Page 2 of Voodoo Burning

One

He Cometh

Fire. A beautiful, savage bitch.

Brutal, powerful, unforgiving. It can obliterate everything in its path. It has no conscience and no emotion. It gives you what you need and takes what it wants. It’s a seductress who lures you with her beauty and lulls you into complacency. If you don’t give her the respect she deserves, she’ll destroy you in the blink of an eye.

This is the third incident in six months. Each one as horrific as the first.

Louisiana is steeped in centuries of practices and rituals of monsters under the bed and demon filled nightmares. Things that could steal your soul.

This was a sacrifice.

Civilized society, whatever the fuck that is, wouldn’t believe it and would twist the evidence so that it would fit into a nice and neat little package, something this century could comprehend with all its scientific theories and logical explanations. It would all be bullshit.

Whatever is going on reeks of voodoo and black magic. At least that’s what it looks like on the surface. It’s the sickest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of sick shit.

New Orleans is still rebuilding years after a hurricane practically wiped it off the face of the Earth. Like it was God’s retribution for centuries of sin. Like Sodom and Gomorrah. Apparently, the city’s a tough son-of-a-bitch because it’s coming back with a vengeance.

Whoever is responsible for the fires and the “not” sacrifices is taking advantage of the areas that are still ghost towns. And would you look at that, no one ever sees anything.

All three of the fires claimed a victim, all women. That in itself is horrible. The way they died is evil beyond comprehension.

The first one happened in a building that formerly housed a clinic. In a previous life, it had been the community’s free OBGYN facility, the area was predominantly lower-class government-assisted. Considering most all the structures in the vicinity are not rebuildable, the clinic most likely holds the last spot that could be reopened. But that’s not the point.

When we finally got the fire out and were able to enter the premises, I swear to God every one of us wanted to be sick.

We found the victim in one of the examination rooms. She was chained to the wall in the center of a symbol. Apparently, she’d been given a hysterectomy. Right fucking there. The markings on the wall that surrounded her had burned perfectly following each line. With her in the center of it.

Jesus Christ!

Victim number two was found in an abandoned house that had also been destroyed in the hurricane, it’s surprising the walls were still standing with the massive amounts of flooding that had passed through the area. She was in the kitchen with some gibberish scrawled all over the walls. Her body was tied to the table spread eagle and the sick fucks had cut her tongue out. However, just like the first victim, that’s not what killed her. The coroner found she was most likely alive when the place went up in flames.

Who the fuck does shit like this?!

This one, victim number three, I can’t even! Her eyes had been gouged out. They were found shoved down her throat.

What was happening here was serial killing, the likes of which I’ve never heard of. If you ask for my opinion, the murders are just a means for a purpose. A sick, twisted, vile purpose. And I can only hope I never see anything like it again.

Maybe I’m wrong, but the worst thing out of all this is the victims have yet to be identified. They’re all Jane Does and unless something comes up in the databases, these poor women are going to either be cremated, or they’ll be buried in unmarked mass graves. Forgotten and tossed aside like yesterday’s trash in the local dump.

I don’t think I’ve slept since these horrors began. I know I’ve passed out from sheer exhaustion because I’ve woken up in a pool of saliva, hunched over the table, but most likely none of us in the firehouse has had a decent night’s sleep ever since we found the first victim.

Thing is, if your roots are dug deep into the dirt of the bayous where secrets are buried and where New Orleans was born, this sort of thing, as horrendous as it is, is not surprising. The voodoo priestesses still live in shacks along the swamps and the folks still go to them for spells and amulets and potions. That’s why the city is overcome with tourists wanting to get a taste of Cajun magic while they get shitfaced and the women flash their tits. Nothing has changed, it’s just hidden behind manufactured tarot cards and Ouija boards.

Heading home after my three-day shift, I decide to stop by the local diner, not so much to eat, I’m just not in a real big hurry to get closed in by my four walls.

The city is already filling up with the people who’ll be puking all over the streets and passing out in the alleyways. Mardi Gras is in another two weeks and I hate it. They could give two shits they’re blocking traffic, so I have to maneuver around the crowds, when I’d much rather plow right through them.

I pull my motorcycle onto the curb in front of Hattie’s, a restaurant that’s been in this location since 1905, and walk inside. Yeah, it’s illegal. For everyone else. There’s something to be said for being from one of the original plantation families. It’s gotten me a lot of free passes, and a lot of ass kicking, depending on the crowd. Hattie Paris’ family is also one of the old Louisiana folk. Rumor has it the blood that flows through Hattie’s veins came directly from Marie Laveau, still considered today to be the greatest Voodoo Queen New Orleans has ever seen.

“Ignatius Beauchamp,” Hattie singsongs in her French Creole drawl when I enter. That sound is one of the most beautiful in the world. “I knew that was you causing trouble again with that thing parked right in front of my place.”

“Miss Hattie, I had to come see you.” It’s always good seeing Miss Hattie, even more so after the horrors of the past few days.

“Sit yourself down right there and let me fetch you something to eat.” Bossy. Always has been, and Hattie would woop your ass in a hot second if you pissed her off.

“Yes, ma’am.” I slide onto a stool at the counter.

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