“So what did it mean?”
He cocked his head to the side and shook it, as if to say he didn’t have an answer for me. “It was only after the attack on the Maggios that we decided it was a warning to Mrs. Maggio because it was discovered mere hours before her death.”
“Who was Mrs. Toney?”
He shrugged. “No one knows for certain, although some thought she was a woman who foiled the attempts of the Axeman, only much earlier, in 1911.”
“So why did that message come through the board?” I asked, completely baffled as to what it all could mean.
Drake faced me and the color drained from his face entirely. “Just as it was meant to warn Mrs. Maggio, you must consider it a warning to you, ma minette.”
9
Once I woke up from my dream about Drake, I couldn’t get back to sleep. I still wasn’t convinced whether he was truly a spirit reaching out to me, or just a figment of my overactive imagination. Either way, though, I figured it was better to think he was real because if my house had to be cleansed from harmful spirits, poltergeists, or demons, better to be safe than risk becoming possessed, or even dead, right?
I woke up at the crack of dawn and slammed down a few cups of coffee while I tried to derail my muddled thoughts with something on television—which didn’t work. Figuring Trina might assist me with my quest to find someone to cleanse my house (since she’d performed that little candle cleansing ritual and the Ouija board was her idea), I gave her a call and explained my dilemma. Although less than thrilled, since she had to work and therefore couldn’t accompany me, she directed me to Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo, the best place she could think of to find what I was looking for. The House of Voodoo specialized in “spiritual and religious ceremony” as claimed by their website.
Now with a clearer sense of purpose, I had to bide my time while the early morning faded away. Once nine thirty rolled around, I hightailed it from the Omni hotel and walked down St. Louis Street until I reached Bourbon Street and hung a right. Then it was maybe three blocks to Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo. I only hoped that someone there might be able to help me. And if they couldn’t, ideally they would direct me to someone who could.
When I arrived, I was fifteen minutes early. I just hung outside of the smallish store and people-watched as I wondered if this visit would solve my problem. The humidity was high and the air fairly warm, considering it was springtime. I watched groups of overweight tourists walking by, all looking like extra-large Skittles, with their incredibly bright T-shirts, capri pants, and Bermuda shorts. At least one person in every group had a camera around his or her neck, but all of them had adventure in their eyes. Interspersed between them was the occasional drunk, who’d clearly partied too hard the night before. In general, Bourbon Street smelled of alcohol, vomit, and sewer.
As to Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo, it looked like something you’d see on the bayou. It was a single-level shack of a place, perched on the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann Streets. The lean-to looked as if it were constructed of plank boards. Some of the boards were painted white, others unpainted, and still others gray with mold. Faded black plantation shutters covered the windows. A white portable air conditioner hung out of one window, the only thing lending the store a modern vibe. While the overall look of Marie Laveau’s was distressed, the sign—a circle painted black, looming above the walkway, proclaiming in bright white letters, “House of Voodoo”—looked fresh and new. I gazed at the sign for a few seconds, hoping it would do its namesake proud, the most infamous Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau.
I heard the sound of the front door being unlocked from the inside. When the door opened, I smiled at the woman who appeared. She looked like she was in her early thirties. Her hair was cut short with a bright red stripe running down her center part. She wore a bull’s ring through her nostrils, and had sharp-looking triangular metal cones jutting from each of her ear lobes. Her black tunic reached her upper knee, and she wore a pair of black-and-red webbed leggings that were actually sort of cool. As she walked, her incredibly heavy-looking military-issue boots sounded loudly beneath her.
“Hi,” I said with a big smile. I wondered if she’d take offense to my tight pink T-shirt, platinum blond hair, or cutoff jean shorts. Clearly, we were from different fashion planets.
“How’s it goin’?” she asked with a genuine smile. I took a deep breath and she laughed. “That bad, huh?”
“Could be,” I answered as I started up the stairs behind her. Once inside, I immediately noticed all the stuff hanging from the walls, even on the ceiling. On the wall nearest the cash register were masks of all sorts. Most had a tribal look to them, rather than something you’d see in a Mardi Gras parade. Next to the masks was a shelf of spiritual books, and directly in front of the register was a litany of baskets filled with so much junk, I had a hard time focusing on any one thing. I glanced around and took in myriad candles on the shelf behind me (I could have sworn a few of them were in the shape of penises, but didn’t want to stare) surrounded by beaded jewelry.
“You look overwhelmed and confused,” the girl continued, offering me an encouraging smile. “What are you looking for?”
I faced her and hesitated for a few seconds as I tried to postulate the best way to explain why I was here. Finally, I just figured I should come out with it—if anyone would understand, it would be someone working here…or so I hoped. “Well, I think there’s a chance my house might be haunted by…bad spirits, and I was told to cleanse it.” I took a breath and glanced down at my hands absentmindedly. “I’m not even sure what that means.”
The girl nodded and didn’t look the least bit surprised, to my intense relief. Then she sidestepped around me and walked to a shelf directly behind me, next to what it took me a few seconds to realize was an immense altar, complete with a painted portrait of what looked like a witch. The witch lady, who had snakes in her hair, was surrounded by fake flowers, beads, masks, cards, and signs warning visitors not to touch anything. I looped my fingers together behind my back…just in case I accidentally bumped into something and became cursed for all eternity (which wasn’t a stretch, considering how much crap was stuffed into the tiny space).
“Hmm, what you need is one of our ritual bags,” she said, more to herself than to me as she bit her lip, apparently determining which ritual bag would do the trick. She reached out and picked up a black velvet sack and handed it to me. I didn’t accept it because I wasn’t convinced a do-it-yourself cure was what I was after.
“Um,” I started as I worried my lower lip. “I was sort of hoping you could direct me to someone who could do the cleansing for me?” I cleared my throat, feeling like maybe I needed to explain myself better. “I don’t know anything about this sort of stuff, so I’d rather just find someone who does.”
She shrugged. “Why have someone else do it when you can do it yourself? It’ll save you a ton of money too.” She glanced at the price tag of the black velvet bag. “I mean, thirty bucks versus at least a few hundred, right?”
It was my turn to shrug because I wasn’t sure if in this instance, it was better to take the cheap route. “And you think that black bag will do the job?” I asked doubtfully.