Julia
“Are you sure about this?”
Helen flashes me a reassuring smile. “This isn’t the first time I’ve gone to see Mama Janvier,” she says.
It’s not lost on me that my neighbor looks like the last person who’d put any stock into the craft of a Voodoo priestess, but who am I to judge? Helen had promised her friend would know what to do, and it’s not like I have any other options.
I peer out the passenger side window of the car as Helen pulls into the driveway of an old stately home. We’re in the suburbs of New Orleans, a part I’ve never been before. The houses here are larger and look like they had probably been grand once, but years of harsh weather and lack of upkeep have caught up with many of the buildings.
I think about my new house on the edge of the swamp and shudder. Is this what our home will look like soon after years of exposure and neglect?
We climb out of the vehicle and into the summer heat. The humidity is a little more bearable now that we’ve put some distance between us and the marsh, but it’s warmer here. By the time we reach the screened in porch, my dress is already sticking to the small of my back.
Helen doesn’t bother to knock. She simply pulls the porch door open like she’s been here a thousand times and ushers me across the porch to the interior door.. Even though she told me she called ahead, I still feel awkward about it.
At the door to the house, Helen presses the doorbell. A wheezy chime sounds inside, shortly followed by a set of shuffling footsteps within.
The door swings open to reveal a statuesque woman who, even in a pair of flat shoes, towers over me. Her skin is the color of coffee, and her ivory hair frizzes out from under a purple headscarf. Dark, ancient eyes peer down at me from a face etched deeply with smile lines.
“Helen,” the woman says in greeting, reaching out for my neighbor and catching her in a warm embrace.
“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Helen says after pressing a kiss to the woman’s cheek.
“No need to thank me,” she smiles. Then she turns to me and pulls me in for an equally familiar hug. “You must be Julia!”
“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Janvier,” I reply politely. I’m not used to this level of affection, especially from a person I’ve just met.
The Voodoo priestess waves one bangled arm in the air, as if dismissing my formality. “Call me Mama Janvier,” she says. “Everybody else does. Now won’t you two come inside?”
I follow Helen and Mama Janvier into the bungalow with some trepidation. My only knowledge of Voodoo comes from questionable depictions in movies, so I have no idea what to expect.
The interior of the house is relatively normal. Mama Janvier brings us to the living room where Helen and I sink down onto a comfortable, overstuffed chintz couch. There’s a sweating pitcher of iced tea and three glasses already set out on the coffee table, a reminder that Helen had arranged this visit in advance.
After pouring each a glass of us tea, Mama Janvier settles into an armchair opposite us and regards me with an assessing stare. I’m not sure what she's looking for, but she seems to find it and offers me a satisfied nod.
“You’ve got demon troubles,” she states.
I shoot a questioning glance over at Helen, silently asking if she’d shared the nature of my problems when she’d called earlier, but my neighbor simply shakes her head.
Unsettled, I ask, “How did you know?”
“Its influence is all over you,” Mama Janvier replies, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Asmodeus. And you’re not the first one to try to rid that swamp of the evil that walks there.”
My eyes once again shift over to Helen, who shrugs. “Mama Janvier was my nanny, way back in the day. She raised me out there, and she always made sure I knew how to protect myself,” she explains.
“I had my work cut out for me,” Mama Janvier confirms. “Asmodeus is one nasty piece of work.”
“If you’ve dealt with Amos before, then how come it’s still around?” I ask.
The Voodoo priestess sighs. “The circumstances have changed. The demon has always walked that land, but for centuries, it was bound only to the Gregory line. The spell I’d given Helen before was meant to suppress Asmodeus as long as it remained tied to the family.”
“So it’s no longer bound?” I question. “How did that happen?”
“In order to bind this demon, its true name must be carved into a cemetery stone and sealed away. As long as that seal remains intact, the bond cannot be severed.”
“So something broke the seal?” Helen interjects.
I think back to something the workmen told me about finding a weird rock in an old box. Didn’t they say there was a word etched into it–a name?
The sickened look on my face must give me away because Mama Janvier’s gaze falls on me, so I explain to her what the crew found.
“They let it out,” Helen murmurs when I’m done. “That’s why the spell couldn’t hold it any longer.”
“And a spell won’t be enough this time,” the Voodoo priestess adds. “The demon is still tied to the land, but its will is now its own. Its hunger will be strong, even if its powers have been weakened.”
“What do we do?” I understand that leaving won’t solve the problem. It’ll just pass on to whoever ends up in that house next. No, it has to stop here–with me.
Sensing my determination, Mama Janvier smiles. “The incantation will suppress it, but you have to bind it to a living soul first. The sacrifice of that soul is the only way to banish the demon for good.”
Fear tremors through me as I realize what she means. Somebody is going to have to die if we want to get rid of Amos for good. It’s too much to ask, too much to even contemplate.
As Helen and I sit in shocked silence, Mama Janvier produces a small, oddly shaped bottle seemingly from thin air and presses it into my shaking hand.
“The sacrificial soul must drink this before the incantation is spoken, and it must happen in the swamp where the demon resides,” she says.
“I… I can’t,” I stammer as I try to push the potion back at her, but she won’t take it from me.
“Keep it,” she insists. “You may change your mind.”
I won’t.
I can’t.
And yet, I find myself slipping the vial into my purse, out of sight, and hopefully, out of mind. Even though I don’t believe in the power of Voodoo, the thought of using this potion on another person sickens me.
Desperately wanting to change the subject from human sacrifice to literally anything else, I ask, “What about the ghosts?”
The voodoo priestess nods thoughtfully. “Those are the spirits of the souls buried in the cemetery in the swamp and those that have died in the house. When the workmen disturbed their graves, the spirits were broken from their rest.”
“The children,” I realize, thinking of the sounds of laughter that sometimes drifted down from the upper floors.
“And they aren’t the only ones,” Mama Janvier adds.
“Are they dangerous?” Helen inquires, clearly concerned for my safety.
“Quite the opposite,” Mama Janvier replies. “Many of them were victims of the demon, and now they work to protect others from its influence. It may very well be why Julia has yet to succumb to Asmodeus’s dark designs.”
I don’t like the way she says that, as if it’s only a matter of time before I fall prey to the demon’s clutches. Between that and the small bottle of dubious liquid hiding away in my purse, I decide that we’re done here.
“Thank you, Mama Janvier.” I stand up quickly, bumping my shins against the coffee table and causing the ice to rattle in the untouched glasses of tea. “But it’s getting late, and I think we’d better be going.”
Helen raises a questioning eyebrow but seems to pick up on my discomfort. “Julia’s right,” she agrees. “We really should head back before the traffic gets bad.”
We say our goodbyes, and I endure another stifling hug before we’re able to escape. Neither of us speaks until we’re in the car and pulling out of the driveway.
“What do you think?” Helen asks hesitantly as she navigates the narrow streets of the neighborhood.
“Helen, I don’t mean to insult you at all, but I’m pretty sure that woman just told me to murder somebody,” I blurt out.
“Everything comes at a price,” she replies softly. “It’s up to each of us to decide whether it’s worth paying.”
Those words run through my mind as we head back to Hahnville. By the time we reach Helen’s house, where she’s promised to give me the incantation, I still haven’t worked out exactly what she means.
An older man steps out onto the porch to greet us as we pull up at the side of Helen’s house. He walks with a cane and limps slightly, but his lack of mobility doesn’t seem to have a negative impact on his mood. He’s got a kind face and, like Helen, I decide that I immediately like him.
“You must be Miss Julia,” he says as I step onto the porch. He shakes my hand with a firm grip. “I’m Robert. It’s good to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I smile, and I truly mean it.
“Come on in,” he urges, ushering Helen and I inside. “I’ve put some coffee on for you girls.” As his wife passes, I notice him plant a tender kiss on her temple, and she shoots him a loving glance in return. It’s such an intimate moment that I feel almost like an intruder seeint it.
As we settle into the kitchen with our coffee, I try to imagine Jake and I growing old like that, but I simply can’t picture it. The realization weighs heavily on me, and it’s with a troubled heart that I absently nod yes to Robert’s offer to show me his research, whatever that means.
It’s not until he reappears several minutes later carrying a cardboard banker’s box overflowing with photographs and newspaper clippings that I understand exactly what his research entails.
“This is everything I’ve got on the demon,” he proclaims proudly as he sets the box on the kitchen table in front of me.
“So you believe it too?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m so surprised given Helen’s certainty.
“Not until recently,” Robert admits as he eases into a chair across from Helen and me. “I’d thought it was all just local legend until last year when I saw it for myself.”
“You saw Amos?” I gasp.
“Up close and personal,” he confirms. He gestures down to his leg and then the cane he uses for support. “I can’t say that it was a pleasant meeting. After it happened, I decided to find out everythingthing I could about the demon. As it turns out, there’s a lot of information out there, if you know where to look.”
He shuffles around through the box for a moment before extracting a yellowed newspaper. He reads the bold print of the headline out loud, stating, “Police seek suspect in swamp serial killing. That’s from 1967, by the way.”
He sets the paper down and selects a thick manila folder from the box. There’s a stamp on the front boasting the insignia of the local parish police department. “This is a copy of the police reports from the old Gregory place,” he explains. He flips the folder open and spreads out the documents, but I barely take any notice of them.
Instead, a photograph sticking out of the box hooks my gaze. The picture is in black and white, but it’s so old that the fraying edges are splotchy and yellow. But even with the discoloration, the eyes that gaze blankly back at me are far too familiar.
Noticing my preoccupation, Robert takes the opportunity to pull the photograph free and place it in front of me. “Ah, this is an interesting one,” he says. “These three men were doing some construction at the old Gregory place back in the 1930s. This photo was taken just hours before one of the workmen was killed in a terrible accident. Of course, we know now that Amos probably had a hand in it. They ended up burying the man in the cemetery in the swamp, if I remember correctly. Sad business.”
I can’t tear my eyes from the central figure in the photograph. “Which one died?” I ask in a quivering voice.
Even before Robert points to the smiling young man in the middle, I already know the answer. His confirmation is just the final nail in the coffin.
“Julia, are you okay?” Helen asks, finally picking up on my growing horror.
I don’t answer. Instead, I turn back to Robert. “What was his name?” I demand. “The man who died?”
Robert and Helen exchange an uneasy glance before he replies, “Hezekiah James. He died in 1931.”
Blood turns to ice in my veins. I recall the gravestone that the workmen had carried to the truck, the one bearing the same name as the man standing in the photo before me, the man with eyes the color of honey that still shine with kindness even after a hundred years.
“Zeke,” I breathe, hardly able to utter the title out loud. “His name is Zeke.”
And with that realization, the world shatters around me.
Zeke is dead.
The man I’m falling for is a ghost.