Grace Martinez

Honors American Literature

3/25/2012

Bad Luck Kills

It was a warm and humid night as the sun set against the sky over New Orleans. The streets of the French Quarter were bustling with people, and the stores and restaurants held their doors open to the crowd. The streets were slick, and the golden hue radiating off of the setting sun gave the pavement a shimmering glow. The colorful walls and windows lining the street evaded even the hint of darkness, and pervaded more bright colors into the shimmering pavement. Porches circled every floor of the brightly colored buildings, and overflowed with more brilliantly colored plants and flowers. The railings to these porches were all intricately decorated, and all windows held their shutters open to take in the beautiful night. As the sun set, the light began slowly receding from the streets. The colorful shimmer faded, and lights appeared in open windows and doors. The crowd diminished with the light, leaving only the locals in the street. Although the neighborhood was always clear of violence and crime, those who still remained on the road were visibly becoming anxious. The looming threat was obvious to the locals who lingered, and they began slowly making a retreat to their homes, standing under the safe light of their porches. The last glimpse of the sun, sparkling over the buildings, finally is gone, and darkness is left in its wake. The shadows came with the darkness. They crept along the walls, taking different shapes to trick the eyes of those peering out of open windows, or standing under the protection of their porch. The shadows took the forms of animals and people, objects and buildings, and slid freely through the night. Through the dark along the unlit walls and streets, the shadows glided, searching for the living. The locals, holding their breath, nervously watch the street with anticipation. When the streaming lights hanging above the street finally flash to life, the crowd immediately let out a unanimous sigh of relief. Windows and doors open, music plays, and the smell of food begins radiating through the street again. The night resumes; without any other trace of the fear that the street goers experienced as they waited for the lights.

            This fear of the dark is common throughout the French Quarter and the immediate swampy area surrounding it. Tourists ignorantly travel through our beautiful neighborhoods without even a clue of its dangers, and many suffer as a result. In our small community, which includes the always crowded French Quarter, shadows hold no tangible form. They run freely through the night, taking the shape of whatever they can grab onto. They are a great danger to those who do not have shadows of their own, and the locals are very aware of that.

            Years ago, in the swamps surrounding the French Quarter, superstition was taken very seriously. Common superstitions were seen as fact, and as a result any object that could project bad luck onto the living was banned. Although physical superstitious objects were erased from the small society, fear of the dark and bad luck still reigned on. The locals could feel the constant threat of evil over their community, and so they feared for their lives. The witch doctors and elders believed the source of the evil was emanating from the existence of shadows. The elders believed that the shadows were the work of the devil. And that they were demons mimicking the form of the living. The shadows represented the darkness, and the elders believed that they clung to our feet, reaching for our souls. The locals lived in constant fear for their lives. They pleaded for the elders and the witch doctor to remove the evil that clung to their feet. The witch doctor agreed, but informed them that after the ritual was done, and they were free of their shadows, that they would always be in grave danger if the shadows ever came back. They agreed, and the witch doctor performed the voodoo that allowed for the final destruction of the shadows.

The doctor led the locals to the main street in the French Quarter. He arranged them in a straight line, parallel to the sun, facing their shadows that stretched on the street in front of them. The ritual would not work in false light, but the doctor organized rows of candles along the street, to be lit later. He held a large bag of salt in his arms, and began to circle each citizen slowly. He circled each person, spreading a thin line of salt as the sun set over the horizon. The salt was another superstitious item, meant to detach the evil spirits by creating a circle of salt around the local’s feet. As the last person was circled in a thin line of salt followed by a few ceremonial words, the sun set, leaving the citizens in complete darkness.

            The witch doctor lit the candles immediately. And upon recognition, the locals spun in their small salt circles, searching for a black silhouette in the light of the flames. There was no trace of any shadow, and they were immediately filled with joy. They ran to their friends and family members with relief, leaving small trails of salt behind them on the street.

They later found that their mortal figures no longer gave off a shadow to any form of light, and that they were free of their shadows altogether. But unlike the superstitious objects that were easily destroyed, their shadows came back with the night. When the ritual had been performed, the shadows were merely freed from their living hosts, released with the thin line of salt. The only area remaining in our district without light was the Bayou, and during the day the shadows would hide under its canopy. They thrived on the darkness, unable to live in the light without a mortal host. So, after the sun set every evening, the locals waited in anticipation for the lights in the streets to flicker to life, driving the shadows out of their lives.

The French Quarter was lively with people again on this beautiful summer’s night. And similar to every other day, the sun set against the horizon, and the lights above the street flashed on at nine p.m. The bodies of the tourists around me made me anxious. They each gave off distorted shadows from the false light above our heads, and I found myself dodging the people around me. I had to remind myself many times that these shadows posed no threat to me, that they already had a host body, that I am safe under the street lights. I weave my way through the crowd, peering up at the beautiful buildings lining the street. After the shadows had been cast out of our community, all of the buildings had been painted with bright colors, and decorated with thousands of lights. The bright colors were meant to keep the neighborhoods light, to drive out the darkness. I cannot help but pity these poor tourists, who have no idea what is lurking at their feet. Oblivious to the evil demons determined to steal their souls. I must look so bizarre to them, not having any shadow of my own, but no one seems to notice. I quickly turn the corner and reach my destination, relieved to be free of the crowd. The chipped yellow painted door is bright, and is surrounded by hanging plants with small yellow flowers. I pushed the door open and walked into the dim room. I carefully stepped over the line of salt that protected the door, and made my way over the woman sitting behind the counter. The walls were lined with shelves that reached the ceiling. They overflowed with jars and dried plants and other bizarre items. I reached the counter and tapped the shoulder of the woman who was hunched over in her chair, asleep.

“Ms. Melba… Ms. Melba, Wake up.”

She awoke with a start. Nearly falling out of her chair and gripping the counter for support.

“My goodness, child! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Ms. Melba was elderly. She was nearly a century old, but nowhere near death. Her hair was completely white, and was pulled back into a braid that reached the back of her knees. She wore a gray dress over her robust body and a worn yellow shawl over her shoulders. Her dark aged face smiled up at me when she realized who I was.

            “Emeline, honey, what brings you this far across the bayou?”

“Would you happen to have any more salt Ms. Melba?”

“Of course I do, honey! Can’t ever run out of it here, now can I?”

            Ms. Melba was one of the last living participants in the original shadow ritual. Since she was ridded of her shadow, she became the nonofficial witch doctor to our small community. She held her doors open to the locals who needed special sacred items, and soon she opened up her home as a business. Similar to the shrunken heads and voodoo dolls hanging from her shelves, I was here for another sacred item, salt. The salt that Ms. Melba sold was very different from the regular salt sold in grocery stores. Her salt was purified and holy, sprinkled with special herbs and potions meant to keep the darkness away. She sold it by the pound, but I was in need of much more.  This salt, since its use in the ritual decades ago, has been essential for the shadowless locals. The salt, like the light, keeps us out of the reach of the shadows. By leaving a thin line of salt by doors and windows, we can keep the shadows out of our homes. This was a necessity. During the nights, and while they slept, many locals went unprotected from the shadows. With the use of the sanctified salt, homes and buildings were now safe from the darkness.

            My home however, was not. I had waited too long to replace the salt by my windows and doors, and my home was becoming dangerously close to being unprotected. The salt that Melba sold only lasted one moon cycle before the magic wore off. And I was in need of a large purchase of salt to replace every spot in my home, and seal it from the dark.

            Melba returned from behind a curtain with a large sack of salt. I was amazed that her frail body could still lift such weight. She heaved the sack onto the counter, and slumped back onto her stool. She named her price, and I paid her immediately. I was eager to get home and spread the salt, so that I could relax for another moon cycle. I heaved the sack over my shoulder, and began my journey back to my home through the French Quarter.

            I made my way back to the main street and realized that the sun was already beginning to set. I needed to get home before the moon had risen, so I tried to quicken my pace, all to no avail. The streets were filled with people. The crowd was too dense, and I was nearly slowed to a crawl as I tried to get back home. The sun continued to set, and the shadows of the tourists grew longer and longer. I was nearly to my home as the sun gave its last shine over the horizon. I crept to the side walk and hid under one of the brightly lit porches to evade the few seconds of darkness before the street lights turned on. The sun set, the crowd continued without a care, and the locals waited under the porches in the safety of the light.

            The lights above the streets finally flashed to life, and the locals began to move again. I swiftly moved through the remaining block and I finally reached my home. I lived on the second floor of the bright building, so I rushed to the entrance. The alley next to my building was abnormally dark, and I shied away from it as I reached the door. The walls were painted a light pink, and the door was painted the shade of aqua blue. The porch curved around the building and was lit with a stream of small bright bulbs. Large plants hung from the porch and touched the ground, hiding me from view as I pulled my keys out of my pocket. Fumbling for my keys, I dropped the sack to the floor with a large thud. Suddenly, as if in reaction to the noise, a large hum sounded under the porch. The whirr started with a sudden pop of a small bulb at the end of the stream of lights. The hum got louder, and more bulbs popped in unison. The bulbs began bursting down the line of the lights in my direction, leaving only darkness in its path. With a small cry I searched for my key faster, until finally the darkness overwhelmed me.

I sank to the floor and dropped my keys at my side. I was swathed in the darkness. Small streams of light poked between the plants from the street as I sat in terror. Emanating from the alley, black shadows began to slide along the wall in my direction. I reached for the sack at my side and began tearing at the bag. The shadows were nearly two yards away when I stood, holding the open sack of salt. I started to spread the thin line around me, but it was too late. My eyes were blinded by the darkness before I could finish half of a circle.

I awoke the next morning to light streaming through my bedroom window. Was it all a dream? A horrible nightmare? I sat up from my bed and stood, realizing I was in the clothes I had worn last night. I walked over to the window and gazed down at the street. The sun was high in the sky, probably noon. And the crowd remained, still moseying through the streets. I turned and leaned back against the window and my heart was gripped with fear. Streaming out in front of me, in a reaction to the light from the window, was a black silhouette of myself on my yellow wallpaper. Although I stood with my hands pressed against my mouth, blocking a scream, the shadow stood with its arms to its sides. I traced the figure back to where it was attached to my feet, and finally let out a small wail. In reaction to the noise the shadow dashed, still attached to my feet, across the wall to my left. As if the direction of light had changed instantly, the length of my shadow was now hiding behind my floor length mirror on a different side of the room. I approached it apprehensively, watching my expression in the mirror as I walked closer. In an abrupt motion the mirror crashed to the floor, shattering at my feet. I saw a glimpse of the shadow again, and it dashed to another section of the room. Hyperventilating now, I reached for a piece of the shattered glass at my feet. I knew of the common superstition about a broken mirror, but I looked in the reflection of the shard anyway. I saw the expression of relief that must have been my face as I gazed into the small reflection, which immediately turned to horror. The reflection grinned at me, though I was not smiling, revealing a row of long pointed sharp teeth. I screamed, throwing the shard into the air, and scurried to my bedroom door. I ran into the hallway and began sprinting down the stairs. I tripped after the first two, and tumbled down until I hit the aqua door that led to the street, beginning my seven years of bad luck. I wretched the door open, and gazed at the sack of salt that had been left on the porch from the night before. The semi-circle that I had managed to spread before the blackness got me was gone. Instead, the salt was spread through the now open door and up the stairs, as if someone had been dragged through it. Another small screech escaped my lips as I backed away from the door and began running through the streets of the French Quarter. The shadows of the tourists now seemed to reach for me, grabbing at my ankles as I shoved my way through the crowd. For an instant I peered back, looking for my shadow behind me, seeing that it was still there blacker than ever. I finally reached the bright yellow door of Ms. Melba’s and tore it open. I threw myself through the entrance and was flung onto the pavement by an unseen force. Ms. Melba sauntered up to the door, stepping over the salt barrier, and looked down at me.

“No way you are gonna be able to get in here. Not with that thing tied to ya.”

I immediately remembered the line of salt that would keep me out of her store. With this shadow attached to me, I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere.

“What can I do Melba?” I sobbed, sitting upright on the street with my head in my hands.

“Nothing good will come from that.” She pointed at the shadow.

“You can surely not live with it. Your soul is vulnerable as it ‘tis.”

I stood, wiping the tears from my cheeks. I gazed behind me, and saw the shadow stretched along the pavement. It did not mimic my pose; instead it held its arms out to its side with sharp claws attached to its fingers. I shuddered and faced Melba with new tears in my eyes.

“Please help me.”

            “Like I said, you are doomed if you keep that thing attached to ya. The shadow that you have got… it is worse than the others. It don’t even try to hide that it’s not like the others.”

            “What do you mean?  How is it different?”

            “Why, yours is not like those of the ignorant tourists in the crowd. The shadow that has attached to you, it is the shadow of a demon. It will cast your soul to hell, and take your body. You must perform the ritual again if you wish to live.”

            I knew the stories. I knew how the original locals did it, but I didn’t know what words the witch doctors had said as he finished the ceremony.

            “How did he do it Melba? What did he say at the end?”

“Nous sauver de l'ombre.”

“What does it mean?”

Gravely she stated, “Save us from the shadows.”

Carrying a new sack of salt, which Melba handed to me as she bid me good luck, I ran through the crowds to the far end of the French District towards the setting sun. My shadow stretched yards behind me as I reached the end of the main street. Beyond the bright buildings and lights, the street turned to a dirt road, and led far into the dark bayou. There was no one to be seen in this area because the dark terrified the locals, and even the tourists found themselves steered away from the black swamps.

I sat, waiting for the sun to set over the tree line, before I began the ritual. I stood on the few feet of pavement before the dirt road, and watched as the last sparkle of sun hit the tree tops. At that moment I began. I ripped open the bag and poured the salt around me as I spun in a circle. The light from the sun fell over the horizon as I whispered the remaining words.

“Nous sauver de l'ombre…nous sauver de l'ombre…

 nous sauver de l'ombre…”

I stood in the pitch black, and felt the weight fall off of my shoulders. The shadows that had begun to creep along the dirt road towards me receded in anticipation of the street lights. I saw that my own shadow was gone, and I sighed in relief, new tears in my eyes. I looked down the long street to the bustling area of the French Quarter, and watched as the street lights turned on. Block after block, the lights got closer. I waited for the lights above me to turn on so that I could step out of the circle of salt and go thank Ms. Melba. The street lights continued, but suddenly stopped a block away. The lights around me didn’t go on, and I was still enveloped in the darkness. The tears overflowed, pouring down my cheeks. The shadows returned, sliding along the walls and up the road towards my circle of salt. I was too close to the Bayou. The city didn’t turn on the lights this close to the swamp. And as the shadows grew closer and closer to my circle, they drew out their sharp dark claws. As I watched the first shadow reach my feet, all I could think was that this was all a result of my seven years of bad luck.