The Blood Bond

The Funeral

The warm sticky air smelled sweet like molasses as the sun peaked between the trees. Birds chirped boisterously, going about their business as they started a brand new day. It looked to be a beautiful day for a funeral, that is, if a funeral can be beautiful. Then again, it didn’t matter. Today she was going to fulfill her promise to her grandfather. He was going to be buried at Bella Darrow tonight as the sun set over the bayou. If she had to dig the damn grave for that to happen, that was exactly what she was going to do.

She didn’t sleep well. She never did in new places. Add in the fact that Bella Darrow was an old, musty place with a tremulous history and, well, she wasn’t surprised she didn’t run from the house screaming like a banshee. She didn’t know much about the old plantation home, but what she did know gave her the heebie-jeebies. She spent most of the night tossing and turning, but she could easily blame that on a lumpy bed and worry about her grandfather’s burial. However, she couldn’t discount the man in her dreams. She’d only seen him once, as Andrews led her up the staircase to her room. He was the man on the wall. The man with piercing eyes and black as night hair. He was a handsome man in his day, and still, according to today’s standards. Something about him frightened her and when she dreamed of him last night, he only terrified her more. She couldn’t remember much from her dream, only the words he uttered…ma petite.

Just thinking of the name made her shiver. She wasn’t some adolescent child, prone to girlish nightmares and fear of things that went bump in the night. She was an adult. A grown woman, who knew that all those scary things that parents told their children were nothing more than tall tales to make then walk the straight and narrow. Yet, for some reason, she knew him. His name on the tip of her tongue confused her. She had never met the man before, yet she knew saying his name would make him real.

Shaking off the eerie feeling, she didn’t have time to think about him or her dream. She needed to prepare for her grandfather’s funeral. That was what she came here to do. Once she fulfilled her promise, she was getting the hell out of this backwater town. She was getting away from creepy butlers, rickety old houses, and that damn eerie lake. She tried not to think of that lake. The black still glass haunted her dreams. She couldn’t figure it out, but the mere thought of wandering down to it again sent a jolt of pain radiating to her neck.

Rubbing her stiff neck, Isadora pulled back the sheets and gasped as she looked at her muddy feet. Quickly looking out the window at the lake, then back to her feet again, she wondered if her dream was real. There was no explanation for her filthy feet. She’d never slept walked a day in her life. If anything, she was a sound sleeper, who rarely dreamed. Yet, last night, her dream was the most vivid one she had ever had. Ignoring the impossible, she readied herself for her grandfather.

She entered the kitchen to find a plump, bubbly woman singing as she moved gracefully around the large space. Isadora didn’t have to announce herself. Mrs. Randolph welcomed her gracefully, as she ushered her to one of the empty stools. In a very short time, Isadora came to realize that Mrs. Randolph was a lovely and very talkative woman. Not to mention that she seemed to know everyone and anyone who ever graced the small town of Darkwater Bay. She was full of information and eager to share it.

Isadora quietly listened to Mrs. Randolph inform her that the town mayor was corrupt, the local police chief was having an affair with the local beautician and that everyone knew she had arrived. That was just the people in town. As for the bayou people, well, they were another story. The folks that lived outside the small town were more cautious, more put off by the fact that she was in Darkwater Bay. From the gossip, she heard from Mrs. Randolph, she wasn’t wanted. In fact, certain folks were ready to make sure she left the town personally. Isadora didn’t know what to make of that news. She’d never been to Darkwater Bay and she was only here to bury her grandfather. She was only going to be there for a short time. Isadora decided not to put much stock in what Mrs. Randolph was telling her.

Yet, as she listened to the woman talk, Isadora started to feel as if there was something more, as if she were missing some important detail. “I don’t understand,” Isadora asked as she placed her coffee cup on the counter. She couldn’t believe it. Then again, she was raised in a large city, where people tended to stay to themselves. She’d never been singled out a day in her life.

“Chère, you’re famous around these parts. Everyone knows about you.”

“I’ve never been here.”

“You were born in this very house, chère. Right up in that big room. Your momma and papa died the very night you were born. A fire swept through this big ole house, taking them with it. If it weren’t for your guardian angel, your grandpapa would never have found you.”

“None of this makes sense. I was born in California. It’s on my birth certificate.”

“That’s just paper, chère. The truth is here.”

“But my grandfather said my parents died in a car accident.”

“Not a car, chère. It was a fire and a horrible accident too. Your sweet momma wanted you something fierce chère, your papa too. They were so happy when you decided to come. They couldn’t wait to meet the new little Luna. Then the fire came.”

“Little Luna?” Isadora asked, intrigued by what the woman would say next.

“The original name of this house was called Bella Luna. When the original owner died, the name was changed to Bella Darrow and has been ever since.”

“Why would someone change the name?”

“Because of the curse,” Mrs. Randolph said, crossing herself. And this is where the conversation got interesting. There wasn’t much that could stop Isadora in her tracks but the thought of a curse, even a small one, had her full attention.

“What curse?” Isadora asked, eager to learn more.

“The curse on the house and all that live in it.”

“Mrs. Randolph,” Andrews said curtly, interrupting their conversation. Mrs. Randolph immediately quieted and went back to cleaning up the kitchen. It perturbed Isadora that the creepy butler could be so callus. Not acknowledging the elderly man, she picked up her cup of coffee and left the kitchen, heading outside onto the expansive front porch.

Sitting in one of the rocking chairs, Isadora thought about what Mrs. Randolph had told her. She didn’t believe that her parents were killed in a fire. If she did, then that would mean that her grandfather lied to her, her whole life. She knew her grandfather kept things from her, but she needed to believe something as important as her parent’s death, that he would have been truthful. However, Mrs. Randolph was very sincere when she told her, which now put an inkling of doubt into Isadora’s mind.

Then there was the fire itself. The house didn’t show any remnants of a fire. If anything, it looked to be in remarkable condition considering it had been built decades ago. The old antebellum home was full of history and beautiful works of art and that was only what she could see at night. She had planned to do a little sightseeing today until the funeral, but now she wasn’t so sure.

However, what intrigued her the most was the curse. Why was the house cursed? Was it just another family story handed down through the generations because of some horrible act that took place years ago? Or was there more to it? Isadora knew that curses were symbolic of a specific piece of time, generally surrounded by some act of depravity or unexplained death. History was chalked full of such tales that were nothing more than fabled stories. Though some had merit, none had ever been proven. Besides, a curse only worked if the people believed in them and that was more interesting to Isadora. She never could understand how a sane human being could think of something that was in no way believable. It would be like believing in the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. Whatever the tale or curse, she never discounted what a person believed, just their oblivious intellect to know the difference.

It was all easier to think that a house was more haunted than cursed. Haunted homes have technically been proven. All over the world, there was proof of homes being possessed by some ghostly entity that refused to leave. Then there was the run of the mill ghosts that lingered, making a life for the inhabitants miserable. Even with the history of Louisiana, there were bound to be stories of haunted homes. She knew that.

To say that a house was cursed, went beyond her scope of reasoning. Isadora believed that a curse was more representational than a haunting. It was symbolic of the devil. In her research, curses, hexes or jinxes have been used repeatedly throughout history. She knew that the most common way to curse a person was to do so in effigy. The practice, mainly used in India, Egypt, and Africa, effigies were made to resemble the person being cursed. Moreover, in more recent times, the word curse was replaced with hex or jinx. In neo-Pagan Witchcraft, the term hex was meant to designate a binding spell, which was in no way a curse. Regardless, Isadora knew it was the belief that one had been cursed, which generally led to their own demise.

However, a cursed house? A house wasn’t a person. A house was an inanimate object, which in theory was more conducive to being haunted. Isadora didn’t want to discount Mrs. Randolph’s beliefs, but there was scientific evidence to support her theory and, with that in mind, she firmly believed that there was no way a house could be cursed.

After finishing her coffee, she entered the house only to be stopped by Andrews.

“Madam, the priest called to say he would be here shortly to help you through the service.”

Help me, how? Isadora thought to herself. She hadn’t planned to do anything special. Hell, she was going to let the priest say what was supposed to be said, and watch as her grandfather was lowered into the ground. After that, she was going to pack and get the hell out of this town. “Thank you, Andrews. I guess I had better get properly dressed then.”

“That would be advisable Madam,” the crusty old butler scowled at her attire, then bowed and left. Rolling her eyes at his severely formal manner. She wondered if the old man had ever seen a woman in yoga pants and a t-shirt before. Grinning a little at the fact that she had disturbed him, Isadora headed upstairs to change into something proper to bury her grandfather.

An hour later, Isadora found herself sitting in a large office, staring at the man who would perform her grandfather’s funeral. In all of her twenty-nine years on this earth, Isadora had never been so damn bored before in her life. She understood that there was a process to bury a loved one. There was also a grieving process, which Father Clarke seemed to believe that she was avoiding. The problem wasn’t that she was avoiding grieving for her grandfather because she was afraid of the pain; it was because she was still pissed at him for lying to her. She couldn’t get past the fact that he only placated her with her beliefs. For so long, she thought he and she were of the same mind. For years, he stood beside her, as they both toured and learned of the world’s scariest places.

They spent hours researching every fable, every unexplained event they could find. She believed he wanted to know more, just as she did, but in reality, she was wrong. It wasn’t that her grandfather was interested in helping her to learn about these things, it was that he was derailing her from learning the biggest secret of them all, the truth about her parents.

It was a little more than a year ago when she saw the newspaper clipping depicting her parent’s deadly car crash. The remnants of the burning metal were all that remained. Her parents died upon impact, never feeling the fatal kiss of the flames that engulfed their car. Isadora was thankful for that. According to the article, it was raining the night her parents left a party given by a local businessman. Their car swerved and rolled down an embankment, before bursting into flames. The article was clear and to the point. Every detail she needed was there to put to rest the mystery of her parents, except one thing. In the article, it said the couple identified as Donald and Margaret De’Hon were expecting their first child.

When Isadora confronted her grandfather about the article, he waived it off as a typo, a misunderstanding on a chaotic night. For a short time, she agreed to leave it alone, but the more she thought about it, the more it bugged her. Without telling her grandfather, Isadora sent off for the official police report. What she learned in that report changed everything.

According to the autopsy report, the woman killed that night was in their late thirties. Yet Isadora’s birth certificate stated that her mother was twenty-five when she gave birth to her. Though the man the report was identified as Donald De’Hon, Isadora was shocked to learn that the man in the accident was approximately five feet eleven. She had seen numerous photos of her father standing well above six feet tall. When she confronted her grandfather with these disturbing misidentifications, he erupted into a fit and yelled at her to leave the dead alone. It was the first time she had ever seen her grandfather angry. Shortly after, he took ill and never recovered.

Her only source of the truth died three days ago, taking with him the truth about that horrible night. Now she felt there was another clue. A new piece of information she never knew existed. Mrs. Randolph plainly and clearly said that her parents died the night she was born here at Bella Darrow. Why would a woman she’d never met lie to her about something as severe as her parents’ death? There was no rhyme or reason to it, which made it hard for Isadora to ignore. Isadora knew that Mrs. Randolph had no motive whatsoever to lie to her. There was no purpose to lie. No agenda, nothing and Isadora explicitly believed what she was saying. If Mrs. Randolph was correct, that would mean that her grandfather hid more than the death of her parents. He lied to her, her whole life. For reasons unknown to her, she couldn’t figure out why her grandfather would do something like that. Nothing added up. Isadora had her suspicions, but was never able to find any evidence to the contrary, so she let it all go. Now, everything was different.

The longer Isadora stayed in Darkwater Bay, the more she felt the answers to her past were here. The need to confront the truth about her birth nagged at her. Her grandfather was no longer around to derail her. To find the information, she would have to stay at Bella Darrow and research. She had already broken one promise to her grandfather and returned with him to Darkwater Bay. Tonight she was going to break another as she attended his funeral. Figuring she had nothing else to lose, Isadora had decided at that moment to stay in Darkwater Bay. She needed to know the truth about her parents and her gut was telling her the answers she sought were here.

“Miss. De’Hon?”

Returning to the present, Isadora looked up at the man before her and said, “I beg your pardon, Father. Could you repeat that?”

“Is there anything you would like me to say? Something personal about the man who was once your grandfather.”

“No thank you. Whatever you have ready will be fine.”

“You seem eager to see him buried,” the priest stated flatly.

“You’re right I am,” Isadora replied, getting to her feet. “Don’t get me, wrong father. I loved my grandfather, but I will never forgive him for lying to me. So the sooner he’s in the ground, the sooner I can find the truth.” With that, Isadora left the priest standing slack-jawed in the library.

The sun had begun to set as the priest stood at the head of the coffin. Isadora said nothing as he splashed holy water on the shiny hardwood box. Standing beside her was Mrs. Randolph, who was silently weeping into a handkerchief. Isadora never understood why some people cried at a funeral while others stood stoically with blank stares on their faces. In all honesty, if truth be told, she actually felt like laughing. It was odd, she knew, but that was the truth of it. She was too young to remember her parent’s funeral, or if they even had one, and she never attended any others. This was her first, and if she had anything to do with it, it would be her last. The whole process was morbid. Her grandfather was dead for Christ sakes. He paid whatever price it was for his sins. There was nothing left for him to atone for. He was gone. He was never coming back. Yet, listening to the priest talk, it seemed as if her grandfather was going on a trip, a journey to another place to live out the rest of his existence.

Dead was dead in her book. She never believed in the afterlife. She didn’t believe in heaven or hell, though if such a place existed, she rather hoped her grandfather would soon be visiting it. Nope, she never got how the thought of a particular location up in the clouds eased the living burdens. She didn’t deny anyone his or her beliefs. On the contrary, she was interested in learning everything she could about the different cultures and religions around the world. She spent a great many hours studying such religions as part of her Mythology dissertation. Therefore, she knew that for those who believed, the process of death, burial and mourning was more about the living and helping them move on with their lives, instead of the dead. However, she just wanted it all to be over.

She wasn’t trying to be callous or disrespectful to anyone. She just needed this mess over with so she could start looking into her past. Deep down, she knew that part of herself was going to miss him. Her grandfather raised her and he did his best. She guessed she couldn’t ask for anything better, considering her tenacious appetite for knowledge. Her grandfather was very accommodating about that fact.

Since she could talk, Isadora had the insatiable need to learn everything she could. More as if she was compelled, she sought every book, pamphlet and educational show she could feed her mind with things she didn’t know. Her grandfather was instrumental in her learning, showing her stuff, teaching her subjects that weren’t taught in public school. By the time she was nine, she had begged her grandfather to be her teacher, to take her out of the public education system and let her learn from home. It wasn’t that she didn’t want a public education, it was that she’d learned everything there was to learn by their standards.

She had heard the word prodigy, savant and gifted thrown about for years but never considered herself one. She just loved learning. When her grandfather agreed to become her teacher, well, that’s when her love, her obsession for all things weird, mystical and scary came about. She was fourteen when she received her first degree but her passion, her ultimate love, was mythology. She firmly believed that most, if not all, the tales throughout history originated from mythology. It had been her life’s ambition to prove such a thing and she was planning to do just that when her grandfather passed away.

Now, her plans were on hold until this matter was settled. When her grandfather was buried, she was leaving and going on the biggest adventure of her life. She was going to prove something to everyone who thought she was just a crazy woman who believed in the supernatural. She was going to prove that the supernatural actually existed. Only now, everything changed. The desire to find more information about her past became alluring. The mysteries of the non-existent would wait. Isadora needed to learn the truth about her past before she could move forward into her future.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

“Amen,” Mrs. Randolph sniffed quietly beside her. Blinking, Isadora watched as two men closed the large doors on the family crypt. It wasn’t a large building, but it was big enough to hold all of her ancestors. She had toured the place with Father Clarke earlier and was surprised to see that only direct descendants of the De’Hon line were buried here. She found her father’s name but not her mother's. Now, her grandfather was interred, along with every male descendant going back to the late sixteen hundreds. She thought it odd that only men were born into the De’Hon line. That in all the past centuries, not one single female was born, until her. A once proud and prominent line ended the day she was born.

It was somewhat sad in a way, she thought, as she too whispered the word, “Amen.” She was the last of her family's line. There would be no more De’Hon’s in the world. If she married and if she had children, they would have another name.

She was it.

The last one.

The evening turned out to be a beautiful one with the stars shining and a light breeze coming off the bayou. For all intense and purposes, it was a good night to say goodbye. As Andrews talked with Father Clarke, Isadora turned to leave when she saw a man standing off to the side. She hadn’t noticed him before. He was a tall, robust man. Dressed impeccably, he looked somber as if he too were mourning her grandfather. She wondered who he was, considering her grandfather really didn’t know anyone. Andrews had told her that she would be the only family in attendance and she believed him. Her whole life, her grandfather said that all of his relatives had long left this earth, that he was the last one. Yet, there he stood. Strength and power radiated off him in waves. He was handsome, with his dark cobalt hair neatly groomed, to his designer black shoes. The man had money. She could see that clearly. What was curious was why he was here? How did he know her grandfather?

“Mrs. Randolph?”

“Yes Chère,” the older woman sniffed.

“Who is that man over there?” Isadora asked. Mrs. Randolph looked in the direction she was looking and whispered, “Maybe another relative of yours.”

“That can’t be. I am the last one.”

“Chère, when my uncle died three years ago, we all thought he was a single man with no children. We were wrong. Not only had the man married three times before, but he was also the father of six children, all who showed up unannounced. Trust me when I say, your grandfather may have thought he was the last one, but that’s rarely the case. Go introduce yourself. You’ll wonder and worry until you do.”

Isadora listened as the woman spoke, unable to take her eyes off the man in the shadows. When she felt Mrs. Randolph pat her hand and gave her a little nudge. Isadora looked back at the woman who bravely smiled up at her. “Go on.”

Making her way across the cemetery grounds, she could still hear Andrews and Father Clarke talking. She had no idea what they were discussing and didn’t care. Mrs. Randolph was right to some extent; she wanted to know who this man was and why he was here. As she approached, the man never took his eyes off her. It was a weird feeling, almost as if he was pulling her towards him. Before she blinked, she was standing in front of him.

“My condolences for your loss,” his rough voice said smoothly, sending a shiver of unease deep into her bones. His voice was melodious, yet sorrowful that made her want to weep. He had a thick accent, one she couldn’t place but was sure she’d heard before. He was more handsome than she thought as she looked at him. His defined features were exquisitely perfect, right down to the bridge of his nose. However, it was his eyes. So familiar, like she’d looked into them before. Instantly her dream from the night before entered her mind, of a man with piercing blue eyes, with a feeble body and the strength of iron.

“Have we met?” Isadora asked. “You look familiar to me.”

“I look like everybody, but I am no one,” the man said cryptically. Isadora thought it an odd response to a simple question. However, she disagreed with him. He didn’t look like anyone she’d ever met before. He was different somehow. She was sure if she had met him before, she would have remembered. Yet, something in her gut was telling her she had met this man before. The more she thought about it, the more she was certain.

“I didn’t know there would be others attending my grandfather’s funeral. How did you know him?” She asked, wanting to know more about him. He was captivating. She’d met many men in her life yet none held one ounce of intrigue that the man before her had. Her mind was screaming at her that she’d met this man before. Somehow, in her gut, she knew it to be true. Only she couldn’t place him and what she was thinking made no sense. The man in her dream was much older, unlike the man before her. Yet the similarities were unmistakable.

“Our families go back generations. I met your grandfather once, a long time ago and wanted to pay my respects.”

“I am Isadora De’Hon, the granddaughter.”

The man regarded her and quietly responded, “I know.”

Isadora didn’t know what to make of the stranger. She felt as if he didn’t want to be here, which was something she could relate to because she didn’t either. Yet, she was and so was he. Still, that nagging feeling that she had met the man before lingered. She was about to ask him another question when the man bowed before her and said, “Please pardon me, ma petite. I must be going.”

Isadora stood frozen as the words, Ma petite, rattled around in her brain. She’d heard those words before. She thought those words belonged to nothing more than a fogless dream. Yet, hearing them again, awake, she knew. The long walk to the lake, looking up at the moon, hearing a rustling in the trees, the old man. The old man and his perfect manners, feeling scared, the pain of him hurting her and him saying those two words. It was all becoming clear, feeling unwanted, her dream, waking up with muddy feet, and the feeling of someone watching her. She didn’t know what it all meant, but one thing was for sure, there was no way she was leaving now. She was staying until she learned everything she could about Bella Darrow and her grandfather.