Shadows (Bayou Magic 1)

“You just went white as a ghost,” Cash murmurs to me.

“I’ve never hated a place more.” I take a deep breath. “You ladies know what to do.”

We’re reinforcing our shields, protecting our minds and our hearts from the horrors we’re about to see. Millie casts a spell of protection around Cash, as well, and I’m grateful for not only that but also the protection potions she put in our coffees this morning.

We need all the help we can get.

The lane narrows even more, the path overgrown with low-hanging limbs and Spanish moss. It clearly isn’t traveled often, if at all. With the exception of Daphne visiting the last time she came here.

“A part of the road washed out during a storm at some point, so it’s going to be extra bumpy here in a minute. Hold on,” Daphne says as she slows down, taking it easy over the ruts. She turns another tight corner, and there it is.

“Holy shit,” Millie whispers when Daphne stops the car. We all sit in silence for a moment, staring at the house we grew up in.

It doesn’t look habitable. Actually, it’s not habitable, but Mama lives there anyway.

It was once a grand, three-story plantation home with a deep, wrap-around porch. Gas lanterns hung from the porch, along with a swing on either side of the red front door.

It’s no longer grand.

The porch has separated completely from the main structure and caved in on itself in several places. The space around the front door looks to be intact, but I’ll suggest we go up one at a time when we approach, just in case.

“Someone lives here?” Cash asks quietly. “Has it always looked like this?”

“No. Not when we were kids, at least. But this is what the bayou will do to a building if it’s not maintained. It reclaims the land.”

“Every single window is broken out,” Millie says. “And in the stifling heat of summer. How does she not get heatstroke?”

“Who cares?” Daphne asks. “Let’s get this over with.”

“You three are with me, at all times,” Cash says. “I’m armed.”

“We can’t fight what’s in there with a gun,” I inform him but squeeze his hand gratefully. “But, yes, we’ll stick with you.”

We climb out of the car and make our way gingerly up the dilapidated front steps.

I pound on the door.

There’s no movement for a while. Just the sound of cicadas and frogs and whatever animal is rustling through the bushes.

I pound again.

“This was a bad idea,” Millie says and turns to me. “What do you see?”

“The usual. More shadows than I can count, all staring at us. Walking the grounds, sitting where that old swing used to be over there.”

“Just standing here gives me the heebie-jeebies,” Daphne says. “I will not touch anything inside. I’m sorry, guys, but even the doorknobs—”

“Agreed,” I interrupt and then pound on the door again.

“Go away!” Mama yells from inside.

“Well, we know she’s alive,” Cash mutters.

“Mama, it’s us,” I yell back. “We need to talk to you.”

The door is yanked open, almost coming clean off the hinges.

“What the fuck do you want?”

I don’t know who this woman is. The tall, beautiful person who raised us is gone. She’s hunched over, her blond hair gray and stringy. Her teeth are missing. Her eyes are cloudy, the pupils dilated as if she sits in the dark all the time.

From the stench coming through the door, I’d wager that she hasn’t seen a bar of soap in years.

“We need to ask you some questions,” I reply. “Do you know who we are?”

“Don’t matter who you are,” she says. “Don’t care.”

“We’re your daughters,” Daphne reminds her. For a moment, it looks like her eyes might clear and that she’ll remember, but then she just frowns.

“Don’t got no chillins.”

“Yes, you do,” Millie says kindly. “We won’t take up too much of your time. We just have some questions.”

“Don’t know nothin’,” she mutters but moves back away from the door to let us in. All four of us cover our mouths and noses with our shirts, overwhelmed by the smell of filth and death.

“Mama, are there dead animals in here?” I ask.

“Hafta eat, don’t I?”

We look at each other and follow after her as she shuffles through garbage and insects. Where the dining room used to be is a pile of debris from the old bedroom—my bedroom—above it. The ceiling collapsed at some point. My old twin bed, such as it is, lies on the top of the heap.

The mountains of garbage are horrifying as we move through the old living space toward the kitchen. But it’s the stench that I’ll never forget.

I’ll have to burn these clothes later.

I’ll never get the smell out of them.

“Where do you sleep?” Cash asks, and Mama rounds on him.

“Who the hell are you?”

“This is my good friend, Cash,” I say. I bet most girls don’t introduce the guy they’re hot after to their mom that way.