Jillian Chantal

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.

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt smart. I’m still working on my swamp story.

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Jacques and I crept across the floor toward the staircase, stepping carefully over wood surface. The rain was loud and rattling the roof, but, so far, it was cozy inside. Well, as cozy as it could be in the low temperatures with no leaks in the ceiling. The gaps in the siding of the house allowed the wind to whistle sporadically through the rooms. But at least we’re dry.

The stairs creaked as Jacques headed up them ahead of me. “Hang back a second while I test the strength of them. If they can hold me, they sure can hold you.”

Great. Something else to worry about. Him falling through a dilapidated step and breaking his leg. Just what I need. A whiny baby on the first floor and a professor stuck halfway to the second floor with a broken leg or pelvis.

I pulled the bottle of smart water™ out of the side pocket of my backpack and took a swig while I waited to see if Jacques would have success or I’d be calling for an ambulance.

Another bolt of lightning lit up the windows. It was followed immediately by a thunderous boom and a faint yelp.

“I guess Monte is still bewailing the choices he made this evening,” Jacques called down to me. “That noise sounded like him squealing.”

“Yeah. Who knew he’d be such a big baby? I guess you never really know someone until you spend some time in the swamp with them.”

“Since he’s so sure he’s going to die tonight, we could use that for his epitaph.” Jacques waved his arm. “Come on up. It’s safe.”

I tucked the water back in the mesh section and took the first step up. The stair wobbled and for a moment, I thought it might give way. I grabbed the banister and held on for a second before moving on. Don’t let me be the one with the broken leg.

“Watch the fourth and fifth ones. They each have a hole on the edge. Opposite edges, that is.”

Great. Lovely. I’m a klutz on the best of days and now here I am in the midst of a storm in the partial darkness with a rotting staircase. What could possibly go wrong?

The writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt pitch his week. I am still in my swamp story.

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“We’re going to walk around inside to get the lay of the land and see what we can see. You’re welcome to join us or not,” Jacques said.

“Which would you rather do, Monte? Sit here alone or come with us?” I asked.

“Quite honestly, I’d like to get the car keys and drive back to New Orleans.”

“That’s not an option so I guess you’re out of luck.” Jacques swung the lantern. “Come on, Annika. Let him pitch his fit alone. Who knew he’d be such a pain?”

I couldn’t resist saying, “Is it like if he complains and there’s no one around to hear, is a sound made?”

Jacques laughed but Monte frowned. “Go ahead. Leave me all alone. You know anything could happen here and you’d regret your sarcasm if I somehow got injured while you two left me on my own.”

“Why in the ever loving hell did you agree to come in the first place? You know it was a plantation in the middle of nowhere and there was no electricity. You’re acting all surprised it’s dark at night and there are animals in the swamp. What exactly did you expect to find here?”

I could tell Jacques was losing his temper with Monte so I stepped in to try to defuse the situation. “Let’s leave him one of the lights and the whistle I packed in my backpack. If something happens, he can blow it and we can come quickly. Otherwise, we wasted an evening. Cut him some slack. That cougar did sound close but we also know sound can carry over distance and can get skewed when there’s wind and rain. No need to sacrifice a friendship over Monte’s unknown sensitivity. Now he knows this isn’t for him. It’s one night and he never has to venture out here again.”

“You seem awfully convinced I’m going to make it through the night.” Monte shuddered. “I can’t help but think about every horror movie I’ve ever seen. My skin is itching to get off me and run screaming through the swamp to safety.”

It was all I could do not to laugh at the visual of skin running and screaming but I didn’t want to alienate my friend any further so I merely nodded. “I get it, Monte. We’ll still be in the house. Not far to come if you need us. Use the whistle if you have to.”

I handed him the whistle I always kept with my gear in case I needed to scare off a dog while taking my run.

“Thank you for being nice.” Monte eyed Jacques with ill-disguised rancor.

“Come on if you’re coming, Annika.” Jacques’ glare at Monte was just as intense. He turned and walked toward the large arch at the far end of the room.

With a kind glance back at Monte and a waggle of my fingers, I followed.