Felt their blood, slick on her fingers.
Tasted their flesh.
And now, honored them in death.
Once all of the candles were lit, she touched the tip of her match to the tinder in the age-old fire pit with its blackened ring of stone, a place she had come for peace and to pray for most of her seventy-odd years. This little hut was her sanctuary, her private place where only a few were allowed in, only those tortured souls who needed her guidance.
Around the perimeter of her shrine of glass jars and crystals she had gathered during her lifetime, the shifting flames made her humble little hut pulse with luminescence as she lit the incense:
Eucalyptus for clarity.
Dragon’s blood and patchouli for inner spirituality.
Cinnamon for strength.
Closing her eyes, she sensed the planet ever-turning on its axis, felt a connection to the very earth.
And a disturbance.
Something moving.
Something duplicitous.
And evil.
A shudder ran through her soul. Her gaze shifted to the highest point of the altar. There, surrounded by flickering votive candles, was a framed picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The picture was a gift from her mother, the Christian depiction of the Son of God with his visible flaming heart.
Jeanne, like her mother before her, believed in Christ.
Was she pagan?
Yes?
Heathen?
No.
Her skin tingled, and she knew the time had come. It was urgent that she bridge the great chasm between this world and that of the spirits. She watched smoke from her fire rise past the crossbeam to the hole in the roof, where she caught a fleeting glimpse of the dark night: clouds had gathered, a storm brewing, the spirits restless.
Softly, she whispered. “Venez à moi.” Come to me.
She glanced to the open doorway where creatures beyond these rotting walls lived. Often, she’d caught the reflection of eyes always watching her—nocturnal creatures who inhabited the undergrowth, rabbits and opossums, otters and raccoons.
But there were also predators and spirits hidden in the darkness. Sometimes, the twin eyes of a bobcat or a coyote caught in the light before the beast scampered away. More often, an alligator’s reptilian orbs reflected as it scuttled to the waiting swamp only feet from this small shack.
But none frightened Jeanne LaRoux, not like the malevolence that would soon arrive.
Slowly, she lowered herself on a pillow and sat cross-legged, took a calming breath. Steadying herself.
She closed her eyes, listening past the sounds of the lowland, the frogs croaking, the gentle lap of water nearby, and a soft breeze wafting through the cypress, all punctuated by the hoot of an owl, low and steady.
And more.
Quiet footsteps over the now-accelerated beating of her heart.
Le démon.
Approaching swiftly.