel that the nuns received their holy examinations and treatments offered by the three visiting exorcists while they had awaited further instructions from Rome.

Keeping the outlandish acts that the nuns now performed on a regular basis hidden away from the frenzied villagers was certainly what Father Tranquille held first in his mind when he had ordered their seclusion. That was why the insistence of a public exorcism by the Cardinal was so disturbing and considered by all three priests to be a horrible misgiving on the part of His Eminence. But there was no time for delay.

The priests agreed that if they could perform the exorcisms in the town square as soon as possible and without an official announcement it might limit the number of curious onlookers. While they must of course send urgent messages to other church officials in the area, their task would be easier with fewer townspeople in attendance and they would still be honoring the wishes of the Cardinal to conduct the rites in public.

In a town such as Loudun however one could hide away a secret for only so long.

The caretaker of the convent had overheard the priests as they talked in the rectory and stopped to listen as they contemplated their strategy.

Leaving the convent with his work day complete the caretaker hurried to his own personal sanctuary. After all it was his normal hiatus before continuing home to his good wife. Carrying with him a vicious thirst and the word of the church’s intentions to exorcise the nuns, he reached the crowded tavern to share a few pints of ale with his friends.

The people of Loudun had been waiting for such news and within two hours’ time, word of the upcoming spectacle had spread faster than the worst of plagues through the uneasy moonlit village and its neighboring hamlets.

Chapter 2 - The Exorcism at St. Croix Loudun, France May 2nd 1632 - The Public Square The bell tower sounded at ten o’clock the next morning, and like an alarm announced the coming spiritual struggle. In a most unnerving way, the bell tolled and echoed through the summer rain summoning more than 9,000 people who gathered anxiously to watch as the group of nuns, tied together by light cloth bindings, was lead into the public square of St. Croix, named so in honor of the holy cross.

The gathering crowd consisted mainly of peasants and farm laborers who had made their way into the heart of the town hoping in a strange way to see someone in a plight more dire than their own, as if that would somehow bring a comfort to their adversity laden existence.

Some carried effigies of the devil while still others carried whatever religious symbols they could find. Crosses, rosary beads, and other icons were spread throughout the crowd, but the most common piece of holy assurance seen that day was the medal bearing the likeness of Saint Amabilis of Riom, the French patron Saint who protected man against demonic possession.

The village tinsmith had profited handsomely by fashioning as many of the medals as he could for the spectacle and his daughter sold them at the front of his shop to anxious townsfolk who begged for them and waited nervously, clamoring for his most recent creation even as the metal was still cooling.

The crowd, silent in anticipation until now, watched as the three priests approached from the other side of the square which had become an evanescent theater of the unearthly. The onlookers began buzzing with activity; the older amongst them prayed while others pointed; mothers covered their children’s eyes.

The crowd gathered very closely to one another, and not to capture a prime viewing spot but solely to be nearer another believer as they formed a human cloak of security waiting to feed their rabid curiosity.

Many stood hand in hand staring upon the holy women of the Ursuline, those of whom so much talk and dark rumor had been spread. The governor of the town and castle sat high atop a stage which had been hastily constructed in the middle of the night and completed just an hour before by the local gallows maker. Sitting with him were all of the royalty of the church who resided near enough to Loudun to attend, along with his village administrator and the famed local astronomer IsmaĂŤl Bullialdus. The governor not believing in such nonsense as the spectacle unfolding

before him secretly hoped the craze would generate more travelers’ tax revenues for the struggling town.

One man stood away from the crowd perched alone, high above the throngs, hidden away at the top of the bell tower silently looking down upon the restless masses. Dressed in a fine slashed doublet, silk lace collar and short cape, the Count calmly twisted the signet ring on his left ring finger ever so slowly, intently watching as the priests approached the nuns, ready to undertake the labor for which they had been commissioned.

The ring given to him in Africa almost 1500 years before glowed ever so slightly.

He only thought of one thing. He hoped and prayed that Jeanne des Agnes had studiously examined the book he had given her the night before.

The group of nuns stood there quietly in their soiled robes. Noticeably absent were any of their usual head coverings. Their disheveled hair and sullen faces made the women appear as though they were half dead, as did the bluish tint to their skin.

They wore no shoes and looked void of any spirit, good or evil, until you looked into their eyes. A pulsating blackness caused their pupils so enlarged to completely cover the iris.

This was not the case with the Mother Superior Jeanne Des Agnes. She stood there in a sacred posture, dressed in her perfectly manicured tunic and scapula complete with her veil of authority. She was seemingly undisturbed by the incidents of the preceding days but was bound with the other members of the order all the same.

Then without warning the Mother Superior leapt forward from the rest of the nuns straining her bindings, and in a sudden rage destroyed the image of amity she had just seconds ago displayed. Speaking in a horrible echoing voice that rose above the crowd in a commanding and bellowing crescendo, the spirit within her shouted. “I am the great Asmodeus prince of the demons and ruler of the nine hells.

These women are now taken from you. Their souls belong to our master, the father of all evil and the ruler of this pitiful world. Bow down before our great power!�

As the demon finished speaking the entire flock of nuns began flailing and twisting their spines as if they had no backbone at all. They slung their necks about so ferociously and so violently that their heads hit both their backs and their chest and then moved sideways, invisibly shaken from one shoulder to another as if they had become totally disjointed.

Their contortions then as if in rehearsed unison changed to that of an unbecoming nature, one so shocking and inappropriate for servants of the Lord that the crowd shuddered and withdrew as if they were a common body that had experienced a depraved chill.

One of the Ursuline sisters screamed out, “Father Grandier has been with us all.

He is the reason we have fallen to the dark ones.”

As their undulations continued, the bindings which held the nuns together began to loosen and one by one each possessed soul broke free of their restraints.

Eyes bulging, bloody sweat dripping from their foreheads, staining their tunics, together they moved towards the three priests who stood their ground steadfastly firm in their beliefs.

“You will stop! You will bow down before the word of God our Father,” commanded Father Tranquille as he raised an old wooden cross above his head, one that had been taken from the church’s altar just two hours before.

Eight of the nuns immediately collapsed to the ground and lay motionless while eight remained standing, staring at the three learned priests. The ravenous group of nuns suddenly dropped to the ground on all fours, arched their backs in an extreme manner and began slowly crawling about as if stalking prey.

Lowering their heads below their shoulders the eight sisters resembled more a pack of wolves approaching their next victim than a group of pious women who had devoted their lives to their religion. They encircled the priests, gnashing their teeth, growling like dogs and flicking their tongues like evil flames that wished to taste of the priests flesh.

One of the nuns, a sister Lavey, stood again and shrieked out, “We have all known Father Grandier and he has known us all, as we have all known his bed.”

Her obscene gestures further horrified the crowd causing them in concert to step back once more, gripped by the intense and profound fear that was beginning to smother the town square.

“This is not true. These are all lies and a rebellious act against our church!” declared a voice from the crowd.

It was Father Grandier the same man being accused by the nuns of these immoral acts. He broke through their evil writhing circle and stood side by side with the three exorcists.

“If you are truly demons then you can certainly speak and understand other tongues, can you not?” he shouted towards the nuns. Steadfastly advancing towards the disordered group the good father spoke to them all in Greek saying, “Δείτε αληθινό σας εαυτό σήμερα μιλώντας σε αυτό με τη γλώσσα σας φρικτή δαίμονες, εσύ που είσαι πάντα να είναι καταραμένοι στις φωτιές της κόλασης “--- Show your true self now by speaking in this tongue you horrid demons, you who are forever to be cursed to the fires of hell”.

No answer came from the group of nuns and the convulsions subsided while a spectral silence fell upon the crowd until the Mother Superior, still standing tall like

a demonic shepherd possessed by the spirit within her answered; first in Greek “Σας είναι μια αδύναμη άνθρωπο πατέρα. Εσείς είστε που θα καίγονται,” and then in the native tongue “You are a weak man father. It is you who will burn.”

The crowded erupted with shrieks and gasps and many began to back further away with only the most curious and brave of onlookers making their way to the front of the assembled villagers.

Father Tranquille continued towards the Mother Superior and began to read from the rites of exorcism.

“God, the Father in heaven. God, the Son, Redeemer of the world. God, the Holy Spirit. Holy Trinity, the one God,” and the three priests behind him including Father Grandier though now on his knees exhausted from the week's events, responded in unanimity “Have mercy on us.”

Tranquille continued the ritual saying “In the name and authority of the Lord our God and his son who died for you I command you to leave this place.”

Father Tranquille walked towards the Mother Superior holding a St. Michael's medal in his right hand and a bottle of holy water in his left. He placed the medal on her forehead which like a heavy weight placed upon a burdened scale caused her to lower and kneel before him.

In Latin the priest recited “I exorcise thee, unclean spirit, the embodiment of our enemy, the entire specter, the whole legion, in the name of the Christ, to get out from this creature of God. He the Lord God commands thee.

“He who has ordered those cast down from heaven to the depths of the earth even unto hell itself. He who commands the sun on the skies and the winds and waters of the earth commands thee. He who was born of the Virgin Mary mother of God commands thee. Jesus of Nazareth commands thee!”

The Mother Superior, pushing down upon her own thigh with one hand, and lifting herself upwards struggled to touch the bottle of holy water with the other hand. When it was finally within her reach, she snatched it from the priest, held it firmly in her grasp, placed it high above her head and began pouring its blessed contents all over her body.

A loud roar came from deep within her, and as she cried out in that excruciating groan, she was lifted from the ground by an invisible force. Drifting there with outstretched arms and closed eyes, she hovered before the stunned town folk. Some of the villagers ran from the square while others fainted; but most were frozen in their stead by the unholy presence.

Floating two feet above the ground and as the remaining crowd looked on in horror she began smiling, opened her eyes and spoke to Father Tranquille.

“Asmodeus does not like water of any sort Father. It reminds him of his hated adversary, St. John the Baptist. He has gone and will not return, at least not for now.”

She then turned still suspended in the air towards the other nuns and gently floated back towards the ground reciting what she had read and memorized from the book the night before, finishing just as her feet touched the ground.

“I have looked into the abyss. I have seen the chambers of torture and disease. I have heard the anguish of your souls. You are not forever lost. These words and the knowledge of Solomon will cause you a righteous servitude and provide for your salvation. I possess that knowledge.”

And upon saying those words she produced from her tunic the book that she had received the night before, placed it near her heart and next to the crucifix around her neck. As she did so some in the crowd murmured as they saw the great dragon on the book's cover glow ever so slightly.

Suddenly two of the nuns began screaming and writhing, falling as some of the others had, to the ground in a heap. Of the sixteen nuns who had begun the unhallowed day bound to one another, only six remained standing before the Mother Superior. They quietly, and with heads bowed walked towards Jeanne de Agnes and kneeled before her.

The Mother Superior then turned to the three exorcists and Father Grandier.

“There is much fasting to do and we must become enflamed with prayer. We must return to the convent fathers. The evil has been weakened but the task is not yet complete.”

She began walking across the square and as she did so the six nuns rose and followed closely after her. Having taken ten paces she stopped and turned once again to the priests who remained affixed exactly to the spots where they had been standing throughout the entirety of the supernatural event.

“It is doubtful I can do this alone fathers. They are the demons of all religions.

They are the jinn and the succubus, the druids and the shedim. They seek the wanderer, the child of the devil himself. They are a legion and we have much work to do.”

The four priests having never seen such a mystical occurrence as a nun, who had exorcised herself and placed other demons under her control, silently followed the good sister towards the convent. As the Mother Superior turned away to walk from the square a glimmer caught her eye, a reflection from above, and she paused.

She looked upwards and her attention turned towards the man in the bell tower whose ring glistened in the sunlight. The two made eye contact for a brief moment and the Count simply bowed his head in her direction and disappeared into the

hollows of the tower. As he descended the stairs he said aloud and to himself; “It has begun.”

When the priests moving in quick step behind the nuns passed the gallows maker’s viewing stand, Father Tranquille took notice that the disbelieving Governor of Loudun was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter 3 - Immortal St. Germain Versailles, France 1723 – Palace of King Louis XV 91 years after the Loudun Possessions “Welcome to Versailles Count and thank you for being our guest during the celebration of this majority, the coming of age of our beloved King Louis XV,” said the Bishop de Fleur.

“Thank you, your Excellency; firstly, for reading my letter and for graciously taking the time to hear me on this important matter,” replied the Count. He then gave an appreciative bow before continuing.

“A great king and friend left us not long ago and it is an honor to attend here with you as another great king has come of age. I approach you now not only because you are Bishop of Frejus, but also because you are sure to be the true Chief Minister to his Highness. I am here to humbly seek your counsel and assistance for the city in the New World named after our departed Philippe, Duke of Orléans.”

“Ah, la Nouvelle-Orléans … But, my son, I am an old man, with some in the court even referring to me as an ancient ecclesiastic. I know little of the New World matters, but do know of you and have often wondered about your tutelage. People say you speak of past events with a detail that could only be known to those who have lived them. I have long wanted to speak with you regarding these matters. So as you see my son, I also have a personal interest in meeting with you Count, the man whom some say never ages.”

“Your Excellency I have always been a man of the good, a seeker and bearer of the truth. My work is often carried out within the courts of Kings and the walls of the Church. It is quite unfortunate that people are known to exaggerate my status. It is, I believe, many times the instance where I am confused with an ancestor of mine, or another man who is similar in appearance.”

“I see, my son, and exactly why do you approach me this day?” the Bishop asked with a wry smile.

“I come to you now regarding the attacks upon the Church, both of recent times and the last century. Those messengers of evil that have manifested themselves here in France will, I say to you most assuredly, continue their demonic and unholy works in the capital of French Louisiana. It is from this new city that they will endanger the whole of the Church.”

With a quizzical look the Bishop responded “Hmmm… I see; please continue.”

“Only the special enlightenment gained by certain orders of the Church here in France will insure the future of the light and the suppression of the darkness.

“La Nouvelle-Orléans is in dire need of those gifts gained and perfected here in France, your Excellency. Those talents that successfully defended the Church and mankind at Loudun must be used to protect the Church in French Louisiana,” the Count advised.

“It would seem, my son that you know of things that only contemporaries of the time would know, as some of those incidents you mention occurred almost a century ago. How pray tell would you know of any unusual skills gained by the Church at Loudun?”

“Dearest Bishop, we have been very close with the Church throughout generations of my family by way of our friendship with the House of Medici in Italy.

We have learned many things through our associations. I come to you personally today for only you can influence and suggest to Rome that two specific orders of God’s servants be sent to help, heal and care for the dying colony of New Orleans.”

Here the Bishop interrupted.

“And save the whole of the Church, my son; should I mention that to the Cardinal?”

“Perhaps the obvious needs of the colony are enough to be discussed with the Cardinal for now, as I am certain that you yourself will soon be appointed to that position.”

The Count paused a moment and then in a more serious tone continued, “I wish to accompany the Ursulines and Capuchins to Louisiana. There is an ancient evil that has found its way there and it must be stopped. In this vital matter, I believe I may be of assistance. I can certainly write to your Excellency and keep you informed of the colony’s development.”

“How might this venture be of benefit to France, dear Count? As you are aware, I do tutor and sometimes quietly advise our King and this might be of some interest to his Highness. And to be certain, just what is this evil you speak of, my son?”

The Count replied without hesitation.

“As to the benefit of France, I will assist the Crown in the pursuit of any knowledge it seeks and will be its obedient servant. I will become the truest friend to the court and warn of any matters that might threaten the kingdom, this I solemnly promise.

“The evil I speak of and that which I beseech your assistance to contain is the prophesied return of ‘The Acquirer’.”

“But the Acquirer was exiled long ago by the Lord Our Father to the land of wandering, the Land of Nod. Certainly you must know of this,” insisted the Bishop.

“I believe that he is returning. I know that many in authority within the Church have secretly believed that St. Paul in fact prophesied his return. I know too Your Excellency that several of our Popes have shared this belief based on the writings of the Sumerians who long ago described the evil man, his punishment and his prophesied return in their ancient texts.

“His return is also prophesied in another strange African religion; just as it is… well... more secretly in ours. I believe the Africans speak of the same thing our Apostle Paul did Your Excellency.

“The man of sin, the persecutor, the malicious murderer, is returning to our world. These…” the Count said as he handed forth the letter, “…are the names of two people I must humbly request go with me to the colony.”

“Hmmm…” the Bishop pondered “… our secret beliefs intertwined with African mystics...I must admit I find this curious. Africa is a treacherous, untamed, distant land that few are able to journey to. The accounts of your exotic travels must be true then, my son, and if you bring news from such a faraway land I must certainly take heed.

“And while I am interested to discuss with you further your depth of understanding as to how the Church feels about this obscure prophecy you describe, there is not the time now.

“Yet I will confess that there are those few who have been highly placed within the Church who do believe such things.” the Bishop hesitantly responded and then cast his eyes upon the letter.

“Might our good sister, Jeanne De Agnes, be written here?” he asked, as if seeing into the envelope he held in his hands still yet unopened.

“Your Excellency is wise. While I was not sure if she was still with us, I have written her name in request.”

“And our Capuchin preacher Tranquille, does he appear in your hand upon this letter?”

“You need not open the letter, Excellency, as you can clearly see my requests without the trouble,” replied Count St. Germain.

The Bishop looked towards both entrances to the room before quietly answering.

“They are both still with us, my dear Count, and I believe the Church would not be the least bit concerned if they and the others were to accompany you to Louisiana. There are whispers here in the halls of Versailles that the survivors of the possessions at Loudun are to blame for the plagues at Marseilles and elsewhere. Not only did they survive Loudun, but as you must now know, our learned Count, they are all aged past 100 years and yet they have not changed in appearance since those days of 1632.”

“I must admit that I did hear a small bit of gossip from Rome about the priest,” answered the Count.

“And what of the other six… what of the nuns?” asked the Bishop.

“That, of course, would be a decision I will leave to the grace of the Church.”

“My dear son, grace has no place in this decision. The Holy Father himself has visited the Eight of Loudun, as they all now reside in Rome. If the two you request are to leave with you, then all eight must go out of Rome and to the New World.

They cannot be separated.

“Leaders of the church are in fact becoming troubled with these eight, believing them to have become more mystics than God’s servants. So perhaps it is a proper time for them to go with you to Louisiana.

“I will send messengers to Rome; to the Santa Maria Della Concezione dei Cappuccini Church, where your fellow travelers are being … protected, shall we say, in the Capuchin Crypt. I will also send a message to the Holy See. You will be summoned when we have an answer.

“I actually did anticipate from your first letter Count, that your matter was one of importance and have arranged an apartment for you here at Versailles for as long as you need. You have also been granted an audience with the King tomorrow, so please enjoy his hospitality tonight. Is there any other service I might offer you my son?”

The Count paused a moment and then quietly asked, “Is there any mention from Rome of a book that the Mother Superior carries, a red leather bound book bearing the likeness of a dragon and carrying the seal of His Holiness?”

“I am unaware of any such book my dear Count, perhaps you should travel to Rome and pay the good sister a visit and ask her yourself,” replied the Bishop “Thank you, your Excellency, I believe I will. I am very thankful for your time and do believe we have this day made the proper decision. The gifts of those who will travel with me will certainly upset the schemes of any who seek to harm the Church,” the Count added graciously.

“I often seek the middle ground when advising both the King and the Church and believe this to be along that course. To be sure, it seems you know of these matters regarding those who wish to harm the Church far better than I, though I will look forward with great anticipation to your letters from the colony regarding them.”

The Bishop then placed his hand upon the shoulder of the Count and warned him.

“Please understand that these endowments you mention, the gifts, as you call them that these eight souls received in Loudun have not yet become perfected talents, not even after almost a century has passed. The truth my son is that these

eight and their character are not at all what they once were. Never forget this, not even for a moment.”

The Bishop then regained his holy countenance.

“Please also pass along my blessings and good tidings to our pastor in New Orleans and … my dear Count …if you do find this great evil you are devoted to protecting us from, there in our far away French Louisiana, then God be with you.

However, if you do not find it, be forewarned that those eight whom you wish to accompany you may bring with them an evil just as dark. In fact, it is a force so monstrous and inconvenient to the Church that we who serve her are easily convinced to send it away with you and separate ourselves by an ocean.”

Walking side by side with the Bishop through the ornate Hall of Mirrors, the Count felt as though the Church which he had known well for all these many years might this time know more than he.

He did know, however, that he had one thing the servants of the church did not – not the Bishop, any Cardinal, or even His Holiness the Pope. Count St. Germain had time; time enough to see prophecies fulfilled as he had before over thousands of years.

In this case, though, he knew he must stop the evil; stop the original liar from returning. Even he would not be able to survive the fulfillment of this prophecy that the ancient Africans had foretold; the same revelation that the Catholics kept shrouded in a cloak of reticence.

Chapter 4 - The Child and the Specter June 22, 1810 New Orleans, Louisiana 178 years after the Loudun Possessions The struggling city was taking shape and had just been infused with more immigrants. The free Creole French joined the Americans and the European French from St. Dominique, along with countless slaves. Thousands had recently arrived and New Orleans was now the most populous city outside of the original 13 American colonies.

As the summer moon shone down on the city and the humidity engulfed the many newcomers, some of the early residents were making ready for their most sacred night. It had been a busy time for the family of 66 Rue d’Amour and a day of tremendous labors of faith for their fellow believers.

The cobblestone and dirt streets had been full of activity. People had greeted one another with smiles in anticipation of the events to come. St. John's Eve was the most important night in the Voodoo religion and many anxiously awaited the chance to see their long lost ancestors break the veil of death. On this approaching magical night's tide, precious offerings would be made.

The preparations for St. John’s Eve had taken most of the day, and many in the family had retired exhausted at six o’clock. Madame D’Arcantel left the home that night for her yearly tarot reading by her closest friend: Sanite Dede, the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. It was also expected that the Madame's daughter Marie would venture off to the chapel at the Ursuline convent as she did every evening at her appointed time.

They would both return home soon though as they would certainly require a favorable night's rest. The following day would bring much more work, including preparing food for the feast and the final planning of the rites. There would be the blessing of the flour used for the drawing of the veve's, those spiritual symbols of ritual drawn upon the ground by the priestess.

A careful selection of animals for sacrifice, the placing of new skins on the sacred drums and the adorning of the devotees would all be carried out by the voodoo elders. Those who would be possessed by the Loa, the spirits, would be people who had been carefully culled and properly dressed for the most important religious occasion of the year.

The young Marie lay down upon her bed for a moment. Her two half-sisters already lay sleeping just across the room. Struggling with the exhaustion of the day

Marie finally convinced herself to rise and walk the few short blocks and retreat to the place where she felt the most secure.

The streets were very quiet this night but for the occasional shopkeeper closing business for the day. Walking up the granite steps to the threshold Marie slowly entered through the large cypress doors of the chapel. She walked into the dimly lit sanctuary in a quiet and respectful way as she always did. She continued up the center aisle of the church towards the altar and nodded in silence towards one of the familiar Ursuline sisters who was walking in the opposite direction towards the doors that Marie had just entered as she customarily did at this time.

The New Orleans sun having already set left the task of lighting the sanctuary to the moon and the many candles that adorned the church. The ornate stained glass windows and their usual daylight glory had been softened by the nightfall yet the full moon still gave depth and identity to the people captured in the glass.

Marie knew that it was the end of the worship day at the chapel, and as she had done so many times before, she knelt just to the right of the pulpit facing the glorious altar. The scene depicted behind the altar had become a comforting one to her. The magnificently painted images created a magical atmosphere depicting a glorious ascension into heaven with righteous angels suspended amongst the whitest of clouds.

This haven she so enjoyed had been introduced to her just months before by Sister Gabrielle, whom she met by chance one day as Marie curiously peered inside the chapel door. But it was the Mother Superior of the convent – Jeanne De Agnes – who personally arranged Marie’s private seven o’clock meditation.

Marie preferred this time of day to all others. She could pray undisturbed and reflect in solitude on the day's events. This night she pondered the two religions she practiced. She knew that some of the people of the Catholic Church had a passing interest in Voodoo but most were mainly afraid of the mysterious religion. One was certainly her inherited belief system and the other while at first a cloak of protection from those who feared Voodoo was becoming more interesting to her.

The servants of this convent though seemed more than a little intrigued with Marie and allowed the child special privileges such as this exclusive arrangement for contemplation. Marie noticed similarities in the two beliefs yet there was something more that lured her to this convent, a feeling of mystery, a beckoning. She felt as if she needed to be there and hoped to someday know these Ursuline sisters much better, yet she was still unclear as to why that hope even truly existed.

She had noticed that many of the adults had been treating her differently recently. Just this day she had overheard the whispers between her mother and the

Voodoo Queen Sanite Dede. In hushed tones they spoke of a calling and a destiny for the young Marie.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sounds of the main chapel doors closing and they announced like the regular chimes of a clock that she was now almost alone. The cypress locking bar fell into its cradle with a hollow thud that echoed throughout the house of worship disappearing softly beyond the altar. As was usual, that reverberation was followed closely by Sister Evangeline turning the tangle of keys as she locked the heavy wooden doors. This activity knelled the familiar and muffled sound of one last jangle and chink as she placed the collection of keys back into her tunic and quietly left the chapel through the convent annex.

Marie as if on cue then bowed her head and began her prayers. She prayed that this year's St. John's Eve would bring blessings to her family and also to the city that they so dearly loved. After only a moment or so, a faint and unexpected knocking intruded upon her meditation.

Tap... tap... tap came the sound from directly behind her near the doors which had just been so recently secured. She turned to look in the direction of the disturbance but could not see the source of the tapping. 'Was someone trying to enter?' she wondered.

Tap, Tap, Tap but louder and faster this time like the sound of a stern schoolteacher striking a rod against her desk to gain the attention of a disorderly class and then a voice.

“Why do you worship here child?” asked a troubling female utterance from within the shadows. “They have nothing to teach you here, these people of the cross.”

“Who are you and where do you stand? I cannot see you. Where are you?” asked a startled Marie.

“I am here,” replied the voice and as those words were spoken a hideous figure stepped from the shadows of the foyer into the dim light being offered up by the prayer candles at the rear of the chapel.

Moving as if floating just above the ground, the skeletal figure of a woman with ragged gray clothing draped about her moved slowly towards the center aisle of the chapel. As she moved closer Marie could see growths of flesh still hanging from the specter's bony frame like Spanish moss struggling to cling to a storm battered live oak. Her long disheveled disarray of jet black hair was strewn about her face, gaunt chest and shoulders which were still mostly covered in a thin almost transparent pale blue skin and she stared at Marie with her red piercing eyes aglow.

“Why do you worship the gods of the white man, child?” shrieked the presence.

She then turned her head slowly like a great horned owl might and in a darker even more aggravated tone spoke again.

“Young, foolish, Marie; you disgrace the ancients, blaspheme the Loa and displease our God Bondye.”

“What are you?” Marie stammered.

In that instant and in a violent maneuvering the creature burst higher into the air and flew over the girls head creating a foul wind of rage in such a velocity that it unsettled the girl's tignon. Holding her dislodged headscarf with one hand Marie quickly turned about to follow the specter’s path. But as she shifted her eyes towards the altar she was confronted with the familiar forms of the Mother Superior, the Capuchin Pastor and six Sisters of the Ursuline, three to each side of the elders, all with their heads bowed as if in prayer.

The grotesque spirit floated above them and shouted, “You must stop worshiping these false things child. You must come home to your own people. These people of the cross are poisoning your spirit!”

The specter became quiet and looked down upon the faithful of the church with a revolting stare. In that moment of silence, the nuns, the Mother Superior and the priest lifted their heads in unison to look in Marie's direction. But they were not as Marie had known them. They were faceless with only the darkest black appearing beneath the nun’s veils and the monk’s hood; only a black emptiness where their faces should have been.

As Marie stared at them trying to see inside the darkness, trying to find a glimmer of hope or protection, a small pure red flame in the shape of the cross formed and began to grow in their faceless dark. As she watched the flaming crosses in the faces of the convent servants gradually grow in size, a great red cloud took shape behind the malevolent spirit floating above them, and a hiss like that of a snake filled the room.

The skeleton spirit’s figure slowly faded and was replaced by an even more appalling beast. The creature which now appeared above the altar was the embodiment of a man but above the torso were three separate heads and great wings like that of a bat extended from its back.

The green skinned head of a man with the pointed ears of a gargoyle was positioned at the center. The head of an angry bull protruded over the right shoulder of the monster while the head of a fearsome ram sat upon the left. The man's head wore a crown and bellowed to all in his presence.

“I am Asmodeus king amongst demons. Release Kayin, release the master’s son and return the 106 leaves, or I shall have your soul for all eternity.”

As he spoke, Marie watched in terror as the crosses burning in the faceless servants of the Lord transformed into flaming red dragons and those flaming dragons began to emerge from the featureless and motionless bodies of the faithful, rising slowly towards the three headed monstrosity as if to attack him. The three mouths of the crowned demon boomed together making a sound like the screaming of a thousand tortured souls and before Marie could take her next breath, the demon vanished. Then there was a silence; a long uneasy silence and thereafter... exhaustive and unbroken darkness.

Marie's scream burst through the silence of the night and punched small holes into her private blackness. She felt human hands grasping both of her arms whose tugging mussed her now sweat soaked clothing as she struggled to break free. Lying flat on her back, she fluttered her eyelids and with the aid of the candlelight that hovered above her she began to recognize the forms which held her arms and had raised her to a sitting position. Three worried but familiar faces were there at her side dressed only in their nightgowns.

“Marie... Marie, wake up child. You are having night terrors. Wake up child. We are here and you are safe at home,” said her Grand-mere standing above her bed holding the candle that had guided her back to consciousness. She had never been so happy to see her two sisters and hear the calming harmony of the three voices around her.

“Grand-mere,” said the troubled child, “it was a dream, of this I am sure, but the spirits in this dream called me by name, and their presence was evil. They were angry and asking for me to return things that I have never seen or even know of.”

The Grand-mere listened intently. She secretly favored Marie but would of course never do anything to let the other two girls even sense it. Marie had always been the smartest of the three girls. Although she often showed disinterest in mundane schooling, she would memorize and perfectly imitate the mannerisms and speech of every one she had ever met, making her intriguing … almost a novelty to those who visited the humble household. It was a trait that would serve her well in the future.

The three sisters not only shared the same room but also shared the same first name, Marie; so as happened quite often, the Grand-mere simply pointed to one and instructed, “Go to the kitchen and prepare some water for the coffee.

“You, my dear…” pointing to the other half sister, “…go fetch your mother and bring her here quickly, and say to her your sister has dreamt of evil things this night.

Ask your mother to bring the Mambo with her; now hurry child.

“Now, my dear girl…” the Grand-mere said to the awakened but still shaken dreamer, “… let us go down to the kitchen and talk about your dream and I will help you to understand its meaning.”

Chapter 5 - Dreams and Prophecies The half-sister ran as fast as her feet would carry her to find her mother, who was nearby, just next to the Dumaine Street Brickyard. Upon finding the house of the priestess, she began banging on the door.

The home at 66 Rue d’Amour was slowly coming back to life and the Grandmere lit three candles, placed them on the kitchen table and began to chant in Creole, a slow reverberating chant that seemed to offer a protection to the house itself. When she had completed the chant, she instructed the child.

“Now, my dear, say a prayer to the Loa Shango and ask him to help you to remember the events of your dream.”

As the child Marie began to pray, the front door to the house opened and her mother, Marguerite D’Arcantel, and two others hastily entered the house. These other two were Sanite Dede the Voodoo Queen and Jeanne Montaigne, or Doctor John, as many in the city called him.

The girl continued with her silent invocation as her Grand-mere had insisted without taking notice of the newly arrived guests. The adults silently gathered at the old wooden table with peeling yellow paint where Marie sat praying. The half-sisters were prompted to retire to their bedroom by a simple hand gesture, and even though they did so quietly without objection, still their Grand-mere walked them towards the stairs.

Sanite Dede spoke first as the child finished her prayers.

“Now tell us what you saw in your dream, dear girl, and try to remember each detail as best you can.”

The dreamer began speaking slowly. She retold the dream. She told of the specter and the demon. She described the faceless dark and the flaming red dragons.

Marie appeared frightened once more, but her mother touched her on the shoulder saying, “Continue my child, you are protected here.”

“The great demon roared, as if he were speaking to all of us, ‘Release Kayin, release the master’s son and return the 106 leaves, or I shall have your soul for all eternity.’ Then he made a horrible sound and that mother is when I awoke frightened and crying.”

Sanite Dede looked at the child for a moment and examined the faces of the others sitting there at the table before beginning to speak.

“The first spirit you have dreamt of is Marinette, an evil and violent female Loa known well to us. It has long been thought that Marinette may also be a powerful

demon. It is very unusual for her to appear in her own form, and this foretells the crossing of a powerful evil into our world.

“The second creature must certainly be a leader of demons known not to us but to the Catholic Church, because the demon you describe floated over the church’s devout nuns and in front of the altar, their sanctuary, without showing fear until the flaming dragons appeared.

“The 106 leaves that the three headed demon asked you to return are the pages of a sacred book titled LE VERITABLE DRAGON ROUGE, The True Red Dragon, the most powerful and feared book known to ours and many other religions. It is with this written word that the ancient King Solomon had demons serve as slaves and build his great temple.

“The flaming dragons in the faces of those you saw represent this book which allows the serviteur, the mystic, to have control over any demon and to place them in bondage. The holder of this book can also enter into pacts with the leader of the infernals himself. Demons and evil Loa alike fear this book and it has been kept safe for thousands of years and at the cost of many lives.

“Kayin, the name that the demon mentioned, I feel may be the son of Satan himself, whom the Catholics call the Antichrist although I tell you now; I cannot be sure.

“All of these things are a part of the prophecies known to us since the first Haitian priestess was awakened. These prophecies are written as the Marinette Prophecies of the Screeching Owl. They came to us from ancient Africa and were first received into our care in Haiti and are still with us today.

“Your dream, my child, is of future events drawing nearer and your appearance in the dream has made you a part of these prophecies. In two days’ time, the day after the celebrations of St. John's Eve are complete, we will begin teaching you the way and showing you the spiritual truths of this world.

“Dr. John here will begin your tutelage in gris-gris, and I will teach you each and every day the many spells, potions, rituals and incantations known to our belief and more importantly how to protect the book of The True Red Dragon. It is our calling to insure that book never touches the hands of one who practices the dark magic.”

After a long pause Sanite Dede looked straight into the eyes of the girl and added, “You should prepare yourself to play a great part in the future of our belief, Marie Laveau.”

Looking at Marie and recognizing the confusion of youth, Doctor John said, “You must remember, child, the things you will learn are meant to do good. You will be tempted by the power you will gain. It is meant to be a power of protection and

not influence. You must pray starting tonight, to use everything you learn for the protection of our people.”

Marie spoke, “I will say the prayers and I promise to you and my family to use the knowledge for the good of us all.”

As if not convinced with the sincerity of the child’s statement, Sanite Dede continued, “I will speak with the Capuchin Pastor Pere Antoine of the St. Louis Cathedral, and we will discuss your dream together.”

“But why would you discuss such things with the Catholics?” Marie’s mother asked.

Sanite looked at Marguerite and after a moment replied.

“Certainly you heard the girl tell us of the dream. We are not involving them sister. They already play a curious part in our prophecies, a part I wish to know more of, especially of this Kayin, as the name is new to our writings. I will only learn of these things by speaking with the pastor of the cathedral. We have invoked their saints to conceal our own worship, yet it seems now we may need to join with them to fight against the return of a powerful evil.”

Just then, there was a loud and repeated knocking on the front door of 66 Rue d’Amour. Startled, Marie’s mother arose, made her way to the front of the house and opened the door.

Standing there in the darkness was a cloaked figure. The man moved nearer to the entrance of the home stepping out of the shadows, and Madame D Árcantel recognized his countenance in an instant. It was the Pastor of the St. Louis Cathedral, Pere Antoine of whom they had just spoken and his manner was greatly distressed.

“My dear sister, we have been given a sign tonight at the altar in the Ursuline Convent. I must urgently speak with Sanite Dede. There is an angry and malevolent spirit among us and it is time that a prophecy of our church is shared with her and other leaders of your religion.”

The rest of the occupants of the home had made their way from the kitchen into the foyer and upon hearing the words of the Pastor, Sanite Dede spoke in reply.

“We will come to the convent, three of us, as we too, this very evening had a similar omen come to us through a dream. Marie,” she said to the young Laveau, “go prepare yourself in a proper dress for the convent. Your instruction will begin tonight.”

Chapter 6 - History's Tell-tale Yarn New Orleans, Louisiana - Present Day If it wouldn't be that much trouble, and if you have the time; I have a tale I would like to share with you. While stories have been told for all of the ages, I do believe that in this particular anecdote you just might find some interest. My journey began at a younger more innocent age, an age from which most people salvage only scattered memories.

My memories of those times are carved into my soul and the bonds we formed, my young friends and I have lasted all these years. Our story might well be considered a fable by some, but throughout time, legend and fable have been blended together with truth. The stories told in the great halls of men, those elaborate myths of epic saga have existed since the beginning. Storytellers may weave a compelling fabric of illusion but those tales often conceal a sacred reality.

Whether our story is lost in the confusion and deception of your circumstance is not of my concern. That you understand a need exists; one that supersedes all others is all that I can hope for as I relate to you the improbable events of the days that have passed in my life and the lives of my closest friends.

Since the beginning of time whether drama or fable, each and every tale contains its own Gordian knot and so perplexing and intricate are the mysteries of the religious texts of man that once untied by human intellect; basic beliefs willingly change. No matter how secluded within the soul, human belief undulates and faith flutters each time a parable is told.

This is our story. It is undeniable and deep in the recesses of your heart, in that place where ancient bloodlines intertwine, it will resonate and you will believe it.

For the six of us the prophecy was revealed in the summer of nineteen seventyfive, but for the others the struggle began long ago, so long ago that it has outlived many of man’s deities and some of his demons.

Chapter 7 - Spiritual Gumbo Our city is a very unusual place, a magical town. It’s a place that infects you, a place that you can feel, and a haven for spirits. New Orleans is a mystical mixture of beliefs and passions that can seep into your psyche and expose the recesses of your soul.

I came of age in that esoteric place where the edible fragrances created by chefs and the Dixieland sounds produced by stoned jazz musicians commingle in the air and create a thick sense of untamed easiness.

The historical fabric of the city is clearly evident in the facade it shows to the world. The barrooms, spiritual emporiums, churches and never ending displays of ornate ironwork prevalent on so many of the buildings have several tales to tell. This strange and crazy blend of buildings more resemble people aging as they display their wrinkles through their own certain style of fern-covered balconies, crooked shutters and quiet stone courtyards.

Among this intriguing architecture – and unlike any other place on earth – cultures, religions and sins of the flesh collide and live closely together in unusual harmony. It is a place, rampant with spirits of legend and a hiding place for history’s bad intentions.

Subtly cloaked behind the wonderful food, music and craziness abide hushed horrific stories and some of yesteryear’s most shameful acts. Our city, one that is in architectural and spiritual decay teeters on the brink of all that is good turning to evil at any moment. New Orleans is a living, breathing paradox.

I was given the name Christopher at birth, but you may call me Chris. In my younger years I was never someone who would stand out in a crowd and always considered short for my age; five foot five and not a bit taller until the 10th grade.

Conditioned and prepared for all the city had to offer; when I graduated from baby food, it was on to Creole red beans and rice.

I walked amongst the Gothic cemeteries of our city by the time that I was six. I grew up a product of the history, nationalities and religions that had formed a cultural bond and created the allurement of New Orleans.

The heart of our city is known as the Vieux Carré, but is more commonly referred to as the French Quarter. The locals simply call it ‘The Quarter’.

Now ‘the Quarter’ has a smell about it and that smell changes with each block you walk, and gets more intense with the heat of the day. In an instant, the

dominant odor can change from the noxious pungency of a public restroom to the mouth-watering aroma of slowly cooked gumbo.

Sympathetic sounds from the twenty four hour bars offer a rhythmical relief; it’s the tempo of the bayou, asking you to ignore the few unpleasant odors, to focus on the ethereal breeze of jazz and stay.

When trekking through the French Quarter it is always a good idea to pay special attention to where you are walking. The uneven cobblestone and brick sidewalks are tricky enough to navigate, but that isn’t the worst of the dangers.

Policemen ride horses through those streets and overworked mules pull sweating tourists in heavy buggies, often leaving behind what horses and mules do.

Sometimes a tourist from some other tame place might also leave behind a little unpleasant token of their previous night out, where they had challenged the city to a drinking contest and lost.

My personal social baptism occurred when I was fourteen and my real awakening began the morning my entire family, made our first journey together down a scandalous street named Bourbon.

For a fourteen-year-old, well…New Orleans just happened to you. You controlled nothing. You simply soaked it in and filtered out what didn’t make sense. I was riding the adolescent rapids of the twenty-four-hour, three hundred and sixty five day a year party that is my hometown.

Dad would watch me out of the corner of his eye as we walked down Bourbon Street mainly to see what I was looking at because there were a lot of things a young guy shouldn’t really see. Many things would catch your attention but there was an unspoken rule as to how long your glance might remain affixed to a certain oddity.

There was an unseen, implied and understood moral restriction that would without warning, cause your head to turn away. That was the beginning; your initiation, the pubescent first steps of a New Orleans gentleman.

A typical journey down Bourbon Street demands that you navigate your way through people drinking, singing, and sometimes stumbling into you, but that is a part of the good time, part of the experience.

Doomsday religious zealots carry signs through the partying crowd that read “THE END IS NEAR” and “REPENT” as if to try and balance the spiritual schizophrenia. Even in the daylight hours the entire landscape is accented by flashing neon signs, though their colors are dulled by a combination of the hot New Orleans sun and the motley characters you walk among.

It is a human zoo in many ways. People from all over the world, many from places with stricter social mores; escape their commonplace existence only to be captured by a boulevard of debauchery.

I remember that first walk well. I remember smiling.

Chapter 8 - Gris - Gris On that day of initiation my grandma would offer her own interpretations.

“Christopher and I are going to make a little side trip. We will see you in an hour next to the statue.” she shouted ahead to the rest of our band.

She took me by the hand, and off we went, passing directly behind the St. Louis Cathedral. Yes, there it was; in the midst of all the crazy debauchery, Voodoo magic and unrestrained jazz stood a Catholic cathedral.

In front of that cathedral sat a glorious statue of Andrew Jackson the victorious commander of the Battle of New Orleans rearing upwards on his valiant steed. We would meet up with the family there, later. My Grandma had spoken and we were off on our own.

“Where are we going, Grandma?” I asked.

“I’m taking you to a Voodoo shop,” she replied with a smile and with a wink continued. “The sheltered are the weakest of us all.”

I smiled back, thinking how cool it was to have a Grandma like that who would sneak you away so you could see something new and exciting. As we turned the corner onto St. Peter Street, the sign before us read – New Orleans Original Voodoo Market.

When we walked through the door, a tiny brass bell alerted those inside to our arrival. Candles and voodoo dolls were everywhere, shelves of them beckoning like inanimate sirens for someone to take them home.

My senses were in overload. Incense was burning everywhere and the scents were intoxicating.

“Today we have a blend of cinnamon and vanilla with a hint of frankincense filling the store for our Loa,” said the lady from behind the counter, as if she could read my mind.

“What’s a Loa?” I asked.

“Loa are the spirits that we worship child. Would you like to light this candle for the Queen Marie Laveau?” she asked.

“I guess so,” I replied, and I touched the flame to the candle’s wick. The candle was lit and the tip of the long match she had given me burst into a second small purple flame before extinguishing itself. The lady looked at me as if she knew me, then took the lifeless matchstick and disappeared into the back of the store.

Countless candles sat atop the many shelves that lined the walls of the shop.

Some were shaped like animals and others like a bride and groom standing at the

altar. Wax castings of coffins, skeletons and crosses sat together inharmoniously.

Other sorts of tall, thinly painted glass jars illuminated by the fiery wick within sat nearby but they looked familiar to me.

“Those jars look like the candles that my Catholic friends have in their houses...”

I said while pointing out the tall frosted glass, “…well, except for the picture of the skull.”

As my eyes continued to take in all of the spell-casting products the store had to offer, I noticed the altar. There, sitting on a very old wooden table were several crosses and at least twenty burning white candles. A bottle of rum towered above some lavender blossoms and next to the delicate arrangement laid a half smoked cigar. Perfectly positioned right in the center of it all was the painting of a lady who appeared to be the subject of privileged spiritual adoration.

“That Christopher ...” my Grandma informed me noticing my interest “... is Marie Laveau, the most powerful Voodoo Queen in the history of New Orleans. She lived between 1794 and 1881 and helped to protect our city. But you didn't want to get on her bad side because if you did …well, you just didn’t want to sweetheart.”

One voodoo doll in particular garnered my attention and I picked it up and showed it to my Grandma. It was black, with a skeleton face and had long black hair.

I was guessing it was a woman because she wore ragged black clothing that looked like a dress. As I held her in my hands, an older Creole lady appeared from a doorway, slowly parting the black-and-white carved wooden beads that were hanging from the door frame.

“The child chose Marinette,” she said in a curious tone. “Now be careful with her: she can misbehave and has a very dirty mouth and is always swearing at the other spirits and telling them nasty jokes. I made that doll myself child and it is the only one I have ever made of her, so by choosing it, you must take this.”

She reached into the pocket of her multihued apron and handed me a small red cloth bag tied at the top with a leather binding.

“This is a gris-gris bag for your protection during travels. Keep it with you at all times. The Loa and Queen Marie will protect you.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” I said like any polite Southern kid would, though I felt kind of awkward holding the thing.

I wondered if maybe I should choose another doll that didn’t come with … well, you know, protection. I felt like the old lady hadn’t really told me the whole story and as I held the Marinette doll, the other shop attendant who had given me the matchstick was peering at me in the strangest way.

My Grandma paid for the voodoo doll and I placed the gris-gris bag in my right pocket as instructed and we were off to find the rest of the family. Leaving the shop

and just before that old wooden door closed behind us I swear I heard someone whisper, “She is coming soon.”

As we walked back towards Jackson Square I could feel a strange vibration in the air. I watched the other people around me enjoying the unseasonably cool afternoon but to me the old city was beginning to feel like a moral battleground.

I remember hoping that the rest of the family would meet us soon so that we could all retreat to the normalcy of our own neighborhood. I didn't know why I was uneasy but I had seen enough of the French Quarter. It was closing in on me and I wanted to go home.

It wouldn’t be long before I would understand that religion, magic and carnality were blended together in the French Quarter like a simmering, temperamental gumbo; a very unsettled and volatile dish.

There is an old Louis Armstrong song called Basin Street Blues. The lyrics refer to the city as 'New Orleans – Land of Dreams'.

Yeah, but they aren't all sweet ones.

Chapter 9 – River Sand While I was absorbing at a very young age, things that outsiders to our city would not experience until much later in their lives, there were some other hometown rarities I quite enjoyed as a teen. You see, one of the things we did not have in New Orleans was a natural hill. Our city is completely flat and parts of it are even sinking.

Every once in a while, a young guy like me was lucky enough to have a dump truck deliver a temporary hill right to his own front yard and that particular summer day it would be my turn.

It was a beautiful sunny, breezy morning and the dump truck arrived right on time. My thoughts were focused on the bicycle and skateboard jumps that my best friend and I would build on that pile of sand but this was not all fun and frolic for me or my dad. In fact we were about to be involved in trying to keep our sinking front yard level with the foundation of our house and there was much work to be done. That sand would be spread across the entire yard to raise its level but it all couldn’t be done in one day and when my Dad got tired of moving the wheelbarrow around and shoveling; that sand pile belonged to me and my best friend Mark.

Mark St. Germain and I met all the way back in second grade when we were both seven. Mark was about my height, had jet black hair and was a lot quieter than me.

Well most people were, but when he talked he made a hell of a lot of sense.

We usually hung around together just the two of us and that day Mark and I were deeply involved in strategically placing pieces of plywood on the sand pile and shaping the hill to the heights we wanted to jump when all of a sudden and at almost exactly the same time; our “bike radars” went off. When you were fourteen years old and cars would pass down the street, they went unnoticed. I mean, no kids would be coming into our territory in a car. But a bicycle, well that was a different thing altogether.

Whether you first saw a bike out of the corner of your eye or heard the crisp gripping noise that bike tires make on the hot streets of a New Orleans Saturday afternoon, you were immediately alert, like little human prairie dogs. It was two bikes this time, two kids we had never seen before and one kid was really …really big.

They pulled right up onto my driveway and stopped in the space just before the sidewalk begins.

“Hey guys,” the bigger one said.

He must have been at least 16. He had dark brown hair, and even though he was much bigger than us, he looked nice enough.

“How’s it going?” I said, and the smaller one with blonde hair replied.

“Hi, I’m Greg Theriot and this is my big brother Steve… we just moved in over on Princeton Street.”

Steve was so much bigger than Mark and me. Mark was thin like me and ran really fast, faster than I did and when we played street football I could always throw a deep pass to Mark for a touchdown.

But looking at Steve I couldn’t imagine him going out for a long pass and I certainly didn’t think our newly constructed bike ramp stood a chance against the massive stranger. He almost looked too big for his bike. His hair was cut into a tuft that just sat there on the top of his head and made him look like some kind of friendly ogre visiting the neighborhood. When he spoke his voice was really deep, his speech slow and deliberate. It commanded your attention, that's for sure.

Greg was the total opposite. He was about our size but a little ganglier. His hair was blonde and he had a look on his face like he wanted to tell you a dirty joke or something. It was like a permanent grin, kind of like the Joker from Batman. The only thing the two brothers had in common were the braces they both wore.

“Cool, I’m Chris Landry and this is Mark St. Germain,” I replied. “This is my house and Mark lives right down there.”

Then Mark added, “Yeah I saw your big moving truck a few days ago.”

And then he offered the ultimate hand of friendship.

“You guys want to get dirty or what?”

Well, they got off their bikes, hit the kickstands and joined in on our ramp construction effort. Greg happened to be fourteen just like us and Steve was really only fifteen we would later learn.

“We used to live uptown, but my mom and dad got a divorce, so we moved out here,” explained Steve.

“That’s too bad,” Mark replied in an understanding tone.

“Not really,” said Steve. “They were fighting all the time, and since you love both your parents and all, it’s actually better when the fighting stops.”

We all understood that. I mean there was nothing worse than seeing your parents in an argument. All four of us nodded slowly in total synchronization, and that was all that any of us would say about that subject ever again.

That’s when it happened.

“Holy shit!” Greg yelled staring into the sand.

We all gathered around where he had been digging and there they were, four short bleached bones sticking up through the sand.

“And look.” Steve said pointing at a shorter fifth bone slightly further apart from the others.

Carefully we dug around the bones and just then my mom exploded through the front door balancing an ice cold pitcher of Black Cherry Kool Aid, a stack of plastic cups and a bag of Oreos. We scrambled to our feet, surged to meet her half way and shield her from our discovery.

Steve and Greg told her a little bit of what they’d told us and my mom promised to meet their mom soon. Then as quickly as she had appeared, she retreated to the safe confines of a schoolteacher’s summertime domesticity.

We rushed back to the bones and cautiously finished uncovering our finding.

“Are you kidding me? It’s a freakin hand.” I said.

“Yeah man, can you go inside and get a bag or something? Steve asked.

“We should take this to the police.” Mark offered.

“No way dude, no cops.” Greg answered and I walked over to the garage to get a bag.

“A hand man, it’s a hand. You don’t just put it in a bag.” Mark insisted.

“Relax brah. What do you suggest, a glove? Hey, where did this sand come from anyway?” Steve asked.

As I approached with a brown paper bag from Schwegmann’s grocery store Mark replied.

“The dump trucks are getting it from a new site they are clearing behind our community club. That’s what the driver said. “ Sunrise Community Club?” Greg asked.

“Yeah, Sunrise, how do you know where that is?” I asked a bit surprised.

“Our mom got us a family membership yesterday; you know to make friends and all.” Steve informed us. “But listen guys, we have got to get over to my house. There is something I have to show you.” Steve insisted.

“But what if there’s more? Dude, what if there are more body parts in the sand?”

Greg wondered aloud.

My dad won’t be digging again until next weekend so we should have time to check it out.” I said.

We placed the hand in the grocery bag and rode to Steve and Greg’s house just two blocks away. Steve seemed to know something we didn’t and I was a more than a little distracted as we walked through their front door, until we heard the booming voice.

“Welcome, boys!”

There stood Mrs. Theriot and she was a massive lady. Not fat or anything, but instantly I understood why Steve was so big. She must have been over six-feet tall.

“Thank you for having us over, Mrs. Theriot,” said Mark.

“Yes Ma’am, thank you,” I nervously added.

“Well it’s nice to meet you boys. I’m glad Steven and Gregory were able to find friends so quickly. What do you have there Steven? Been shopping?”

“No mom just some old oyster shells we found in their sand pile.” he replied, lightly shaking the bag. C’mon guys we’ll show you our rooms.”

We all followed Steve and the hand, relieved that the bag had stayed closed.

“Let’s see what’s on the walls.” Mark whispered to me.

There was an unwritten teenage rule in those days; a poster not a picture was worth a thousand words. Whatever was hanging on your bedroom walls was who you were and we were eager to issue a verdict on this important issue. So even though we carried a skeletal hand in a paper bag, we both smiled anticipating what we would find.

Greg’s room was still littered with Mayflower moving boxes. He had barely unpacked any of his stuff so it was impossible to tell what he was into. But when we entered Steve’s room, well … it was different. Steve had been busy.

There were posters everywhere covering almost all of the wall space. Mainly posters of horror movies held in place by color coordinated push pins. There were posters for the Asylum of Satan, The Creeping Flesh, Dracula, and a really freaky one for The Exorcist.

The unbelievable number of magazines Steve had was the next thing that jumped out at you. Four bookshelves and at least 20 milk crates were brimming with the teenage pulp periodicals.

When it came to magazines about monsters and ghosts and things like that, he really had them all. He had hoarded piles of CREEPY, EERIE and Famous Monsters of Filmland.

“I own real books but they are all about weird stuff too,” Steve said with a smile.

“Cool,” I said and that was all that would come out of my mouth.

Steve walked over to the corner of his room and reached into the center of several rolled up posters that were leaning against the wall... He picked up one of them, removed the rubber band and spread it out on his desk. It was a map.

Guys this is an old map of Jefferson Parish. It’s one of the maps I use for my ghost research. I have maps of the entire city.” Steve announced.

“Oh no here we go again.” Greg mumbled.

“Chris it’s getting dark outside, I think we better go,” Mark interrupted. “Sorry dude but my Mom is pretty strict.” he said to Steve.

He was right and Greg and Steve understood. The universal streetlight rule was known to all. The streetlights officially signalled dinner for the entire neighborhood, well at least if there was a kid living in the house.

“OK guys I have some more research to do anyway and I think I might know something about this hand we found. Let’s go to the pool tomorrow morning and I can tell you guys all about it.” Steve suggested.

“Ok man sounds like a plan and feel free to keep that hand as long as you want to. Looks like you’re the ghost scientist,” I said with a wink on my way out the door.

The summer sun was mercifully setting as Mark and I began the ride home talking about the day’s events and we joked around about Steve and his ghost maps.

We started talking about the possibility of more bones in the sand but our conversation was immediately interrupted as the bulbs in the street lamps overhead began their nightly unchoreographed flicker.

The bugle call had sounded. The starter’s gun had fired. It was time to pedal hard and pick up speed; speed enough to coast through the gauntlet.

The rules were simple ones. Each time a quivering and struggling bulb in a streetlamp sprang to life it was our charge to steer for that one lamp post never turning until another newly lit beacon challenged us to change direction.

Crouched like jockeys chasing lightning bugs, sitting high atop our pedaled stirrups and banana seats, we steered and swerved our slightly forward leaning handlebars towards glory. We would not ride in a straight line again until every streetlight was aglow. In the summer dusk of 1975 that was the only way we knew to ride home.

In those days if I would have known that the front yards of other kids from other states weren’t sinking and that they didn’t get to have sand piles … I think I would have felt sorry for them. From a pile of sand we had gained two new friends, unearthed a human hand and begun our strange journey from naivety to manhood.

Chapter 10 - Sunrise Mark was at my front door at eight-thirty sharp and five minutes later the four of us were riding together, towels bungeed to our handle bars, towards the neighborhood’s summertime haven for kids – Sunrise Community Club. It was the middle class country club. No golf, two pools, two tennis courts, a recreation room with a pool table and every neighborhood girl in their swimsuit. The latter was what we all were thinking about until Steve broke the silence.

“Now listen guys when we get there you gotta listen to what I have to say. Greg has been saying that you guys probably think I’m a freak seeing as you hardly know

me, and well you know there are all of my books and magazines and what I said about the map.”

“Well brah I mean you really are into that shit.” Mark said.

“But we don’t care man. That’s cool. Who doesn’t like monsters right?” I quickly added.

“I really study it, ghosts and supernatural stuff I mean. Look we are all smart guys and in top classes, this just happens to be my hobby, that’s all.”

“Don’t worry brah, maybe you can teach us a thing or two and besides, what we are, are four nerds with a hand in a bag.” Mark said and Steve smiled as we all chuckled.

“Well guys we need to put that hand back where it belongs and we need to check the rest of that sand pile I know that much.” Steve said as we pulled up to the bike rack at Sunrise.

“Now listen guys,” I said, “we have been members of this place for years and there is a right way and a wrong way to enter the gate. The first thing we do is go to one of the two picnic tables that sit next to the snack bar. From there we decide our next move. The worst thing to be is a bunch of lost dorks with rolled up towels walking circles around the pool area, OK?” “Sounds good to me.” Greg answered and the other guys nodded in agreement.

We were early so the club wasn’t crowded yet and the four of us easily found a seat as planned. The morning sun sparkled in the clear waters of the pools and more tennis players than swimmers were walking about in their tacky shorts and skirts.

Mark grabbed us each a ‘suicide’ soda, a unique invention that simply required the snack bar attendant to stick the empty cup, for just a few seconds, under each nozzle of every drink they served, and then Steve began to tell the first of the many stories we would all grow accustomed to hearing for years to come. Pointing through the chain link fencing, Steve enlightened us all.

“There in that wooded area that runs along the canal, the place where you said the trucks are getting sand now, is the place we need to go. This canal leads to another canal that used to lead to the Mississippi River. Both canals are waterways that existed long ago when a lot of this area was marsh. They were once the size of small rivers and that is why just over there is one of the few places in our neighborhood where you can find sand.”

“Alright I can buy that, but what does that have to do with the hand?” I questioned.

“In the early 1800’s a very famous privateer, a pirate had his hideout somewhere in this area. I have read about him for years. History tells us that when one of his men happened to get in his bad graces like stealing from him, that he would take

them out to his marsh hideaway and get rid of them forever or sometimes just take their hand.”

It was at that point and in mid-sentence that Steve noticed Mark and I turn our attentions away, pulled from the conversation like distracted puppies. Greg mimicked us turning completely around from his side of the picnic table and when Steve finally joined the movement she was passing only twenty feet away. There she was in her blue lifeguard swimsuit, the hottest girl on the planet gliding towards the chair. When she walked it was as if her hair was swinging about in slow motion, and you heard your favorite song playing in your head. Anyway you get the idea: she was fine.

“Danielle Villere.” Mark whispered.

“Yeah.” I breathed.

She had beautiful long black hair, olive skin and hazel eyes. She was as sexy as any woman on TV and she made you feel like the gap between fourteen and sixteen years old was as wide as the Grand Canyon.

“Whoa...” Greg started.

“Whoa…is right” his brother finished.

“She’s a high school chick that lives down the street from us guys, way out of our league.” I said.

“She doesn’t even know our league exists.” Mark added and all of us laughed as we turned our attention back to each other.

“So Steve, tell us more about this pirate.” I prodded.

“Jean Lafitte, we all know about him, the famous pirate who helped defend the city against the British. Well I believe that in those woods we just might find some evidence of him. I think that hand came from one of his men.”

“Sounds cool let’s check it out. We can go over there after we swim, fake a drowning and get saved by the lifeguard” Mark suggested with a smile.

“Oh no, not today, we have to go at night. Legend says that at midnight Lafitte’s ghost still visits his hideaway and murdered pirates blood bubbles up from the ground. He was tied to the city in many ways and it is said he still guards it. I would like to know if it’s true.” Steve answered.

“Well then let’s do it. Let’s do it tonight.” I said not believing in such nonsense.

“I love a good campout and we both have tents, but for now dudes I am going to get in that pool. C’mon guys.” I said as I ran towards the deep end to dive in.

And we did. The four of us spent a perfect summer’s day jabbering away about Lafitte and the hand, often distracted by a passing girl and seldom without a smile on our face. The days of our innocence were growing fewer. Our celibacy of spirit, our spiritual virginity would soon end just as sure as the coming nightfall.

Chapter 11 –The Madame We had returned home and agreed to meet again at five o’clock. We needed the remaining daylight to find a place to camp. Arriving with 2 - two man tents, a machete from my house, four sleeping bags and more junk food than we needed, we slowly made our way into the dense woods.

As the banana trees and dense reeds completely enveloped us from behind the chorus of insects began their evening concert. I led the group and we would stop periodically as I slashed bamboo and other undergrowth. Walking for almost fifteen minutes, we had not yet come to an opening big enough for the four of us to stand side by side, yet we remained silent even when walking through shallow water, determined that soon we would arrive at a suitable camping area.

From under the canopy of trees the sun appeared to be setting sooner than usual.

It was all closing in on me and my mind raced back to a horrible dream I had years before of the jungle and the dark towers. Anxiously pushing a bunch of giant ferns aside I felt immediate relief; we had found a clearing.

“Bingo.” I said. “This is a perfect spot.”

And it was. Six live oak trees draped in Spanish moss formed a perfect circle around the opening in the foliage. The ground was firm, clover covered and dry.

“Look over there. It’s a fire pit.” Mark said. “Look man, it’s dug into the ground and lined with old bricks. We need to find some wood before it gets dark. Chris you and Steve get the tents set up and Greg and I will take care of the wood.”

“No problem.” I answered nodding at Steve.

We weren’t far from home but in that clearing I felt miles away. Setting up the camp and starting the fire, we awaited the arrival of the night. Reminiscing about Danielle and a few other girls we had seen that day helped us pass the time. Steve poked around the perimeter of the camp hoping to find a small shack or something confirming his assertion that we were camping in Captain Jean Lafitte’s secret hideout.

Greg produced a pack of hot dogs. Mark had already selected four capable sticks and we began cooking our evening meal.

“So Steve do you really believe in Lafitte’s ghost?” Mark asked.

“Of course I do. I have been reading about this kind of stuff for years. Crazy things are out there, brah,” he replied. “Spooks have been reported all over our city.”

“That shit’s not real,” jibed Greg.

“Of course, it’s real,” Steve added.

Being Steve’s little brother, he was obliged to have the opposite opinion on almost everything Steve believed to be true.

“I know you guys think I am a little crazy about this but I have been doing some research and --” Greg interrupted. “Research? As if. You mean reading comic books, don’t you?”

Ignoring his little brother, Steve reached into his backpack and pulled out a notebook, a few magazines and a hard cover book.

“I have been checking out all kinds of books at the school library, and the fact is we live in one of the most haunted and monster-filled cities in the world. I thought tonight while we wait for midnight to come that I could tell you about it so you could hear it for yourselves and tell me what you guys think.

“You see, there are several vampires reported to be living in the French Quarter and Uptown. ‘The Honey Island Swamp Monster’ isn’t that far away from us either.

There is the ghost of Marie Laveau, the voodoo priestess who still protects the city with her little bags of gris-gris, and there are these creatures that she is protecting the city from that still roam our streets today. I believe in them all.”

“OK, so what are these little creatures called then, and how come I haven’t seen one?” Mark asked.

Looking down at his piece of paper illuminated now more by the light of the campfire than the remaining daylight, Steve answered him.

“Most of them are called grunches, half goat, half dog type things. They were around when Lafitte was alive and he hated them. There’s the grunch who lives on Grunch Road. There’s the City Park grunch, and there are other grunch reports in Harahan and even here in Metairie. Then there’s the Loup Garou which have been sighted all around this area.”

Steve was serious about this and had done his homework it appeared. Sitting next to him, I read the covers of the magazines he had selected to bring with him, Horror Tales, Tales from the Tomb, Witches Tales, and Tales of Voodoo. The hard cover book was titled Spirits of Orleans.

“Steve, I can see you have really been reading a lot about this,” I said, “ but these grunches seem to be everywhere, and what in the hell is a grunch anyway, half dog half goat, is that what you said? And a Loop Garoo – is that how you say it? What in the hell is that?”

“Wait a second I HAVE heard about these things,” exclaimed Mark. “When I was at my paw paw’s house and had been misbehaving, he said to me, ‘you better straighten up boy, or I am going to send you down Grunch Road.’”

“Listen, guys, I think there are only really four of these grunches. They are just being seen in different places that’s all, because the story about their first appearance only mentions four.”

Big Steve could not be muzzled. He believed, and that night around a campfire he began to tell us each horrible story he had unearthed.

“Just listen guys, just give me a chance and then tell me if you believe.” he said opening his notebook. “It all started with this really evil woman years ago.”

“Madame Delphine LaLaurie and her husband, Dr. Louis LaLaurie, lived in the French Quarter at 1140 Royal Street in the year 1834. The Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau lived nearby and in addition to being a voodoo mambo she was also a hairdresser. She did many of the wealthier women’s hair with some saying much of her power came from her ability to gather important gossip from her clients.

Madame LaLaurie was one of her customers and it wasn't long before the two became good friends...”

In the meantime, I had picked up the Tales of Voodoo magazine and started to read a section on Marie Laveau. While Mark interrupted Steve to ask a little more about grunches, I read something I never heard Steve mention.

“Give me that piece of paper,” I said as I snatched it from Steve's hand. There it was, written in his handwriting with a big asterisk next to it. The “WITCH LALAURIE” and “SATAN’S CHILD” were written there in capital letters, plain as day.

“What is this about a child of Satan, and this Madame LaLaurie is a witch?” I said in a voice a little louder than I really wanted to.

“Okay, okay calm down. I am trying to tell you, man, but you guys keep interrupting me.

“Marie Laveau the Voodoo Queen that we have all heard about began teaching Madame LaLaurie the ways of Voodoo. Marie Laveau thought LaLaurie was casually interested and had no idea what the evil Madame was really up to.

“Damn big brother you have been studying,” Greg broke in.

“Shut up and listen will ya? You see, like all rich people back then, the LaLaurie’s kept several slaves as servants. One day, Madame LaLaurie was seen chasing a young slave girl with a bullwhip. She chased her all the way up on to the roof of the mansion where the young girl lost her balance and fell to her death.

“And you want to know why? Well, the young girl was brushing the Madame’s hair like she did every morning. But that morning the hairbrush the little girl was

using got snagged in a tangled spot in the Madame’s hair. That was what enraged the Madame.

“There were also rumors of other slaves being mistreated in the LaLaurie household. And wait…”

Steve thumbed through his notebook. “…listen to this. It is believed that a fire, which occurred at the house shortly after the girl's death was deliberately set by a kitchen slave to get the attention of the authorities.

“When the fire brigade arrived, they found three slaves chained to the stoves in the kitchen. Things were so bad in that house that the slaves were willing to risk burning to death just to get someone from the outside to come to the mansion.

While the firemen were searching through the rest of the house, they found the unthinkable. When they reached the attic, well, there was a gruesome scene awaiting them.

“Here is what the newspaper of the time, The Bee, said.” ...the doors were pried open for the purpose of liberating them. Predisposed to taking this liberty, if liberty it can be described, several gentlemen impelled by their feelings demanded the keys, which were refused them in a gross and insulting manner.

Upon entering one of the apartments, the most appalling spectacle met their eyes. Several slaves, more or less horribly mutilated, were seen suspended from the neck, with their limbs apparently stretched and torn from one extremity to the other. Language is powerless and inadequate to give a proper recollection of the horror which a scene like this must have inspired. We shall not attempt it, but leave it rather to the reader's imagination to picture what it was!

“You see, there were more slaves held captive in the attic space. Some were chained to the floor and others were even nailed to it. Limbs had been amputated and eyes plucked out. Tongues had been cut off; it was really a bad scene, dudes.

They had been the subjects of some sick experiments.

“There were jars of organs and things like that lying around. The people of the city were calling for Madame LaLaurie’s head, and the newspaper went on to say that right before a mob stormed into her house, the LaLaurie’s escaped by carriage and then by schooner across Lake Pontchartrain.

“Supposedly after all that went down, they hid and lived deep in the woods over on the north shore near Lacombe and that's where it gets interesting.”

“THAT’S where it gets interesting? Mark asked.

“Yeah brah she supposedly kept practicing black magic and offered several human sacrifices to the devil himself; so many sacrifices in fact that some say that she was granted eternal life and still lives in those woods.”

Greg then asked, “Yeah, OK, that’s cool, but what about this Satan Child?”

“That's cool. Is that what you just said Greg?” I asked. “Sure, guys, it's not like it’s Satan or anything.

Chapter 12 - Born Again My comments fell on deaf ears.

“The child,” Steve continued, “was a result of some of the medical and black magic experiments that the LaLaurie’s were conducting with their slaves.

“There are many different accounts, but the account I have here is the one I believe. It comes from a slave who was there at the birth, and her account was recorded later by the local police during the slave torture and murder investigations.

The other stories I read about this baby seemed a little farfetched, and none were from eyewitness accounts and they all seemed... well... just made up.

“So listen, I am only going to read the parts of the questioning where the slave lady talks,” Steve said and began reading the police interview.

'My mistress Madam LaLaurie was performing a ritual that night. It sounded like she was trying to bring back one of the ancestors, back from the dead to walk again upon this earth but I could not understand all of the magic she spoke. It was foreign to me.

‘Maddie, another servant who lived with us was summoned to the attic space where our mistress was chanting. I was the one asked to bring her there. I was told to place her flat on a table in front of an altar and I saw a veve the Madame LaLaurie had drawn on the ground at the foot of the table. Bastien, the Madame's carriage driver stood near the door behind me.

'It was a veve' which I had never seen before, so I didn’t know what it meant and there was a book, a red book with magical drawings resting at the altar and the book appeared to be glowing.

‘Maddie, just a week before showed no signs of being with child but that night she already looked the size of a woman ready to give birth. She swore to me sir that she had never been with a man.

‘She was lying on the table groaning and crying out in pain; like she was going to have a child right then. The Madame continued her chant, but over her chanting I heard a loud

banging on the main door downstairs and someone was let into the house and began running up the stairs.

‘Maddie began to give birth and as the child was being born, Marie Laveau charged into the room, pushed me out of the way and took the child in her hands. He had wide open solid black eyes, light blue skin and crooked limbs like an old oak tree which seemed to be getting straighter by the minute. He made no sound, but he could already hold his head upright and looked at all of us with the look of something that had been alive before.

Madame Laveau held him looking deeply into his eyes and when Maddie leaned forward to touch him on the shoulder she fainted, fell straight back on the table and died.

Marie Laveau screamed at our Mistress ‘What have you done?’ she said as she cut the child’s cord and wrapped it in her tignon.”

'Then, with that same small knife, the Queen Marie first cut the letter C and then an X on top of that, in the child’s forehead.

'When she cut him, he made no sound and four drops of blood, only four drops shaped like tears, came out of the wounds. The drops of blood moved towards one another and formed an upside down cross on the baby’s forehead and the bloody cross began to bubble like water on a hearth. I turned away frightened as Madame Laveau wiped the blood from the child's forehead. The child scared me and the screaming scared me too.

‘Marie kept yelling at our mistress, ‘Do you know who this child is? Why have you brought him back into this world’ she asked but Madame LaLaurie remained silent.

‘You must not allow him to leave from here. This is not why I took you as my student. I will return here shortly and if this child is not here, your suffering for allowing him to escape will be great. The Church will know of this. Heed me Madame LaLaurie.’

‘Our mistress still said nothing and Marie Laveau quickly grabbed the red book from the altar and with the folded bloody tignon already in her hand she stormed out of the house.

‘About 15 minutes later Pere Antoine, the pastor of the St. Louis Cathedral, and three Ursuline nuns came to the mansion with Madame Laveau and took the child away. I was so terribly frightened sir. I stood in the shadows watching as the child grew and aged right in front of my eyes. When he was taken from the house he was already the size of a three-year-old.

After that day, I never saw him again.'

“OK, so this is the story that’s not farfetched?” I asked Steve.

“The other stories just don’t make sense when you do the research, man.”

“Alright, Steve, that’s great. Thanks for sharing. If I understand what I just heard, you think Satan’s son is the amazing growing baby who got a voodoo monogram carved into his forehead, has boiling blood and who upset Marie Laveau so much that she sent the Church to take him away. Did anybody just hear that sentence?

“Monogram … hmm, that is something I never thought about,” Steve said as he considered my observation. “I couldn’t find an explanation for cutting the baby anywhere. It could have something to do with his name.

“But I don’t think it was really a birth, brah, but more like a reincarnation through black magic where they used the slave woman’s body as a vessel or something. I mean a one-week pregnancy? The slave told her friend that she had not been with a man, and I believe it. So how could she be pregnant? It had to be some kind of reincarnation or something like necromancy.” claimed Steve in an excited tone.

Necromancy? What in the hell is necromancy?” I asked.

“It’s where they conjure up the dead you know, bring someone back to the earth that had died or been banished to another world. Voodoo is the only remaining religion that still practices it,” answered Steve so confidently that it was like he held a PhD in the bizarre.

“And that’s not all, guys; the servant girl also said that during the next weekly voodoo ritual strange things surrounding the baby continued to happen. Listen to this.”

Chapter 13 - The Creatures The nightfall had come and the stars had taken their rightful positions in the summer sky. I felt compelled by the heavens to lay back on my sleeping bag as Steve continued with his tale. I was staring at the constellation Orion and my gaze traveled further beyond the stars and deep into the blackness. In my mind’s eye Steve’s words were transformed and for the moment I drifted back in time to a ritual in Congo Square.

The drumbeats echo into the night and the mambo draws the sign of the crossroads in the air summoning the presence of Papa Legba, the guide to the spirit world.

Veve’s are drawn at the foot of the cypress center-post for the gods to enter. A sacrificial fire burns brightly and the light from the flickering flames dances across the white tignon of the woman sitting at the head of the white clad believers, their Queen, Marie Laveau.

The priestess apprentice, sabre in hand, leads the dancers, and singing begins as a tall thin man holds a live chicken by its feet twisting it about and waving it through the air to wipe away the evil. Marie Laveau rises to her feet as the believers recite a Catholic litany to Mary and all the while the drums fuel the rhythm of emotion.

Nearby a young woman pours whiskey on the ground in the shape of the cross as two of the sweating dancers carry a black goat towards the center of the square.

Seemingly sedated by the sounds of the ritual, it is castrated, killed and bled.

The chanting grows and the tenor rises with the spiraling smoke as the goat is placed upon the fire. Marie Laveau approaches the flames with the red tignon that holds the umbilical cord of the child and with arms outstretched reaches out to divinity.

“Oh Ayezan we beseech you. We see beyond reality. We love beyond adoration. Protect our children and bless our markets. We give you our hearts and ask for your eternal divine sanction.”

Finishing her invocation, she lays the folded red tignon onto the goat’s belly, closes her eyes and continues a silent appeal to the spirits.

'As the fabric of the tignon meets the fire, a woman from the crowd named Zelime moves towards the sacrificial flames dancing in an unusual manner. She circles Marie Laveau laughing and writhing, moving ever closer, too close to the queen. She has been mounted by a petro Loa; an evil spirit has entered her body.

Violently knocking down the queen and breaking her appeal to Ayezan, Zelime stands over the fire staring into the blaze watching as the fire consumes the goat but does not harm the tignon.

As the hushed crowd of believers look on the tignon unfolds itself within the flames and rises up to float within the fire.

“Do you not know Marinette? Do you not know me mortals?” a voice from deep within Zelime screams.

Completely possessed by the evil Loa she reaches into the flames and removes the tignon.

Her skin is untouched by the fire.

Throwing it down Zelime watches the crowd as the tignon lands perfectly flat upon the ground. A thick purple smoke begins to rise from it, covering the square and silencing the drums and when the smoke clears four creatures stand above the red tignon. They are strange looking, kindred to goats, but they stand like men on two legs. Growling at Marie Laveau they soon scatter in the direction of the four winds leaving the crowd of believers terrified.

The tignon left there upon the ground bursts into flames and disappears. The fire dies in an instant, and Zelime starts to laugh once more. Rising off of her feet and high into the air, she laughs a most horrible laugh that makes the other worshippers cover their ears. Marie Laveau raises her arms to the heavens and cries out “Papa Legba, take this spirit away!” In that very second Zelime closes her eyes and falls unconscious to the ground.

Marie Laveau speaks to the believers and ends the service sending everyone home with a blessing and a spell for protection. Congo Square is vacant in a few moments time.'

“That’s it.” Steve said as he finished reading. “And, of course this information was ignored by the local police as superstitious nonsense,” he concluded.

“Yeah no shit,” Greg added.

“So what do you think about that?” asked Steve directing his question.

“Well, Chris…Chris?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah…sorry about that.” I said as I awoke from my imaginings.

“I don’t know Steve, I mean, well, I guess there were four creatures created from magic or something.”

“It’s the grunches!” exclaimed Mark.

“Yeah, that’s it, that is the best explanation I could find for the grunches, and it is the one I believe. I don’t know how they got their name yet, but those must be the grunches,” added Steve.

“But why, Steve?” asked Mark “Why… what do you mean why?” Steve responded.

“Well I mean you have us all scared in the middle of the woods and everything and that’s cool but what do you do with all this research. I mean, what’s the point.

Do you just get off on the information?”

“Actually I have a plan. You see these magazines right here. They would pay thousands of dollars for a picture of any of these creatures I’m telling you about, but I can’t do it by myself.

“Damn, man, you wanna go take pictures of people like this … or creatures, or whatever they are. I mean, if that witch is still alive, what are you gonna do Steve?

‘Excuse me, Madame, we are four dumbass kids from across the lake that you scare the crap out of, but could you say cheese?’ I said.

“Listen man I figure we can form a team. I can continue my research and together we can track down these legends. If we get the right pictures, we’ll make a ton of money and we’ll be famous. Famous man, the chicks will know who we are, even Danielle.”

“Listen bro, I know you say we can make big bucks, but this doesn’t sound too safe.” Greg added.

“You know, guys, if we could get a picture of any of these things, it would have to be worth a hell of a lot of money. But the problem is that all of these places you are talking about seem a little far away to go on a bike and...”

A nearby rustling in the woods interrupted Mark’s thought and we all froze. A low moan and more movement in the undergrowth followed; it was getting closer. I picked up the machete and the guys all drifted behind me. We all stared into the darkness in the direction of the sounds. We watched as the ferns at the edge of the clearing were parted and the tall shadowy figure emerged.

“Not a problem,” said a familiar voice. “I’ll provide the wheels.”

“You son of a bitch! I chided. “You scared the hell out of us. How did you know we were here?”

Chapter 14 - The Warning What’s up guys? Sorry I’m late.” Alain said directly to Steve.

Alain Latour lived only a couple of blocks away from us and was one of the only 16-year olds – OK, the only one – that would have anything to do with us. He was a Creole dude, a private school kid, kind of a loner and he was really into the unearthly, a lot like Steve, so he was a little … well, he wasn’t the guy you would want to introduce to Danielle because he talked about it all the time just like big Steve did.

He and I exchanged a lot of music though, and overall he was our buddy; as much as an older guy like him would allow. Alain gave me my first Black Power Afro pick. I mean, I didn’t have a ’fro, but that pick with the clinched fist was really cool, especially sticking out of one of your back pockets. It was like you were saying ‘kiss my ass, world’, but in a cool sort of way.

He had a look on his face like he knew exactly what we had been talking about or mainly listening to.

“So, Steve, did you fill them in? Are they scared yet?” he asked like some kind of a wise-ass.

“Not as scared as when you came through the bushes you freak.” Mark replied.

“Guys, Alain goes to my school. I didn’t know you knew him. He has been helping me research my idea by bringing me books from the Main Parish Library, and he knows everything we have been talking about. He would like to join up with us and provide the wheels; we all just share in the gasoline cost.”

“OK, alright,” Greg chimed in. “April Fools or Happy Halloween or whatever, but I thought this was all a joke, big bro. You can’t really be serious, right? I mean, ghosts and shit like that are cool and all to talk about around a campfire and read about, but I don’t want to meet that witch across the lake or her baby’s forehead either.”

I laughed and added, “Yeah, come on, guys: how exactly would we do this anyway? Besides that where is the proof? Who has seen any of these creatures in the last one hundred years anyway?

Silence.

“Ah hell, Mark give me a Kool.”

Mark reached into his sock and handed us all a cigarette, and when everybody lit up, Alain finally chimed in.

“I am glad you asked little man. I know a guy who can help us. He’s my high school history teacher, Mr. Lorio. He’s a real piece of work and knows everything about anything to do with New Orleans. He’s as cool as they get and he lives just over on Airline Park Boulevard.

“If anybody knows about reports of these creatures he does. I’ll call him and see if we can stop by. Now you dudes work on some sort of photo mission supply list and I’ll let you know when we can go see Mr. Lorio.

“I can't wait to make the big bucks guys, but look; I can’t hang with you guys all night. I’m glad you guys are in. Be cool.” and as he said that Alain left us there, disappearing back down the path through the woods just as quickly as he had arrived.

“OK, guys, tomorrow we go to this Mr. Lorio’s house if Alain can work it out.

Oh, and since I didn’t tell you yet, Loup Garou is the Cajun name for a werewolf, but we can talk about that later.” Steve said.

“Whoa, wait up I didn’t agree to do this shit.” I said.

“Me either.” added Mark.

“Or me.” Greg said.

“C’mon guys. It’s not that big of a deal. We’re taking pictures not slaying dragons and…”

Before Steve could finish we heard more movement in the woods, a noise like someone shaking a bush, just off to the east, and then a large snap like the branch from a tree being broken under foot.

“OK knock it off Alain.” Steve said. “We know it’s you.”

The fire leapt fiercely and a wild rush of wind circled the clearing, bending the bushes and causing the leaves of the oak trees above us to swish and crackle. The whirling wind blew, embers swirled, climbing into the air and then stillness; a complete quiet came upon our campsite and the fire withdrew.

“Look at the ground around the fire.” Greg whispered.

The mud around the fire pit was moving, almost stretching. The strange pulsating and fluctuating mesmerised us all. Something beneath the ground was trying to escape. A thick fluid flowed up from the ground oozing towards the fire pit.

“It’s midnight and it’s blood.” Steve said.

“I believe you are correct young man.” said the voice from directly behind us.

We all turned to look and there beneath the majestic live oak, hidden in the shadows stood a man. Tall in stature, his face was hidden but we could see from his silhouette that he wore a hat and a sword.

“I also believe you have something that belongs to me.”

“Who are you?” Steve asked in an apprehensive tone.

“You know who I am Steven. The hand brought the four of you to me, but you must listen closely. She is searching for you. You need to be strong and meet your destiny. You will stay here in my clearing tonight. You will be safe; I will protect you but please do bury the hand before you go or I may have to send the man to whom it belongs to retrieve it from you. Calm winds and following seas to you my boys.”

The wind swept through the clearing once more, the man vanished into the night and as I looked towards the fire, the ground was swallowing the blood that it had offered up only moments before.

Greg was the first to speak.

“It’s true. You were right brother.”

“Most legend is based in truth, at least that’s what they say little brother. I think it's best if we stay here tonight.

“No shit Sherlock. I’m not going through those woods in the dark and whoever that was says he’ll protect us right?” I said half confused, half scared to death.

"Listen man, I really don't think there's any reason to be frightened. I mean, that was obviously the ghost…"

"Nothing to be frightened about? Okay Steve, you might spend all of your free time with ghosts and the other creatures you read about all the time, but I don't.

When I see the ghost of a pirate from the 1800's I get scared. I mean, he was right there standing underneath that tree and then the wind blows and he's gone. That shit is scary." Mark answered.

"Listen Mark," I said as I gathered myself. "He didn't want to scare us. He was talking about protecting us, something about being strong and destiny."

As you might well imagine we stayed awake for quite a while that night talking about the first ghost any of us had ever seen. We even paused the discussion to bury that hand because if we were going to fall asleep that night, we would certainly do what the ghost had asked us to do.

It was only a few hours to sunrise and we had stocked the fire well. The conversation turned to girls as it often did during those years. After all, it was one of the few things that could capture our imaginations no matter how tested they had been. Inside the minds of each and every one of us there was a voice that told us girls were scary too.

One of the guys might try to lie a little bit about their escapades but the truth was that chicks were still an unknown commodity to all of us. If we were ever to find ourselves in a romantic situation, we would certainly be at a disadvantage. I remember thinking before I finally fell asleep that dealing with girls was a lot like ghost chasing.

I had a dream that night that we were chasing a grunch down Governor Nicholls Street in the French Quarter. He was scampering away from us and as we turned the corner on to Dauphine Street, there in the middle of the road was Danielle, dressed up like Marie Laveau, beckoning us with her hand to come towards her.

Just behind her and above on the rooftop was a very pretty young woman, a specter like figure looking down at me. I woke up in a cold sweat as the sun was just rising and started shaking my head in disbelief about all of the things I had heard and seen the night before.

The other guys were still asleep, so with the protection of the sun, I grabbed a magazine and read some more about Madame LaLaurie to learn as much as I could about just how insane that witch really was.

Chapter 15 - A Respite We returned to the neighborhood and I made my way back to my house, rang the doorbell, and my mom let me in. I received the obligatory hug and good morning before my mom retreated to the kitchen. I needed to clean up and change clothes and really wanted – or more like needed – the security of my own room for a little while. It was only 6:45 in the morning, and I wasn’t really sure if we had decided to look for those crazy creatures or not, so as I walked into my room I consulted my magic 8 ball by shaking it really hard. As the ink colored bubbles settled it answered, ‘Signs point to yes.’

“Oh, great,” I mumbled.

What in the hell were we thinking? If you believed in good, then you must believe in evil, right? If Steve had been correct about Lafitte then what about the witch?

“Christopher, bring me those dirty clothes,” my mom yelled from the front of the house.

“OK, mom, just a minute,” I replied.

Was I about to become some wooden stake-wielding kid in search of the devil’s child and pissed-off goats with claws? I needed to find a distraction and I had an idea that might just work.

The phone rang. “Christopher, it’s for you, pick up!” my mother yelled.

“Alright, alright, I got it.”

It was Steve. He wanted to know if I could spend the night. He was pumped, you could tell. He needed calming. I only had one thing in my arsenal that just might work. After laying on my bed for a while, staring at the ceiling and periodically glancing at my clock radio, it was time to toss my dirty clothes into the laundry room and meet up with the guys.

When I was sure my mom and dad were both at the front of the house, I reached into my hiding spot and grabbed the movie. It was the one thing I hoped could put an end to all this madness and get us interested in other things that guys like us should be interested in.

I took the small, round, blue and white plastic case that held the theatrical gem and slid it behind the small tear in the lining of my backpack, snuck out of the house avoiding any contact with my parents, and headed off to meet the guys to go back to the pool.

Getting on my bike I saw Mark emerging from his front door. “What’s up dude?

Hell of a night huh?” I asked.

“Yeah, you could say that.” replied Mark.

We road on towards the Theriot house and as we approached we could see Greg and Steve standing next to Alain and his blue Opel Manta.

They were admiring his new raised white letter tires that spelled out Goodyear just like a race car.

“So are you guys ready or what?” asked Steve while Greg rolled his eyes.

“Yeah brah, you ready to rock or what?” asked Alain.

“Yeah, let’s get to the pool man,” Mark answered.

“We’re not going to the pool brah. We are going to see Mr. Lorio. Alain set it all up.”

“Sure why not. Who wants to go look at chicks in swimsuits when you can go talk to a history teacher about ghosts and shit,” Mark said.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s go see this Mr. Lorio, oh and I’ve got a little surprise for you guys when we get back.” I said as we piled into the car.

“Steve, you still got the projector?”

“Yeah, it’s up there in the tree house. You got a movie?”

“I might have a movie,” I teased.

I could see by the looks on the faces of everyone in the car that I just might have their attention and maybe, just maybe, whatever was on that Super 8 film reel could change the discussion and our summer from grunches back to girls.

Chapter 16 - The Wise Mr. Lorio It was a very short ride over to Mr. Lorio’s house and as we pulled into the driveway, the front door opened and a little round man walked out on to the stoop and waived at Alain. His un-tucked, short-sleeve blue dress shirt and his round gold wire frame glasses that sat perched upon his bald head made him look like a teacher alright – and a bit of a bowling ball of a man.

“Hey Mr. Lorio. How’s it going? These are my friends who are interested in the spooks down in the Quarter.”

He pointed each one of us out by name and Mr. Lorio greeted us.

“Welcome gentlemen. Let’s go inside and see if I can assist you in any way.”

We walked through the front door and he led us to his library. Every wall consisted of built-in book cases floor to ceiling. The dark mahogany wooden cases were filled to capacity with a vast collection of hardcover books. Although the room was dimly lit, many of the titles were readable on the spine, and almost every one that I could make out had to do with Louisiana or New Orleans history – except for one section at the far wall. On those shelves were books with titles like: The History of the Occult and Wicca; Marie Laveau - the Voodoo Queen, Unsolved Crimes of the Deep South and Vampire Legend and Lore.

“Whoa, brah, look at all of the books,” exclaimed Greg.

“Have you read all of these? Steve asked.

“Well, most of them. Some are reference books, but I certainly have used every book on those shelves in one fashion or another. Now let’s find out why you young men are here,” replied Mr. Lorio.

“Oh my, how rude of me, before we begin would you boys like a cold drink?”

“No sir, we’re fine,” Steve answered for all of us, with his notebook out and at the ready.

“We are here because we want to investigate and photograph the ghosts and legends of New Orleans, and we need some help from someone who knows the area and judging from these books, I think we came to the right place.”

‘Well, Steven, that is certainly a tall order. Our city is full of horrible tales of ghosts and demons. Why, some even say that we are the most haunted city in the world. Do you have a particular ghoul in mind?’ Mr. Lorio asked with a wink.

“Yeah he does. Steve over there wants to find Madame LaLaurie,” I blurted out.

“He says she has something to do with Marie Laveau and the grunches.”

“Hmmm, 1140 Royal Street, the LaLaurie mansion… A doctor friend of mine, a professor emeritus of history at Tulane University, Dr. Simian Grant just bought that place not long ago and is turning it into apartments. How much do you boys know about what went on in that house?”

“Well, we know pretty much everything I could find to read about it,” Steve answered proudly. “You know newspaper articles … and I even read about the black magic baby and the grunches from the police interviews.”

“So what we have here is a group of grunch hunters then,” Mr. Lorio declared with a slight chuckle.

“But if you are going in search of the immortal Madame LaLaurie, there are some things you boys need to know. Madame LaLaurie was a serious practitioner of voodoo, but she preferred the dark side of the magic and had no real interest in the religion itself. Marie Laveau was her teacher but later regretted that tutelage.

“The Madame LaLaurie was quite the socialite, and she and her husband threw extravagant parties on a regular basis. Marie became tempted by all of this wealth and some say confided a bit too much in LaLaurie. Both of these women were in fact involved with this child you mention. There are many horrible legends surrounding that child; one even suggesting that Marie Laveau sent the child away to be held captive. The place of captivity was reportedly arranged between Marie and the Catholic Church, and the whereabouts of the child's captivity are still unknown to this day.

“It is said that every day until the day she died, Marie would make sure the child was still confined. She truly believed the child was the first and only son of Satan.

“The thing that you boys need to be aware of involves the dangerous Madame LaLaurie herself. Local lore maintains that Madame LaLaurie, with the help of her grunches, has practiced human sacrifice to satisfy a deal she made directly with Satan, a bargain to remain ageless and immortal. Satan being … well, Satan of course had terms to this deal.

As Mr. Lorio educated us about the evil Madame, Steve nodded both in agreement and in pleasure taking notes as he smiled.

“According to several of the books you see on these shelves here, she would be ageless for 141 years from the day of her bargain but in the last year of her demonic deal, Satan required Madame LaLaurie to free his son, that evil child you call the black magic baby, from captivity. If she did not fulfill this negotiation she would become mortal, age and die. There would be no greater fear for such a vain and evil woman.

“You young men have decided to go in search of the good Madame on the exact year she must return to New Orleans and free the son of the Evil One. You see he

was born in 1834 the same year the Madame made her contract with the devil. He would no longer be a baby, of course, but would be the adult son of the devil himself. If the legend is accurate, then while you search for Madame LaLaurie, you may find them both, and I am sure her grunches would not be far behind.”

“What do you mean 'her' grunches?” I asked.

The grunches were created from a spell that Madame LaLaurie placed on a black goat that was sacrificed at a voodoo ritual long ago. Her carriage driver Bastien delivered the cursed goat to the ritual and when Marie Laveau placed it on the fire with one of her tignon, the grunches were born. They fled the ritual and made their way to their creator the wicked Madame, or so the story goes.”

“Yes Steve read that to us from a slave account” added Greg.

“Whoa, now that would be perfect. I mean if we could find them all together,” said Steve.

“Hold on a second, brah. If this legend is true, it sounds to me like she might be a little occupied right now and not want to be disturbed. You know, rescuing the son of Satan and all.” I added and then plead for some sanity. “But Mr. Lorio, do you really believe all of this mumbo jumbo and why would it be this year, Mr. Lorio, why 141 years later?”

I was still looking for a reason to not believe. I guess I was in denial about the pirate ghost. I just needed someone to disagree with Steve.

“Firstly yes my boy, I believe most of this city's legends are based in fact, but I am not really sure what the 141 years mean. You see her deal with the devil took place in June of 1834, just after she disappeared into the swamp. No one is sure on what day during the year the baby must be freed, because no one knows the exact date of her pact with Satan.

“Now if you boys need some help locating the places north of the city where she might reside or even help with some spots in the French Quarter where I believe you might find her, then I can help. But, boys, I must tell you, while few believe the legend of her immortality is true, I am one of those people who believe. Madame LaLaurie, as you already know, really existed in history and was an extremely powerful black magic priestess. There are several accounts of her being sighted in this area over the last 100 years, and if you do find her, she may not be the most hospitable woman, to say the least, and would be a serious danger to you all. You must keep your distance.

“Voodoo is a serious and powerful practice, and she is a capable practitioner of the darker side of Voodoo as well as many other forms of black magic. The torture of her slaves was much worse than you can imagine and much, much worse than the newspaper reported.

“Her slaves were subjected to amputation, with some having crosses cut deep and wide into their flesh. One man’s hands had been replaced with feet and the reverse was also true. Even primitive sex change experiments were performed. Eye witness accounts from the fire brigade say that one man was discovered with some sort of bone implanted in his skull and appeared as fiendish as a gargoyle.

“This woman we speak of today is pure evil. In my opinion young men she is much too powerful now for a normal man to approach her. She must be avoided.”

Mr. Lorio slowly shook his head as he finished.

While Steve wrote everything down in his notebook, we all exchanged looks with each other. Greg, Mark and I looked worried, while Steve continued to write and grinned like a guy who was solving some sort of puzzling secret. His grin became a smirk and he looked like some mad amateur alchemist.

Mr. Lorio walked over towards the strange section of the bookcase I had noticed earlier and slowly removed the volume titled The Family Lemoyne - Voodoo and the Church. Then at the exact moment he opened the book … the phone rang and we all jumped, just a little bit.

Mr. Lorio departed the room but returned in a very short time, just after answering the phone.

“Alain, it’s your mother, and she would like to speak with you. Please follow me.”

Alain looked a little surprised, but walked away with Mr. Lorio towards the phone just the same.

“Is anybody else here even a little bit worried?” I asked. “I mean, come on, dudes: if this immortal witch is really running around, I don’t want to get anywhere near her. I say we take the money we have and buy a camera with a zoom lens so we can get the photo but still stay as far away from that crazy woman as we can.”

“Yeah Steve, we have that money we collected on the corner, and what is it, like 300 bucks?” added Mark.

“Alright, I see what you are saying. My mom’s Polaroid is probably not going to work out, and to tell you guys the truth this sounds a little dangerous to me too. But look brah, all we have to do is continue our research and I think we can find a safe way to get the photos we need and the big bucks, OK?” Steve concluded.

We never talked about the three hundred bucks much. We just kept it locked in a wooden box in the tree house in Steve and Greg’s backyard and moved on to the next mischievous thing we could think of at that age.

One day earlier that summer we gathered a few Schwegmann's grocery bags and headed to the busiest stop sign in our neighborhood. There was a charity telethon event on TV and we decided we would collect money to help out the cause.

We collected over 300 dollars that day from passing cars, the most money any of us had ever held at one time. Unfortunately for the charity, we were in need of some money for our gang and didn’t quite … well … donate it. Looking back now in our defense, we had not fully developed emotionally, particularly the sense of guilt or any other reaction that might affect one’s conscience.

We had been waiting for a good long time to use the money, and it seemed like we had just found one: a tool to help us keep a safe distance from a witch. The money originally intended for helping others would now be used to protect the five of us or so we thought.

Chapter 17 - A Priestess Revealed Mr. Lorio returned after showing Alain to the phone and upon entering the room said, “So boys, do you believe you are up for this?”

“We think we are,” replied Mark. “I mean, we are just looking to get some good photos and all, you know, make some money. It’s not like we are trying to interrupt anybody’s evil plan or anything. Right, guys?” he asked, and then silence. A silence that lasted at least a full minute took complete hold of the room.

“Curious … it seems as if no one here is ready to answer Mark’s question. Are you ready to meet the Madame up close and personal? Are you ready to get involved with a prophecy of darkness, gentlemen?” added Mr. Lorio.

“Well, are we, guys?” said Mark in a voice that had a nervous urgency.

“The answer is no,” I replied. “We are going to get the photos, make a few bucks, meet some girls and stay the hell out of that evil chick’s way. There must be some priest or something that has their sights set on stopping this crazy stuff Mr. Lorio is talking about. You know, releasing the little horned son of a bitch…oh sorry Mr. Lorio” I said and hoped the cursing had not been a problem.

“Nothing to worry about, my boy, we are all men here.’

And just as Mr. Lorio reassured me, Alain walked back into the library. He had a strange look on his face, like he needed to tell us something, so Greg obliged.

“What’s up, brah?”

“My mom just told me that my Grand-mere called our house and has a bad feeling that I am about to get into some serious trouble. She wants to see all of us” said Alain.

“Well, that’s how my Grandma feels all the time,” added Greg in a smart-ass tone.

Alain didn’t laugh.

“Well, this is kinda different, brah. My Grandma is a seer; a mambo.”

“Mr. Latour, your Grandmother is a voodoo priestess? What is her full name?”

Mr. Lorio inquired.

“Mildred Malvina Latour,” answered Alain.

“Oh my dear boy, then I would suggest you do as your Grandmother asks and go see her right away.”

“Oh my what? What are you guys talking about?” I asked. “And why does she want to see all of us?”

“Well, gentlemen, it appears Alain’s Grandmother is the daughter of the legendary Malvina Latour a very famous priestess of her time who became the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans after Marie Laveau died. Most of Malvina’s children used the father’s name and rebuked the religion – all except Alain’s good Grandmother, who few even know about. In fact, I was not even sure she existed. It is said that she was adopted after Malvina Latour’s husband died and while the rest of the family shunned voodoo, Mildred embraced it.

“I am completely freaked out now,” said Mark.

“Your Grandma is a voodoo priestess?” I asked Alain.

“My mom never really talks too much about it, guys. She has a tarot reading, herb and fortune telling shop in the Quarter. All I know is she wants to see us all, not just me, and my mom suggests we go. She is a very wise woman and only offers advice to people who ask for it – or like my mom just said, those like us who really need it.”

“OK, then we go to the French Quarter tomorrow,” announced our fearless leader Steve.

“Take this book with you, boys, and study it but please handle it with the greatest care.” Mr. Lorio said as he handed the compendium that he had selected from the bookcase just moments ago to Steve.

“After you meet with Alain’s Grandmother return here and we will begin planning your adventure. But listen carefully and heed the advice of Madame Latour. She will know of things that you could never even dream of. In the meantime, I will do some more research on the significance of the number one hundred and forty one”.

I reached into my right pocket and squeezed the gris-gris bag we bought in the Quarter and wondered what we were getting ourselves into. As we piled into Alain’s car, I sprung what I hoped would be an effective trap.

“Alright, dudes, its movie time, so let’s head to the tree house.”

Every face in the car changed to a cheerful expression with the exception of Alain’s. I hoped it would work. I had no more powerful distraction available to me.

Chapter 18- Other Girls Steve, Greg, Mark and I had been trying to learn more about girls by bouncing stories off of one another at the pool. Teenage girls our age now seemed very different. The first time they had piqued my interest was long ago in the first grade, and it was just this one girl. In first grade, they traveled in packs, and if you approached them, they would start to giggle in unison. That was usually enough to make any boy, including me, change direction.

Nobody had any first hand or inside information about them yet, and we certainly didn’t have girlfriends. So it was time to pull out my secret weapon, and get the summer back on more of a normal teenage track, away from all the grunches and witches. I had one of “those” movies; you know, a stag flick with nude chicks and all.

Now those movies were in the wonderful format of reel-to-reel Super 8, which meant that there was really no discreet way to watch them because those Super 8 movie projectors were about as loud as coins in a clothes dryer.

We figured we might get caught because of that noise, so we had all combined our allowance money, made a special trip to the hardware store, and bought two 100foot extension cords that would reach all the way up to the tree house. We hung a white sheet on one wall of the tree house to act as the screen where we would watch these cinematic treasures, if we could ever score one of our own.

Finally, I had landed a movie from an older kid down the street, and now it was time to see if I could refocus the gang on girls – and not the ones who had made a deal with the devil.

As we all gathered in the tree house, we took our usual spots and I produced the prized film canister. I threaded the film into the projector, started that visual outboard motor and the movie began. Some of the most horrible music I had ever heard was being used as the soundtrack for this particular film, titled something about Miss Jones and the devil. 'Oh great', I thought, even my planned distraction had the devil in it.

We had no real clue what was going on as the first scene started. (There was no sex education in those days.) I mean we knew it was sex and all, but there was a lot of unexplained and mysterious stuff going on in that film.

Alain began shaking his head in disapproval and departed right as the movie started. While he was climbing down the ladder in a very critical tone he said, “OK you little perverts, I will be back later when you are finished watching that garbage. I need to speak with my Grandma about some of the things Mr. Lorio just told us.

Stupid kids,” was the last thing I heard him mumble as he walked away across the lawn.

I think I was the only one that heard what Alain said as he left. The other guys were watching the movie like confused mice trying to find their way through a maze of adolescent bewilderment.

“What is she doing?” asked Greg. “It doesn’t look like she has a boyfriend.”

“I don’t know what she's doing, but she still has to have a boyfriend. I mean, she needs somebody to talk to,” replied Steve.

“Well, I don’t know Steve, but it sounds like she’s talking to herself, right now,” I added in a voice equally absent of any true expertise.

We were trying to help each other understand what we were seeing, but we might as well have been trying to explain the meaning of the universe to each other.

I don’t recall any of the guys mentioning that they got the “sex talk” from their parents. Hell, most of our mothers changed the channel when a tampon commercial came on TV. We had heard about the birds and the bees and the stork long ago, but we couldn’t see any relation between the animal and insect kingdom and what we were seeing in that movie. We all religiously watched the TV show Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and it had nothing in common with anything that lady was doing on film.

Now I was the only guy who had been through a “playing doctor” experience and in our little group that was considered a real advantage, a seniority of sorts. Just two summers before, something happened that instantly made me the most “girl knowledgeable” of us all. I would be the first to find out just how different boys and girls were.

Her name was Tiffany, she lived two houses away, and her short hair and masculine way of dressing always led me to believe she was a tomboy. She was fourteen-years-old, two years older than me and one day she told me there was a new game we could play called “Doctor”.

Now having been to the doctor a few times, I could not imagine what would possibly be fun about a game named after that sadistic little man who had his office over on Metairie Road. I was old enough then, that those little grape lollipops with the string handles were not adequate compensation for the pain that man dispensed.

I was about to learn that Tiffany’s doctor must have provided a completely different type of care. She was obviously not going to my doctor, but had discovered some type of specialist.

It was her game, so she told me what to do and I did it. I moved my hot wheels racetrack out of the way and made some room on the floor as she suggested. She said she was going to be the doctor first and that I would be her patient. I remember

looking over at my bed, seeing that I still had a trundle bed with NFL football sheets on it. Not exactly a bachelor's pad.

While Tiffany began her… umm… examination, I turned my head nervously to the left and came face to face with my poster of Maureen McCormick – you know, Marcia from The Brady Bunch – and it looked like she was watching us.

I hurriedly interrupted the examination only to learn that it was my turn to be the doctor. So I followed the lead that she had so graciously provided, as well as the constant detailed instructions she was giving me.

I was looking at things that I had never even heard of much less seen, and I didn’t need to eat an apple from the Tree of Knowledge to know that if my mom decided that right then was a good time to serve us Oreos and cold milk, I was going to be in some serious trouble. That day on a very cold terrazzo floor, and in a completely innocent way, my perspective on girls was changed forever.

That experience though was nothing like this naked horror show that we were watching. Although I had shared every detail with my friends, the huge gap between my competence in such things and what we were seeing in the movie still left us mystified and, frankly, a little bit scared although we would never say so.

We didn’t watch the whole movie. We didn’t know any girls like that, and when we put that completely irrelevant movie into the fire we had going that night, I think we were all glad to see it burn. I will always remember Mark’s comment.

“I won’t miss that crap. I mean I heard that... well you know... 'doing it' was supposed to be a great thing. But in that movie, every chick was always telling the dude what to do. It was 'do this' or 'do that' and sometimes she even screamed at the guy.”

“Yeah, and what in the hell is great about that?” Greg added.

We all agreed, because if there was one thing none of us liked, it was being told what to do.

Chapter 19 - The Lemoyne Family Diary The distraction had failed miserably and as we sat around the fire, Steve refocused our attention.

“OK, guys, now that we know what kind of chicks we don’t want to date, what say we go through the book Mr. Lorio gave us?”

The rest of us just followed Steve’s lead as he opened the volume The Family Lemoyne - Voodoo and the Church.

Steve began reading by the light of the fire and exclaimed. “Whoa… guys, this book is handwritten. …OK here on the first page it says: ‘The Lemoyne family has resided in this good city since the Year of our Lord Seventeen Hundred and Twenty Two, and we have recently replaced Biloxi as the new capital city of French Louisiana. This history of our beloved City of New Orleans is of precise accuracy and must be preserved by both the true residents of the city and our family. If you are reading this volume with intent to harm our fine city, the Lady Orleans, beware. The spirits of the city are deeply intertwined and no man can stand against them.’

“Alright check this out,” Steve said and read an entry from the book.

‘1726 May - New Orleans, our precious colony founded through a small influx of hardworking men and explorers, has been hampered by the introduction of French prisoners and other undesirables of the lower classes. We are in desperate need of direction. Word comes from France that a Count St. Germain, who has influence with the Catholic Church, is seeking aid for us. He is beseeching the King and the Church to send the Ursuline nuns to New Orleans to help heal the people both physically and spiritually, and to grow the colony, which is nearing extinction due to this recent arrival of reprobates and a critical deficiency of eligible women.'

Steve’s eyes scanned the pages and he continued.

'1727 August- The nuns have arrived and began immediately teaching as well as generally caring for a colony in despair and one that does not, we are sad to surmise, still yet have enough women to survive.

‘1727 September - Sister Xavier, one of the newly arrived sisters, has earned the title of pharmacist through the expert instruction of Count St. Germain who has been residing in our city since the arrival of the nuns. Her knowledge of herbs is finding useful to the ill among us.'

“OK, guys. I am skipping down further; hmmm... let’s see now …

‘1727 December - St. Germain has returned to France and has yet to be seen again in New Orleans. He brought news from the colony regarding the need for more women. We understand the majestic King Louis XV has granted a request made by St. Germain, and that 300 fair

women of middle to upper class, who have benefited from the teachings afforded only the aristocracy, will arrive soon at our port.

Steve our ardent researcher continued leafing through the words written upon the pages of the historical diary. OK, here is a section titled The Cassette Girls,” and Steve continued.

‘1728 September- The girls who arrived on the ship 'Bellone' are carrying strange trousseaus and their extraordinary trunks have caused scandalous talk among the residents. These six who are ready for marriage carry trousseaus shaped like coffins. Several people are joking they are transporting vampires, which France has been much maligned with of late. They say “First France sends the criminals, and now the demons; let us all eat and drink well tonight before they unpack their belongings”.

Certainly it will be difficult for those six girls to find a suitor. They have been socially branded with the sobriquet 'les filles à la cassette.'

‘It is good however to see more fine women in our colony. The convent has taken them in to provide them shelter until such time as they can find a proper husband.

‘1729 May - Many of the girls are married now, but the six cassette girls are to remain with the nuns in the convent to serve the church in a secretive manner, or so is the rumor. We are unsure, but the convent attic seems to have been transformed into a residence and it appears that some sort of preparation is being made. Large strong shutters are being placed upon the building, but certainly they are there to weather the storms by which we are often plagued.’

“OK and here is a bit on voodoo about a hundred years later,” Steve said excitedly as he hurriedly thumbed through pages deeper into the book in search of the best information he could quickly read to us.

1822 December 21st - It appears that Voodoo is a power in our city, but many are concerned about the involvement of the Church. Pere Antoine, our beloved Capuchin monk and pastor of the St. Louis Cathedral, has allowed Marie Laveau the infamous Voodoo priestess, to practice her rituals in the garden behind the St. Louis Cathedral and she has been seen doing so.

Madame Laveau, it is also stated in the Church records, has been involved in a holy monthly ritual with the Sisters of Claret, a group of nuns of whose identity we are unsure.

These rituals which Madame Laveau participates in are held in the Ursuline Convent and are recorded in the archives of the Church. It is rumored these Sisters of Claret are in fact the same young women who arrived in New Orleans carrying the strange trunks, the filles de la cassette. Times are strange within the convent indeed.

Gossip amongst our residents abounds and some speak of an antediluvian evil that is causing the church serious concern. Pere Antoine has baptized Marie Laveau, and they work side by side but his constant questioning of authority is concerning some members of the

Church as they think he may be corrupt and dealing secretly with Spain. Too many questions surround our church and the people are unsettled.

“OK, Steve, so what I get from this is that the Church and Voodoo came together somehow, and it looks like the residents of New Orleans thought it was to prepare for some major event, but the whole coffin thing is confusing me.” I said Mark was pleased to inform us all that the word cassette could be interpreted as the word casket in Old Louisiana French saying he had heard the word at his Grandma's funeral.

“OK so did the Lemoyne’s and the people of the time really think those casket chicks could be vampires?” Greg asked. “It sounds like vampires were an issue in France but it also sounds like they might have been joking about it,” he concluded.

I threw in my own two cents.

“Forget the vampire thing for a minute. It’s the Church mixing with Voodoo thing that worries me. Why would a Voodoo queen be associated with the Catholic Church? C’mon guys, we need to figure out what is really going on here. I think we need to be careful.”

“Listen brah, this is a huge book. We have a lot more investigating to do. We can’t figure it all out tonight,” Steve interjected.

“Let’s just go down to the French Quarter tomorrow and see what else we can learn for ourselves.”

Just then Alain walked up and interrupted our discussion. He had returned from his long phone conversation, with a very troubled look on his face.

“Guys we need to be in the French Quarter by three o’clock tomorrow, so I will pick you up here. Some of the stuff Mr. Lorio said matches what my Grandma just told me on the phone. She believes a powerful evil is coming to the city and insists we all go to her shop and listen to what she has to say. I am beginning to think that a camera with a zoom lens is a really good idea if we decide to do this at all.”

“Alright then it’s been a long day, let’s get inside and get some rest,” Steve added.

Even though it was earlier than we would normally go to bed on a summer’s night, we all readily agreed.

“Yeah, man, I’m tired, let’s hit the rack,” Greg conceded.

We all retreated to Steve's monster museum, quickly took our sleeping bag spots and said our good-nights. Only Steve stayed awake, reading the Lemoyne diary by the light of a small lamp on his desk. He just couldn’t get enough, and had probably talked us into sleep so he could be left alone to his own devices.

All I could think about before drifting off to sleep was going to the Quarter to see Alain’s Grandma, and finding out about the trouble she had foreseen, and why she was so worried for us all.

When we awoke the next morning Greg leaned over to me and said, “Listen brah, when we go to this Voodoo lady, if she says something that scares me, I am out of this deal.”

“Don’t worry, man,” I assured him. “If I don’t like it, I'm out with you.”

Alain arrived as planned and we all climbed into the car for our trip to the city.

Soon we were turning the corner from Transcontinental Boulevard on to Airline Highway and headed straight to the heart of New Orleans – The French Quarter.

Chapter 20 - A Shop of Spells Riding along Airline Highway towards Tulane Avenue, we joked around a bit about gris-gris, eye of newt, and chicken feet. Nobody knew I already had a gris-gris bag, and it would stay that way unless I needed to flash it at some demon or something.

“Man, this stuff is a real religion, so don't be actin’ the fool in front of my Grandmere,” Alain warned.

“Yeah, guys, show some respect. You don’t make fun of this stuff or you’ll be sorry,” added Steve.

As we saw the Crystal Preserves billboard appear on the horizon of Tulane Avenue– you know, the one with the creepy chef stirring the big pot – all of a sudden it seemed like he was cooking more than hot sauce and we all got a little bit quieter.

We were nearing the soul of the city, and passing the Orleans Parish prison a few seconds later only bolstered the silence.

We turned on to Poydras Street, drove just a bit more and then made a left at City Hall. Crossing Canal Street onto Rampart, we all felt the same thing you feel every time you enter the Quarter. We were entering the city within a city, and taking a step back into history. Only this time I knew a lot more of that history than I wanted to.

We found a parking spot near the French Market, climbed out of the Opel Manta and began our march towards the Voodoo Shop.

As we walked past the black wrought iron fences of Jackson Square, the sky began to darken and the wind picked up as it often did in the early summer evenings of New Orleans. The pigeons began to scurry, but the stranger thing was that there was no thunder.

When the sky got as dark as the sky was then, there was always a rumbling off in the distance. It was more than a little menacing as we walked underneath the silent darkness rolling in overhead. Then, before I knew it, we were there.

“OK, guys, this is it, so remember: be cool and be respectful,” Alain said.

We all nodded our heads in acknowledgment and he opened the door which displayed a small sun bleached wooden sign that simply read, ‘Madame Latour's Spiritual Remedies’.

The entry way led to a long, narrow passageway littered with old yellowed paintings of early New Orleans, mainly portraits of people I didn't know but who all

looked somewhat important. This was not the type of shop I had visited with my Grandma.

There were no shelves of dolls or any other items awaiting new owners. It didn’t appear to be a place that sold anything at all. There were candles burning though, almost guiding us to the last room at the end of the hall, and although the room was barely lit, as we got nearer I could just make out the silhouettes of several crosses hanging on the wall. This place was a hell of a lot more spooky than the other shop I had been too. A spiritual presence seemed to permeate the entire structure.

“They are here. They are here. BRAAAAAAAAAAK!” A parrot whose cage was hidden in the shadows near the door of the back room squawked his introduction and announced our arrival making Mark and me jump just a bit.

“I sure as hell hope he says that to everybody,” Mark whispered.

A man wearing a straw hat, white shirt, black vest and blue jeans entered the hallway from the back room. He was tall and Creole, just like Alain. He had the greenest eyes I think I have ever seen – almost like an alligator.

“Welcome boys. I am Jean Baptiste, and we have been expecting you. But I am sorry to say, Madame Latour has gone home and has asked me to inform Master Alain that she is waiting for him on the third floor of her residence.

“But perhaps you boys would like to look around a bit before you go?” he said as he noticed Steve's expression of wonderment.

“Only for a moment, I don't want to keep Grand-mere waiting too long. Guys, this is Baptiste. He has been working with my Grand-mere for over 30 years. He takes care of her like he is family. She couldn’t run the shop without him,” replied Alain.

“Well thank you Master Alain, those are kind words indeed.”

I was thinking, 'Hell, let's not keep your Grand-mere waiting another minute and get out of here right now', but Steve had a look in his eye as if he had just discovered King Tut's tomb.

“This way please,” said the debonair Baptiste.

We were led into the back room and quickly walked up on a strange assortment of items. A gate legged table with both of its winged leaves extended held a statue of an elderly man and he was surrounded by small colored plates.

One white candle lay to his right and a black candle to his left. A knife and quill pen had been placed just in front of a bottle of rum and a walking stick with a redand-white cross hanging from the crook leaned against the tables edge.

“This is an altar to Papa Legba which your Grand-mere had us construct for your arrival,” Baptiste informed Alain. “She wanted me to –”

Baptiste was cut short as a flash of lightning and then an ear-splitting crash boomed just outside of the shops front door. The bright light illuminated the entire inside of the building and the thunderous crash arrived in perfect unison with the powerful strike. I jumped what felt like two feet off the floor, and I am pretty sure almost everyone else did, except Baptiste.

He calmly reached behind the altar and produced a very large live python and without saying a word placed it around his shoulders and walked towards the entrance to the shop.

Of course, we followed him. I mean after a scare like that, you follow the dude with the snake. But he was too calm for my liking. I should have been thankful for his composure but it made me feel uneasy.

“OK, brah, this crap isn't funny anymore,” I said to Mark, who still looked dazed from the lightning strike.

As we followed Baptiste a young woman, perhaps no more than 20 years old, appeared from an adjacent room and walked over to him.

“They should not stay here. This is why the Madame wanted them to go to her home, they should go; they should go now,” she insisted.

“Boys, let's wait and see if the rain will come or not, and then I will walk with you to the Madame’s” said Baptiste, seemingly trying to quiet the girl by ignoring her words.

“Anne, please bring us some umbrellas in case we must leave in the rain,” he added as he placed a small gray cloth bag that hung from a leather cord, around his neck.

'Gris-Gris,’ I thought. “Well, if he is using his, then I am keeping mine handy, too,” I said under my breath.

“Grand-mere's house is just down the street at 935 Dumaine guys; it's not far at all,” Alain said in a reassuring tone.

The rain never came and the sky cleared as fast as it had darkened. We emerged from the Madame's shop and crossed Royal Street.

“Hey, Mr. Baptiste, can we go two blocks over for a minute and see the LaLaurie Mansion?” Steve beseeched and suggested; a combination of sorts he often employed.

“No!” Baptiste said in a raised voice that seemed to surprise even him and startled us all.

He quickly calmed himself and looked Steve right in the eye. “We have no business near that house, and the Madame is waiting. She has things to tell you … things that just may change your mind about where you roam, young man.”

'I wished somebody could scare that son of a bitch Steve,' I thought, because I was already scared of my friend’s Grandma and being scared of Grandmas, well that's just weird.

As we crossed Dauphine Street, Alain pointed out the house.

“There’s it is... 935 Dumaine.”

Yeah. I thought, 'To Grandmother’s house we go'.

Chapter 21 - Grand-mere Latour Standing there in front of the old wooden shuttered red brick building, looking at the manicured array of perennials flowing out of the planter boxes suspended from the railing of the large balcony, I wondered what we were in for. Would it be a scolding? Would Alain’s Grandma have the influence to end this madness?

The large wooden front door with the small arched opening protected by iron bars was ominous. Jean Baptiste pulled on a thin rope that hung just to its right and a couple of seconds later, a bell was heard ringing deep in the belly of the building.

Footsteps approached the doorway and a young woman looked through the bars at the door's opening. It was Danielle!

“Hi, there Dani,” Alain greeted her.

“Well, hello, Alain, oh and I see you have some familiar faces with you. Hi, guys.”

The door opened and we walked into the long entry corridor of the old residence.

“Yeah that’s right cousin, you lifeguard at their club don’t you?” Alain said.

OK, so Danielle was Alain’s cousin and I immediately wondered whether we had talked about how hot she was in front of him. I hoped not and didn’t think so. She was certainly the last person we all expected to see, and Mark and I were happy to see something that didn’t make you think of voodoo and the devil. I smiled as I thought, ‘She knows our faces…cool.’

Danielle led the way and as we reached the end of the cool, dark bricked passageway, we arrived at a beautiful courtyard displaying an explosion of greenery that created a wonderful floral kaleidoscope. Ferns were hanging everywhere. Some reached down from above as they clung to the railing of the courtyard balconies.

Others embraced the three gas lanterns whose flames flickered in accord as a soft breeze blew the draping fern leaves to and fro.

Rubber tree plants standing at rigid attention in the corners pointed the way towards twining stems of wisteria that had succeeded in their long climb up the rock face of the twelve foot brick walls and celebrated their journey by showering the structure with pendulous purple clusters of efflorescence. Lush azalea bushes buttressed those walls providing a white, red and purple foundation to the serenity.

Dominating the colorful array and standing right in the center of the courtyard was one of the most amazing fountains I had ever seen. Over six feet tall and constructed from some heavy alloy; seven angels stood at its base and held above

them as if they were holding up the heavens a large gilded bowl whose centerpiece was a king's crown complete with a magnificent fleur de lis.

It was on that day and in those few moments that I discovered the true beauty of the French Quarter lay hidden behind a cloak of high courtyard walls tucked safely away from the prying eyes of tourists.

“Those are the old slave quarters over there,” said Danielle, pointing out the twostory structure at the rear of the courtyard.

“Yeah, it’s kind of weird guys. Our great grandfather was the first free man of color to build a house here in the French Quarter but he had servants too,” added Alain.

“Grand-mere is in the attic room and waiting for you. Perhaps you should go,” Danielle suggested to Alain.

We climbed the grand wooden staircase that wound its way up from the stone courtyard floor to the first landing and then scaled one more flight of steps to a small wooden door. Steve, Jean Baptiste and Alain had to duck just a tad as we all entered.

It was an attic space alright, but once you got inside, the ceilings were peaked to a height exceeding our suburban homes and the area resembled more a sanctuary than a place you would store your boxed-up hand-me-downs. A small lady was sitting at the far side of the room just at the front of an altar that had four glowing tiers. A statue of the Virgin Mary shared the topmost and center position with a statue of what must have been Marie Laveau wearing her signature tignon.

At least 30 candles, mainly of the glass Santeria style, burned brightly and what looked like family photographs were attached at all levels. There was the rum I had seen in the voodoo market, as well as a cross and miniature black casket and kneeling there was the woman whom I assumed must be Madame Latour. She was spreading flour on the floor into an intricate design, a veve' and as we approached in silence, I could see her finish what appeared to be the shape of a heart.

“Good evening, young gentlemen,’ Alain’s Grandma said as she turned and raised herself to her feet.

“These things take practice even when you have done them as many times as I have. Or perhaps because I have done them so often,” she said laughing at herself.

“Grand' mere, you should let me help with the veve's,” Danielle said.

“You will, my child. Just a little more instruction for you and you will,” she replied.

Whoa … Danielle was learning voodoo. I wasn’t sure if that made her a hotter chick or scared me a little. A voodoo priestess girlfriend – now that would be different.

“So come now children and make yourself comfortable. I have been waiting for you.

“Madame”, Baptiste interrupted, “Should I bring the ceremonial papers to the priestess who will perform the rites on the bayou this coming St. John's Eve?” “Ah yes,” said the Madame as she reached into a drawer removing a rolled up canvas. “Please bring this to Madame Claudia and give her my blessings Baptiste”.

When Baptiste exited the attic I for one was happy to see him go. I just had a bad feeling about him.

“Now then please sit there and tell me what it is you boys are up to during these long hot days of summer,” she said as she motioned to some cushions on the floor.

“Well, Grand-mere, these guys have been hanging out together at Sunrise Community Club, the one Danielle is lifeguarding for, but together we are trying to plan a way to photograph some of the legendary spirits of the city.”

“Yes, our spirits are legendary, that is correct child. But, my precious grandson, I have a bad feeling and not just for you, but for your companions here as well.”

Steve interrupted as he always did.

“I really believe in the Madame LaLaurie story, Madame Latour. I think we can get some really cool photos.”

“You may call me Ms. Mildred and I also believe in her, young man, but she is a dangerous woman, and this year in particular she should not be sought out. Bad times are prophesied for our city, and only the ones who are destined to meet her on St. Johns Eve should be anywhere near her. They must not be distracted from their task by children with cameras. St. John's Eve is the most powerful of all conjuring nights in our religion and you young ones should not interfere.”

“Excuse me, Ma'am,” I said. “What exactly is the danger we don’t know about?

We have heard all of the stories about LaLaurie and we also have read accounts of the slave story and about the birth of an evil child. What else could there possibly be?”

“So I see you have heard of Cain then have you?” she asked.

“Yes… I mean I guess we have, but not by name,” I replied.

“Is that ‘Cain’ spelled like C-A-I-N from, you know, Cain and Abel?” asked Mark.

“He was called Kayin in Hebrew but yes Mark that is the exact Cain I speak of, the first born child of Satan and Eve – the one cast out and later taught the ways of wickedness by Lilith, the mother of the prince of demons and the wife before ‘Eve’,” the Madame answered.

Unable to hold it in any longer Greg erupted with questions.

“Is Madame LaLaurie going to try and free Cain on St. John's Eve? Will someone try to stop her?”

“Be calm my child. There are those who are prophesied to come, those of mixed religion and special lineage, and they will be the six to fight against the release of the evil one's son Cain.

Descendants of the great voodoo teachers, two acolytes of the Holy Catholic Church, one who knows the ways of St. John, born on the eve of the feast, and a descendant of the immortal one will all join together to stop the release of evil. They will come with a mentor who has prepared them well but you children must not meddle in such things.”

‘Well as a Baptist who doesn't know any immortal ones I agree we should stay out of their way,” I announced hoping to bring the discussion to a rapid conclusion.

Alain’s Grandma looked at me with a frozen stare, cocked her head just a bit to the right and asked, “You are Baptist and you come here to me on this day with my descendants? And you two boys, what is your last name?” she asked of Greg and Steve.

“Theriot” they both answered.

“Hmmm... and your religion?” she asked.

“Ma’am, we are Catholic, but I don’t think we are apocolytes or whatever you said,” interjected Steve as if he knew where she was going with her curious line of questioning.

“How do you serve your church?” Madame Latour asked as she continued her mild interrogation.

“We attend mass. Well, I mean, we are altar boys at the St. Louis Cathedral,” said Steve with a quizzical look.

“Then you are acolytes of the Church.” she replied.

“And is your surname perhaps St. Germain, child?” the Madame asked Mark, to which he sheepishly answered, “Yes, Ma’am.”

“When were you born son?” she asked me in a rapid follow up.

“Well, it is kind of funny. I was born at midnight on June 24th, so I guess I could have two birthdays.”

“So, child, you were born on the cusp of the St. John’s Eve feast, and you are a Baptist.”

She bowed her head as if in disappointment pausing a long moment before she spoke again.

“This is not what I expected. I need some time alone young ones. Please leave me and return here in one hour. I have some preparations to make. But before you go, you must look at this veve' and tell me what you see?’”

Alain accepted the tanned rolled-up piece of goat skin. It was very worn and looked extremely old. He unrolled it to reveal the likeness of a veve'. The stars, caskets and huge cross in the center completely captured our attention.

“I think it's a map,” Steve guessed out loud.

“An acolyte will see the way,” the Madame Latour replied.

“That veve' was handed down through generations of mambo and was drawn in Africa in the 2nd Century. Now go from here awhile and when you return I will read to you the entire Marinette Prophecy. You young men have some preparations to make it seems, and not much time with which to do it. Danielle please remain here with me.”

So now all of a sudden she was calling us “men” …great.

“C’mon, guys, let’s go downstairs and call our parents. We can go over to Café Du Monde for some beignets,” said Alain doing his best to distract us.

Madame Latour looked troubled and you could see that she wanted us to leave her alone in contemplation.

All of us were silent and staring blankly at Alain except for Steve who was writing away. Alain made his way toward the staircase gesturing for our cooperation and although still in a bit of a stupor we followed him down the stairs. Doing as he suggested, we called our parents and explained that we were at Alain’s Grandma’s place and would be home a little later than we thought.

“Can you believe this?” Steve said as we walked out of the main door of 935 Dumaine and headed out towards Café Du Monde. “I think we might be the chosen ones out of some ancient African prophecy.”

“Holy shit, Steve, or unholy shit depending on how you look at it, we are not chosen ones; we are teenagers! Do you have some super powers you aren’t telling the rest of us about, because I am not fighting a witch, the devil, a grunch or anything else involved in this crazy ass prophecy,” I insisted.

“Yeah, man, c'mon that's a little too much for me to handle,” added Mark. “If you want to take some photos of theses freaks from a distance, and I mean a far distance, well then fine but I’m not some dude who is supposed to fight evil on that St. John’s Eve or any other night.”

Greg chimed in calmly, “Listen, brah, think about it for a minute. There is no way we are the ones she is talking about. I mean, she wants to read the whole prophecy to us, so let’s just wait and see what she says and keep planning our photo strategy...”

Then Steve interrupted, “And find out what this veve' map thing means. She is probably just trying to scare us away from being near whatever it is that’s supposed to happen. She said something big is going down and she doesn't want us in the way,

that's all. If this is a map it will make it easy for us to find the places where we need to be to take the big money photos.”

“Alain, brah, say something. What do you think about all this?” I asked.

“Listen man, my Grand-mere sounded like we have something to do with this prophecy, but I’m with Greg. Let’s see what happens in an hour. You guys don’t have to do anything about this if you don’t want to, but if my Grand-mere says I need to be somewhere, then I am going to be there.”

“We can still do this, guys,” Steve insisted. “I mean we haven’t even heard the prophecy, so relax. St. John’s Eve is the 24 th. We can tell our parents we are camping out again and come to the Quarter instead. “ Steve noticed the disturbed looks he was receiving from Mark and me and adjusted his tone. “Like Alain says, let’s just hear the prophecy and then decide what we should do.”

June 24th was looming as a big date on all of our calendars, and not because it was my birthday. Or maybe that was part of the reason why I was involved in this crap. Anyway, I was having trouble taking in all the nonsense and I didn’t like the way things were going, not even a little bit.

Chapter 22 - A Prophecy Explained We hung out at Café Du Monde for a while, ate our beignets and then began the walk back towards Dumaine Street. We hadn't really decided anything about the veve' map other than it would be a good idea to talk to Mr. Lorio about it. We still had some time to kill before Alain's grandma wanted us to return to her house, so Steve decided we would walk down Royal. Before any of us realized where we were going, we were traipsing up to the corner of Royal Street and Governor Nicholls.

“Well, there it is, guys; there’s the house where that crazy witch did all those terrible things,” Steve said as he pointed at the address appearing clearly near the main door, 1140 Royal Street.

The stark gray residence towered above us, and was the dominant structure in the area by far. It was three stories high and had a large wrought-iron, wrap-around gallery on the second floor. At the very top, you could see a space that was set apart from the rest of the structure, appearing awkward in its design.

“That's it. That’s the attic space. We need to ask Mr. Lorio if his doctor friend can let us have a look inside,” said a very enthusiastic Steve.

“Yeah right that’s exactly what I was thinking,” I said shaking my head. A chill ran up my back and I guess I stood there bewildered for a minute or so until I heard Alain’s call.

“OK man, let’s go, my Grand-mere will be waiting” coaxing us all away from the LaLaurie Mansion back towards Dumaine Street. I turned, started to walk away and for some unknown reason I stopped, turned back around and stared at the address; 1140 Royal Street. Something just seemed wrong about that number. During my second glance I noticed a man entering the house. He looked strangely similar to Jean Baptiste though he was dressed in workman's coveralls.

'Why would he be there?' I wondered. But my eyes were probably playing tricks on me. It had to be the heat.

As we returned to Madame Latour's home and entered the attic space once again, we found her kneeling with Danielle near a center-post support for the roof.

Together they were drawing a large veve'. An intricate combination of flowers was set below a compass of sorts. Stars and a crescent moon floating around a cross completed and unified the corn flour art. Madame Latour was the first to notice our arrival.

“Sit around the veve’ with us and within the circle of candles, young ones, and we will begin the ritual. These are gris-gris bags I have prepared for all of you,” she said.

While the others took their places I reached into my pocket and handed her the one I already owned.

“I got this one a couple of months ago at the Voodoo Market. It’s for protection.”

The other guys looked at me astonished by the revelation of my secret possession but Madame Latour without saying a word took the gris-gris bag from me, placed it in the center of the circle near the veve', and handed out the ones she had prepared for each of us.

Dumping the contents of my gris-gris bag on the floor in front of us all, she stared at the various pieces of herbs and magic I had been carrying with me.

“This bag you have given me child is not a charm that offers protection for its owner. This bag identifies you to an evil Loa and brings with it a spell that allows her to easily enter this world wherever the bag is located. She quickly swept the spilled contents back into the bag and placed it in the center of the veve'.

“This gris - gris will serve us well as I tell you of the prophecies but after that we will destroy it. I will now summon the petro Loa I speak of, Marinette, Queen of the Werewolves.

“What is a petro Loa Madame Latour? Mark asked.

A petro Loa is a fiery and evil Loa. Marinette is such a Loa. I learned of her in Haiti, the nation of the struggles of my ancestors. But do not be alarmed by her presence and stay calm. You are all protected here. Do not though for any reason move from your place within this circle while she is in our realm. Now please remain quiet and let us begin.

She closed her eyes and began a slow mournful chant in Creole and while I could not understand the words of her incantation, it sounded solemn, almost remorseful.

She finished the sorrowful words of beckoning and then looked at each of us while she spoke.

“As I tell you about the Marinette Prophecy of the Screeching Owl and of the book titled The True Red Dragon you must pay careful attention. Long ago in the year 141–” the Madame began, but was quickly interrupted by Steve.

“There’s that 141 again,” he said. “That’s the number of years of immortality given to LaLaurie. What’s up with that number M’am?”

“A number equally balanced by the number one at either end is truly evil, and one that adds itself to a sum of six is the most evil, my boy. Seven is the number of good, while six is the number of evil; this you must remember,” said the Madame and continued with her story about the prophecy.

“In that year 141 AD, being one year after the Catholics named their first enlightened pope, Saint Pius, one who investigated and sometimes accepted the prophecy of other religions; emissaries of the Church from Rome were sanctioned by the Pope himself to visit the Kabye people of western Africa.

“Amongst the foreign visitors was one familiar traveler who had visited with the Kabye many times, and who knew well their tribal leader. They had undertaken the long journey to speak with the high priestess Aja. They told her of their saints and angels, and sought permissions for their scribes to create a likeness of the book The True Red Dragon for His Holiness the Pope.

“She and her tribe held this book in their possession as her people had done since the time of the death of King Solomon, when one of his temple advisors brought the book to West Africa just as he had been instructed to do by the king himself. A great feast was prepared in the visitors’ honor, and rituals to please the Loa were set in motion as the Catholics looked on.

“Members of the tribe began their ritual dancing and the Voodoo priestess Aja prepared a veve' as a blessing for the visitors. Just as the priestess stood with raised arms reaching towards the sky, making her appeal to the mediator of our spirit world, a great commotion poured forth from the edge of the jungle and into the clearing.

“Marinette, the premier mambo, the very evil Loa and powerful priestess appeared from the jungle in the form of a giant screech owl and her followers, her disciples, the werewolves were with her.”

“The Loup Garou; the werewolves that Steve read to us about, are they real?” asked Greg.

Alain’s Grandma nodded silently once in his direction before continuing on.

“Now children listen closely, Marinette who had appeared to the gathering in the form of the great owl began to speak in a language that none of the visitors had ever heard, but one they could all understand on that day.

“Marinette spoke directly to the priestess and the Catholic travelers saying to them, ‘You mortals all prophesy about the evil one who has been sent away to wander...”

A sudden change came over the face of Madame Latour as her voice trailed off.

She looked bewitched as if something inside of her was trying to persuade her actions. She spoke again, but her voice began to change to a deeper more exotic and peculiar tone.

Her eyes closed for a moment and when they reopened solid black eyeballs stared at us. Her pupils opened like a camera shutter and a second set of eyes, glowing yellow orbs nesting within the darkness gazed into our gathering.

She looked at each of us for a time and then picked up the gris - gris bag I had been carrying. We knew then that it was Marinette speaking to us through the Madame, just as she had spoken to those travelers on that day in Africa so very long ago.

“Every Voudon Mambo in Africa and your Saul of Tarsus of the Church has warned of his return. This I say to you. He will return. He will be resurrected. He will be held in bondage, but he will be freed and released upon the pitiful people of this world.”

“The prophecy will be fulfilled after the revolt. We will gather for our Master in the New City to release his only son. A dark widow seeking her husband will lead us against the chosen innocents, the opposers, the ones of mixed beliefs. They will come with their mentor, one learned of the ages.

These foolish beings will try and interfere. They are …” she said with a slow scanning stare tilting her head slowly from side to side, “…the descendants of Voudon Queens, two faithful inferiors of the Catholics, the one who practices the rites of St. John, who was born on the eve of the great feast and a fruit from the tree of the immortal traveler who sits here among us once again.”

The spirit paused a moment and then continued in a low echoing tone.

“They will seek out conflict and challenge our purpose but the Deceiver, the pristine man of sin, will be unshackled and freed upon your world once again.

“Our evil is pure and stands together as one, while your conflicted beliefs remain separate, isolated and weak. Those who dare to defy us will surely be defeated and surrender their souls and if they refuse their destiny they will surrender the souls of their families. For them there is no escape. For them hope does not exist.

“The book of conjures, the book of the dragon will soon be returned to the care of the Deceiver. This is the prophecy that will be fulfilled to begin the glorious reign of persecution, murder and worship of the original liar. So it was written long ago, so it shall also soon come to pass.”

Madame Latour fell forward in a partial collapse, but quickly gathered herself, took a few deep breaths, her eyes cleared and she spoke to us in her normal voice.

“On that day when Marinette had finished prophesying to the travelers from Rome, a red streak of light flew across the heavens, causing all to look up, and when their gaze turned earthwards again, Marinette was gone.

“But did the priestess let the Catholics copy the book?” Greg asked.

“And what was that light Grand-mere?” added Danielle.

“Yes she did allow them to make a likeness of the book and that streaking light is recorded in history as the sixth passing of what you know as Halley’s Comet, which appears every 76 years. Remember your numbers children; the comet represents

Satan, the lesser 6, flying across the greater 7, across the heavens and defiling the face of the Creator.”

“1140 Royal Street adds up to six!”

I had no idea why I said it but I did. She looked my way and nodded her head one slow time.

“Now listen closely; the fulfillment of this prophecy is nearing. One hundred and forty-one years ago this coming St. John’s Eve Madame LaLaurie made her pact with Satan which makes this year's feast the night they will attempt to release Cain. While elders were expected to fulfill this prophecy, you all perfectly fit the description of the chosen six and it is only my place to accept who you are and not to question why.

“Who is this Saul of Tarsus that Marinette mentions, and what revolt is being planned, Grand-mere,” asked Alain.

“Saul of Tarsus is also known as the Apostle Paul, one and the same, and he wrote of and also prophesied the return of Cain, following a revolt. That revolt has already occurred young ones and we know it as the Haitian slave revolt of 1791, the event that caused many of our generations to come to this city. Marinette is said to have had much to do with starting that revolt which occurred just a few short decades before Cain’s return. And it was Madame LaLaurie the black witch that performed the unholy resurrection of the child.”

“I knew it!” exclaimed Steve. I knew it was necromancy!”

“Yes Steve. Madame LaLaurie is a very evil and powerful witch and with her power she carries a heart that has been exceedingly hardened. You see children; her parents were plantation owners here in Louisiana just up the river from our city.

Their slaves also revolted and during that revolt her brother was killed.

“From that day onward she sought to learn the black arts and it was with that hardened heart that she performed the extreme torture of her slaves treating them as if they weren't even human as she prepared to bring back the child.”

But Grand- Mere the prophecy mentions seven people. It mentions one learned in the ages that will be with the six. That must be you.”

“Yes child I believe that I am the one who will be with you, your mentor.”

I couldn’t hold back any longer, and speaking a little louder than usual, “It just can’t be us.” I blurted out. “We are the six of mixed religion? A couple of altar boys, your grandchildren, me a Baptist who drinks grape juice and eats stale crackers for the last supper ceremony and him?” I said pointing at Mark.

“What is the deal with the name St. Germain? Why is it important?”

I was so freaked out that I hadn’t looked at Danielle once and since I was acting like a scared five year old it was probably best. Alain’s Grandma then spoke directly to me and with more emphasis.

“Child I believe that it is you who sit here before me today that are meant to fulfill the Marinette Prophecy. The Count St. Germain is Mark's immortal ancestor and he has been a servant of the light under many different names throughout all of man's history. It is he who sat with the envoys from Rome on that day in Africa in 141 A. D. and it is he who warned the Church of the coming evil.”

Unfortunately this was not a moment where I was able to manage my normal amount of 'respect for the elders' reaction and I continued.

“Excuse me, but I’m a little worried because it looks like we are being asked to walk into a really crazy freak show where the price of admission could be our souls.

Now there are werewolves involved? I mean, hello is anybody out there? I have no idea what we are supposed to do or where we are supposed to go. This is insane.”

“A prophecy is not a recipe, young man. We will need to search for answers together, and I will prepare and protect you as best I can. You may be frightened, but you are needed. I will give you the protections you require, as will the Queen Marie.

Everyone you know, and those you will never know are depending upon your being there on St. John’s Eve. It is your destiny” the Madame replied.

“Excuse me M'am,” added Steve. “Would it be ok if we took this veve' to our history teacher and talked to him about it?”

“Yes child that is fine.”

“But what about the dragon book, where is it?” Mark asked.

“The original book is kept safely here in New Orleans and well protected from all who would wish to do harm with it,” replied Madame Latour.

“I am sorry Ma'am but I am not sure about all of this. I don't really see a reason why I should believe I am chosen for such a crazy fate. I mean if we are the chosen ones what in the heck are we supposed to do? Is there anything else we need to be on the lookout for or are we supposed to just figure out where to show up and see what happens… and...and is my immortal ancestor around here somewhere? It's all a bit hard to believe Ma'am.”

Mark was full of questions and lost in a spiritual narcosis like we all were.

“We will all go to the Ursuline Convent in two days Mark, and there we will meet the priest and the nuns, and we will teach you of the book and the sacred key that unlocks its power both of which Madame LaLaurie will be seeking. There at the convent your questions will be fully answered.”

“But what if I don’t want to be a part of this? It sounds too dangerous to me and if evil is truly coming I don't want to be the one who answers the door that they enter through,” Mark said and I agreed with him. “I mean why should we even believe this?”

Madame Latour spoke once more, “The Haitian prophecies that coincide with Cain's arrival say that the chosen ones will arrive, will hear, and must accept their calling; for if they hide from their fate, their weakness will create a portal, a gateway for the infernals, an opening into our world for evil. In their families' homes demons will enter and feast upon those of their house and then torment their souls beginning the tribulation of the evil one.”

“Does the prophecy say the six chosen ones die?” Greg asked.

Madame Latour looked at him earnestly.

“The prophecy does not speak of such outcomes. If the chosen ones fail however I am afraid we will all share that fate.”

At the exact moment she ended her sentence a strong wind blew through the attic space and every candle in the circle was extinguished instantly except for the large black one sitting next to the Madame at the base of the main attic support beam.

“She is still here,” said the Madame.

She quickly picked up the gris-gris bag I had had surrendered to her earlier. She placed the leather straps around the end of a dark brown walking cane and held the cane with the bag just above the remaining candle's flame.

The bag ignited and yellow smoke spiraled slowly towards the ceiling, hung there above us as if it was too heavy to rise any farther and began to take form. An aspect began to reveal itself, a shape... a likeness appeared. A skeletal countenance with long hair hung there in the air.

“You will die. You all will!” declared the vapors from the burning bag.

Then like a water spout the fume twisted and wreathed together and flew from the room, out the attic door and towards the stairs.

“What in the hell was that?” Greg shouted.

But the rest of us all watched numb, scared into motionlessness. We had seen and heard enough to fill our senses for that afternoon, no emotional space remained.

“That was Marinette but do not worry child. Do keep your gris-gris bags with you always and keep them in your right pocket during the day and under your pillow when you sleep.

“It is time for you all to leave here now but remember we must all go to the convent in two days’ time. Go home and think upon what you have learned today,” said the Madame as she waved us towards the attic door.

“Danielle please take the shadow board with you and teach them of its ways. You must do so by tomorrow night.” And with that Madame Latour handed Danielle a large blue velvet bag and our exit was confirmed.

Making our way down the old staircase I heard Greg mumble to himself “Don't worry?”, and on the way out of the house Danielle put her hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “They need you. We all do.”

'Need me?' I thought. They needed me for a pickup game of basketball. They needed me to return kick-offs in a street football game. But this; was this really happening? I mean if I didn't accept my calling would demons show up in my mom's kitchen? What the hell was I supposed to do?

A whisper in the ear from Danielle though was certainly a nice thing and it was the only good feeling I had experienced the entire day.

We made our way back to the car limping along in a kind of a trance and while riding home the decision was made to go back to Mr. Lorio’s house the next day with all of the information we had, including the new goatskin veve' – or map, as Steve saw it.

For the first time in days we all retreated to our own homes for the night. My time was spent listening to music in my room wondering why or even if we really had been chosen. We were certainly nothing special. I could not even fathom how we would stop such a horrendous being as Madame LaLaurie.

In my head I went through all we had learned to that point, looking for some sort of clue, something that would tell me what we were supposed to do, if we were supposed to do anything at all. And not having the answers was torturing my mind.

It was a bizarre of proposition and we seemed to have no choice in the matter at least that is if we truly believed that demons would enter our families’ homes. After seeing that skeleton appear from the smoke though I for one was starting to believe.

Sleep did not come to me easily that night. I stared at the undulations of my lava lamp for hours while the wind howled outside tossing the willow tree near my window to and fro like a restless shadowy bogeyman watching over my sleeplessness.

It was then on that exact night that the dreams of those dark towers and the Antichrist returned.