House of the Angels

A basketball bounced off the hard wood floors of the hall and down the stairs with the shouts of six children chasing after it, the hard soles of their shoes clunking about with every footfall that hit the floor. All of it was giving Dylan a headache. How was he ever supposed to study from the Book of Virtues when the little ones were being so damn loud?

“Hey!” he shouted, poking his head out from his slightly ajar bedroom door. “Could you please do everyone in this house a favor and keep quiet? You’re gonna give me a brain aneurism!”

“Sorry Dylan.” Seven year old Tim said meekly.

“Why don’t all of you go outside? Or down to the schoolyard and do that?” Dylan suggested.

“It’s too hot.” Complained Martin.

“Besides there’s creepy people down there.” Added Martin’s twin brother Chris.

Dylan groaned and slammed his door shut. He hated it whenever he couldn’t get a moment of peace and quiet to study. His head was so full and near to bursting with thought he feared he would explode. There was only one solution to the problem. Leave the house or go stir crazy.

Dylan brought the book back to the library room, placing it carefully on the shelf. He took his keys from the key rack, slipped his sandals on his feet and headed out the door.

The street was busier than ever with everyone preparing for the fast approaching St. John’s Night festivities. Voodoo priests and priestesses gave special blessings to everyone who came to them seeking favors while priests from the church prepared their sermons for the midnight mass. Woodcutters stashed away logs and spare firewood to light bonfires at the crossroads that marked the entrance to the bayou.

Dylan stopped a while to hear a group of blues musicians playing out an old tune that told of a hoodoo witch who had been stolen from her home in Senegal and brought over during the slave trade. The singer’s voice was low and slow, like the roll of thunder as it passed through dark skies. One of the men playing a sleek, black electric guitar, played so well that Dylan wondered how he didn’t get blisters on the tips of his fingers.

He walked a bit further down the street, saying hello to passersby and even stopping into the old streetside café owned by one of Sybilla’s patrons, one Miss Berta Deshcamps who was famous for her soul food.

“Mornin Berta.” Dylan greeted as he entered the place and found Berta behind the bar.

“Mawnin’ Dylan.” She greeted. “Whatcha havin’?”

“Uh nothing really,” he answered. “I already ate.”

“You sure?” Berta asked.

“Don’t tempt me Berta.”

Berta and Dylan both broke into a fit of laughter before he finally caved and bought water to drink. He sat at the bar, looking at all the names and quotes that had been etched into the rough, unpolished wood while a radio played Born on the Bayou from the far right corner of the café. The spicy smells wafted from the kitchens behind a brick red curtain while the occasional cusses and swears from Berta’s sons found their way out into the open.

Dylan felt someone tapping his shoulder and abruptly turned around to find Grey standing there, meek and nervous as though he had just experienced something terrible.

“The hell are you doing here?” Dylan questioned.

“I came to see you.” Grey told him. “I just….I needed to get out of the house.”

Dylan couldn’t tell if Grey was lying or if he really needed to get out of the house. “Grab a seat and we’ll talk.” He told Grey.

Grey sat on the empty barstool next to Dylan and asked Berta for a coffee that was blacker than sin. “Why’d you come here?” Dylan asked him. “What crawled up Sally’s ass now?”

Grey was reluctant to tell him of his plan. “I’ve been thinking about running away.” He explained.

Dylan arched an eyebrow. “Why are you telling me this now? You should’ve left a long time ago.”

“I tried.” Grey said when he swallowed a sip of Berta’s sweet black coffee. “You don’t wanna know what Sally did after she found out the first time.”

“What’d she do?” Dylan asked. “No, wait let me guess….she locked you in a smelly attic and didn’t let you out for twenty four hours.”

Grey shook his head sadly. He rolled his arm over and showed Dylan the delicate underside. From his wrist to his elbow there were dark marks that looked like bruises, brownish purple with a sickly yellow green around its outer edges.

“What are those from?” Dylan asked with suspicion.

“She tried to suck out my blood to make me weak when she found out I was trying to run away. She did it again when I wouldn’t kill someone she wanted dead.” Grey explained.

“Who did she want dead?” Dylan asked again.

“Some witch doctor who lives on Congo Street.” Grey explained. “They’ve been after each other for years.”

Dylan was really concerned now, but a shred of doubt still lingered. Grey was never known to be a liar, but Dylan couldn’t be too sure.

“How’s about you come by tonight and we’ll see what we can do.” Dylan offered. “Unless Sybilla is in a foul mood.”

Grey was as reluctant as ever. That nagging fear of Sybilla still held itself over his head and weighed heavier on his heart than ever.

“Alright.” He sighed. “I’ll try to come by.”

“9pm,” Dylan told him. “Don’t be late.”

When he left the café, Dylan wondered if Grey would keep his promise. Time and again he had tried to help him out but to no avail. This time, Dylan thought it best to let Grey help himself. It’d give him less of a headache if he did.

He leaned against the wall of the café building and lit a cigarette. All of Dylan’s troubles and worries began to disappear with the smoke and seemed to totally vanish when he saw Rachel walking up the street with a basket around her arm.

“Where’ve you been?” Dylan asked with a playful smirk.

“Sybilla had too many guinea peppers in her garden.” Rachel explained. “She needed me to sell them. How bout you?”

“I had a chat with Grey.” Dylan told her before taking a long drag on his cigarette.

“Grey?” Rachel said, her eyebrows arching with curiosity.

“Yep.” Dylan said as he dropped and stamped out the cigarette.

“What’d he say?”

“Let’s just say,” said Dylan. “I’ve got a feeling that either way Sybilla’s not going to be happy if he comes by tonight.”

“He’s coming to the house…..tonight?”

“If he comes.” Dylan said in reply.

Dylan and Rachel scooted into one of the alley streets that separated several of the buildings and began walking along towards home.

“Is there any reason why you talk to him?” Rachel wondered aloud.

“He came looking to me for help.” Dylan explained. “I was just trying to do the right thing.”

“Does this have anything to do with the fact that you’re still trying to avoid sucking the sorrow out of people?” Rachel enquired, lacing her fingers together with Dylan’s.

“Nope.” Dylan answered without any hesitation. “And I don’t avoid that either.”

Rachel sighed and shook her head. “Yes you do.” She pointed out.

“Oh really?” Dylan questioned.

“Think about it.” Rachel told him. “You think that the way you’re supposed to help people is a curse. So you try to help them out some other way. It’s as simple as that.”

Typical Rachel. Dylan knew she wasn’t forcing him into anything but she was right. Maybe he should have helped Grey more than he had.

“Do you think I should’ve helped him more?” Dylan asked her.

“You’ve helped him enough.” Rachel replied, wrapping her arms around his waist. “The rest is up to him.”

Once again, Rachel was right. He had to just quit his worrying and let Grey figure things out for himself.

“Wanna go home?” Rachel asked. “It’s getting hotter out. Maybe see if we can go for a swim later?”

Dylan leaned in and kissed her with a smile forming on his pencil thin lips. “That…sounds like a good plan.”

The two of them walked hand in hand down the shady alleyway, the brick and stone garden walls shielding the two of them from the afternoon sun. Neither one of them had bothered to notice the strange, shrouded figure watching them from above until Dylan and Rachel disappeared around the corner.