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PROLOGUE
October 15.
Archived journal entry of reporter Sam Dean -The Bayou Beat
Full moons and eclipses bring interesting energies that correlate with unusual activity, though none so much as this month’s harvest moon.
At 4:54 a.m. on Thursday, Oct. 8th, dispatch sent the New Orleans police department to an antebellum mansion in the Garden District, following a call from a disgruntled neighbor, complaining of a disturbance starting at approximately three o’clock.
When the officers arrived on the scene, it was to a tableau of murder and mayhem. Several people were dead, the back portion of the home was partially in flames, and the level of destruction was beyond comprehension.
Witnesses state that rumors had run rampant over the years that a dark coven of “devil-worshipping” witches called the domicile home—one dubbing themselves theMoon CallCoven. In the midst of the so-called Satanic panic, however, one cannot put much stock in such rumblings without plenty of proof. Still, some of the things we were able to capture on film lead to speculation.
Altars, thrones, anti-Christian art, and sculptures were seen throughout the house, and the residence seemed to be outfitted somewhat like a commune, with multiple unrelated persons living under the same roof—sometimes three or more to a bedroom.
The police have not yet released the number of casualties, the identities of the deceased, their causes of death, nor any persons of interest, but our sources have confirmed that a priest was at the center of the events. To what degree and in what capacity, I have not yet ascertained, nor have I rooted out his identity, butThe Beat’s investigators are hard at work, and I’m excited to write this story.
~S.D.
CHAPTER1
~Schuyler~
Ipulled up to the Lamour Mansion and parked on the street, taking in the grand estate’s sprawling architecture and antebellum charm. The lantern-topped stone pillars holding the ornate gate, and the wrought iron fence with its peacock-feather-motif spearheads beckoned like a siren’s call. I’d always been a sucker for beautiful buildings, and New Orleans had some of the best. There was nothing like deep-South charisma in my mind, and Louisiana offered it in spades from the vast plantations to the raised-center-hall cottages to the double-gallery mansions. Even the shotgun houses held a special brand of appeal.
Looking across the street, I saw Paxton’s vintage, cherry-red F-Series pickup near the curb, the magnet for his soup kitchen affixed to the driver’s side door. The classic was in mint condition, and I knew he hated parking it on the busy side of the street.
Nice of him to leave me the mansion’s curbside parking spot, though.
During our video call this morning, Deveraux Glapion, creator and host of the paranormal reality show I worked for—Haunted New Orleans—renowned Vodou Houngan, and descendant of none other than Marie Laveau, had asked Paxton and me to do a preliminary check of our next property as they continued their research on Arborwood, the show’s current location. Things weren’t quite going according to plan at the plantation house, but I was confident that the team could get things back on track and finish in time to get to this beauty. Assuming no more murders waylaid us, of course. The terror that the R?DRΩM killer was wreaking on the city needed to stop. After working for the Louisiana State Police crime lab for years, I’d been called in as a consultant a couple of years ago to work one of the murders. It was something I’d never forget. Especially since it had been the death of a relative of someone I knew. The feelings I’d experienced trying to get to the bottom of that case—with no results—were something that haunted me to this day. Just the thought of it quickened my pulse and shortened my breath. And I knew it still plagued the others involved, as well.
I glanced back up at the estate’s massive twenty-thousand-square-foot expanse and wondered where we’d even start. Despite the daunting task in front of us, I couldn’t deny my excitement. For some reason, this house had always called to me. I didn’t know if it was the building itself or the energy of it.
Yes, energy. While I didn’t really believe in the supernatural—I was a scientist and dealt in facts and absolutes—Ididbelieve in harmonious energy forces. Chalk it up to my upbringing and my parents’ beliefs. However, with that said, in all my years working with Dev and the cast and crew ofHaunted New Orleans, I couldn’t deny that I had seen and experienced things that were odd and intriguing. Sometimes, a little mind-blowing. At the end of the day, I firmly believed there was science behind it somewhere. Still, the evidence to argue otherwise was compelling. Enough to convert me? Hell, no! But . . . I’d keep an open mind. Sort of. I’d still proudly wear mySKEPTICsash and crown while giving a nod—albeit tiny—to the things I’d seen and experienced over time, and what the team could do.
As for Paxton . . . the thingshebelieved in were most definitely supernatural to me. I was firmly in the there-are-no-gods corner, and I was pretty sure that nobody could convince me otherwise. I could sometimes get on board with some of Lark’s and Dev’s beliefs since they paid homage to multiple supposed deities and worked with the energy of the Universe, but putting all your eggs in one basket for a single supreme being that lorded over—pun intended—all of us wasn’t something I could wrap my head around.
To each their own, of course. Life took all kinds, after all. But the stalwart belief that everything you did on Earth was being weighed on some grand, cosmic scale and presided over by a single judge who would determine whether you were happy after death or not wasn’t something I could entertain. At least, not yet. Put the evidence in front of me, and I’d be happy to do the experiments and re-evaluate. But not until. Besides, death was death.
Yes, I worked for a paranormal reality show, and my paychecks came from investigating the presumed existence of ghosts and other supernatural entities, but while I had seen some things that made me go “hmm,” it was my job to debunk, disprove, and explain a lot of the stuff that the team discovered during an investigation. I didn’t completelydisbelieve the things that Dev and the others dredged up—I had seen some of it with my own eyes—I just simply believed there was a logical explanation for it all. Somewhere. We just hadn’t found it yet or figured outhowto explain it. My years with the crime lab for the LSP had given me some unique experience into things that looked one way and were, in reality, another.
It brought me great pleasure to work with Lennie and Van, our two engineers—and even Harper, our psychologist—to disprove things the homeowners and other witnesses reported. Or rather prove that it was copper pipes, grounded house electricity, or strange acoustics and nothing woo-woo. That the black mold, carbon monoxide, contaminated groundwater, or lead in the paint caused hallucinations, and that there was nothing to fear but the cost of your home remodeling bill. We even had another non-believer in the mix right now with Hanlen, Arborwood’s owner and Dev’s new girlfriend. As she put it, she didn’t believe in any of the hullabaloo either.Skeptics unite!
Pulling myself out of my thoughts and grabbing the file of information we’d all been given, I locked the car and started towards the sidewalk that ran along the front of the property. Passing under the large crepe myrtle that arched over the walk, I took in the shock of bright pink blooms standing out like a highlighter streak against today’s crystal-clear, blue sky. For the thousandth time, I lamented that my stick-straight, jet-black hair didn’t bleach well enough to take fun fashion colors. I proudly let my freak flag fly with my white and black, double-winged eyeliner and Harajuku girl style, although often downplayed for public consumption to my favorite crazy boots, and pithy—sometimes, insulting—novelty T-shirts. But my hair was forever boring—at least, to me. Unless I clipped in an extension, which I did occasionally.
I readjusted my forensics kit in my left hand and pushed open the gate, the creak of its hinges letting me know that it had been here for some time. From what I’d read in our preliminary report, the Lamour Mansion had been built in 1852 by a cotton farmer named Aristide Lamour and had been passed down through the generations until the family died out. After that, it became a boarding school for a time before a starlet and her artist husband purchased it in the 1920s. I wasn’t sure what’d happened after that, but there were a lot of rumors. I was confident the team would get to the bottom of it, and I couldn’t deny that I was excited to find out more.
Since Pax was already here, I pocketed the key that Dev had given to me and headed up the steps of the mansion’s wide, wrap-around porch. A large swing hung to my left, and the right had an arrangement of inviting-looking outdoor furniture. Topiaries flanked the large door with its new stained-glass window. I wondered when that had been installed. It was stunning. I was glad the estate had been kept up and apparently cleaned regularly—at least outside of the construction mess—despite the fact that nobody had actually called it home for a very long time.
I rapped with a single knuckle on the door and pushed it wide, revealing a breathtaking interior. The light streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows made the hardwood floors gleam and hit the curved arches and Corinthian fluted cypress columns that served as picturesque frames for the receiving room to my left, the parlor to my right, and the dual sweeping staircases that met at a grand shared landing straight ahead.
I looked up to see the massive brass-and-crystal-teardrop chandelier swaying gently in a breeze I couldn’t feel. Maybe Paxton was on the second floor. Since we were the only ones here, I decided to forgo manners and called out for him.
“Honey, I’m ho-o-o-me. Pax, you around?” My words echoed in the open space, bouncing off the vaulted ceilings. I wondered if he’d even answer me. Most everyone called himPadre—even I did in my head sometimes—but to his face, I couldn’t do it for some reason. I wondered if it was my subconscious’s way of keeping the fact that he used to be a priest out of my mind.
I was sure that he had heard me, even on the second level if that were, indeed, where he was. But just in case he was somewhere hewouldn’thear, I decided to take a quick look around the ground floor instead of yelling again. As I walked, my footsteps echoing all around the space, I grabbed my pen out of my bun and made a note on my paperwork to do some baseline readings of the sound transference in the room and get Van to measure directionality. That way, if we heard any disembodied voices, footsteps, or banging, or got any electronic voice phenomena on the recorders during the investigation, we could tag them and check the cameras to be sure it wasn’t just someone in another part of the house.
I stopped in the enormous kitchen with its stunning cabinetry and vintage butcher block island in the center of the room and looked through to the cook’s kitchen, butler’s pantry, and the arch of the dining room beyond, listening for footsteps. Nothing yet. I set my stuff on the surface of a credenza next to a curio cabinet full of what looked to be priceless china and made some notes on the map that we had all been given.
