Author's Note: Thank you for clicking on my work!
This story draws on folklore from across the world: North America, South America, Asia, Africa, Oceania... I've always found the tradition of storytelling and how you can see similarities in folklore from different cultures interesting. I did a lot of research for this story, but obviously I had to make alterations so that all the different creatures and myths could fit into one setting. So, if you find the characters in this story interesting, please look up the original myths and stories.
Thank you again for reading my story! Please leave a review!
Chapter One
A gray sky stretched overhead as light rain droplets fell onto downtown New Orleans. A thin layer of mist had settled, making the red and yellow townhouses seem faded and dreary. The streets were devoid of the usual artists and musicians, and only a few tourists in large raincoats remained, walking swiftly with their heads lowered against the warm, summer rain.
Remy hopped over a puddle. The heels of her ragged converses splashed water onto her ankles as she misjudged the jump. Holding back a sigh, Remy ran a hand through her dark, wet hair. She hoped the drizzling rain hadn't seeped through her backpack; otherwise, she'd be holding her waitressing uniform under the hand dryer in the customer bathroom, late for her shift.
"Look out!"
Remy's head jerked up. Heavy, gray hooves. Swift, sinewy legs. Sweat-soaked neck. Coal-black fur. Blood-stained muzzle. Bone-white eyes. A rider in black mail. His helmet fashioned like the skull of deer. And a sword that glimmered like the silver of moonlight—
Remy threw herself backwards to avoid the galloping horse. She landed ass-first in a small puddle, the concrete sidewalk scraping against the palms of her hands as water soaked the seat of her jeans. Remy didn't care. She stared up as the bay mare—who, only a heartbeat earlier, had possessed a pitch-black coat—raced past her, followed by a pale-faced driver and a red carriage. An elderly couple, wrapped in blue plastic ponchos and seated in the carriage, clung to one another as the driver yanked on the reigns and brought the unruly mare to a halt.
"Are you all right? Did it get you?"
A family of tourists stood nearby, their stares fixed on the carriage, while a young woman with a faint accent and a worn-through purple raincoat rushed to Remy's side.
Remy remained in place, staring at the bay mare. She could've sworn the horse had been black with milky-white eyes.
"Are you hurt?" asked the woman, even more urgently now.
No matter how Remy looked at it, the horse's coat was definitely brown. The mare looked frazzled with her head raised high and her shoulders held stiffly. There was no rider in black mail. Only the carriage driver with a red boater.
Remy hauled herself to her feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in her hands and ass. She was being ridiculous. Why would a rider with a deer skull helm be galloping around the French Quarter? Maybe she wasn't getting enough sleep or was under too much stress. Remy managed a thin smile for the concerned woman and said, "Thank you. But really, the horse just missed me."
The woman nodded. "Dangerous driving."
They both turned to see the carriage driver being scolded by one of his passengers. The elderly man looked almost comical with a red face, wild gestures, and a bright blue poncho. Then, the driver turned and caught sight of Remy. His dark eyes widened, and he started to wave at her.
"I'm fine," said Remy. She took a few small steps closer but then stopped herself. Perhaps she should've kicked up a fuss—maybe she could've gotten some easy money out of it—but Remy just didn't have the energy. Her jeans were soaked through, her hands ached, and she still had work to deal with after all this.
The bay mare had calmed down a little, the tension leaving her shoulders. Whatever had startled her was long gone, and she returned to her normal, placid self.
"She's usually a dear," the carriage driver explained to Remy. "All of a sudden she was bucking and running. I don't know what came over her."
Never blame bad luck. Never believe in coincidence. If ill-fortune follows you, you'd better watch your back.
Remy fought not to roll her eyes as her mother's words echoed through her head. Eliza Lemelle believed the entire world, visible and invisible, was out to get her and her family. No matter how much Remy and her sisters told their mother that she didn't need to guard their house with sage incense and warding amulets, Eliza didn't listen. Better to be safe than sorry, she'd always say.
"Are you sure there's no injuries?" asked the driver. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"
"Really," said Remy. She could feel the gazes of the tourists on her. They ignored the drizzling rain and watched as she waved her hands in front of the driver, saying, "It's no big deal. No injury. See?" She made sure to keep her hands downturned so no one could see the scrapes on her palms. "I have to go. I'm going to be late for work."
The driver looked frantic. No doubt worrying Remy would turn around and report to one of his superiors at the carriage tours office. Before he could say another word, however, the man in the poncho started ranting about a refund, and Remy was swiftly forgotten.
Remy sent one last look at the bay mare.
A regular horse. A regular driver. A regular carriage. Things she saw every day in the French Quarter.
It wasn't good to imagine things. If Remy started seeing ghosts in every passerby, she'd end up like her mother. She shuddered at the thought.
Adjusting the straps of her backpack, Remy ducked her head against the rain and continued on her way to the restaurant. She was definitely going to be late for work now.
Claire watched as her mother tiptoed on the seat of a kitchen chair and duct-taped a small two-by-two-inch piece of mirror above the front door. Claire tried not to sigh. She was used to her mother's eccentricities by now, but she couldn't help the blush of embarrassment that crept along the back of her neck when she noticed that the neighbor's pretty daughter watched from the end of the driveway.
"I could do that for you," offered Claire, who stood eight inches taller than her mother.
"No, it's fine," said Eliza even as she used the tips of her fingers to tape the mirror shard above the white doorframe.
"Do we really need to do this?" asked Claire. The neighbor's pretty daughter had finished collecting the mail and headed back inside. Claire wondered if she would tell her family that the crazy Lemelles were at it again.
There was no forgetting the incident two years ago when Eliza brought a shaman to cleanse their house of evil spirits. Claire's face had been burning when a woman in a green robe and elaborate headpiece chanted in their driveway. The neighbors had all emerged from their houses to watch, some of them shaking their heads and others taking videos with their smartphones.
"It's for your protection." Eliza finally managed to get the mirror in place and she fell back onto her heels. The chair swayed slightly. Claire leapt forward, ready to catch her mother, but Eliza held onto the wooden back to steady herself. Completely unfazed by her near accident, Eliza pursed her lips and surveyed the mirror shard before saying, "We should replace the one at the back door as well."
Claire barely suppressed a groan. Her mother was a stout woman with close-set eyes and low cheekbones. Her black hair was almost always pulled back into some sort of braid or bun. Even with her short stature, Eliza Lemelle was a fierce, intimidating woman—or she would've been, Claire thought, if she hadn't been obsessed with evil spirits.
"Do we have to?" asked Claire.
"You don't have to," said Eliza as she hopped down from the kitchen chair. "You should be inside applying to jobs."
Claire winced. She'd been hearing those words for months. Before she'd even graduated from high school, her mother had started suggesting summer jobs. Camp counselor, coffee barista, restaurant waitress—something productive to do while Claire waited for the college semester to begin. The nagging was endless… What Claire wouldn't give to move out with Brigitte next month.
"I'll go empty Tama's litterbox," said Claire.
"Those job apps won't fill out themselves." Eliza picked up the kitchen chair and, without another word, took the side path around to the back of the house.
Claire remained on the doorstep, wondering if she should help her mother. She'd played seven years of softball and was the athlete of the family, so she felt bad letting her five-foot-one mother heft furniture about. But Eliza had raised three daughters on her own for eighteen years, and she hated whenever someone implied that she couldn't manage the house by herself.
With a sigh, Claire opened the door and slipped inside. The front hall greeted her with its pale blue walls, which had been painted to match the porch ceiling outside. On a little side table rested a bowl for keys along with a gray candle and a salt shaker. Claire glared at the shaker, knowing that if she checked the windowsills, she'd find fine grains of salt.
As she slipped off her converses, Claire noticed that, at the far end of the hall, where the room opened up into the kitchen and dining room, there sat a sleek, white cat with her right paw raised.
Claire immediately went on tiptoe. Her pink socks were silent on the hardwood floor. It seemed Tama hadn't noticed her yet.
Her eldest sister, Brigitte, had bought Tama from a friend some years ago, much to Remy and Claire's delight. The sisters had all thought their mother wouldn't allow it, but Eliza had calmly surveyed the snow-white cat with a stumpy tail and said, "White cats are protectors. As long as you look after her properly, I don't see why not." The sisters had been thrilled to raise a cat together, but unfortunately, Tama had taken one look at Claire, hissed, and bolted. Despite living with the Lemelles for seven years, Tama hadn't warmed up to Claire in the slightest.
Step by step, Claire crept closer to the cat. She was about a yard away when Tama's stopped licking her paw and raised her blue eyes.
"Fuck," said Claire.
Instantly, Tama's mouth pulled back into a snarl, and then she turned and darted into the dining room.
Claire covered the last two steps to the end of the hallway, but by the time she entered the joint kitchen and dining room, Tama had already disappeared.
One would think after seven years, Claire would be able to hold the damn cat.
Through the dining room window, Claire caught a glimpse of her mother carrying the kitchen chair. Then, Eliza's shadow appeared behind the back-door's panels of stained glass as she went about replacing the old mirror shard.
The dining room was decorated much the same as the front hall, though instead of blue, the walls were a pale beige. There was a giant mirror framed in silver that reflected the windows, and gray candles made up the centerpiece of the dining table. Pushed against the far wall was a small bureau made of dark wood. Eliza had placed an incense burner on top and surrounded it with candles and flowers. On the holidays, the sisters would place bowls of fruit in front of the altar even though they knew of no ancestors to honor.
As far as Claire knew, there was only Eliza and her foster brother, Jorge. Supposedly, the foster parents existed, but neither Eliza nor Jorge ever spoke of them. The only person Eliza ever mentioned was the girls' father, JP, who'd died in a tragic car accident. But Eliza shared no photos of him, and when Remy had tried to find him on the internet, there'd been no results for "JP Lemelle" or any variation. Once, years ago, Claire had joked that their dad was the Swamp Monster, but Remy had scoffed and said he was probably a deadbeat their mom would rather forget. Claire preferred her theory.
With a sigh, Claire headed to the kitchen. The oven light was on, as a sheet of chicken thighs baked for the night's dinner. No superstitious paraphernalia adorned the black counter tops and white cupboards of the kitchen save for one dreamcatcher. The dreamcatcher was made of two circles, one below the other, woven together with sky blue string. It had hung in the window that overlooked the neighbor's live oak tree for as long as Claire could remember.
A shadow flickered in the corner of Claire's eye, and she did a doubletake at the window.
A long, slender form dangled on the other side of the glass. Its scales were striped black and copper as its powerful body curled. Beady black eyes stared into the kitchen, and Claire could've sworn the snake was observing her.
Claire stilled, her hand resting on the cool, marble countertop. Snakes were by no means uncommon in Louisiana, and she'd seen plenty before, even in their own backyard. But for some reason, a tension filled her body. She stood on the balls of her feet, knees slightly bent, watching the snake pull back. Was it preparing to strike the window?
Her gaze flickered to the dreamcatcher suspended from the curtain rod, as if the blue yarn and willow hoops could somehow stop the snake.
A screeching yowl filled the kitchen, and Claire whipped around to see Tama sitting on the floor, her back arched and her blue eyes fixed on the window.
It seemed Tama didn't like the snake either.
When Claire turned back to the window, the snake was gone. She could see only the top of the white picket fence and the moss-covered branches of the neighbor's live oak.
"You saw it too?" Claire asked the cat. "Did it fall, you think?"
Tama lifted her blue eyes to Claire, hissed, and then raced out of the kitchen. Typical.
Claire walked over to the window and stood on tiptoe, trying to see if the snake had fallen onto the grass below. But the window was too high, and in the end, Claire gave up. Briefly, she wondered if she should warn her mother that there was snake in the yard. Likely, Eliza wouldn't be fazed by the news. Claire had seen her mother pick up a copperhead and toss it over the back fence without batting an eye before.
With a one-shouldered shrug, Claire headed to the pantry to grab a snack. Better not to tell her mother about the snake. Eliza would take it as an ill-omen, and they'd be taping mirror shards over all the windows as well.
"Remy almost got run over by a horse today," said Brigitte as she read the text message from her younger sister. "She's not injured, but it made her late for work. She still got lectured. Apparently, the manager didn't even care that she was nearly trampled to death."
"A horse?" repeated Noah.
Brigitte glanced over at her fiancé. His eyes remained on the road as he drove, but a wry smile danced across his full lips. His copper curls fell across his forehead, desperately needing a haircut, and his hawk nose cast a shadow across the freckles that dotted his high cheekbones. There was a small tomato sauce stain on the collar of his blue button-up from today's lunch. No matter how hard Brigitte had tried to scrub the stain away for him, the sauce had remained stubborn.
"One of the carriages," explained Brigitte. "The driver lost control in the rain."
"At least she's safe," said Noah. "Though the driver shouldn't have lost control. Don't they train the horses for that?"
Brigitte shrugged as she put her phone back into her purse.
"Is she working late tonight?" asked Noah. If Remy worked only the day shift at her restaurant, all three would carpool back to the Lemelle house. However, some shifts, Remy stayed past midnight. No one wanted to be the one who had to make the half hour drive to pick her up and the half hour drive back to Destrehan after midnight.
"She said it wouldn't be too late," said Brigitte. "She should be able to get a ride back with her coworker. If she stays past midnight, then we'll make Claire go get her. The lazy bum's got nothing better to do."
Noah laughed. "I'm sure Ms. Eliza can't wait to send her off to school."
"Claire can't wait either," muttered Brigitte, who was silently glad she was moving out soon. She couldn't take any more of her mother and Claire's bickering.
"So Remy's not making it to dinner tonight," said Noah. "Is Mr. Jorge and his boyfriend coming?"
"Uncle Jorge will be there," said Brigitte, ticking her family members off on her fingers. "Mr. Vincente's busy finishing a report and can't make it. There's you and me, obviously. Mom and Claire. So that'll be five of us, and then Remy should be back for dessert unless her manager forces her to stay late."
Eliza made certain that the Lemelles all ate together at least once week. Everyone was supposed to cook one dish, but more often than not, everyone other than Claire was working and only had time to buy something at the grocery store on the way home. Remy usually brought an order of fried shrimp or crawfish cornbread back from her restaurant. This week, Noah and Brigitte had grabbed an apple pie from the Winn-Dixie and called it a night.
"Any progress with the venue search?" asked Noah.
"I'm making a list of places," said Brigitte. "I haven't found one that meets all the criteria."
They weren't far along in the wedding planning process—Brigitte's sudden promotion put things on hold—but she'd begun compiling a list of potential wedding venues, making a table of the pros and cons of each location.
"I found a couple places," said Noah. "Matthew, my coworker who just got married, recommend some to me."
"Send them my way," said Brigitte with a smile. She leaned back in her seat, watching the dark outlines of trees flicker by through the windshield. The sun hung low in the sky, holding on to the last possible moment before sinking beneath the horizon. Brigitte could see streaks of light in the murky waters of the river that ran parallel to the road.
A silver line slipped into the edge of her vision, Brigitte glanced down and saw a feathery pattern snaking its way up the window. It started in the lower right corner and slowly made a path up to the middle of the glass. Was the window warping? Brigitte could only watch, open-mouthed, as the glaze-like pattern covered the entire passenger-side window. Was it ice? Brigitte immediately dismissed the thought. It was May in Louisiana. Of course it wasn't ice.
"Noah—"
A hand appeared. Pale and thin. It lay flat against the window. Then, its long, deathly-white fingers started to curl, sharp nails screeching against the glass, as if wanting to claw its way in.
Brigitte shrieked.
"What's wrong?" asked Noah immediately pulling the car over to the side of the road.
"The window—"
It was gone. The hand, the noise, the ice. The window was clear and untouched.
"What happened, Bri?"
Noah's voice was filled with worry, but Brigitte couldn't bring herself to look away from the window.
Her hand fluttered up to the fluorite necklace that dangled at her throat. Her mother had gifted it to her years ago. Brigitte had only a faint memory of receiving it, but she remembered promising her mother to wear it always. The crystal was cool to touch, and she felt her heartbeat slow with each passing moment.
"Bri?"
Noah's voice shook her out of her thoughts, and Brigitte finally turned to look at him. They were stilled pulled over to the side of the road, cars racing as people headed home from work. Noah's hazel eyes were wide with worry. His left hand was slightly extended, as if he'd been about to touch her but had suddenly stopped himself.
Guilt seeped into Brigitte's heart as she quickly grabbed Noah's hand and held it in her own. "I'm sorry, babe. I thought I saw—a crack in the window or something. But it's nothing. I imagined it."
"A crack?" repeated Noah, his lips turned down with doubt. "A crack scared you that much?"
"You try living with my mom for twenty-five years," muttered Brigitte. "If you see a black cat, you worry your day's about to be ruined. If a mirror has a crack, you think you need to throw salt over your shoulder. If anyone looks at you odd, you start wondering if you should see a shaman—it's a nightmare."
Noah smiled. They'd been together almost four years. He knew what her mother was like.
"Are you sure you're okay?" His voice was so gentle that it made Brigitte's heart ache.
She leaned forward, kissed him lightly on the lips, and then said, "Yes, I'm fine. I was just startled, that's all. Sorry I made you worry."
Noah nodded. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from hers and turned back to the steering wheel. Once they were back on the road and heading home, Noah said, lightly, "Let's not tell your mom then."
Brigitte laughed even as the memory of Remy's text popped up in her mind. A rampaging horse. A pale hand at the window. If ill-fortune follows you, you'd better watch your back. Brigitte laughed and shook those thoughts away. Living with her mother could make one paranoid.
"Trust me, I won't say a word."
Remy stepped out into the alley behind her restaurant only to be greeted by the humid night air and the foul smell of the dumpster. Her nose automatically wrinkled, causing laughter from further into the alley. Two of her coworkers were already on a smoke break. The butts of their cigarettes flared orange in the dimly lit alley, illuminating the servers' faces and making them seem like something out of a horror movie.
Remy made sure to position the stopper in the door before moving to join Irene and David on the other side of the dumpster. Irene offered her cigarette, but Remy shook her head, saying, "I don't smoke."
Irene snorted.
The managers only let servers go outside for smoke breaks, so most of the staff either took up the bad habit or pretended to smoke just so they could escape the stress of the restaurant for a few minutes.
"My table's being a bitch," said David, forlornly looking at the remains of his own cigarette. "They're not even going to tip me well."
"The Europeans?" asked Irene.
David nodded.
"You must be making some decent tips," said Irene, looking over at Remy. "All those rich, white tourists."
"That's because the host stand felt bad that I almost got run over by a horse today," said Remy. She'd been forced to recount the story after she'd arrived to work late, her jeans drenched and her palms scraped red. Over and over again throughout the night, her coworkers had been coming up to her, asking if she was okay and wanting a retelling of her near-death experience. She'd even had to recount the tale to some of her tables when they asked about the bandages on her hands.
"If that's what it takes to get a decent tip, maybe I should try walking out in front of those carriages," muttered David.
"You do that," said Remy. "Those horses usually wouldn't hurt a fly. Just my luck that I run into the only crazy one."
"David." The door to the restaurant had opened, and one of the hostesses stuck her head out into the humid night air. She ran a hand through her blond curls before saying, "Your table's asking for you."
"Fucking needy," muttered David. He waved one hand to Remy and Irene before disappearing back inside.
Irene took one last drag of her cigarette before putting it out. "You're a Virgo, right? No wonder. It's a bad time to be a Virgo. Keep your eyes open, and stay away from strangers. Now's not a good time to be traveling."
Remy opened her mouth but then thought better of it. After a moment, she dryly said, "Thanks for the advice."
With her cigarette was done, Irene headed back inside, and Remy was left alone in the thick night air. She leaned her head against the wall and stared at the black fence that lined the other side of the alley. When are you going back to college? Her mother's question echoed in her head, as it always did when Remy had a shit night at the restaurant. It'd started as a year off, then turned into two years, and now not even Remy knew when she planned to go back.
With a sigh, Remy pushed off the wall. She wrinkled her nose as she passed the dumpster.
"Are you the daughter of Talise Dang?"
With one hand extended towards the back door, Remy froze. Slowly, reluctantly, her head turned to look right.
A lone shadow stood at the end of the back alley. For one insane second, Remy thought it was a lost tourist. But then she saw the outline of a horse whose bone-white eyes seemed to glow through the night. The tall rider leaned forward as if to get a better look at her.
Heavy, gray hooves. Swift, sinewy legs. Sweat-soaked neck. Coal-black fur. Blood-stained muzzle. Bone-white eyes. A rider in black mail. His helmet fashioned like the skull of a deer. And a sword that glimmered like the silver of moonlight.
In a deep, haunting voice, he asked again, "Are you the daughter of Talise Dang?"
"Who the fuck is that?" And with that, Remy kicked the rubber stopper away, threw herself inside, and slammed the door shut behind her.
It was real. She hadn't been imagining things that morning. It wasn't some random accident. The rider and the horse… They were following her. But what there they? Who wandered around the French Quarter wearing a deer skull-helm? What horse had eyes like that? Was that thing even human?
"Are you okay? Remy?"
Two of the kitchen staff watched her with worried eyes. They stood over the stainless-steel counter of the prep station, their hands motionless as they stopped work to stare at her.
"Yes," said Remy quickly. "Mosquitos."
They nodded in understanding and then returned to chopping vegetables.
Deep breaths. In and out. Her gaze fell on a metal salt shaker sitting on the edge of the metal counter. The image of her mother, still dressed in her business suit, moving from window sill to window sill, sprinkling salt from a 48 oz. store-bought box flashed through Remy's mind.
Laughable. This whole situation was laughable. Likely, she'd just seen things wrongs. It was probably a street performer, looking for somewhere to piss. The narrow-miss with the carriage must have spooked Remy more than she'd thought. Now she was seeing rampaging horses and haunted riders everywhere.
Remy laughed at herself. Who was it that said daughters ended up like their mothers?
"You just got sat with a new table, Remy." The blonde-haired hostess stood before Remy with a polite smile on her face.
"Thanks, I'll be right there."
The hostess nodded her head and then walked away.
With one last glance at the door, Remy grabbed the salt shaker, dumped it once over her left shoulder, and then slammed it back down on the metal counter before anyone could see her.
A/N: Thank you! Please leave a review!
