Voices

VOICES

Deborah LeBlanc

Copyright 2018 Deborah LeBlanc All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-937209-00-1

LeBlanc Laboratories LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, store in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This book is dedicated to all of the children who rode the Orphan Trains.

May you now know peace.

PROLOGUE

Number Fifty-Seven’s bare feet slapped against cold dirt as she ran down a long, dark tunnel that wormed its way under the Indianapolis Orphans’ Asylum. The tunnel ended at a laundry shed on the south end of the property. A few of the older children had been forced to take this path daily to do laundry chores. Better to send them through the tunnel than allow them outside. One of them might run away. Fifty-Seven didn’t blame anyone for wanting to get away from this place. There was always too little food to eat, and most of the grownups seemed angry all the time.

She wasn’t down here to do laundry, though. Earlier that morning, Fifty-Seven had overheard a group of girls whispering about a clearing soon to take place. According to them, the clearing would include some new nurslings and numbers forty-four through sixty-one. She was only seven-years-old, but Fifty-Seven was smart enough to figure out that she fell somewhere in the middle of those two big numbers. And that gave her enough warning to run.

A clearing meant children disappeared from the asylum and not because they were adopted. The simply disappeared. Although she’d been here less than a year, it hadn’t been hard for her to catch onto the pattern. A clearing usually involved the babies, especially when too many of them came in at one time on the trains. Next on the clearing list were the kids who’d been turned down for adoption at least twice and any kid who had something wrong with them, like a deformed arm or leg or bad eyes. They were gone before they had a chance to get used to their number. Fifty-Seven was sure her arms, legs, and eyes were good enough, but her lisp had gotten worse since she’d arrived. And that always made the grownups frown.

Up until a few days ago, she’d thought herself lucky, until a fat man and his even fatter wife had handed down her third adoption rejection. They’d wanted a girl to help the missus with house chores, do egg gathering, and care for their own three babies. But the missus had shaken her head the moment she laid eyes on Fifty-Seven, claiming she was too scrawny and frail to survive on a farm. Fifty-Seven knew if she had survived this place this long, she could survive anywhere. But in the orphanage, she had no voice.

The tunnel seemed to go on forever. Her arms ached from her constantly having to hold them out at her sides. She was afraid if she dropped them, she’d run into one of the big pipes that ran the length of the tunnel or one of the concrete walls, which she’d already done, twice.

It smelled bad down here. Like sour milk and the times she used to wet her bed back home—when she had a home. And a mother.

Fifty-Seven longed for her mama. The last time she’d seen her had been at the train depot, when they took Fifty-Seven away. From the dusty, cold windows of that train, she’d watched her little brother, Adam, being tossed into a hay wagon along with ten other little boys. She’d watched his mouth open in a scream, his scrawny, twig-like arms stretching over the wagon’s side, begging to be set free. Their mother had dropped to her knees on the ground, crying and buried her face in her hands.

Fifty-Seven had cried, too. She didn’t understand why men had taken her brother or why she’d been put on the train, along with so many other children. Didn’t their mothers want them anymore? Why would they let strangers grab their children and send them away? And so rough, like they were stray dogs that needed to be penned up before they bit somebody.

The train ride lasted for days, and when it finally stopped, all of the children who rode in her train car were offloaded. Strange women waiting at the depot gathered the children into one group, then placed around each child’s neck a necklace made of rope with a card attached to it. Each card had a number scribbled on it. When they placed a necklace around her neck, the rope made her skin itch. Her card read 57. And from that moment on, that’s what everyone called her. Fifty-Seven. She’d gotten so used to the number that it didn’t take long for her mind to lose her real name. It just slipped out of it. Kind of like when her mama used to read them bedtime stories. She remembered the stories easily enough, but most of the time she’d forget the names of the characters. Now she was her own story and, aside from the number Fifty-Seven, she’d forgotten her main character’s name.

As Fifty-Seven’s fingers bounced against cool concrete, she paused. She’d been thinking so hard about the past that she’d forgotten to pay attention to right now. She stopped abruptly, trying to get her bearings.

In that moment, she heard it. The sound of breathing. Grownup breathing—hard and heavy. At first it sounded like it came from behind her, but when she turned around and stretched her arms out, strained her eyes in the darkness, the sound changed direction.

Now it came from overhead.

But that couldn’t be. How could anybody be on the ceiling? She glanced up—not realizing that up would be just as dark as down until she’d already looked.

Not realizing the breathing sounds were right on top of her head before it was too late.

A hand suddenly clamped over Fifty-Seven’s face, trapping her scream. The palm was so large it covered her mouth, her nose, her eyes. Another hand, just as large as the first, caught the back of her head. Then the hands began to press together, like they meant to flatten her skull.

She felt her feet leave the ground as she was lifted higher—higher. She tried to scream and kick, but the hands only squeezed tighter, pulling her up, up.

Fifty-Seven couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. And soon all she heard was an odd buzzing in her ears, then a final, sharp . . . snap!

CHAPTER ONE

Tess Bienville swerved then cursed when her eight-year-old, valve-clattering Altima hit another pothole. She was trying to keep up with the white utility van in front of her. Tess grabbed the walkie-talkie from the car’s console and depressed the talk button. Shit, you guys, wanna slow it down up there? This car’s going to blow a tire if I hit another pothole. Hell, that last one nearly swallowed us whole.

She released the button, heard a few seconds of silence, then Paul St. Germain’s voice. Sorry, honey bun. Joe says he’ll slow down. We’re almost there anyway.

Copy, Tess said, and tossed the walkie back onto the console.

Thank heavens, said Kiley Dulac, who was riding shotgun. It’s so dark out here. No house lights, no streetlights. Spooky.

Don’t like all dis dark, Tanzia Cross said from the backseat. All dem woods on either side of us neither.

Tess nodded in agreement and kept an eye on the utility van and the two-lane road ahead. The road was so narrow that anytime another car headed toward them, the van and her Altima had to pull over as far as they dared to give the other car room to pass. The shoulder of the road consisted of an eight-inch swatch of grass that bordered a drainage ditch.

As treacherous and gloomy as this road trip had turned out to be, for all intents and purposes, Tess was the reason they were here. She’d agreed to take the case.

Four years ago, Tess had decided to become a certified paranormal investigator. She attended the American Parapsychology Association to obtain the certification. It was during her training at APA that she’d met Tanzia Cross, her partner in crime in the backseat, and Joseph Harris, who drove the utility van ahead. Back then, all three had discovered they lived in or around New Orleans and had become fast friends.

Tanzia was a beautiful black woman who stood five-foot-six, weighed about 120 pounds and had long dreadlocks that framed a narrow, flawless face the color of caramel. She was thirty, like Tess.

Tanzia had lived in the U.S. for ten years. She’d been born and raised in Jamaica. When Tanzia’s husband died suddenly in a plane crash, she moved to Metairie, LA., along with her son, Jamal, and her mother and father, to restart her life. Now she lived with her parents, attended UNO. with classes focused on dentistry and also worked part-time as a waitress to help pay bills.

Joe, on the other hand, had been born and raised in Kenner, about fifteen minutes away from Tanzia and thirty from Tess. He was in his late thirties and stood six-two or better. He was slender with wide shoulders and had salt-and-pepper hair. His eyes were the color of highly-polished emeralds. He had an aquiline nose, full lips and carried a perpetual five-o’clock shadow.

It was during their training at APA that Tess, Tanzia and Joe had decided to form their own paranormal investigation group back home. They named it the Society of Paranormal Investigators, SPI for short. All three of them had their own reasons for seeking information about the afterlife, but their collective question was the same. Did an afterlife exist?

Tanzia and Joe proved to be great assets to SPI. Not only was Tanzia smart, she had a gift for sensing things other people couldn’t see or hear. She refused to be called a sensitive, however. Said it made her sound like a know-it-all smarty pants. Sensitive or not, with Tanzia, you got what you saw. She was as real and down-to-earth as anyone Tess had ever known. If they went on an investigation and something out of the ordinary popped up, Tanzia had proved more than once that she could be scared shitless, just like the rest of them.

Joe was more the serious, analytical type. He owned his own computer programming company, which he operated out of his house. All things techie were right up Joe’s alley.

Kiley Dulac, Tess’s current shotgun buddy, had joined the group by Tanzia’s invitation. She also attended U.N.O. as a history major and had met Tanzia during an afterhours lecture on near-death experiences. Tess had to admit she was a bit hesitant when Tanzia first introduced her to Kiley. The woman was in her mid-twenties, had pink hair cut into a pixie with bangs and wore red-rimmed glasses that were too big for her face. She wore a nose ring, had a lip piercing and a cluster of studs covered the outer rims of both ears. Trusting Tanzia’s judgment, Joe and Tess had agreed to let Kiley join the group on a trial basis. It didn’t take long before they put her in charge of gathering background data on the locations they investigated. Kiley proved to be as thorough in fact-finding as any private investigator.

The walkie squawked, then Joe’s voice filled the car. Kiley, you copy?

Kiley picked up the walkie and keyed it. Right here, Joe.

Give us a quick rundown again on the location we’re headed to and the woman we’re about to meet. Her background.

Just a sec, Kiley said, then put the walkie aside and grabbed a penlight and a folder from a satchel near her feet. She turned the light on, opened the folder, then picked up the walkie again. Name’s Melissa Keen. Twenty-six. Has an eight-year-old daughter named Bridget. Usual issues. Noises in the attic. Shadows out of the corner of her eye. Claims she sees a mist hovering over her bed at night, and that her daughter won’t sleep in her room alone anymore.

Husband? Joe asked.

None. Melissa claims he bounced the moment he found out she was pregnant. Doesn’t even know where he is now. Her father bought the house for her two years ago. Paid seventy-five bucks for it.

Seventy-five dollars for a house? Tanzia said. Oh, something not be right with dat. No way, no how.

Copy, Joe said to Kiley, and in the background, Tess heard both Paul and Hoss exclaim, Seventy-five dollars! Out, Joe said, and the radio went silent.

The house must be a small shack for someone to have paid only seventy-five dollars for it, Tess said.

Not really, Kiley said. I mean it’s not in the best shape, but it’s almost three thousand square feet under roof. A sagging roof, but still. I know because she sent me a picture of it in an email.

Holy Jesus, something be wrong with dat, Tanzia said. A house dat big? Seventy-five dollars? No, no. Somebody sold off some bad juju, dat’s what dey did.

Tess saw the utility van bounce on the road and knew they were about to hit another pothole. Hang on, she said to Tanzia and Kiley, but managed to swerve far enough to the left to avoid the hole.

Paul and Hoss are probably cussing to beat sixty right about now, Kiley said. All those potholes jostling our equipment. You know how they are about that.

Paul St. Germain and Hoss Mendoza were recruits Joe had brought on board nearly two years ago. Paul was a twenty-nine-year-old, slender blond and an electrical engineer. He owned an electronics business with his life-partner, Steve Dupuis. Hoss, on the other hand, was a short, muscularly built Latino in his late thirties. He was an ex-seminarian and worked at a Harley dealership. There wasn’t a piece of machinery Hoss couldn’t fix.

Why a man got to do a woman like dat, huh? Tanzia asked.

What man, Taz? Tess asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

De woman we gonna see. Kiley said her man left her when he found out she was pregnant. Just left her all swole up with a baby.

Tess shrugged. She had plenty to say about men and kids, but now was definitely not the time to share her thoughts. You picking up anything yet, Taz?

She heard Tanzia clear her throat. Tess glanced back at her once more and saw that she’d closed her eyes.

What you chewin’ on, girl? Kiley asked Tanzia.

I sees a closet and a pickney’s rubber ball.

What’s a pickney? Kiley asked.

A child, Tess said. She glanced back at Tanzia again. That it?

No, Tanzia said, and pulled herself to the edge of the seat so her face was between Kiley’s and Tess’. I gots a feelin’ dat we should stay away from dere.

Tess clicked her tongue between her teeth. Kind of late for that now. Looks like we’re here, she said, following the van as it turned right onto a long driveway. She pulled up behind the van, put the car in park, and killed the engine.

The three of them sat silently for a moment, staring at the house illuminated in the van’s headlights. It looked like a double-wide mobile home, only instead of the two halves fitting back to back, they sat end to end, like a train. A long porch fronted the house, and the roofline that covered it bowed in the middle. Kiley had been right about the sagging roof. The house, painted a dull burgundy, had multiple windows across the front, each covered over with tinfoil from the inside.

Tess turned to Kiley and Tanzia. Their expressions were a collection of disbelief and uncertainty. She could almost feel them vibrating with nervous energy.

Remember, we have Hoss if things go wonky in there, Tess said, hoping to calm her teammates.

Kiley lifted a brow. What’s Hoss got to do with anything? If something gets weird in there, I say we get the hell out.

You forget? Hoss is an ex-seminarian.

Ex—ex-seminarian. Now he works on Harleys.

But he’s closer to de Big Man than most of us be, Tanzia said. You gots to give him dat.

Kiley pursed her lips and shrugged. I . . . guess.

Tanzia, you just go in there and do your thing, Tess said. If you get too uncomfortable, you can always come out here and sit in the car while we finish the investigation.

I’m not comin’ out here to sit in dis car like a wuss, Tanzia declared. If you stay, sistah, I stay.

Just saying, Tess said. She opened her car door and heard Taz and Kiley do the same.

Oh, hol’ up, Tanzia said, her door wide open, one foot held in mid air so as not to touch the ground. Dis ‘ere place be ranky wit’ de obeah.

Kiley walked around the car toward Tess. I know she’s speaking patois, Kiley whispered, but I have no idea what she just said. Judging by the look on her face, I don’t think it’s good.

Tess knew that when Tanzia grew anxious, she had a tendency to revert to her native tongue. In patois or English, though, Taz’s message did not warm the heart.

What did she say? Kiley asked.

Tess sighed. She said this place stinks of evil spirits.

CHAPTER TWO

A light suddenly flickered on, and a young woman opened the front door of the train house and stepped out onto the porch. She looked no older than twenty-five, was average in height and a little on the skinny side. She had long strawberry blond hair that she had pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore faded jeans and a T-shirt that had Willie Nelson’s face on it. A cigarette dangled from her right hand, which she held up against her eyes to block the glare of the van’s headlights.

Melissa? Kiley asked, heading toward the house.

That’s me, the woman said.

I’m Kiley Dulac, the one who emailed you after we got your post on our website.

The woman folded her arms across her chest and offered a small smile. Hey, Kiley, nice to meet you. This your crew?

Kiley walked up to the porch but didn’t climb the steps since they hadn’t been invited in yet. Not my crew. This is the SPI team. She pointed to each person as they trekked from van and car to the porch. This is Tess and Tanzia, and that’s Joe, Paul and Hoss. Joe and Tess sort of run the group. I work on the website, check out the cases that come to the group, and do research.

Melissa gave them a curt nod.

Everyone greeted Melissa with a kindly, hello and nice to meet you, then stood awkwardly along the porch, waiting on the woman’s next move. She took two long pulls on her cigarette, then flicked the butt out into the yard.

Do you mind if we ask you a few questions so we’ll know the best place to set up our equipment? Tess asked.

Melissa shrugged. Go ahead.

Tess held back a sigh. Do you mind if we go inside to talk? That way you can show us around.

Shaking her head, Melissa lit up another cigarette, took a long drag. I’d rather do our talking out here. I don’t want to talk about everything going on inside. It might piss something off and make things worse.

What’s been going on? Tess asked.

With a deadpan expression, Melissa lifted the front of her shirt and revealed her stomach. Three angry scratches trailed across her flesh. She pulled her shirt down. I woke up with those this morning. She tossed her cigarette out into the yard.

Do you have any animals in the house? A cat? Dog? Joe asked.

No.

Is that the first time you’ve been scratched? Tess asked.

Melissa shook her head. Been scratched on my arms, my legs. More bruises than scratches though. And it always seems to happen during the night, while I’m asleep.

What about Bridget? Kiley asked. Any scratches or bruises on her?

Bruises mostly. On her arms and legs. Got so bad at one point the school sent child protective services to the house to check me out. Her facial expression went hard, and she lit another cigarette. Her hands shook as she put the Bic’s flame to the tip of the Marlboro. I couldn’t tell them what really happened because they’d have locked me away in a loony bin. So I lied. Said she’d been playing up in the attic and fell coming down the stairs.

Did they buy the story? Kiley asked.

More than they did Bridget’s. She told them the truth. Told them a ghost was pinching and pulling on her whenever she went to sleep at night. Social services told me it might be best to get her tested by a psychiatrist. Dumb asses.

Did they drop the case? Tess asked, her heart going out to the woman. She could more than imagine what she’d do if something she couldn’t see was attacking her child.

They finally closed the case after two more visits. Melissa sucked deeply on her cigarette. I hate those bastards, thinking I’d hurt Bridget that way.

Wanting to sidestep the child protective services comment, Tess asked, Anything else going on in the house?

Melissa gave her a nervous look, tapped ashes onto the porch. I see dark shadows out of the corner of my eye. Banging on the walls in the kitchen. Hear voices from time to time when I’m in my bedroom. Sounds like two grownups talking, and the only one in the house is me. Happened twice when Bridget was at school. She closed her eyes for a second then let out a huge sigh. And I always feel like I’m being watched. No matter where I’m at in the house, I feel like someone is lurking in a corner, waiting to jump out at me.

Everyone stood silent for a moment, waiting for Melissa to continue. She looked deep in thought, her eyebrows knitted together. She continued to puff on her cigarette. Crickets and locusts filled the silence, along with the whine of mosquitoes.

Finally, Hoss asked, Anything else?

Melissa frowned at him. Aside from thinking that I’m losing my mind, that’s it. Don’t you think that’s enough?

Tess took a step closer to the porch and stared into the young woman’s dark brown eyes. If there’s anything in your house, hopefully we’ll get evidence of it with our equipment. At least you’ll have proof that you’re not going nuts.

Melissa gave her a curt nod. "And can y’all get rid