“Hi Christopher, this is Peyton from Prytania Street.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Um, I’m sorry I’m calling you so late.”
“It’s okay. I don’t sleep. What do you need?”
I took a deep breath and heaved out a sigh. “I just made contact with Drake and, uh, he’s really not doing well. I don’t think he’ll last much longer.”
He grumbled something unintelligible and groaned before becoming quiet for another few seconds. “Very well, I shall arrive within the hour.”
He was off the phone before I could thank him. Hanging up my phone, my thoughts switched to Ryan. Yes, I did consider calling him to let him know what I was up to. Ultimately, however, I decided against it. First of all, I’d had a hell of a time convincing him to let me continue sleeping in my house, after everything that had gone down. But I was determined to make contact with Drake if only to check in on him. And my chances of reaching him were better when I was in our house.
Second, it wasn’t Ryan’s problem; it was mine. I didn’t want to ask for Ryan’s help again and possibly put him in any more danger. That was a thought I wanted nothing to do with.
I started to pace my room back and forth, thinking of Drake. I refused to sit still, not while I was worried to death that Drake might not last however long it took Christopher to arrive. Within the hour? An hour was a long time to wait! Could Drake last another hour?
I walked out of my room and started for the hallway. I intended to plug in all the overhead shop lights and brighten the place up. After completing that task, I kept busy by inspecting each of the downstairs rooms to see how much progress Ryan’s men had made. That took all of ten minutes and I was left twiddling my thumbs again. But I was spared from inventing another mindless task to keep my thoughts off the slow, molasses dripping of time when I heard a steady stream of water coming from the guest bathroom.
Narrowing my eyes, I tried to remember if I’d turned off the faucet and eerily recalled that I’d never even turned it on. Gulping down my surging fear, I prodded myself forward to investigate. I didn’t race to do it by any stretch of the imagination, but tiptoed toward the bedroom, where the sound of water became more audible. Now closer, it didn’t sound as though it was coming from the sink faucet, but more like someone had turned the bath on.
When I reached my bedroom, the bathroom door was shut, and I definitely remembered leaving it open. A steady flow of steam emerged from beneath the door, illuminated by the bathroom light.
My heart climbed into my throat as I approached the door. When I reached for the doorknob, I feared I might just seize up and suffer a stroke right there. But I didn’t. Grasping the knob in my palm, I turned it and felt like I was in slow motion. I pulled the door toward me and became momentarily blinded by the overhead light, which seemed much brighter when combined with the enormous amount of condensation in the room. The steam hit me full force in the face like a slap and I blinked against it. It was just like walking into a sauna.
Incredibly, the air was so thick, I couldn’t even see through it. Taking a few small steps forward, I shielded my face with my arm so the scalding mist wouldn’t scorch my eyes. They were already tearing up, and I had difficulty breathing the inexplicably searing air. I tried to fan the steam, but it was like dense, white smoke, and so cloudy and heavy, it was opaque.
Following the sound of rushing water, I stumbled through the haze until I inadvertently kicked the bathtub with my toes. I slid the glass door to one side and reached into the bathtub, gripping the hot water knob and turning it off. Standing up again, I turned back around and noticed the steam was dissipating so quickly, it was almost as if an invisible vacuum were sucking it up from the middle of the room.
When I looked up, I was standing in front of the mirror above the sink. The steam seemed to cling to the mirror, keeping the whole thing cloudy. As I watched the vapor slowly dissipate, I could see it was leaving something behind on the mirror—words.
Taking a few steps closer, my eyes went wide and my fight-or-flight reflex was on high alert. Somehow, I couldn’t retreat, not until I read what the mirror said. The steam continued to dissipate, revealing paragraphs of text. The font was so small, I had to take a few steps closer in order to read it.
Hell, April 15, 2014
Esteemed Mortaclass="underline"
They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being but a spirit and a fell demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.
When I see fit, I shall come again and claim other victims. I alone know who they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody ax, besmeared with the blood and brains of him whom I have sent below to keep me company.
If you wish you may tell the police not to rile me. Of course I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigation in the past. But tell them to beware. Let them not try to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman.
Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to visit again.
The Axeman
It was the Axeman’s famous letter that first appeared in the New Orleans Times-Picayune newspaper in 1919. Only now it was on my bathroom mirror and it had today’s date. I heard myself screaming at the exact time that I twirled around on my toes, before running headlong into Christopher’s black cape.
“Yow!” he yelled. He spun around to face me, his cape catching air and billowing over my head. I screamed again, thinking the Axeman was enveloping me in his darkness. Then I felt cold hands on my upper arms as the cape fell away and I looked up at an enraged Christopher.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack!” he screamed at me, his eyes popping out of his head.
But I was too breathless to think, and much too overwhelmed and terrified to make a sound. Instead, I shook my head as I turned around, pointing to the mirror. Christopher gave me a bizarre expression, which I didn’t understand, before entering the bathroom and approaching the mirror. He stood there for a few seconds while he read the Axeman’s message.
That was when I noticed his companion—a slightly overweight African American woman with a beautiful face, full lips, and wide brown eyes. She was maybe in her late forties or early fifties. She wore a red-and-purple head scarf thing that looked like a turban, based on the way she’d wrapped it on her head. Her blouse was red and white and matched the floor-length skirt that billowed out from her waist.
Her eyes were closed as she hummed something to herself. Then, she turned around and held her arms out before her as if she were blindly groping toward the door. Moments later, she opened her eyes and looked at me as she shook her head.
“This is no good, Christopher,” she said in a Southern accent. That really threw me because, judging by her appearance, I figured she was Jamaican or Haitian.
Even though she spoke to Christopher, her eyes remained on me. I heard the sound of Christopher’s footsteps as he walked back into the bedroom.
“It’s far worse than not good, Lovie,” he answered with a deeply heartfelt sigh. He spun on his toes and stared at me. “It’s a demon,” he announced, as if I hadn’t already read the letter and figured that much out for myself.
“Did you notice the date?” I inquired, wondering if my heartbeat would regulate anytime soon.
“Today’s date,” he answered. Lovie started for the bathroom, her curiosity no doubt piqued by what we’d said about the letter.