Date: Fri, 17 Oct 1997 08:21:38 MDT From: Robyn Meta Herrington Subject: SUB: CONTEST: Me and my shadow Ah, reading for the weekend. Come, little ghosties and ghoulies, read on... Critiques to me, the Mad Queen of the Chilly Northwest -- rmherrin@acs.ucalgary.ca ============================================================== Me and My Shadow He had long ago ceased to tell people about his shadow. Five years in an institution had taught him that much at least. He could trust no one with the secret, another lesson learned long ago when he had confided in the person he most trusted, his mother. She betrayed him, and conferred with his father, the last person in the world he would have told. Shortly thereafter he found himself on a train bound for the country. The doctors at the hospital gave him a full examination and returned a diagnosis of mild schizophrenia. The condition occurred regularly in teenagers, and with a little time and care he would be as good as new. The doctors had assured his parents that it was really not even necessary for him to stay at the hospital. His parents had insisted. "We want our boy to have the best possible care, so we're going to leave him with you." More likely they were ashamed; embarrassed by their "crazy" son. It wouldn't look good to their snooty and influential "friends". Sending him away simplified matters. They could tell their friends he was at school or off on some other worthwhile endeavor. They wanted him there as long as possible. He could have disappointed them by cutting his stay in half, but being locked away with all the other "crazies" had affected him. He'd gone around the bend a little himself. He became certain that the doctors could indeed see the shadow, and they were trying to make him truly believe that he was ill. He became insistent that they could see it and were lying to him. He almost truly slipped into insanity. One night he decided he would no longer give the people at the hospital the satisfaction they were obviously getting from tormenting him. He quit mentioning his shadow. When the doctors asked him about it, he pretended they were the crazy ones. A short time later he was pronounced "normal" and released, another victory for the hospital's skilled staff. He hadn't been "cured" as the doctors insisted, though. Even here, in a dark New Orleans hotel room, he could see the accursed thing. The hospital stay had helped him. He knew the shadow now. He knew its thoughts, desires and needs, and he even knew how to control it. Of course, he'd never be able to completely contain it, but indirectly there was a way. The thing acted on his most base, evil and ignorant feelings and beliefs. On a date, even the tiniest thought of physical pleasure awakened it. Such thoughts could ruin the date, the relationship and possibly even their lives, one of the reasons he was still alone in this miserable existence. It had ruined business deals, friendships, and he hated to think what might happen if he ever harbored the thought of murder. On the other hand, it hadn't been all bad. It had actually saved his life on a couple of occasions. Just earlier this week, he took a shortcut through a darkened alley. A stupid thing to do admittedly. He heard a shuffling behind him, and the next thing he saw was a beaten mugger, laying on the asphalt pleading for his life. It had also saved him once shortly after he'd left the hospital. He got a job with a construction company in order to get on his feet, refusing to ask his parents for aid after what they'd done to him. One moment he was shooting the breeze with a co-worker about the Saints game, the next he was lying face-down on the ground. A heavy steel beam swung back and forth where his head had been just seconds before, a beam that shattered his co-worker's skull. He knew he should have shared the man's fate. He never saw the beam coming, but somehow the shadow had carried him out of harm's way. He often thought things might have been better the other way. It worked both ways, but he still longed for peace. A week ago he had returned to New Orleans, informing no one that he was back. He was desperate and he was on a mission. He scoured the underbelly of the city in hope of finding a childhood story told by his grandmother to make him behave. It was a story many children in south Louisiana heard when they acted up, a story of the voodoo queen. He had discovered that it was not just a childish story to some. After a long search he had found her, not one of the charlatans in the "voodoo shop" tourist traps, but an honest-to-God (or someone else) voodoo queen. He knew how to reach her home. The directions cost him dearly, but it would be worth that and more if there were any truth to the legends. He would venture into the swamp tomorrow, and she would help him. She had to. * * * He started awake at the ringing of the telephone. "Hello..." he half yawned. "Wake up call, sir." "Oh... thanks." He glanced to his watch. Eight o'clock already, and he felt as though he hadn't slept at all. The nightmare had kept him awake again. It was a recurring dream he had suffered from for years, but it was becoming more frequent. He stood over his father's mutilated body clutching a large hunting knife. He never saw the attack, but he knew he was responsible. No, not him, the shadow was responsible. Sure, he'd never gotten along with his father, but to kill him.... He suppressed a shiver. Well, best not to linger on such thoughts, it was listening. It was always listening. He wondered briefly if it knew about the dream, this time he couldn't stifle the shudder. He rolled out of bed, eager to start the long day and push thoughts of murder from his mind. * * * He rented a car and followed the directions to an area about 60 miles out of town. It seemed that half that distance had been over little used and poorly maintained dirt roads. He was glad the car was a rental, and not his own. There were several little backwater villages in the area, and he approached at least a dozen people in each one. He found none who would take him where he needed to go. Several made a sign to ward off evil at the mention of the area, others spat in disgust, but all refused. In the fourth village, he found one willing man. Several people there had pointed him toward the old Cajun, some telling him that the man had been involved with the witch at one time. The man wanted a fortune, but he dared not refuse. A short ride in the airboat brought them to a patch of dry land, where the old man stopped and pointed out a trail. He couldn't persuade the Cajun to go any nearer. No amount of money was enough. "Best not to get too close," he said. "If it's dere ye want to go mon ami', ye'll be walkin' de rest o' de way." With a sigh, he gave the man half of the promised payment and told him to be back at sunset. Then he set off down the trail to the witch's house. Behind him the old Cajun shook his head sadly. "And may God go wit' ye mon ami'," he whispered. He found that he was glad for the walk to the house. He breathed in the natural scents of the swamp, so different from those of the city, where he'd spent most of his life. He occasionally had to detour around several boggy or overgrown parts of the trail. It obviously hadn't been used very much. Still he felt much better when he approached the house, knowing if there was help for him he'd find it here. It was more or less what he had expected, a run-down, unpainted shack with a rusted and severely sagging tin roof. It looked as though the vines running up the sides, covering the house, were the only things holding it together. A dilapidated pier extended into the bayou from the back porch of the house, with an old, dented aluminum boat tied to the end. The boat had no motor, but if the backwoods people were to be believed, she didn't need one. Hell, if they were to be believed she didn't need the boat, she'd just fly where she needed to go. The sight that greeted him at the doorway of the house was not at all what he expected. He had imagined an ancient hag with crazy eyes, wild, unkempt white hair, missing teeth, warts, a huge deformed nose, the works. This woman, while by no means beautiful was not that hideous monster. She was no more than 40 or 45 years old with a figure that might have once been dainty and a face that might have once been fair. Both had been hardened by isolation and the trials of her life. Her hair, tucked under a brightly-colored kerchief, was speckled with gray, but still had a rich black luster. The eyes, however, were hard and cold. He met their gaze, but couldn't hold it. "Why're ye starin' at me so, handsome? Come lookin' for a lil' action, did ye?" Her voice was light, but the eyes still watched him like a hawk. "Actually, I've come to ask a favor," he said in the most business-like voice he could muster. "Ah... so I was right. Well, I guess ye're handsome enough." "Uh... no..." he stuttered. "I mean, meaning no disrespect to you ma'am, it's a little more serious than that." "Oh no, my boy, dat's very serious. Dere's not much more serious, but I can see ye're not the kind for the likes o' me," she said, turning and walking to the door. "Well, don' just stand dere wit' yer mouth open, come on in. Oh, an' tell yer shadow dat he's welcome, too." He tripped and almost fell facefirst into the muck. "You see it." "O' course. He's right dere, plain as day. I may be gettin' old, but I ain't goin' blind yet." He hurried to follow her, given hope. She had seen it, but of course she would. The backwoods people claimed she was the most powerful sorceress ever to live. They feared and respected her more than the legendary Marie Laveau. Some even whispered that's who she actually was. Every time a man disappeared in the swamp it was said she had lured him to her home and sucked the life out of him to stay young. Looking at her, he could believe it, still he supposed that would be preferable to the way he lived now. "One hell of a curse ye got dere boy." "Then you know why I'm here?" "Why else? Surely not t'ask me to make ye a carriage out of a pumpkin, an' some glass slippers for de ball," she chuckled. "Like I was sayin', one o' de best damned curses I ever seen. Some men might consider what ye got a blessing, though?" He snorted. "Think about it, boy. Ye can act on yer urges and ye're not to blame. It was yer shadow." "Yeah, but it's still on my conscience." She nodded. "I said some men, boy. Not all men have a conscience." "Can you help me or not?" "Dat depends. Which one o' my sisters did ye offend, boy? Ye better be honest too." "I didn't offend anyone. As far as I know I've never even met one of you." "Dat's bad dere. Could've offended and don' know it, or could've been in de family for years. Either way, it's bad medicine. I'll have to study on it, an' dat'll cost ye." "How much?" "Oh, just a small fee I think. I like ye. A few eyelashes, a lock o' hair, fingernail clippings, and of course, blood." "Why all that?" he asked, shocked. "Couldn't you just take a couple hundred bucks?" "What does money mean to me, boy? `S just paper. A few o' dose things I'll need to get ye an answer. Others are useful in other ways, it's not every day dat a cursed man shows up on my doorstep. Now if ye want my help, I'll be taking my payment now." With reluctant resignation he sat as she clipped fingernails, plucked eyelashes and drew a vial of blood. When she was through he hastily bid her farewell and went to meet his boat. * * * Despite the prospect of having to venture back into the swamp, he could barely contain his excitement that week. Finally, he was going to be rid of it once and for all. Even the dream didn't seem to bother him as much. When the day came, he paid the old Cajun again and traveled back to her home. She was waiting on the porch. "Ah, back so soon handsome?" "Did you find out anything?" "Always right down to business, eh? Ok, ok, de answer is yes... an' no. Come in and I'll explain." He followed her into the house. When they were both seated, he spoke again. "So you can't help me?" "Dat I can, dat I can." "You know how to lift the curse?" "Dat's what I said." "How, you must tell me now." A far away look passed over the voodoo woman's features as if she were remembering something. "I knew de minute I saw ye. De spittin' image of yer father ye are. O' course he's de reason ye got dis curse..." "My father? But..." "Don't interrupt, boy. Almost sorry I am when I look at ye. Y'see, years ago yer father got bored wit' his home life, and he came to de swamp to seek his pleasures. Dere he met dis girl who was taken wit' him and fell in love wit' dis city slicker from N'Awlins. When she asked him to come meet her father so dey could be married, he explained dat he had a wife and a son. She was hurt an' wanted revenge, dat she did. She found an old woman dat was willing t'teach her a few things, an' she learned all she could. She was too taken wit' dis man from N'Awlins to hurt him, so she put dis curse on his son. Dat's de story." "You bitch! You knew all along, why didn't you just go ahead and tell me? Tell me how to get rid of this." "Dat I can't do. I feel bad about it, because I like ye. Ye're nothing like dat bastard father of yers. But what kind of voodoo queen would I be if I went an' undid my own curse? It'll jus' have to run it's course." "It's your fault I've got this. You've got to help me." "No boy. Blame yer father, not me. I never said I'd undo de curse, jus' study it." * * * He returned to his senses standing over the strangled body of the voodoo queen. He cursed himself. No, he cursed it. The thing had ruined him again. The secret of his freedom from this torment had died with the witch. He was doomed. He screamed at the heavens until his throat was raw. As he thought about the witch's final words, his anger turned. This was his father's fault, and he had a lot to answer for. On his way out of the shack, he kicked the old witch. Some voodoo queen she had been, couldn't even protect herself from her own creation. * * * He stormed through the front door of his parents' home and straight toward the library. He knew his father would be in there now, sipping a scotch and reading. That's what he always did in the evening. His father rose when he burst into the room. "Son, you startled me. It's good to see you." "You son of a bitch! You knew!" "What? What are you talking about?" "You knew I was telling the truth, and you sent me away anyway. Were you afraid mother would find out?" "You're talking crazy." "You of all people should know I'm not crazy. I never was. I've talked to her. Or have there been so many that you don't know which one I'm talking about?" "I think we need to call the hospital again. You're obviously not well." "You bastard..." * * * The dream was now reality. His gaze drifted from the body of his father to the bloody knife to the police in the door of the study with guns trained on him. He now had the blood of two people on his hands. As the police had handcuffed him and led him from the room, he remembered laughinghysterically as he realized it wasn't there; he was finally rid of it. That had been three years ago, but he remembered the scene vividly as he walked down the long, cold hallway. He glanced around for it, but he was alone. He hadn't seen it since that night. The curse was broken. The priest was speaking to him, but he didn't really care. He nodded in what he felt were the appropriate spots. The courts hadn't accepted his insanity plea, even though he had a history of mental illness. He chuckled at the thought. He had spent a good part of his life trying to convince people that he wasn't crazy, and then he couldn't convince them that he was. The priest and the warden looked at him strangely. Apparently they thought this was an odd time to laugh. The thought made him laugh harder. They led him into the room and straped him down. A moment later he felt the needle go in. At that moment, an old Cajun, and everyone else in the swamp awoke in fear to the chilling sound of the voodoo queen's mad cackling. =-=-=-=-=- ---------------------------------*=*=*=*=*=*-------------------------------- Robyn Herrington,Editor rmherrin@acs.ucalgary.ca InfoServe www.ucalgary.ca/~rmherrin New Currents in Teaching and Technology Communications Media MacKimmie Library University of Calgary Ph: 220-3716 (temporary) == Inter tormentia latitia == ---------------------------------*=*=*=*=*=*--------------------------------