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    Who Do Voodoo?
    Who Do Voodoo?
    Who Do Voodoo?
    Ebook150 pages2 hours

    Who Do Voodoo?

    By Elaine Donadio

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    About this ebook

    For Middle Grade readers. Jesus and Voodoo. Party and prayer. Love and betrayal. Twelve year old New York City boy, Phil Williams, struggles with conflicting messages when, entrusted by his grandmother in the role of "Icebreaker," he visits estranged family in New Orleans as he sets out to restore the family relationship. With his best friend, Nestor, in tow, Phil encounters a series of strange events - erratic behavior by supposed family members, bloody headless chickens, an unseen intruder during the night. Nestor is convinced the bodies of Phil's family members have been taken over by voodoo practitioners. Phil refuses to accept this explanation and is determined to uncover the truth. Is it Voodoo? Or scare tactics by mere mortals?

    Phil's visit to the Land of Pirates results in a plan of action and determination to follow clues to solve the mystery. His investigations lead him to the source. Discovering an underground passageway once used as a stop in the Underground Railroad, the boys venture into darkness to discover the truth. Wanting to be viewed as a hero in saving his great-aunt, her husband and housekeeper, Phil refuses to involve the police and unduly places everyone at the merciless hands of the culprits. With everyone's life in jeopardy, Phil regrets his decision, realizing he may never get the chance to brag about his exploits at school. With the force for good watching, help comes from a hovering presence, just in the nick of time.

    Phil learns his strengths and weaknesses as he struggles to put the jumbled puzzle pieces in play. His appreciation of true friendship is apparent as his love of family and New Orleans are renewed.

    He visits Jackson Square, St. Louis Cathedral, the French Quarter, Mardi Gras World, the crypt of the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, Jean Lafitte Louisiana, the Audubon Aquarium and Riverwalk. Phil learns about Louisiana's history, swamps and the state's concern for environment and wildlife. He now understands the far-reaching effects of "fracking" and why environmentalists and public safety representatives are so strongly opposed.

    With his newly developed attention to detail, Phil composes a poem entitled "New Orleans" to capture his heart-felt memories.

    If Phil had to do it all over again, what would he have done differently? Probably nothing.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherElaine Donadio
    Release dateJan 23, 2015
    ISBN9781310020971
    Who Do Voodoo?
    Author

    Elaine Donadio

    Author and Reading Specialist at New York City Schools, Elaine Donadio is a New York City girl by birth and by choice. Her characters reflect the urban lifestyle. She writes about what she loves and spends hours researching facts so her books feed your head, your heart and your soul. She's concerned about the effects of human carelessness on the world in which we live.Learning is the point but better viewed through the wondering eyes of a character whose experience communicates information and feelings as the world unfolds its secrets. You'll meander through facts, following a path that gently leads to what was previously unknown. Like a flower blooming in unhurried stages, you'll learn about our world in the context of personal experience. Readers will learn and laugh at the same time.

    Read more from Elaine Donadio

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      Book preview

      Who Do Voodoo? - Elaine Donadio

      Chapter 1: A Speeding Hunk of Steel

      I’m a Louisiana boy at heart—living in New York City—on my way with my boy, Nestor, riding the Amtrak Crescent to the Big Easy, moving in place and time to the home of my ancestors, to the core of my family, to the soul of my existence—New Orleans.

      We left New York City from Penn Station at 2:15p.m. on a Saturday but didn’t arrive in New Orleans until the next night. That made 30 hours and 17 minutes on a speeding hunk of steel grabbing the tracks and hugging the curves, loving the power of its syncopated engine. Chhh-chhh-chhh-chhh. Boom-boom. Brushes and skins. Cool.

      Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints? Who dat? Who dat? I sang out.

      Nestor scowled at me. Where did that come from?

      That’s the song the Saints’ fans sing when watching a game.

      I got this blank stare from him, but then again, that happens a lot with Nestor.

      Saints, like in heaven?

      No, Nestor. Saints, like in the name of the Louisiana football team.

      OK, Phil, so how was I supposed to know that?

      You’re right.

      My mom’s aunt and her husband had invited us to visit. My parents had to work, but I was on winter recess and had nothing to do. New York City schools are closed for one week in February around Presidents’ Day. I wasn’t allowed to travel alone, so I invited Nestor. He’s a year younger, and, even on a good day, he’s nobody’s idea of a chaperone. But he’s my best bud and we’re tight.

      Hey, here’s an outlet to charge our phones. I wasn’t even sure if Nestor heard me. He had his mind on other things.

      Nestor was in the middle of texting some friends. Want to know what I’m telling them? Nestor read the messages: Phil is dancing around like a fool singing about saints.

      "Holly texted back: Have fun. Tell Phil to text Jasmine. She misses him.

      "Kwan Min texted: Cool team. We play basketball when Phil comes home.

      I have to hand it to Kwan Min. He was new to the country but he was up on things. Tell them I’ll text them later.

      Do I look like your secretary?

      But I’m not in the mood now.

      You want me to tell them that?

      No.

      If I text them back, that’s exactly what I’ll tell them.

      I’m ignoring you.

      I decided to check out the rest of the compartment. A private restroom. Not very big, but then again, we were on a train. Reclining seats with footrests and reading lights. Overhead storage bins. Like an airplane. But grounded.

      Nestor was busy reading some travel brochures. Phil, it says they have ghost tours in the French Quarter. Can we go?

      I don’t believe in ghosts.

      Well, it says they have a bunch of things going on. Strange sightings. Screams. Moans. Maybe we can see some of that.

      I told you, I don’t believe in that stuff.

      Listen to this. In the LaLaurie Mansion, the ghost of a little girl can be seen jumping from the back balcony. There are more. The ghost of a sultan stalks an apartment building because he was buried alive when his men were hacked to death. Dogs growl at the ghost of the mad butcher. Ghosts of slaves chained to walls cry out in pain. Ghosts of a whole block of people who died in a fire cry out at night.

      They’re just stories.

      How about this one? At the Magnolia Mansion, a girl on the street disappears, then they find small footprints and handprints on the bath mat and tub.

      Stop.

      "They did medical and carnival experiments switching body parts and limbs—without anesthesia. Did you hear that?"

      Nestor, you’re driving me crazy with this.

      OK, just one more thing. People did voodoo curses. There’s even a store called Reverend Zombie’s House of Voodoo. They talk about a vortex spreading to ectoplasm. What d’ya think about that?

      Leave me alone.

      "Why are you so stubborn?"

      "Why are you willing to believe crazy stories?"

      I wish you’d open your mind.

      And I wish you’d close your mouth.

      I did a group text to Jasmine, Holly, and Kwan Min: Good trip so far. Will be in touch. It was the best I could do.

      There’s not a whole lot to do on a train so we mostly ate our way from one car to the other. We went to the lounge car for some pizza, and then had dinner an hour later in the dining car. We went back to the lounge car for some chips and soda, played some board games, and had sandwiches before we went to sleep.

      We pretty much followed the same routine the next day. Ate. Played games. Talked about nothing.

      Our train pulled into the station right on schedule at 7:32p.m. on Sunday night. We

      texted our mothers to let them know we were on schedule.

      It was already dark when we got off the train. I looked around, but no one was there to meet us. Someone from my mom’s family was supposed to pick us up. An hour passed. Still no one. No calls on my phone. No text messages. I called their house, but no one answered. That was strange.

      Little did I know.

      Chapter 2: Mixed Signals

      Someone finally showed up in a banged-up, muddy car. One of you Phil?

      Yeah, and this is my friend Nestor.

      Get in back.

      What should we do with our suitcases?

      Like Ah said, get in back.

      Who are you? Are we related?

      Does it look like we’re related?

      I guess not. What’s your name, anyway?

      Stop with the questions.

      Wow. No personality going on here.

      What about the stuff on the seat? There were empty soda and beer cans. Newspapers. Maps. Paper towels. Empty bags from fast-food restaurants that still smelled of french fries.

      Like Ah said, get in back.

      I just looked at Nestor and shrugged. I went around to the other side of the car. We threw everything on the floor. We got in holding our suitcases on our laps. My knees were scrunched up against the front seat. Nestor had more legroom, so I sat a little sideways. At least the car windows were open, which helped with the smell of stale food.

      Nestor whispered, Where’s the Southern charm you told me about?

      I had no answer.

      About twenty minutes later, we pulled up to a stately mansion. Like something in the movies. The name St. Pierre was written on the mailbox in fancy gold lettering. Long walk from the mailbox to the house. They probably took their car to get their mail. Chains of Spanish moss dangled from live oak trees. Even at night, the scent of the flower garden filled the air.

      This is beautiful. Nestor was impressed.

      Wait until you see inside. It had been many years since I had last been there, but my memory as a very young child had stayed strong as I remembered the love from my mom’s family. I knew all about the New Orleans celebrations, parades, music, and the food.

      Get out, the driver told us.

      We struggled with the suitcases. I swung my legs around, got out and walked around the back of the car. From the corner of my eye, something half caught my attention. I looked away but quickly looked back.

      Why is there a Texas license plate on the car?

      Chapter 3: No Southern Hospitality Here

      The inside of the house was just as beautiful. A huge circular staircase led to a balcony that overlooked the entrance. Black-and-white marble floors. A crystal chandelier that sparkled like diamonds in a jewelry store window. Even though the house was a couple of hundred years old, everything inside was shiny and new, but in the style of the old days.

      Follow me. Your rooms are upstairs.

      Wait a second. I want to say hello to my great-aunt and -uncle. Where are they?

      I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was surprised. I had expected a big fuss to be made over our arrival. I had even pictured steaming bowls of chicken gumbo with platters of shrimp po’ boys and jambalaya waiting for us.

      They’re sleeping. Y’all see them in the morning.

      Already? It’s barely nine o’clock.

      Ah said they’re sleeping.

      Nestor asked. Can we get something to eat before we go upstairs?

      Breakfast is at six thirty. Y’all can eat then.

      Six thirty? In the morning?

      Yes, in the morning.

      Well, could I maybe have some water? And maybe some cereal? Or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Nestor wasn’t giving up.

      No. You can’t. Breakfast is at six thirty. Tomorrow. Period.

      Nestor gave me a questioning look. I just shrugged my shoulders. Again.

      We followed that guy up the stairs. Our rooms were next to each other.

      No staying up talking. Everybody’s sleeping.

      Where’s my great-aunt’s room? I asked.

      Why do you want to know?

      I’m just asking.

      Never mind about that.

      Nestor asked, Can you at least tell us where the bathroom is?

      Hmm, good question. I mean, find it yourself.

      "Where’s your room?" I asked.

      "You know, Ah’m

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