"I seek you out,

Flay you alive,

One more word and you won't survive.

And I'm not scared of your stolen power,

See right through you any hour."

"Eyes on Fire" Blue Fountain

"6 Migrant Workers Found Dead"

A perfect contender. She jotted down how six men were shot in the head execution style next to a large pile of Bibles. It'd also happened on a Sunday a few miles from a church. She matched up the article to its police file and confirmed it. The report listed an embroidered handkerchief being the only piece of evidence they found at the scene. The handkerchief belonged to James Patrick March, the owner of the Hotel Cortez. Matched with an anonymous tip off, the police had enough for a warrant. Honestly, she was disappointed. She'd expected much more of the world's first serial killer. She couldn't believe he'd been completely undone by a single handkerchief. She thought he'd be more careful than that, considering he'd built an entire hotel simply for hiding evidence.

"Hotel Owner Commits Suicide"

He'd killed himself before he could be captured. She scoffed. At least he'd gone out the honorable way rather than be hanged. The police found him with his throat slashed and the hotel maid shot in the chest. Rachel guessed that perhaps they'd made some sort of arrangement. The maid most likely cleaned up all of his messes; she would have known about his hobbies. Now, if March silenced her or if she willingly asked was a different discussion. She wrote it down for further research.

She'd spent a good amount of time in her room, files and papers spread around her as she took note of everything she found. After jumping from bus to bus around the city, she dug up a lot about James Patrick March. She'd found a hotel floor plan he'd submitted, a birth certificate, a marriage certificate to a woman named Joanne Tate, another a marriage certificate to Elizabeth Johnson, and several articles about the hotel. Despite the heaviness in her body from the long day, she wanted a few more notes before she finally slept.

'How could he get away with building a place like this and avoid suspicion? What was he doing before all this started? What made him want to start killing people on a regular basis? Family life? Schooling? Some traumatic event that changed him in early childhood?'

She wrote down these questions as they came to her. These were things she'd need to dig deeply into. When the police searched the premises thoroughly, they found a torture chamber in the basement floor beneath the hotel. There are chutes all over the place that lead directly down, hallways that led nowhere, and doors that were blocked by bricks. He built asphyxiation chambers where he'd lure girls in with promise of work and then listen to them die. She imagined he used the vacant rooms for his gruesome experiments and projects. He was sadistic. She could only envision the things he did to these people. They were absolutely fascinating.

As she wrote down in her notepad, the phone rang on her bedside. Rachel already had a feeling she knew the caller. Picking up the phone, she answered, "Hello?"

"Rachel," she heard the smile in her aunt's voice. Hearing Cordelia's voice was a relief after such a trying day. "Queenie told me you'd called, honey. How is L.A.?"

"L.A. is okay," she said. "I don't know why people are so amazed by it. It's just sun and sand."

Cordelia laughed, "You've never been impressed by anything. Your mom called me last night. She said she was worried about you, especially with your new book."

"There's nothing to be worried about," Rachel said. "I'm fine. I've been okay. Really, I have."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she gave a forced laugh, "Delia, I'm totally fine."

"You haven't been having, you know, episodes? Outbursts?"

"Not recently," she said. "I've got it under control. I do. Now, that thing I called you about, what do you think?"

Cordelia was her mother's younger sister. The two of them grew up in New Orleans, where they attended the same ladies' finishing school. Rachel spent a majority of her childhood in that same school before the divorce. She wasn't gifted like Aunt Delia or her grandmother, Fiona. They told her magic often skipped generations, and unfortunately it skipped Rachel. A part of Rachel always believed her mother was glad. It'd been Cordelia who calmed those edgy nerves and Fiona who reined in the outbursts and misconduct. Her mother simply tried covering her wild childhood behavior with excuses and lies.

"When someone dies, their spirit normally passes over," Cordelia explained, "Sometimes they stick around if they have unfinished business. They're usually just apparitions or invisible. Yet, if they're as solid and physical like you told me," she paused, "They're cursed."

"Cursed?"

"Yes," she said, "A spirit that's stuck in one place because of the land's hold over them. Is the hotel you're staying at have any sort of bad history to it? Maybe some tragic event that happened there?"

Yes. The hotel owner most likely killed hundreds of his guests and others in the place he built. She said, "I suppose. I mean, it does have a pretty bloody history."

"Then there's your answer," she said. She then said, "Honey, why don't you come back to New Orleans? Plenty of inspirational things here worth writing about. You could write about the haunted houses around town. I remember how much you loved visiting the LaLaurie house when you were a kid."

"Tons of people have written about that place."

"Not the way you would," she said.

"I'm pretty determined on the one I'm writing, Delia," Rachel told her.

"Rae, you shouldn't be in a place with cursed spirits," she said. "If that one woman could nearly strangle you, imagine what else you could run into there. You should come home. Everyone would be glad to see you. You always loved coming here."

"I do, and I will," she told her, "After I'm done here. I promise."

"Do you at least want me to send you some of the herbal mixture I gave you when you were little? Help ease that irritation in you?"

Her 'irritation' is what they called it. They never called it by its real name or acknowledged it. She couldn't even suppress it all that much, so what made them think they could? "I told you I'm fine, Aunt Delia," she said.

"Alright," she said unconvinced. "Well, I have a class to teach tonight. I'll talk to you later, honey."

"Okay," she said, "Bye Delia. Love you."

"Love you too, Rae."

They hung up. Rachel admitted her aunt's caution didn't help the unsettlement in her stomach. She touched the marks on her neck. They'd faded considerably through the day. They almost cleared now. Yet, the woman's haunting eyes remained perfectly vivid in her mind. She could still feel her cold hands wrapped around her throat, trying to choke the life out of her. Rachel had quickly showered when she returned to her room, seeing no sign of the woman.

A knock came to her door, and Rachel stood to answer it. When she opened the door, Liz was on the other side with a food cart. She smiled at her, "Evening, Ms. Corbin, I've brought your dinner."

For the second time that day, food she hadn't ordered was delivered. "Um, thanks," Rachel said, letting her into the room. "I hadn't ordered any room service though."

"Oh, you won't have to worry about that," Liz said, lighting the small candle on the table. "The Master requested you get three meals a day free of charge. We would've brought lunch, but you weren't here." She spotted the papers and books on the bed, "Well, you've been a busy little bee."

"Yeah," Rachel said, "It took me ages to find all that stuff."

"I could imagine…" Liz picked up a marriage certificate. Rachel then noticed the unnerved look in the bald woman's face. "Where did you find this?" she asked.

"They had it in the public records office," she answered. "Why? Something wrong?"

"No, not at all," she said, putting it down. "It's just Mr. March took great care in concealing his first marriage from people."

"Really?" Rachel grabbed her pen and pad and sat down in front of her, "Why?"

"Nobody is really certain," she said. "A lot of people think it's because the marriage ended badly. There are lots of rumors behind it, but one thing's for certain: it was a sensitive topic." Rachel wrote down her words, and added some conclusions. Liz then said, "You know, there are some old records we keep from the early days of the hotel."

Rachel's eyes lit up, "You do? What are they?"

"Guest books, pay roll logs, that sort of stuff," she said. "I don't know if that would be any help though."

"It would be," she said. "A lot of people speculate that Mr. March killed people who worked for him so they couldn't talk about the infrastructure of the hotel. There is tons of missing person's cases from the era, but I narrowed it down to working men and women, contractors or architects, and any notably wealthy people who disappeared after arriving in L.A. It'd be a big help if I had the guest logs and pay roll books."

"I'll have them brought up for you then," Liz told her. "I'm always happy to help an aspiring author," she smiled. "Enjoy your dinner."

"Thank you so much," Rachel returned the smile as Liz left the room.

She couldn't help the giddiness in her. She sat down at the little dining table in the room and lifted the tray. She inhaled the scent of roasted pork, potatoes, green beans and a dinner roll. "The Master", as he seemed to be called, even sent a bottle of red wine for the meal. It was quite a gesture. Rachel wished she could meet the owner and thank him for the kindness. He clearly must be a generous man, though Rachel didn't know why he'd pick her. Her eyes fell on the vase of red roses on the dresser. She had the inclining The Master ordered them for her.

"I trust our special guest is settling in well?"

"Indeed, Mr. March," Liz replied when she walked down the hallway. "She's awfully inquisitive and intelligent. She dug up a lot of information about you, sir."

"I could only imagine," he replied.

She'd been on his mind since he met her in the elevator. To have her mere inches from him sent his heart alight. When he spotted the marks upon her neck, he immediately scolded the bathroom spirit. Nobody, not a single soul in the hotel, was allowed to touch her. James wanted his sweet beloved kept comfortable and content. Ms. Evers washed her sheets when she'd been away; he ordered Liz and Iris cater to her needs whatever they may be; he also asked Sally to act as a companion for his darling.

"She found the marriage certificate."

"Which one?"

"The first."

He stopped. How could she have found it? He made sure he'd acquired the paper and burned it. When he married Elizabeth, he didn't want her knowing anything about Joanne other than what he told her. Elizabeth might send a stirring in his loins and her beauty might attract him to her, but she would never be Joanne. He'd hoped she'd be when they married. He thought if he gave her the world, she'd love him back. Before she'd colored her hair that light blonde color, she'd been a brunette like Joanne. She made the perfect companion for his darkness. A part of him wished he'd known about her special conditions before marrying her.

A vampire. Such an odd, but arousing thought.

"How?"

"She said she went through public records," she said as they entered the elevator. "They must have made a copy."

"Damn them!" he said.

"I'm also giving her the old records of the hotel," Liz informed him. "I thought it might help her with that large stack of police reports."

"Good, good," he nodded. "She doesn't suspect me or know who I am just yet, but I think she will after today." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an old photograph. It'd been from the grand opening of the hotel. On the back, he'd merely written the number seven."Slip this into one of the books," he said, "She'll know what it means."

"Yes, sir," Liz said, taking the photo and slipping it into her dress. "Anything else, sir?"

"Yes," he said, "Prepare the guest list for my Devil's Night soiree. Add Rachel and make sure she is given an outfit worthy of a queen."

"Absolutely," she replied as the elevator reached the bottom floor. "I know just the place for one."

His Devil's Night soiree was the highlight of the season. In a few weeks time, all his pupils will gather on Halloween night and celebrate their achievements and friendship. His darling would join them. Being a fan of such dark work,, she would appreciate the experience unlike others before her. He stayed in the elevator and pressed for the seventh floor. James thought back to the brown woman who'd come into his hotel opening week. She'd been a beauty in her own way with fierceness in her voice. He'd heard whispers she could speak to the dead, as well as other things. James admitted she intrigued him. He asked for a simple reading and received more than expected.

'Joanne…she'll come back…oh yes, she'll definitely come back.'

Her name had been Marie Laveau, and she finally delivered.