Little Shop Of Magic
Stories similar to this that you might like too.
The sun shone high in the clear blue sky, with no hint of a storm on its way. The weather was as hot and dry now as it would be for months to come. And yet there were clouds in my mind and rain inside my heart.
It felt like I had stepped out onto one of those old-fashioned roller coasters where the ground suddenly drops away and you go whirring around at frightening speeds before dropping all of a sudden into a dark tunnel filled with thundering noises that threaten to rip your eardrums apart. Everything is happening so fast… I have never felt more alone or afraid… I don’t want to do this…
I looked back over my shoulder at the mansion, where most of my friends were still being held captive by the evil Mr. Scratch’s servants. All except Lela. She had gone off somewhere else after we left her in the garden.
I didn’t know exactly where she went but I hoped against hope that she wasn’t going to try to find me again. If I had any sense at all, which unfortunately wasn’t often the case when dealing with people, I would just get out of here while I could. There’s no place safe in New Orleans anymore.
“Where are you going?” asked Gertie, who was walking behind me and looking over my shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere without us.”
“I need some air,” I said. “Some space to think.”
Gertie nodded. We started walking down Canal Street towards the Quarter. As soon as we got far enough from the house, I turned to her.
“Are you really sure you can help me?”
She shrugged. “I mean, yeah. But it doesn’t feel great. I don’t think you should do something like this unless you absolutely have to. Even then…”
My face paled. “Even if it means I’ll be killed by an ancient monster that wants my soul? You’ve read my book. What am I supposed to do if he gets his claws on me? I won’t even last five minutes.”
She sighed and shook her head sadly. “If you hadn’t written about me in there, nobody would ever believe this stuff. You’ve made yourself a very convincing ghost.”
We walked along the street, passing many different stores of every shape and size. Some of them were selling clothes and food; others sold things like jewelry, weapons, and other magical trinkets.
The shops were all empty because no customers dared venture outside in broad daylight. It was only the tourists that came into the Quarter, and they were mostly drunk college kids with their heads full of stupid stories about curses and ghosts.
They weren’t the kind of people that would stop to see if they’d gotten someone mixed up with the wrong person if it happened to save them from being run down by an invisible horse-headed monster with razor-sharp teeth.
When we passed the place where I had been thrown into the river, the memories of the past few weeks threatened to overwhelm me. A part of me wanted desperately to turn around, go back to where we first met, and ask her how she knew my name… but that was insane.
I might as well go back to being a ghost myself. I wasn’t going to survive long enough to make it into the city limits without help, let alone find a woman who didn’t exist in reality. Besides, I had no idea what kind of shape I was really in any way…
As we neared the intersection with Bourbon Street, the noise grew louder. I heard jazz music blaring from a bar called The Broken Drum; we both glanced toward the entrance. Two guys wearing suits with red ties over their shirts were standing in front of the doors, trying to keep people away. I thought about asking them why, but Gertie waved a hand dismissively before we could speak.
“Let’s walk right by them. This isn’t the time or place for a fight.”
We turned left and headed down Royal Street, past countless antique stores and gift shops. The whole street looked like it belonged in another world. It wasn’t a big city block, but the buildings were tall and narrow, each painted in different shades of gold and orange, and there were hardly any cars parked on the streets. We had to dodge between the occasional bike or scooter and walk quickly to avoid getting run down.
After crossing Canal Street, the Quarter opened out into a giant plaza filled with trees and benches, and fountains. There were a dozen small bars and restaurants scattered around, each decorated with colorful flags hanging from balconies above the sidewalk.
I couldn’t imagine that there were even three tables or two chairs for every person in New Orleans, much less ten thousand.
I had always wondered why people would choose to live in such a noisy, dirty, cramped place when they could afford something better; now I understood that it was the same reason that I lived here despite knowing it was doomed: you took the good with the bad when it came to life. If you didn’t take anything seriously, why bother living?
“So, where should we start looking?” I asked, as we passed through the crowd and found ourselves walking on the sidewalk.
Gertie shrugged and pointed across the plaza to a large wooden building with a sign reading THE BLUE BOWL HISTORIC CAFÉ. “That looks promising. The owner is a friend of mine, and she’s willing to do what she can, but she says she needs more information than just your name.”
“How much more?” I asked, feeling a little uneasy under her gaze.
Her lips curled up slightly. “Well, you told her who you are, but you didn’t tell her where you were born or how you died. She has an idea about your name, but she doesn’t know exactly where you’re buried.”
My shoulders dropped. That sounded like the real problem. “Do you think we can figure that out somehow?”
“You bet,” she replied, her voice turning serious. “But first we need to find somebody else. Maybe he knows some answers we’ve overlooked.”
I nodded. “The question is, where should we look for him?”
“There’s an old graveyard near Jackson Square. It used to be called St. Louis Cemetery No. 1; it got renamed after the French Revolution, but nobody bothered changing it back. I’m sure we’ll find someone there that we can talk to. Or maybe one of the tourists will have seen the dead guy.”
I followed her as she crossed back over the plaza and began heading north, toward the heart of the Vieux Carré district. As we walked, the sounds of our footsteps became softer, and the crowds gradually thinned until eventually the sidewalks were almost deserted.
After another half mile, we arrived at a massive wrought iron fence surrounding the cemetery, complete with a gatehouse and two guards wearing bright blue uniforms.
“Welcome to New Orleans,” said the older guard as Gertie flashed a badge over his head. “What business do you have at St. Louis Cemetery No. 1?”
“Excuse me?”
Gertie raised her eyebrows and gave the man a challenging glare. “This gentleman is my guest,” she said.
“And who may you be?” The younger guard, who was probably only fifteen years old, stepped closer with one hand resting on the butt of his sidearm.
I cleared my throat and spoke loudly enough for them both to hear. “I’m not exactly sure,” I replied.
The boy squinted at me with narrowed eyes. “Are you telling us that you don’t know this person’s name?”
I shook my head. “Not yet, no. But I’m pretty positive I’ll figure it out soon.”
He nodded slowly. “Then I guess we’ll just stand here, then. You won’t mind if we take a moment to check your ID, sir?”
“No, go ahead.”
They went back and forth with a couple of other questions before I finally handed them my driver’s license. A minute later, I was waving at them as they drove away in their little golf cart. When they were gone, Gertie put her hands on her hips and let out a loud sigh.
“Did they search you too? They never ask anybody else about a warrant, much less give them time to explain. And it’s still not even nine o’clock.”
I pulled my jacket sleeve over the handcuff chain and flexed my fingers. “You know, I’ve been doing all right without a pair of cuffs on me.”
We stood silently for a few moments, watching the gates swing wide open behind me, and the street beyond comes into view. Then, with a shake of her head, Gertie turned toward the left and began walking down a long, narrow alleyway between two buildings.
I hurried to catch up as we passed a row of crumbling old stone houses and made our way to the back of a huge brick house. There we came to a set of stairs leading up to the rear door, which was flanked by two small signs: NO TRESPASSING AND YOU CAN’T BEAT THIS DEAL. We climbed three flights of stairs inside the dark building and entered the kitchen.
“It’s not much, but she does the best she can,” Gertie said when she saw us arrive. “She runs the place and works at the bakery part-time, so sometimes the food is a little off.”
Inside, a fat black woman sat at a folding table covered with dirty dishes. She wore a stained apron and a pair of thick glasses over a pair of pale green eyes, and she looked up from her coffee mug as we approached.
“Morning,” I said, extending my hand. The woman took my wrist in one meaty fist and pumped it quickly several times before pulling her arm free and giving me a big smile.
“Good morning,” she croaked. “Is Miss Gertie here?”
Gertie patted her shoulder and said, “She’s outside, waiting for us. Just making sure the doors are locked.”
“Oh. Thank you, young lady.” She wiped her wet hands on her apron and shuffled back over to a cabinet filled with cans of vegetables.
When we returned to the kitchen, the woman was stirring something yellow and lumpy with her finger. “Here you go,” she said as we joined her. She held a steaming bowl up to the light. It looked like chicken noodle soup or maybe vegetable stew, but it smelled heavenly.
“Momma will be along any second,” she continued, “but you two hungry folks might want some of this before we leave.”
“Absolutely!” Gertie reached across the table and picked up the bowl, handing it to me before taking hers for herself. Once the two of us had finished eating our portion, we each took an empty dish and started cleaning them off.
“Miss Gertie tells me you’re looking for somebody,” said the woman as she scraped bits of bread into a trash bag.
“Yes ma’am, that’s true. Have either of you ever heard of a girl named Violet?”
The woman leaned against the sink counter with crossed arms and pursed lips. “You’re new around these parts, aren’t you?” she asked after a moment’s thought.
“That’s what my friend says,” Gertie added as she rinsed the last bit of stew from her spoon.
The woman shrugged and sighed heavily, putting down her wooden spoon. She turned to face us with bright, blue eyes and a gentle smile. “Well then, I guess you should have brought me a picture of her instead of asking me to remember every single little thing I see while I’m here in my home,” she said. “I suppose you must be wanting to know where she’s going to school. Or if she goes to school at all.”
My mouth dropped open for a moment, but I snapped it shut when I realized how rude that would sound. “Um… yeah, exactly.”
“Then it’s just a matter of time before your friend comes to find me again.” She pointed toward the door and said, “Go ahead and leave me a note.”
Gertie and I nodded quickly, both of us trying to hide our nervousness, and I left another message for her downstairs, saying that Violet needed help finding her birth parents. I also said that
Gertie and I could be paid a thousand dollars apiece if anyone knew anything about the whereabouts of Violet or her mother, and if I didn’t hear from her within a week, I’d come back to pay the same amount. When I closed the book, Gertie grabbed it and stuffed it under her coat before slipping out through the front door.
The End