Prologue
Brielle
“Don’t touch that!”
Daphne, my youngest sister, recoils from the rocking chair in the corner. It’s dark under the stairs, but I know it’s there.
I can see the shadow sitting in it.
The shadows are everywhere.
“Come on,” I continue, gesturing for my sisters to huddle under our blanket fort with me. Shut out the shadows. The noises.
The house.
“I don’t like it under here,” Millie, the middle daughter says. She points her flashlight away from her face, illuminating our little haven, reflecting the quilt above us and casting everything in a red glow. We managed to sneak lots of pillows and old, ratty blankets under here. There’s a storm raging tonight, and that’s when it seems to be the worst.
For all of us.
We’re what they call sensitive.
I’ve read books that I keep at school so our daddy doesn’t see. It makes him the maddest of all.
And when Daddy’s mad, we get punished.
I’m the oldest. At thirteen, I’m the one who protects my sisters from the house. From all of the bad things around us. It’s always been this way. Our parents don’t know. And even if they did, I’m not sure they’d care. Not really.
Because they don’t believe me when I tell them about the shadows in the house.
And they don’t believe Daphne when she says she sees things when she touches the old furniture.
A clap of thunder rocks the house, and Daphne lays her head in my lap, whimpering.
“I hope we don’t get caught,” Millie whispers. “Last time—”
“We won’t,” I assure. “Dad’s not here, and Mama’s passed out.”
But, suddenly, there’s a loud banging on the back door, and we all stare at each other in horror.
That entrance is only a few feet from where we’re huddled under the stairs.
“She won’t wake up,” I whisper and pull Millie into my arms. “Please don’t let her wake up.”
But she does.
A few seconds later, we hear loud footsteps stomping through the house.
“I’m comin’ already!” Mama yells to whoever’s pounding on the door.
Soundlessly, we turn off our flashlights. Being in the dark is its own horrible torture.
But getting caught?
I don’t want to even think it.
“What are you doin’ here?” Mama demands after yanking open the front entry. I can feel the whoosh of air slide under the thin door of our hiding spot.
“Checkin’ on you,” a man says. “Storm’s a doozy.”
“We’re fine,” Mama replies. “You woke me out of a dead sleep.”
“Where is he?” the man asks. I’m pretty sure it’s Horace. He lives nearby and helps Mama and Daddy with things around the house.
“Gone,” Mama says. “And he ain’t comin’ back.”
I feel Daphne stiffen.
He’s not coming back?
“That means you and me can—”
“It don’t mean nothin’,” Mama interrupts him. “Now, git. Git outta here, ’fore’n I sic the cops on you.”
There are no more voices. Just a slamming door, and then Mama’s feet stomping back down the hall and up the stairs to her bedroom. I hear the floorboards creak as she gets back into bed.
“Can we turn the light back on?” Millie whispers.
“Not yet,” I mutter back to her. I need to make sure Mama’s asleep before we turn on the lights or make any noise.
We’re not supposed to be under here.
But it’s the safest place in the house.
We’re quiet for a long time. I run my fingers through Daphne’s hair as she lays on my lap. Millie rests her head on my shoulder.
Our arms are looped around each other as the storm rages, and the house settles—more alive than ever.
“Do you hear it?” Millie asks.
The chair is rocking in the corner now, squeaking with every back and forth motion.
Footsteps upstairs. And they aren’t Mama’s.
“Can you tell if she’s asleep?” I ask Millie.
“I don’t want to reach out,” she admits. Millie’s psychic abilities are off the charts, even for a ten-year-old.
“Just real fast, then shut it down.”
She sighs next to me and then is quiet while her mind searches the house.
“She’s asleep,” she whispers. “And he’s here.”
“Who?”
She whimpers. Daphne stirs and sits up.
“I saw him,” Daphne says. “In my dream.”
“Who?” I ask again and flip on my flashlight.
I don’t have to ask a third time.
A new shadow is suddenly sitting with us.
“Daddy.”
Chapter One
Brielle
“Hello, everyone, and welcome to my tour. I’m Brielle Landry, and I’ll be your guide today. Now, I know there are roughly eleven thousand ghost tours in the French Quarter, so I thank you kindly for choosing mine.”
I smile at the crowd that’s gathered on the sidewalk before me. We have a group of all ages this evening, from young teenagers to middle-aged folks. There are those who want to be in the front, listening raptly. And then, of course, there are the drunk ones, who will likely be the hecklers.
“I have just a couple rules for y’all. No walking in the street. If you’ve been here for twenty minutes, you’ve already learned that drivers don’t slow down, and I won’t lose anyone to vehicular homicide on my tour.”
The group laughs, and I continue, my eyes roaming the crowd and taking stock.
“We won’t be going inside any of the beautiful buildings we’ll be talking about tonight, but halfway through, we will stop at a bar to soak in some A/C and have a refreshment or two.”
“Or five,” Heckler Number One says, elbowing his friend.
“I’m always happy to answer questions, so don’t be shy, y’hear? Now, let’s get started.”
I point to the big, gray building behind me. Most tours save this one for last, but not me. It’s the most haunted of the group, and I want to get it over with.
Not that the rest of the tour isn’t haunted. Ghosts are literally everywhere.
But this one? It’s sinister.
I hate it.
Tour groups love it.
“This building behind me is the LaLaurie mansion,” I begin. “Well, a rebuilt version of the original house, anyway. Like most buildings in the Quarter, it suffered a nasty fire. Delphine LaLaurie lived here with her third husband, Louis. She had two daughters from previous marriages. Both of her earlier husbands died early deaths.”
I swallow hard as I look over at the façade. More shadows than I can count stare back at me.
“Delphine and Louis had a love for torture.” The drama is thick in my New Orleans accent as I relay stories of torment, and the horrific atrocities done to the hundreds of slaves that once lived in the building behind me. “And these stories I just shared are the less horrible ones.”
Several pairs of eyes whip to mine in surprise.