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“What things?”
“For whatever reason, he seemed to take an interest in the occult. The man would come in here a few times a week, asking for references on Voodoo, Palo Mayombe, Santeria.” Brows knitting into a frown, she stares off as if lost to unseen thoughts. “I recall the last time I saw him alive. He came in here, frantically searching for a particular book we just didn’t have on site. His eyes were red, and he had awful dark circles, like the poor man hadn’t slept in days. Completely disheveled looking.”
“Do you remember which book he was searching for?”
“Not off hand now, no. I’m sorry.”
“No worries. I understand the house was once a hiding place for slaves.”
“Ah, yes. Garcelle Charpentier was a very wealthy widow. A very rebellious woman in her time, who, after the passing of her overbearing husband, refused slave labor for her sugar cane plantation back in the early eighteen-hundreds. Instead, she offered her workers the opportunity to earn wages. They say she sparked the uprising, which led to the massacre.”
“How?”
“Other slaves got word and demanded the same.”
“She hid a number of slaves. In her home, right?”
“Yes. Rumor has it, there’s a secret chamber in that house.”
It’s true, then. There is a secret chamber. “You wouldn’t happen to know where in the house the chamber is hidden?”
“Goodness, no. I personally wouldn’t set foot in that house.”
“You mentioned a blue print of the house. Would the chamber be included in the blue prints?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s really only speculation that it exists. I’m not sure anyone’s actually seen the secret chamber. Many around here believe the house, itself, is haunted by the souls of the dead. Gives people the heebee-jeebies. Only ones to live in that house since the Charpentiers were outsiders. Folks who didn’t know the history of it.”
“The slaves were slaughtered, right?”
“Yes. A group of slave owners hunted them down. And did things that were unchristian to the slaves, and Lady Charpentier, as well.”
“They murdered her, too?”
“Yes. It’s believed that those who carried out the massacre were possessed by the devil himself. In fact, history refers to them as the Devil’s Seven, seeing as it was the heads of seven different families who led the hunt. The stories about the massacre go on to say that one of the men was dragged from his home and given liquor to get him drunk, after which he confessed to having witnessed a black mass carried out before they stormed the Charpentier Estate.”
“Black mass?”
“I’m not entirely versed on those kinds of rituals, but it seems to be a much darker version of Catholic mass.” Brow pulled into a tight frown, she shakes her head. “Two of the most heinous crimes this island has ever seen. Both took place in that house.” Eyes contemplative, she’s quiet for a moment. “Anyway, everything you need should be here, but if you need anything else, just let me know.”
“Thank you.”
For the next two hours, I lose myself in the texts and articles on Charpentier Estate, but most of my studies only confirm what the librarian relayed to me. Nothing on a secret chamber, or where the slaves might’ve hidden away in that house. As she mentioned, the house was owned by Garcelle Charpentier, up until her murder, then later owned by some distant relative, who kept it in the family as something of a vacation home for the few generations that followed. The next to physically live in the estate was my father, who purchased it in an auction.
Feeling no more settled than before, I leave my studies for now and thank the librarian on the way out to my truck.
Dusk is settling over the island, and one thing I’ll say about this place is, the sunset over the water is about the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen. I stare out past the safety rail, where the terrain dips down into treetops below me, offering a clear view of the Veilleux Bay. The silhouette of birds flying overhead makes for a picturesque scene, and I scramble for my camera on the front seat to snap some shots before heading home.
The oranges and pink of the sky slips into the shadows of treetops, as I drive down Magnolia Lane toward the abandoned house. I have to admit, I’m no stranger to sleeping in nature, but there is an unnerving darkness about this place, particularly at night.
After parking off to the side of the house, I gather up my camera, suddenly regretting the loss of my crossbow, and flick on a flashlight from the glovebox. On my way in, a scratching noise brings me to an abrupt halt, and I twist toward the source of it.
On the porch railing, at the opposite side of the house, perches a good-sized crow.
Again, what I wouldn’t give for my crossbow.
Instead, I lift my camera and capture a few shots of the bird. After a dozen, or so, snaps, I wave my hand toward it. “What do you want? Shoo! Shoo!” I bend forward to nab a small stone from the ground, but when I draw back to throw it toward the bird, it’s disappeared. Odd. I didn’t so much as catch the sound of flapping wings.
I toss the stone aside and make my way into the house, taking a moment to pan the flashlight over the dark foyer. A creeping sensation crawls beneath my skin, while I hustle toward my makeshift campsite, and I flick on the much brighter lantern. As the whole room comes to life, the tickle across the back of my neck settles.
