Jillian Chantal

This week, the authors are writing to a picture prompt. I chose the one with the moon. I am still working on my spooky story.

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I hung back to wait for the crash and made my way more cautiously, being sure to look out for that step that almost got me earlier when the unseen hands rescued me.

To my surprise, Jacques made it safely to the bottom floor. I was pretty much right behind him by then and, at the moment my left foot hit the bottom step, another huge clap of thunder rattled the windows.

While Jacques headed toward the door to the room where we left Monte, I waked over to the window to peek out at the rain to see how hard it was still coming down. It seemed to have eased off for now but I wanted to check anyway. I also wasn’t; sure I wanted to be in the room while Jacques berated Monte for what he thought might be some sort of gag. I hate drama between my friends. It reminds me of growing up in a house full of people who don’t like, much less love each other. Best to avoid that kind of confrontation.

I leaned close to peer out at the inky black sky. Would that it looked like it had last night with the moon close to full and shining down, giving off beautiful light in the sky. Tonight, it was as if there was no moon at all. Some clouds scudded by, but they still looked as full of rain as they did when we first heard the storm.

I was about to turn away when I saw something dark and massive run past the window, toward the side of the house where we hadn’t been yet.  At the same moment, Jacques yelled, in a strangled screech I’d never heard come from him before, “Get in here, Annika. Now.”

The writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt Curly this week. I am still plugging away on my spooky story.

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The ever sturdy and calm Jacques wouldn’t let me run. He reached for my wrist and held on to it. “Hang on. We have to see what the heck is happening. This is weird. We both know there was nothing there before and now there is. I’m beginning to wonder if someone isn’t playing some kind of joke on us. Did you tell anyone else we were coming out here?”

“Nope. No one. I presume the only people who know are the guy you arranged it with and us three.”

Jacques frowned. “You don’t think Monte was pretending to be afraid and is setting us up for some gag, do you?”

“I don’t know. He seemed legit scared to me. I didn’t think for one second he was faking it.”

“Me either but remember, he was in theater in undergrad. Neither one of us ever saw him in action. He could be that good, right?”

“No clue.” I pointed toward the axe. “It’s still there. Let’s go touch it.” I hesitated a second. “Together.”

He nodded, and not letting go of my wrist, led me toward the axe.

We approached slowly and silently. Like we were Elmer Fudd creeping up on Bugs Bunny.

When we were almost there, to the point Jacques could have reached out and touched it, a wisp of curly smoke rose from the floor and obscured the sight of it for a brief moment.

I waved my hand over the area to dissipate the haze but it hung there for a long time undisturbed.

“What the hell?” Jacques asked.

Before I could say I had no idea, the air cleared.

I looked down. The axe was gone. The floor empty again.

“All right. That’s it.’ Jacques smacked his palms together. “I’m done playing around. This was supposed to be a serious investigation of the reports about this plantation and its terrible history and I’m now convinced Monte is up to something. He had to get some tricks from one of those charlatans in the French Quarter and set this up. I’m going down there and I’m going to knock him in the head so hard he’s going to land in Lake Pontchartrain.”

I’d never seen Jacques this angry in all the years I’d known him. It was almost scarier to see than the craziness going on in this house. Almost but not quite. I wasn’t convinced this was a hoax. It seemed pretty real to me. Of course it could be the atmosphere, darkness, and storm contributing to that, but I was pretty sure we’d find Monte still cowered in the corner where we left him. 

This week the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt Icy. I am still in my story set in the old plantation house in Louisiana,

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As I went backward, Jacques lunged toward me and reached for my arm. He got a piece of my hoodie sleeve but that was all he could grasp.

I continued to flail desperately to try to keep my balance and sent up a quick prayer that I would at least not land on my head.

But, weirdly, I didn’t land at all. As if by magic, something shoved me forward, the momentum pushing me to the top step and safely onto the landing.

As I stood bent over with my hands on my thighs, catching my breath, Jacques gaped at me. “What the hell kind of gymnastics moves were those? Just when I thought you were a goner and I was going to have to pick your brains up off the floor, you did some kind of undulation with your back and flung yourself up here. I had no idea you could move like that.”

“You’re just as surprised as I am, dude. That was wild. It was as if someone shoved me from behind.” Now that I had a chance to think about it, I realized the shove was like two hands pushing me. Hard. Icy, cold hands.

“Hey, do me a favor. Check out my back.” I turned to face away from Jacques. “See anything weird?”

“Let me shine my light on you.”

In a moment, I heard him go, “Huh.”

“What huh?” I tried to turn back but he put his hand on my shoulder to stop me.

“Hold on. Can you feel that?” He pressed his hands against me in two places.

“Yeah. It’s kind of cold and feels wet. Was there paint on the wall I brushed against?”

“I don’t think so. It looks like two handprints. Wet handprints.”

“Take a picture. I want to see.”

“Hold still.” He took the shot and when I turned to him, he held his phone up to me.

He was absolutely right.

As I stared screen at the large, wet patches on my back, I relived the moment of the shove. Now that I’d seen the evidence, it did seem as if someone touched me with their cold, wet hands. While it was nice not to have my brains splattered on the staircase, I was a bit freaked out. “What the hell, Jacques? What the actual hell?”

This week, the writer’s of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt sweet. I am still working on my spooky story. It’s slow going with all the stuff happening in my life so we’re picking up right where we left off last week.

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I finessed my way up the first five stairs as Jacques waited at the landing for me.

On the sixth step, I heard a big crack and leapt to the seventh just in time to watch a big gap crater in where I’d just been standing. “Jiminy Cricket. I almost had a major problem there.” How we were going to get back down without wiping out was going to be my next question but Jacques laughter stopped me from asking it.

“Boy, those were some sweet moves there, Annika. That little jig you did to get yourself off that stair was worthy of a spot on Dancing with the Stars.” He tapped the newel post. “Hurry up and get up here. I want to see if we can find the part of the house where the master’s son, Gilbert, was murdered with the axe.”

“I thought that happened on the first floor?”

“I’ve read a number of accounts of the incident and some say the ground floor, some say the top floor and some even call it as happening in the yard. I thought we’d take a look around and see how easy it would have been for the slaves involved in the revolt to negotiate their way to the top floor and where they might have found the son. Like a bedroom or something.”

“Well, I can attest it would have probably been easier in 1811 to get up those stairs. Surely there weren’t decayed and rotten steps back then.”

“Very funny. Of course, even if the stairs were in pristine condition, they would have had a hard time coming in the house and getting up here. They were field hands and probably didn’t know their way around the plantation house interior very well. One would presume so anyway.”

“I’m sure they had allies in the house slaves who would direct them to the right room since they outnumbered the white owners by a large number.”

“One thing we don’t know is how afraid the house slaves would have been to assist in case it all went wrong. The punishments were severe for sure.”

“I’ve read that many were executed when the revolt was over. What a horrible time period of history. I feel for the people who were so desperate to get out of their circumstances that they took a stand and then lost their lives because of that stand.” I moved carefully up the next few stairs. As I arrived at the landing, another huge boom of thunder echoed through the house, making me jump and let out a squeal. I lost my balance and teetered backward, my hand grasping air instead of the banister.