Page 17 of Beast of the Bayou

"No—no. I'm not okay." I push out of his arms. "Something is weird here." I shake my head taking a careful step back.

"What is going on out here?" Ms. Lenora rushes out of her room tying her robe tightly around her body. She stops and looks between us before her eyes settle on me. "Lila, you okay, mon chérie." She tries to reach out and touch me, but I step out of her reach.

"No. Don't 'mon chérie' me." I point at her accusingly. "Something is weird in this house and y'all aren't telling me. The damn cat understands me." I point to Edgar. "There are claw marks by my door—" I point towards my room. "and…you." I point to Solomon whose eyes are shifting away from mine. My voice softens. "There's something weird about you."

"He's not weird," Ms. Lenora says firmly, But then her voice softens. "He's just different."

"Just different?" I scoff.

Solomon's deep voice interrupts me in a brisk tone. "If you want to leave, you can." Before I can respond, he walks back into his room and slams the door, the sharp sound making me jump.

Ms. Lenora looks down at Edgar, her eyes narrowed in irritation. "You and I will talk later," she warns him.

Edgar gives her a bored expression before slinking down the stairs.

"So he really does understand us?" I ask.

She turns to me and lets out a soft sigh. "He does. Way more than you know."

I touch her arm. "Ms. Lenora, there's something you haven't told me. Please…just tell me. What am I in the middle of? What is Solomon?"

Her eyes drop down and she folds her fingers in front of her. " Solomon is a very loving, caring, and protective young man. He is the last of his kind in his bloodline."

"His kind? What does that even mean?"

She brings her eyes back to mine. She doesn't speak right away, just searches my eyes. Finally, she says, "How do you feel about him?"

The question takes me by surprise. I'm not even sure I can explain it but I try my best. "Drawn to him—weirdly. Since the first day to be honest. It feels like my body just…yearns for him. I dream about him every night. Last night was the worst. I can even smell him." I shake my head. "Even when he's not around. I want to protect him too. None of it makes sense, Ms. Lenora."

"It makes perfect sense to me when you understand the history." She takes my hand. "Let me show you something."

I follow her to the smaller staircase on the other side of the hallway. The one that leads to the third floor. I stop in my tracks, a chill coming over me. "You said it was forbidden."

Lenora looks back at me. "It's alright. It's time you know the truth." She gives my hand a squeeze and pulls me forward. My legs feel like lead but I follow her upstairs. When we reach the third floor, she leads me to the last door at the end of the hallway. Letting my hand go, she stoops down and removes a floorboard. Reaching in, she pulls out a bronze key and unlocks the door.

The hinges groan as she pushes it in. I instantly feel an overwhelming feeling of sadness pushing down on me. Tears prick my eyes. I press my hand to my mouth to suppress the sob that wants to come out. Without even being told, I know that this is the last room Lucinda was alive in. A breeze billows the faded floral curtains, but the windows are closed.

I hesitate at the door as my heartbeat kicks up.

"It's alright. You're safe." Ms. Lenora reassures me. She takes my hand again. Reluctantly, I allow myself to be led inside.

The room smells old. Dust floats through the thin streams of sunlight coming through the curtains. A large four poster bed sits against the far wall, covered in a matching faded blanket. An antique vanity stands near the window, and paintings line the wall.

"This was where he would lock her whenever she made him upset." Ms. Lenora looks around sadly. "Poor dear. She spent a lot of time in here, unfortunately. I tried to make it as comfortable as possible."

I wipe my wet eyes letting out a shaky breath. "You did a good job." I whisper, scared to even speak at my normal level.

Ms. Lenora plucks a gold frame off the dresser and brings it over to me. A beautiful young Black woman is proudly holding a baby swaddled in a powder blue blanket. "This was her. Lucinda Mourne."

I stare down at her. "She was gorgeous." I can see Solomon in her eyes.

"Mmhm." Ms. Lenora smiles fondly. "That was the day she brought him home from the hospital. He was beautiful. Brown as the earth and as chunky as a Butterball."

We share a quiet laugh before she gently places the frame back. "Lucinda was eighteen when her father arranged her marriage to Stanford. He was considerably older—30. A doctor. Wealthy and respected. Her father saw the marriage as an opportunity to bring more money and influence into the family."

My nose turns up. "That's horrible. She was just a baby."

Ms. Lenora nods. "She was." She walks toward an old writing desk and touches the dusty surface as she continues. "He expected her to give him an heir. But years passed and she couldn’t become pregnant. Nothing was wrong with her womb. She was young and healthy. But for some reason, it just wouldn’t happen. He called her spoiled goods."