The Cottoncrest Curse
Read The Cottoncrest Curse Online
Authors: Michael H. Rubin
the
cottoncrest
curse
cottoncrest
curse
A NOVEL
Michael H. Rubin
LOUISIANA STATE UNIVERSITY PRESS
BATON ROUGE
Published by Louisiana State University Press
Copyright © 2014 by Michael H. Rubin
All rights reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
First printing
Designer: Laura Roubique Gleason
Typeface: Whitman
Printer and binder: Maple Press
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Rubin, Michael H., 1950â
   The Cottoncrest curse : a novel / Michael H. Rubin.
       pages   cm
  ISBN 978-0-8071-5618-6 (hardcover : alk. paper) â ISBN 978-0-8071-5619-3 (pdf) â ISBN 978-0-8071-5620-9 (epub) â ISBN 978-0-8071-5621-6 (mobi) 1. CursesâFiction. 2. PropheciesâFiction. 3. Historic buildingsâLouisianaâ Fiction. 4. MurderâFiction. I. Title.
    PS3618.U297C68 2014
    813'.6âdc23
2013041472
The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.
To Ayan,
whose love, creativity, and support
make this book (and everything else) possible
Acknowledgments
Many people have given me guidance and encouragement. Marc Staen berg's continuing enthusiasm and assistance have been invaluable, Michael Adams read early drafts of the manuscript and gave many helpful comments, and the late Les Phillabaum's confidence in the novel buoyed me. Special thanks to Frank Maraist and Brenda Bertrand for their assistance with Cajun French phrases and to Rabbi Harold Robinson and Dr. David Ackerman, Director of the Mandel Center for Jewish Education, for their assistance with the Hebrew and Yiddish. I appreciate all of their advice, and any errors that remain, whether in En glish, French, Hebrew, or Yiddish, are purely my own.
But most of all, I cannot acknowledge enough the contributions of my wife, Ayan. She worked on and refined the characters and plot lines with me in the daily discussions we had during our many, many early-morning walks, she tirelessly edited and reedited every draft, and she devised the name of the novel. This book is the result of her efforts as much as my own.
the
cottoncrest
curse
Today
Nobody blanched as she described the gruesome event. They were captivated.
“It happened right up here,” said the docent, a thick-waisted woman in an antebellum costume complete with lace collar, crinoline skirt, and double petticoats. The tour group, which had been wilting while standing outside Cottoncrest in the intense Louisiana heat and humidity, gratefully jammed into the wide hallway that ran through the center of the massive plantation home.
The docent signaled to the tourists to follow her as she ascended the curved interior staircase. “The main house has been restoredây'all come up single file, pleaseâhas been restored to how it looked in the 1890s, when Colonel Judge Augustine Chastaine, the son of the original owner, lived here.”
The docent paused, her back to the wall, carefully avoiding an area near the banister. “This is what y'all came to see, right here. Where the most notorious murder-suicide in Louisiana occurred. One step below where I'm standing. As you come up the stairs behind me, look⦠but don't walk⦠on these Plexiglas panels. This is where the Colonel Judge brutally slit the throat of his beautiful young wife, Rebecca, and then took his own life. Their intermingled blood soaked the wood, permanently discoloring it. Think of the tremendous amount of blood there must have been!
“But the deaths of Augustine and Rebecca Chastaine weren't the start of the famous Cottoncrest curse. And they weren't the end of it either.”
1893
He had just finished cutting her throat. He had done it so swiftly that she hadn't had time to make a sound. With pleasure he had felt his long blade slice through the muscles of her neck and throat, scrape against her spine, and cut into the bone. He was still holding her from behind as her head flopped backward onto his shoulder, coating his shirt with blood.
He let her body slide onto the stairs from the landing as the blood poured out of her once-beautiful neck. Her head, held onto her body only by a bit of spine and a few shreds of flesh, fell to one side and, with a thud, hit one of the fluted white balusters that held up the handrail. Her dark hair became a sullen red sponge. Her blue dress turned crimson. The steps became bloody pools.
He paused to admire his handiwork in the blue moonlight glow that filtered in through an upper window. He lit a match and checked his shoes to make sure there was no blood on them. His shirt was soaked with Rebecca's blood, but his shoes were clean.
He let the knife slide from his grasp and fall beside her body. It clattered as it hit the staircase. Then he reached for his pistol.
Jenny did not dare open the door leading into the central hallway at the foot of the stairs. Although it was dark, she did not want to light a candle. Not yet. In the hallway outside the door, the glow might be seen through the gap between the bottom of the door and the wooden floor.
Her heart was pounding. She had heard the noise clearly. A gunshot.
Jenny had been at the foot of Little Miss's bed, checking on her. Little Miss was sleeping soundly, oblivious to everything, as only the very young and very old can be when they retreat to their interior world. The gunshot did not disturb Little Miss.
Jenny pressed her ear against the door. Though she thought she had heard muffled noises after the gunshot, she could have been mistaken. There was silence now, broken only by the sound of crickets drifting in through the late-night air. It was almost as quiet as the meals that the Colonel Judge and Rebecca shared, where the only sounds were the clinking of silverware on porcelain plates. For the last few months, the Colonel Judge and Rebecca seemed to speak to each other only when absolutely necessary. They were like two wary creatures forced to coexist in the same cage.
No noise at all came from the hallway. Not the rustling of Rebecca's white linen petticoats or the delicate clicking of her narrow shoes on the wooden floor. Not the tapping of the Colonel Judge's cane as he limped along.
