Isabella had retired early, dealing
with their own private portions of the Deveroux curse. Quentin
could feel worms, beetles, and only God knew what else scampering
through his intestines. They moved, en masse, through the moist,
warm darkness of his bowels, searching for a single ray of light
that might provide direction to the outside world. But there was no
moon that night. It was pitch black and his internal tormentors had
no such luck.
It was nearing the hour of midnight, when he
heard sounds echoing from the west wing of the mansion... where his
mother's bedroom was located. They were not the fitful thrashings
of a nightmare or the tearful grief a widow might express at the
loss of her husband. No, these were low moans and purring sighs;
the kind that suggested a passionate coupling. At first he thought
that Rosealynda was pleasuring herself. She indulged in the act and
with great abandon, when she drank heavily. But, no, Quentin could
also discern the creaking of the bed frame, as if tested by some
vast weight. He turned over on his pillow, intending to drive the
shameful sounds from his ears, when they turned from pleasure to
pain. His mother began to scream, crying for mercy, pleading for
her attacker to stop. But the creaking of the bed continued. The
ornately-carved headboard struck the wall behind it, again and
again, rending delicate French wallpaper and battering plaster into
dust.
Trevor and Isabella joined him in the
hallway. By candlelight, they ran down the upstairs corridor,
toward the western wing. A scream of immeasurable torment rang
throughout the house, but grew silent as they reached the door of
Rosealynda's bedroom. They found the door locked and barred from
the inside. It took them several minutes to find something heavy
and sturdy enough to batter the oaken door from its frame, but
eventually they succeeded.
When they entered the room, candles held
before them, they made a discovery that would haunt them the rest
of their lives. Their beloved mother lay limply across the
blood-soaked bed. She was naked; her once-beautiful face now a
rictus of horror and agony. Her pale abdomen had burst from crotch
to breastbone, as though she had been split open from the inside
out.
They had rushed to the open window to see a
huge form, dark and glistening with sweat, running across the lawn,
toward the black expanse of the swamp. The three thought that the
lack of nocturnal light was playing tricks on their eyes. The
escaping attacker seemed to possess nothing above his broad,
muscular shoulders.
Since that night, Quentin and his siblings
had not had an easy moment and their individual shares of the
Deveroux Curse seemed to grow stronger and more relentless. Now,
heading into the swamp on a mission, Quentin hoped to end their
distress once and for all.
The pathway gradually widened into a clearing
and, suddenly, he found himself before the tin and tarpaper shack
of Mojo Mama. The sagging porch of the structure bore fronds of
dried herbs and swamp plants; obviously the ingredients to the
various potions and poultices that she concocted. The tanned hides
of rabbits, possums, and raccoons hung, stretched, across the outer
walls of the old shack, along with the skins of critters that he
could notidentify.
He reined his horse to a halt and swung down
from the saddle. "Come out here, old woman!" he demanded. "I am
here to have words with you!"
For a moment, he thought that she was not
there. Then the door of weathered planks swung back on leather
hinges and she appeared.
"I believe I smell the stench of Deveroux in
the air."
Mojo Mama was far from the imposing figure he
expected to find. She was small and frail, no more than five feet
tall, dressed in ragged clothing and a dark blue bandana around the
crown of her head. She was old -- at least in her eighties -- and as
wrinkled and lined as the bark of an ancient tree. Only her eyes
looked bright and youthful, twinkling with both malice and
amusement as she
with their own private portions of the Deveroux curse. Quentin
could feel worms, beetles, and only God knew what else scampering
through his intestines. They moved, en masse, through the moist,
warm darkness of his bowels, searching for a single ray of light
that might provide direction to the outside world. But there was no
moon that night. It was pitch black and his internal tormentors had
no such luck.
It was nearing the hour of midnight, when he
heard sounds echoing from the west wing of the mansion... where his
mother's bedroom was located. They were not the fitful thrashings
of a nightmare or the tearful grief a widow might express at the
loss of her husband. No, these were low moans and purring sighs;
the kind that suggested a passionate coupling. At first he thought
that Rosealynda was pleasuring herself. She indulged in the act and
with great abandon, when she drank heavily. But, no, Quentin could
also discern the creaking of the bed frame, as if tested by some
vast weight. He turned over on his pillow, intending to drive the
shameful sounds from his ears, when they turned from pleasure to
pain. His mother began to scream, crying for mercy, pleading for
her attacker to stop. But the creaking of the bed continued. The
ornately-carved headboard struck the wall behind it, again and
again, rending delicate French wallpaper and battering plaster into
dust.
Trevor and Isabella joined him in the
hallway. By candlelight, they ran down the upstairs corridor,
toward the western wing. A scream of immeasurable torment rang
throughout the house, but grew silent as they reached the door of
Rosealynda's bedroom. They found the door locked and barred from
the inside. It took them several minutes to find something heavy
and sturdy enough to batter the oaken door from its frame, but
eventually they succeeded.
When they entered the room, candles held
before them, they made a discovery that would haunt them the rest
of their lives. Their beloved mother lay limply across the
blood-soaked bed. She was naked; her once-beautiful face now a
rictus of horror and agony. Her pale abdomen had burst from crotch
to breastbone, as though she had been split open from the inside
out.
They had rushed to the open window to see a
huge form, dark and glistening with sweat, running across the lawn,
toward the black expanse of the swamp. The three thought that the
lack of nocturnal light was playing tricks on their eyes. The
escaping attacker seemed to possess nothing above his broad,
muscular shoulders.
Since that night, Quentin and his siblings
had not had an easy moment and their individual shares of the
Deveroux Curse seemed to grow stronger and more relentless. Now,
heading into the swamp on a mission, Quentin hoped to end their
distress once and for all.
The pathway gradually widened into a clearing
and, suddenly, he found himself before the tin and tarpaper shack
of Mojo Mama. The sagging porch of the structure bore fronds of
dried herbs and swamp plants; obviously the ingredients to the
various potions and poultices that she concocted. The tanned hides
of rabbits, possums, and raccoons hung, stretched, across the outer
walls of the old shack, along with the skins of critters that he
could notidentify.
He reined his horse to a halt and swung down
from the saddle. "Come out here, old woman!" he demanded. "I am
here to have words with you!"
For a moment, he thought that she was not
there. Then the door of weathered planks swung back on leather
hinges and she appeared.
"I believe I smell the stench of Deveroux in
the air."
Mojo Mama was far from the imposing figure he
expected to find. She was small and frail, no more than five feet
tall, dressed in ragged clothing and a dark blue bandana around the
crown of her head. She was old -- at least in her eighties -- and as
wrinkled and lined as the bark of an ancient tree. Only her eyes
looked bright and youthful, twinkling with both malice and
amusement as she
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