A/N: I'm sorry for the long time between updates. With the recent devastation to my beloved New Orleans and the entire Gulf Coast, I was hardly in the mood to write about Erik Destler wrecking some crazy in the Vieux Carré. That said, I've found a spot of joy in thinking and writing about the city again. Thank you for reading.
A large debt of gratitude is owed to Gondolier, who betas brilliantly and who is able to suss out plot like a pro.
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.
The Lotos-Eaters, Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The gentle slush of the water hitting the rocks on the levee as the Riverboat Natchez paddled north on the river was a pleasing juxtaposition to Erik's fevered reading. He sat with his knees up, pouring through one of the three texts he'd "liberated" from Marie Laveaux's House of Voodoo on Bourbon Street. The store itself was a bit hokey, though he could distinguish a few legitimate artifacts and spell tomes; the section of books was fairly nice, and he helped himself to copies of Gumbo Ya Ya, Haunted New Orleans, and Cities of the Dead: A History of Death and Burial in New Orleans.
He sipped a café au lait as he turned the page, ignoring the skateboarders who insisted on trying to man the railings to their ultimate failure and bloodied bodies.
But it was in May, 1918, when the greatest reign of terror New Orleans had even known began… he read as he trailed his finger along the page. For the next year and a half, Orleanians were to awaken nights at the slightest noise and strain their ears for any sound...
Erik closed the thick yellow book and smiled.
He'd reread this particular story a dozen times by now, familiarizing himself with the mystery and the murders allegedly perpetrated by the legendary Axeman. The attacks, the victims… they were clever enough.
But the clincher for Erik was the Axeman's apparent love of good jazz music, and his fondness for threatening and cryptic notes. The specter had written into the Times-Picayune on March 13th, ('from Hell', Erik noted smugly) and demanded a price for the cessation of his murderous spree.
This creature, who dubbed himself both a friend of the Angel of Death and the "worst spirit that ever existed either in face or realm of fancy," happened to dearly love jazz music.
The "fell demon from the hottest hell" charmingly requested that every house in New Orleans have jazz music playing just for him on the following Tuesday, which happened to be St. Joseph's Night. And most agreeably, every house complied.
Erik laughed out loud as he read of the city's willing and almost energetic desire to please the demonic serial killer. Why, the Axeman had even received invitations to the fetes thrown in his honor!
Closing the book, Erik set it aside, leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the grey winter sky. The days were dreary, frequently rainy and rather cold; the flow of tourists had picked up in anticipation of Mardi Gras next week. He'd managed to keep himself away from the few downtown parades, choosing to hide out in the condominium near the bar. A few carefully choreographed whispers, slammed doors and "suspicious red splatters" had succeeded in convincing the realtor that the place was haunted, and Erik hoped to frighten away buyers for just a bit longer until he was financially ready to make his move. Hiding in the very small attic space, he overheard the realtor's frantic phone calls to the owners, and from that he noted "Perrin" as the family's name.
The overall preparation was taking longer than he'd hoped. He'd begun pilfering mail from several of Carrie's neighbors: a credit card statement here, correspondence from the bank, even a few returned checks. He was ready to begin creating a new identity, and wanted to feel a sense of permanence. Carrie was generous with him, letting him come over to use her shower, throw his clothes in with her laundry and cook a hot meal. He took her up on every offer; he spent most of their time together trying to gently pry information out of her, in order to make sense of her nonsensical mutterings that night he'd meant to enjoy her. He also took the opportunity to relieve Carrie of a few hardware items that he doubted she'd miss.
But it was time for Erik to have a home. This shiftless lifestyle would not support his desires. It most certainly impeded his musical aspirations. He was able to play his violin, and that was pleasing, but he did not have a place to think and compose. He had no safe place to pile his scores as he feverishly wrote, to hoard up books for reference and inspiration, or to at last house a decent piano.
Even as he made his way back to Bourbon to make a few bucks, even as he contemplated his next kill, he hungered most for a space of his own.
After several hours and a fruitful take, Erik found a pay phone in a blessedly quiet bar on Chartres and 30 cents in his pocket. He fished out the business card and dialed.
"This is Melissa, leave a message…"
Erik fumbled for a second before he found his voice. "Miss Touchet, this is Erik—"
He hesitated to give a last name, as he wasn't sure what he would actually pick when the time came.
"—the violinist you heard play. We are to meet tonight, for an audition, but I'm afraid I won't be able to make it."
His face was in a deplorable state. Erik needed to retrieve new "materials" immediately, and cursed himself for waiting too long. For the first time since New York, he thought about Christine.
His feelings had dulled considerably, but being forced to harvest skin so regularly made him long for his previous existence. That had been luxury, he mused, with his furnished loft and his prosthetic faces. And, for a moment, he indulged in the memory of being near Christine, and how that had exhilarated him in a way that he hadn't felt since.
"Ah, I should like to reschedule, perhaps after the holiday when the city has… calmed down? I have no current number to leave for you, but I shall find you."
Erik hung up and trudged off to a packed Jean Lafitte's.
OOOOO
"Hey," said Carrie breathlessly. She carried three drinks and looked wobbly. Erik stepped out of the way, but found he could barely move. As the sun set, the crowds thickened, and he kept adjusting his scarf nervously.
In the time it took to walk from Chartres to the bar, Erik had pick-pocketed three wallets and a cell phone. He hesitated to lift anything from the patrons here, lest he rouse suspicion and disturb this one sanctuary.
Carrie found him pressed uncomfortably in a corner. "Mardi Gras, you know…" she said, looking around. "There's a small parade tonight, then a bigger one tomorrow. Friday night we're all going to Orpheus, if you want to come. Probably go see it from St. Charles. The French Quarter gets kind of stupid and rather naked."
"Mmmm," was all Erik could offer.
"Feeling bad again?" Carrie asked.
"A bit. Perhaps I will join you on Friday. Tonight I think I will take my leave and find a place to hide out from this madness."
"I don't blame you. If the tips weren't pretty good tonight, I'd try to bail myself."
Erik shuffled out as Carrie returned to her tables.
Falling out into the crowd, he jostled his way down Bourbon toward the Faubourg Marigny. He felt inside his deep pocket, and smiled softly. The din of music and screaming bled over onto Esplanade, whose few bars were modestly crowded with more revelers.
Erik took out a small piece of paper: a cable bill stolen from one of Carrie's neighbors. The Gennusa family lived just around the corner from her. His shadowed figure caused no stir on the quiet street; Erik paused to check the time. By 2:00 a.m., after having watched Mr. Gennusa dump trash in the back yard and his wife set the coffee pot for the morning, Erik was ready to move.
He set his violin case down in the darkness and crept towards the French doors. He balled his fist and started to bring it down on the glass, but something made him stop. No evidence… he considered. Could I be so lucky as for the door to be unlocked?
Luck, he realized, would have nothing to do with it. The damned have perverse luck, a counterbalance for the haunting absence of a soul.
He tested the doorknob, then opened the door slowly. He moved about the room, and was about to enter the bedroom just as he heard a female voice cry out: "Honey, do you hear something?"
The husband was on his feet: Erik could hear movement. He stilled himself in the dark hallway and palmed the rusty axe, a forgotten item from Carrie's shed.
"Babe, it was probably the cat," the husband said, and Erik stepped behind him to bring the axe down on the back of his head. Landing on the floor with a thud and moan, Erik brought the axe back up and then down in one arc, nearly decapitating him.
He walked slowly to the bedroom, where the wife tried to hide herself in the bedclothes, sobbing.
"I cannot be merciful. Not yet."
Erik took his time in their bathroom, making use of Mrs. Gennusa's sewing kit and first aid items. The flesh was raw, but it would heal. His work was finished quickly, and he set out to collect his things.
No need to position the bodies, he thought. But there is one thing I simply must do.
He locked the French doors behind him, then turned and kicked a hole in the bottom panel.
Just right for the ghost's entry.