By Warren Ellis
She's in a clinic. other than it can be a police station. She's been traumatized. Or she's been arrested. She's the single dwelling witness of a cattle-mutilation kind assault on people. Or she's a a number of killer who has a psychotic response to heroin use. Who would possibly not live to tell the tale gaining knowledge of who she relatively is?
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When I noticed the voodoo dolls that appeared to be mocking me from shop windows, I quickly looked away. The Johnsons had a full day planned in New Orleans, full of voodoo shops and cemetery tours. I did not want to be anywhere near anything having to do with voodoo, so we decided to go our separate ways and meet up the next day in Jackson, Louisiana, at Asphodel Plantation and Inn. Jim and I spent our afternoon in the Garden District, home of Anne Rice, Tulane University, and the famous “Vieux Carré” or French Quarter.
I am dying to go to the St. Louis Cemetery, to visit the tomb of the most famous voodoo queen of all . . Marie Laveau,” she added, squeezing her husband Tom’s hand. “So, how was your day in Haiti,” I broke in at Judy’s first pause, quickly changing the subject. Judy went on to tell us all about her day in town. Their adventures were quite tame compared to those of a couple who had barely escaped with their lives and might now be carrying some diabolical curse. Judy and Tom seemed like nice, sincere people, and we hit it off exceptionally well together— almost as if it was meant to be.
I climbed up into the canopy bed and lay awake trying to remember as much as I could about the one time I had seen the Myrtles. It had been several years since our trip down the Mississippi River, when we were passengers on the paddle-wheeler Mississippi Queen. From the steamboat we toured at least a dozen different plantations. Most of them blended together in my memory, but the Myrtles had left a lasting impression. Many of its features stood out in my mind. The first was the unusual style of the home, not the typical, imposing Greek revival mansion, with mammoth columns in front, but a much more graceful, feminine home, with French ornamental ironwork framing its galleries like delicate lace.
Atmospherics by Warren Ellis