Broken Bayou Read online

  The only jewelry I wear is a pair of diamond drop earrings that were a graduation present from my parents. My hair is up in a loose, curly chignon, and my makeup is sultry and seductive. The black kohl smudged around my eyes makes them look the color of tiger’s eye quartz. If only I could figure out how to do this stuff for myself!

  Cal knocks at precisely six thirty. I reach for my small black clutch and smile as soon as I see him. He looks so handsome in his black tuxedo, and his normally wild wavy hair is contained in a neat style thanks to gobs of hair gel. He smells amazing, too. His scent drives me insane, and I have to fight the urge to pull him inside instead of leaving to attend the gala.

  He’s speechless for the longest time before I break the silence. “Cal?”

  “Cheyenne. Wow. I guess it’s apparent that I’m at a loss for words. You look amazing. I don’t deserve to have you on my arm.”

  “Oh, stop,” I say, starting to blush. “I was thinking the same about you. You look incredibly debonair. Thank you for inviting me to be your date.”

  “Thank you for accepting. Wow.”

  With a huge grin on my face, I accept his extended elbow, which I happen to be very thankful for because of the extremely high heels I’m wearing. Once we’re in the car, he spends more time staring at me than at the road, and I’m embarrassed by the attention. It’s something I discover I should grow accustomed to pretty quickly because once we arrive, I feel like the belle of the ball. Men come out of their way to introduce themselves to me, while old women quickly whisk their husbands away as the introductions happen. I’m not offended; I’m shocked. It’s the first time I’ve ever been the center of attention at such a gathering.

  When we aren’t mingling, snacking, or having a drink, Cal finds excuses to lure me to dark areas of the museum for stolen kisses and whispers of sweet nothings in my ear. His lips just leave mine when the sound of a male loudly clearing his throat draws our attention in that direction.

  “Father Donnelly, how are you?” Cal asks.

  “I’ve been well, Callahan. How’s your father?” the rotund priest with thick gray hair and even thicker eyebrows asks.

  “He’s doing fine, Father. Some days are tougher than others, but overall, he’s okay.”

  “Seems that’s the way it is for most of us this age. It’s a lot harder to spring back than it used to be. Heck, it’s harder to do everything now, even getting out of bed is difficult!”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir,” Cal offers.

  “Ah, don’t be. It just is what it is. So, who is this lovely young lady?”

  “Father Donnelly, this is Cheyenne Douglas. She moved here from Oklahoma and is now a co-worker of mine. She’s in charge of the English department at the college.”

  “Well, very nice to have you here. I hope you’re enjoying the move?”

  “I am. Thank you.”

  “Have you found a church yet?”

  “Well, to be honest, I’m not all that religious anymore…”

  “Ah, there’s a story. I’ll not pry tonight, but I will leave you with one of my cards if you should ever choose to discuss it. Every once in a while we lose a lamb, but with a little help, that lamb generally returns to the flock. No pressure, dear. It’s only if you feel compelled.”

  I drop the card into my clutch and thank him. He offers parting pleasantries to Cal and me before making a beeline towards a woman he calls Sophia.

  “Are you ready to get out of here?” Cal asks. “Cause I’ve been ready to leave since we arrived. These things are so boring.”

  “Maybe. I need to ask you something before we go back to my place. Why didn’t you tell me the Agnes and George story?” I fuss.

  “What? Who?”

  “Tiffany the hairdresser filled me in. Did it really happen?”

  “I don’t know. What did you hear?”

  “That George dug up their daughter and buried her in the rose garden,” I excitedly whisper.

  “She’s not there anymore,” Cal offers. My eyes widen.

  “You did know!” I loudly whisper.

  “Listen, you understand grief, probably more than most, right? They were grief-stricken parents who made a really bad decision. George served time, and poor Agnes,... well, I hear that the things they did to her in the institution were downright barbaric. I feel sorry for them.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t feel sorry for them, but Cal. Come on. The girl was buried under my bedroom window.”

  “Is this a ploy to get me to stay the night, because you can just ask, sweetheart. No need feign fright.”

  “I’m not feigning fright. I’ve slept there by myself every other night, haven’t I? It’s just that sometimes strange things happen, and they’re somewhat unexplained and maybe borderline paranormal, even though I know there isn’t such a thing. Oh, never mind. Even I think I sound crazy. Forget I mentioned anything.”

  “Wait. What do you mean strange things?”

  “Roses keep popping up at my doorstep, and these aren’t store bought roses. They’re from Agnes’ garden. I hide them in the trash so George won’t have a fit.”

  “Sounds like you have a secret admirer. I need to up my game.”

  I roll my eyes. “Strange knocking sounds, scratching at my window, and the little…” I pause.

  “Go on,” he prompts.

  “You’re really going to think I’m a lunatic.”

  “I haven’t yet, have I?”

  “I sometimes see what appears to be a little girl in red playing in the courtyard at night.”

  “You what? No. Really?”

  “It’s usually pretty quick, and I can’t be one hundred percent certain because of the poor lighting, but something is definitely out there.”

  Cal gets serious. “Do you feel in danger? Do you think someone’s watching you? Like maybe a stalker or something with the roses and such?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Promise me that you’ll keep your door locked at all times, even if it’s during the day.”

  “I promise.”

  “Promise that when you arrive home after dark you’ll call me so I can be on the line with you until you’re safely inside okay?”

  I smile. “I promise. Anything else?”

  “Not right now, but that might change later.”

  “Noted.”

  “I wonder if the little girl in red will show herself if I stay over.”

  “I don’t recall extending an invitation.”

  He gives me a playfully pleading pair of eyes before mentioning, “Speaking of invitations, I wanted to ask you to come with me to Azalea Downs this weekend. I need to take a few pictures to wrap up my section on local tragedies, mysteries, and such.”

  “Who lives there now?” I question.

  “The Beauregards own it, but they use it as a bed and breakfast. During the Halloween season, it’s nearly impossible to get in there because of all the thrill seekers searching for a taste of the supernatural. There are also visitors who stop by for the macabre aspect of it and tour simply because of the infamy.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t get it, but apparently, it’s a pretty popular thing, especially with older teens and young adults.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty morbid. Sure, I’ll go with you, but not because of the macabre aspect. It’s because I enjoy visiting plantation houses.”

  “With you?”

  “Excuse me.”

  “I enjoy visiting plantation houses with you. You forgot the with you part.”

  I move in close enough to hook one of the stray wavy chunks of hair with my finger and gently tuck it behind his ear. “That should be a given.” He kisses me, but not for long. After some quick goodbyes to those in the immediate vicinity, he’s whisking me out the door and into the car.

  Careful not to disturb George and Agnes with the headlight beams, Cal turns them off well before we get into the driveway. We pull in just in time to see someone tall, bulky, and dressed in black from
head to toe foregoing the stairs and catapulting over my balcony.

  “Hey! Stop!” Cal calls, sprinting after the person. He catches up with him at the fence, and just as Cal reaches out to grab him, the guy makes it up and over. “Call the police,” Cal instructs as he moves one of the benches so he can peer over into the next yard. “It’s too freaking dark. I can’t see anything.”

  George stumbles out of the back door. “What’s all the ruckus? You’d think two grown ass professors would be better behaved.”

  “Someone was trying to get into my apartment, Mr. Thibodeaux. Surely Mrs. Agnes saw it all? Maybe she can help give a description when the police get here?”

  Mr. Thibodeaux looks miffed. “What are you talking about? You trying to be funny?”

  “No, sir. I just meant that because Mrs. Agnes looks out of the window a lot…”

  “You obviously don’t know,” George says, his tone changing to something more somber. “Agnes don’t talk anymore. Hasn’t in years. She just jibber jabbers about nonsense or gestures what she wants. The lights are on, honey, but ain’t no one been home for a very long time.”

  “What?” I question. “She seems to be very observant by always looking out of the window.”

  “What the hell else she got to do? She don’t watch TV, can’t follow a book, don’t ever leave the house. Window watchin’ is it.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea,” I say, suddenly feeling guilty for the negative thoughts I had when I thought she was merely ignoring me or being nosy.

  “How could you know? Ah, I’ve got so much to deal with. Keeping up with this house, the yard, the gardens, my meds, Agnes’ meds…” He sighs. “I forgot to call her doctor. Her new obsession is with the color red. Red, red, red… it’s all she mumbles these days.” Cal and I curiously glance at each other. “Anyway, did you get a glimpse at this fellow who tried to break in?”

  Shaking off what Cal would call the frissons, I direct my attention back to George. “We only saw him briefly. He’s tall, sort of bulky, but not overly so, and wearing all black.”

  “Did he get inside?”

  “No, sir. At least I don’t think so.”

  “You can hold off on making that call to the police then. It’s not gonna do ya any good. They’ll show up, take your story, and leave. It’s not like they’re gonna comb the porch for DNA and footprints. It ain’t all like TV, princess.”

  I slowly pull the phone away from my ear. “I suppose you’re right, but would it be okay for me to have an alarm system installed, Mr. Thibodeaux? I’d feel much safer.”

  “Depends. Who’s paying?”

  “I’ll pay for the installation.”

  “Do it. No half-assed work though. This property is a historic landmark, and you can’t be having people coming in and destroying it. No cameras. No wires everywhere. Nothing that’s going to call in the cavalry every time a gnat farts. Simple and understated. Understand?”

  “Of course. I’ll make sure it’s very basic and does nothing to change the look of the place.”

  He retreats back to the house grunting and huffing. I’m disheartened to find another rose, a pink one this time, placed on the wrought iron table near the door. Sighing heavily, I take it inside with me, pluck off the petals, and shove it into an empty cereal box in the garbage can. Cal turns me so I face him.

  “I’m worried about you.”

  I close my eyes and rest my forehead against his chest. “I don’t know what to think of all this. Maybe it’s just a kid having fun with me? In fact… Billy! He knows where I live because he delivered a pizza to me. He even handed me a rose with the pizza box and got miffed when I asked him about it. He said it didn’t come from him, but who else can it be? He’s obviously playing games with me—knocking and running, scratching on the windows. He really despises me.”

  “Maybe it’s time for me to have a talk with Mr. Billy?”

  “No, Cal. You shouldn’t get involved. I’ll talk to him. Plus, Mr. Thibodeaux said I can have a security system installed. Try not to worry. He’s just a punk kid trying to get a cheap thrill out of harassing me. If he thinks I’m intimidated by him, he’ll run with it. I’ll set him straight.”

  “You’re probably right, but I still don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to like it,” I tease as I run my fingers inside his jacket and across his shoulders so that it falls to the floor. His breath catches when I start to unbutton his shirt. My fingers follow the previous path and now his shirt rests on top of the jacket. He lightly grips my hand once it’s upon his bare chest.

  “Are you sure?” he softly whispers. I let a kiss serve as my answer before taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom. My back’s turned to him so he can unzip my dress, and chills run up my spine when his lips touch my exposed shoulders. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched intimately that every nerve ending feels energized and tingly. My skin puckers with anticipation when he softly blows on the damp trail his tongue has left along my neck. His arms encircle my waist, drawing me so close to him that his erection presses against my rear.

  The cap sleeves of my dress fall to my elbows, exposing my sensitive flesh to the air. Closing my eyes so I can fully enjoy the sensation, my breathing begins to quicken. His hands glide down my hips, and the dress falls into a black pool onto the floor. The only thing between his body and mine is the fabric of his pants. With the dress gone, he cups my bare breasts while my fingers reach behind to run through his wavy hair.

  “Cheyenne. Beautiful Cheyenne. Where have you been all my life?” he whispers in my ear.

  “Looking for you,” I answer, as I turn in his arms. His lips lock with mine as he gently pushes me towards the bed.

  Once he’s poised above me, he stares into my eyes. “I don’t want this night to end.”

  I shake my head. “Neither do I.” His body fills the void in my soul, while his words fill the void in my heart. After a night of lovemaking beyond anything I’d ever dreamed of, I lie in Cal’s arms convinced he’s the man I’m meant to spend the rest of my life with. I should be scared to feel this way so soon after connecting with someone, but I know it’s right. I wonder if he feels the same, and when I glance over at him, the look on his face tells me all I need to know. He’s smitten.

  Chapter Seven

  The most difficult part of having an amazing sexual relationship with a coworker is keeping the silly grin off my face whenever I see him. There are lots of stolen kisses, coy and sometimes lustful glances, and quick touches whenever we can sneak them in.

  The weekend arrives, and relief sets in because secrecy is no longer an issue. Friday night is basically a repeat of Tuesday night, except the lovemaking starts much earlier since we don’t have the pesky obligation of attending a gala. Saturday morning, as we’re going out the door to head to Azalea Downs, a white rose waits in the usual spot. I’m not as apprehensive about it since the security system has been installed, but it’s still unsettling to know someone continues to broach my personal space. Frankly, I’m shocked that George hasn’t complained to me about it. Surely he’s noticed the blooms disappearing from the garden? I think to myself how strange it all is, but little do I know things are about to get a whole lot stranger.

  When we arrive at Azalea Downs, my stomach instantly fills with dread. The house is gorgeous, a white and dark green stately manor with amazing architecture, but the feeling gets worse the closer we get. The only thing I can figure is perhaps its unfortunate history has influenced my opinion to the point that it’s affecting me physically, or perhaps it’s something less sinister, like the beginnings of a stomach bug.

  I’m doing a good job of hiding my unease until we walk up the steps of the porch. Suddenly, I begin to feel very weak, and bizarre things start happening to my body. I grasp one of the columns as my vision narrows, and a series of graphic images flash in rapid succession in my mind. All my senses are rendered useless, and it’s as though I’m strapped to a chair in a dark room while bei
ng forced to watch an old 8mm movie.

  Bodies are everywhere; partially congealed blood as thick as molasses pools around most of the victims in the massive room. A man slumps over the keyboard of a grand piano, blood oozing from a wound at his temple. His lifeless eyes stare towards the door. It’s like I’m viewing the carnage through someone else’s eyes, and this person is now moving into another room. Through the kitchen, across a hall, into the parlor where more bodies litter the floor. A woman, her short hair fixed in large curls, very obviously gasps for breath. Just to her side is a large, unmoving man. I can’t see his face, but his back is riddled with bloody holes. The focus goes back to the woman beside him. Blood continues to splay across her white dress until it reaches a sparkling rhinestone broach pinned to her chest.

  My vision moves out the door and up the stairs, searching room by room for anyone breathing, but I find no one. The closet door opens in one of the bedrooms; inside I go, and suddenly everything goes black. I struggle to pull in a breath as I feel my body rushing back to reality.

  “Cheyenne! What in the hell? Are you okay?” It’s Cal calling for me. I can’t move my body yet.

  “Should I call for an ambulance?” a male voice I don’t recognize asks.

  “I don’t know,” Cal says, his voice laden with concern. “Cheyenne!”

  I’m finally able to pull my eyes open, and I’m shocked to find myself kneeling on the porch. “What happened?” I manage to ask.

  “We don’t know. You were walking up the steps with me then all of a sudden you fell to your knees and starting rocking back and forth. I tried calling to you, but you wouldn’t answer. It’s like you were in some sort of trance or something.” He moves close and wraps me in his arms. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so. I’ve never had anything like that happen before.” The images rush back to me and I’m suddenly very agitated. “I saw it. I saw the massacre. Could it be the power of persuasion that did it?” I rapidly wonder aloud. “No, it can’t be especially if…”