465

In the winter of 1955, I was a young girl from Queens who yearned to become a famous writer. My childhood had been unremarkable. I had loving parents, a few honest friends, and a modest, pleasant apartment overlooking a busy street. I went to a good school and passed the time writing poems and stories filled with different characters who had more interesting lives. Thinking back, I should have relished in the repetition and routines—the stability of my life. Though dull and gray, that life was reliable—and before I could appreciate it, it was gone.

My parents were much more adventurous than I was. They thrived outdoors, breathing in cool mountain air as if they had been deprived of it their whole lives. It was the fabric of their relationship. In the moments they were together they seemed so carefree like they only needed each other. The feeling of being completely whole and safe with another human is something I will always envy.  Tragedy struck unexpectedly. On January 5th, my parents were on their way back from their favorite ski excursion when their car broke down. They froze to death before a snowplow driver came across their vehicle the next day. It was so sudden that I didn’t believe it when the police officer came to me.

I remember sitting alone in the empty apartment, the silence pressing in like thick, suffocating fog. Every creak of the room seemed to highlight the absence of their laughter. I could almost feel the cold that had claimed them, as if the blizzard conditions had followed me inside. For the first time, I sensed how fragile life could be, and an uncertainty settled deep in my chest.

 I hadn’t sold any books yet. I sold the family apartment to pay for the funeral and the rent for an even smaller shared space. By the following summer, I had run out of money and was looking through the ads for work opportunities that would allow me to keep writing. This is when I saw it:

Elderly author seeking help with typing and companionship.

Plantation of Deux Façons Thibodaux, Louisiana

Lodging and food provided

It sounded perfect—a new start in a new place and plenty of time to work on my writing. I successfully applied for the position and found myself on a train to New Orleans the following week. My employer sent a car to pick me up at the train station to drive me 50 miles southwest to Thibodaux. I will never forget the sights, sounds, and smells of New Orleans. Everything felt old and a little heavier than Queens. The aroma of Cajun cooking mixed with the laughter of people and the faint sounds of jazz music. It was hot and muggy in the large black Bentley, but I didn’t mind. I was hopeful and anxious at the same time and I couldn’t wait to meet my employer. Clearly, he or she had been vastly more successful as a writer than I had been so far.

Soon, the streets of New Orleans gave way to endless fields of sugar cane, the tall stalks swaying like silent figures in the heavy, humid air. The car stopped before two massive iron gates, black and rusted, their hinges groaning with age and disuse. A sudden chill prickled my skin despite the summer heat. Without the constant hum of Queens behind me, I became acutely aware of the shadows pressing in from all sides. Beyond the gates, the dirt road stretched beneath ancient live oaks, their twisted branches entwining overhead to form a tunnel. Faint tracks marked where the car had driven earlier, thin lines etched into the dusty road. Spanish moss draped from the limbs like tattered curtains. At last, the alley opened to the enormity of Deux Façons. Its white columns had dulled with time, and if I squinted, I could almost imagine the grandeur it must have held decades ago. Now, its windows were dark, staring down at me like hollow eyes.

It was dark now, with a full moon slowly rising behind the large two-story building and its columned porticos. Only one room on the lower level was illuminated. I slowly climbed up the curved front staircase following close behind the driver and my single suitcase. He opened the front door and pointed me to a door on the left. I knocked. A frail woman’s voice asked me to enter. I stepped into a richly decorated dining room. Expensive fine art hung on the walls, and the furniture looked antique 18^th century French. At the head of the table sat an old woman, her steely blue eyes fixed on me. “Welcome to Deux Façons, my dear. I am so glad you are here.” I recognized her immediately. Blanche Sterling was one of the most famous suspense and horror writers of the last few decades. She was an expert in the history of voodoo and the occult of the deep south and had used it often in her novels.

“Thank you,” I replied. “It is so nice to meet you. I have read all your works and the way you mold each character is just amazing and how do you come up with the endings?”

Blanche Sterling smiled. “I already know about your poor parents,” she said softly, “Is there anyone else you’d like to notify of your arrival?”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” I responded. “I don’t have anyone waiting for a call.” The truth was that I had become a recluse after my parents died, and this was a new start. No more attachments to my tragic past.

“Well, I think we will become fast friends,” Blanche said with a smile. “Please sit and eat, and tomorrow we will begin. I trust that you will find your room to be comfortable and a wonderful place to continue your own work as well. Aside from me you will meet Mrs. Adams, the cook and housekeeper, and you have already met Weston, my driver. I don’t like a lot of prying eyes, so I keep my circle very small and exclusive. You will find though, that those who earn my trust will be rewarded.”

My room was indeed comfortable and furnished extravagantly. The large four poster bed was draped in heavy, red, velvet fabric, and two large windows looked out onto the parklike garden. Blanche Sterling had achieved everything I ever wanted. I fell asleep thinking about my future and hoping that it would be like this.

The next morning I descended the staircase, I had such a feeling of excitement about starting this new chapter that I forgot to ground myself and really look around. Blanche and I immediately started to work on editing her new novel. I was the happiest I had been since my life took a nose dive and as I hung on every word of her research it gave me a sense of calm. It was fascinating, about how, through voodoo practices, souls could travel from one body to another and manipulate their host. In the afternoons we would have tea and Blanche would ask me about my life. While she was an exceptional writer she also listened with her full attention, her prescence was steady and I felt like I could truly open up. She was always particularly concerned with my comfort and health, offering any assistance. Blanche had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of nearly any topic you could think of and could describe historical events so vividly that you felt that you were there. No wonder she had such success as a writer.

One morning, I came downstairs and couldn’t find Blanche. I looked around the house and came upon a locked door.

“That room is off limits,” came a voice from the hallway. Startled, I turned around and found Mrs. Adams standing there. “Ms. Sterling is out for an important errand but will return shortly. She asked me to instruct you to start work in the library.” This was odd, and I vowed to find out what was in this room the first chance I got.

A couple of days later, I had come downstairs for a glass of water when I saw the door of the secret room ajar. I looked around, the hallways were empty. My heart pounded as I approached the door, the air growing colder with each step. Everything around me from the dust covered dressers to lines of photographs seemed to scream to turn around, but a strange compulsion urged me forward, whispering that the answers I sought lay just beyond.

The room resembled an old chapel, but every trace of Christianity had been stripped away, replaced by relics of voodoo and the occult. In the far corner was something that I can only describe as an altar. On it sat a basin that contained several pieces of charred parchment. I picked up one of them. It read: Help me bring the new vessel for my soul, so that I might live on for eternity.

My fingers trembled as I put it back.

“Welcome,” came a voice from the door. It was Blanche flanked by Mrs. Adams and Weston. “I am afraid it is time my dear. I will need your young body for my soul as this body is dying. I promised to treat you well, so a small part of you will survive and be able to bear witness. Just

like the others that I had to use. You always wanted to be a famous writer.” I was dragged towards the altar and then everything went black.

I am Blanche Sterling. I am 465 years old, and I have just placed another “help wanted”

ad into the paper.

He who searches out good finds favor, but evil will come to him who seeks it. -Proverbs 11:27

BIO

Faye Klutke is a 16-year-old writer from western North Carolina with a passion for mystery and storytelling. She loves exploring new places, reading, spending time with friends and crafting her own tales. When she’s not writing, Faye enjoys traveling the world and playing tennis.