Tempter (9 page)

Chapter Fourteen

He found her seated on a bench on the edge of the View Carré facing a small fountain, her Flying W resting at her feet like faithful pet. She was making little voodoo dolls out of bunched yarn and pieces of colored string, the crookedness of her fingers belying their dexterity. Jerry was reminded of his grandmother, who could still shuck snap-peas like a fiend decades after the rest of her body had succumbed to arthritis.

“So, you finally decided to come an’ see me.” She did not look up from her work as she spoke. “I was beginnin’ to wonder if I was wrong about you, but you come round in time.”

“What the hell did you do to me?” Jerry rasped. “Did you put some kind of hallucinogenic shit in that candle?”

Aggie fixed him with her good eye, delivering a stare that laid his psyche open as easily as a butcher gutting a calf. “I woke you up is what I did.”

Jerry felt a finger made of ice travel down his back. “You’re the woman I saw in my dream!” He dropped down beside her, unable to stay on his feet. “But—how?”

“People live their lives asleep,” Aggie said with a despairing sigh. “Not asleep in bed, but here,” she touched her forehead, “and in here,” she tapped her heart. “They think they are awake, but they merely dream. Their world is the dream, and the dream is their world. What they do not wish to dream about does not exist. Or so they think. The wakin’ world is all around them, but the sleepers are oblivious to it. Sometimes the wakin’ world intrudes, and then their dream becomes a nightmare. Some are more sensitive to the wakin’ world than others—artists, poets, and other madmen. You had that sensitivity within you since birth. I simply prodded it, that’s all. You might say I lifted the veil and allowed a beam of light to strike your eyes. Not too much, mind you—just enough to get your attention.”

Jerry stared at the wizened old woman with a mixture of awe and fear. He dully realized that somewhere along the line her street patois had been replaced by that of an educated woman. “I don’t understand—if you’re capable of what I think I saw, what possible use could you have for me?”

“You were drawn into this game by chance, as were all the other players. It is fortunate you already possessed the seed--a normal sleeper would have been no use to me. I was lucky you were already sleepin’ uneasy. But the woman...the woman sleeps deep. She could very well lose her mind, if she is wakened at the wrong time. That is always a danger when a sleeper is shaken from the dream. But you are made of strong stuff, and the love you have for the woman will make you stronger still.

“I know you’re afraid you’re losin’ your mind. But the opposite is true. If anything, you’re now saner than you ever were before. I know it don’t seem that way right now, but give it time. As to what I expect from you...right now all I need you to do is go to the Tulane University Library. On the second floor you will find the Louisiana Collection Reading Room. Tell the woman in charge that you want to see the Seraphine File. If she gives you grief, show her this.” Aggie stuffed one of the little yarn poppets into his hand. “If you read what is shown you, you will have some understandin’ of what
has
happened, what
is
happenin’, and what
might
happen.”

“And if I choose not to do as you say?”

“Do you remember what I showed you in the dream?”

Jerry’s mouth went dry. “I remember.”

“Then it will be on your head.”

He wanted to throw the wretched little doll in her face and denounce her as a lunatic. He wanted to seal his eyes and ears to shut out her madness, but he knew he could not deny her so easily. He got to his feet and stuffed the fetish into his pocket. He’d better get going; the university library didn’t stay open very late during the summer session.

The Louisiana Collection Reading Room was a large, glass-encased section within the main library, with a couple of tables and a coin-operated Xerox machine stuck in the corner. A woman with harlequin glasses and lipstick the color of ripe plums sat at a desk guarding the collection’s private archives, a stack of local magazines at her elbow. Jerry watched as she systematically snipped out articles with scissors big enough to use in a knife fight. The nameplate on her desk read ‘Mrs. Kresse.’

“May I help you, young man?” she whispered.

Jerry fought the urge to turn and flee the enforced quiet of the building. “I was told to come here.”

Mrs. Kresse put aside her scissors and lifted her penciled-on eyebrows. “Yes?”

He shuffled his feet, feeling foolish. “I would like to see the Seraphine File.”

Mrs. Kresse’s expression did not change. “I’m sorry, but we have no such item.”

Jerry’s cheeks grew hot. Of course there was no such file! Aggie was only a crazy old bag lady, not a voodoo priestess. As he turned to leave, the fetish she had given him twitched violently in his pocket, as if it had just kicked him. He pulled out the little yarn doll and placed it on the desk. The librarian quickly scooped it into an open drawer without looking at him. “Sit over there,” she said, motioning to the table farthest from the door.

Jerry did as she was told, and a few minutes later Mrs. Kresse returned, wheeling a book trolley containing a large cardboard archive box, its lid secured with parcel twine. The librarian placed it on the table and returned to her desk without comment.

Jerry stared at the box for a long moment. He felt like Pandora preparing to set free the imps. He could stop now, if he wanted to. There was still time for him to turn his back on the voodoo gods and their bag-lady oracle who had invaded his life and reclaim what was left of his sanity. He could leave the box untouched and walk out of the library a free man. It was that simple. He closed his eyes and tried to summon the will power to do the sensible thing, but all he could see was Charlie’s dead body, hanging by her ankles, split open from crotch to throat like a slaughtered pig.

Jerry’s eyes snapped open and he caught his breath in a short, sharp gasp. He felt dizzy and sick and more frightened than he had ever been before in his life. His hands shook as he untied the string and opened the box. He wrinkled his nose at the musty smell of old paper and began carefully arranging the contents before him.

Inside the archive box were a couple of old ledgers, what looked like a diary, a sheaf of yellowed documents held together by rusty paper clips, and a handful of antique clippings sealed in protective plastic sleeves. The most unusual item was an old locket opened to reveal a pair of miniature hand-drawn portraits.

The picture on the left hand side was that of a woman in her late twenties. Judging from her hairstyle and clothes, Jerry guessed the dated from around the Civil War. While the woman was not ugly, neither was she beautiful. At best she would have been considered ordinary, if not outright plain, although it was clear the portraitist had tried his best to show her in a flattering light. The opposing picture, however, was that of an astonishingly handsome dark-haired man. Yet, despite his dashing appearance, there was something about the cruel set of his mouth and the look in his eyes that Jerry found unsettling.

The documents sealed inside the plastic sleeves were public records of various kinds that predated the Civil War. There was a baptismal record for a Placide Henri Legendre, dated 1800, as well as one for a Donatien Alexander Legendre dated 1822. There were also death certificates for a Narcisse Alexander Legendre, dated 1815; Placide Legendre, dated 1843; and one for a Eugenie Legendre, dated 1859. There did not seem to be one for Donatien Legendre.

The marriage licenses spanned three generations, beginning with Narcisse Legendre, who had married an Adelaide Moreau in 1794, when he was sixty and his bride barely sixteen. The second marriage certificate was for Placide Legendre, aged twenty, and one Janelle Bocage, aged nineteen. The last license marked the marriage of Donatien Legendre, seventeen, to a Eugenie Sebastian, aged twenty-five.

A sheaf of loose-leaf paper, the yellowed pages covered in a feminine longhand, proved to be notes for what looked to be a biography of the Legendre family.

‘Early 1700s: The Legendre family emigrates from France to the colony of Haiti. Start sugar plantation 1725(?). Alphonse Legendre marries woman known only as Celeste. 1734: Narcisse born. Not much information on Narcisse’s early years, save that he meets and marries Imogene Turpin in 1754. Legendre plantation does well. Narcisse buys large parcel of land in Louisiana in what would become Redeemer Parish in 1770s. There is no record of Narcisse and Imogene having issue.

‘While visiting relatives at the Turpin Plantation, Imogene is killed in slave uprising that marked the beginning of the Haitian Revolution. Shortly thereafter Narcisse’s own plantation is burned to the ground. Narcisse, along with many other Haitian colonists, relocates to Louisiana in 1792. He meets and later marries his second wife, Adelaide Moreau, daughter of a wealthy cotton merchant, in 1794. In 1795 Narcisse commissions the building of Seraphine, the Legendre plantation house, in Redeemer Parish. It is five years before the Legendre family finally moves in for good.

‘Early 1800s: Seraphine is the largest and most elegant plantation house in Louisiana. Exotic marble and stained glass is shipped in from Europe. No expense is spared. However, Seraphine’s beauty comes at the expense of the slaves, who were worked until they died. Even in the Antebellum South, Legendre’s treatment of his human chattel was notorious. It is believed that the fictional character of Simon Legree in
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
was based, in part, on Narcisse Legendre. During the building of Seraphine, Narcisse spends most of his time at the site, while his bride Adelaide and son Placide remain in New Orleans. In early 1815 Narcisse Legendre dies of a stroke while climbing the grand staircase at Seraphine. He is eighty years old at the time of his death.’

Attached to the last page was a Xerox identified, in the same feminine scrawl, as being from
Southern Discomfort: Ghost Stories of the Old South.

‘...as seen in the repeated image of the “Haunted Hitchhiker: and “Lavender Lace”. Another reoccurring folk myth is the ever-popular Swamp Creature. Perhaps the most colorful legends belong to the Louisiana’s Cajuns, who expertly combined their Western European superstitions with their New World surroundings. Along with a fondness for sauces and wine, the French speaking Cajuns retained their forefathers’ legends of the
loup-garou
, or werewolf. Bayou Goula is reputed to be the gathering place for all
loup-garou
and where they hold their monthly full-moon balls. Another Cajun swamp creature is the
letiche
; the soul of an unbaptised infant who haunts small children and is held responsible for mysterious crib deaths. In Terrebonne Parish, the folklore mentions mermaids with bodies of beautiful women and the heads of catfish, while the Tempter of Redeemer Parish is an evil spirit that lurks outside the shacks of the poor, waiting for someone—usually a child or young girl—to make the mistake of looking out the window. The Tempter then lures the hapless victim from the safety of their home and into the night, where they’re never heard from again. Similar assimilation of Old World folklore is especially common in areas settled by Irish, Welsh and Scots immigrants, with the will o’the wisp being the most common transplant between the cultures. The hill country of Kentucky is especially rich in...’

Jerry frowned and flipped the page over, but there was nothing else. What did these things have in common? They all mentioned Redeemer Parish, a small county located between the far larger and Plaquemines and St. Bernard, but that was about it.

He turned his attention to the old ledgers, bound in cracked green leather. As he picked up the first book in the stack, it fell open at a particular page. The smell of moldering paper made his nose itch. The pages were covered in a schooled hand, and although the ink had faded to pale lavender, it was still legible,

Curious, Jerry flipped to the front of the ledger and found the owner’s name and occupation on the flyleaf:
Lucien Napier, Attorney-At-Law.

***

August 11, 1843:

I was called out to Seraphine on sad business today. My old friend and client, Placide Legendre, is dying from the same fever that took his wife, Janelle, not six weeks ago. Placide would have me arrange his affairs, as he is willing to admit the inevitability of his situation. He confided to me that he does not see death as so horrible a thing, as it will reunite him with his beloved. The one thing he regrets is that he will never see his grandchild. He was quite specific, despite his illness, as to what he wanted done with the family’s fortune. He has persuaded me to oversee the estate’s finances and serve as executor for a special trust created for any and all future grandchildren. His opinion of Donatien’s business acumen is low. I did not see Donatien while there, although the butler, Auguste, informs me the young master spends his time locked in Narcisse’s old study, drinking brandy and smoking cigars. Eugenie is quite distraught, as she is as close to Placide as a blood daughter. Dr. Drummond refuses to allow her to come anywhere near her father-in-law, however, for fear that she might contract the fever.’

***

August, 14, 1843:

I was called to Seraphine once again, this time to serve as a witness upon the signing of Placide’s death certificate. Donatien could not be bothered to emerge from his den for the occasion. He has long had a tendency towards callousness, but his recent behavior towards his father is unconscionable. It saddens me to admit such things, as I am the boy’s godfather. It was left to me to step in and console poor Eugenie instead of her husband. Dear Placide was as good and kind a man ever born, but I fear Donatien temperament is closer to that of his grandfather, God help us. Seraphine’s new master has much to learn. Let us hope he does not prove uneducable.’

***

January 5, 1844:

The most terrible thing happened today. I was seated in my study, going over some papers, when my houseboy, Puck, informed me that the Legendre’s butler was at the door. This concerned me, as I knew Auguste to be no simple messenger. The old boy was in quite a state, and I feared he might suffer a fit. He managed to inform me that there had been an accident at Seraphine involving Miz Eugenie. She fell down the stairs, triggering her labor. When I inquired why he was carrying the news instead of one of the cook’s boys, Auguste informed me that no one knew he was off the plantation.