MORBID CURIOSITY
By Deborah LeBlanc

PROLOGUE

He had been forced into closets before, but never by a witch. At least he thought she was a witch . . .

Ten-year-old Caster Morbadelli clamped his teeth over his bottom lip and inched his way to the closet door on his knees. In the utter darkness, time and space seemed to go on forever. He stretched out a hand, willing his fingers past his fear to the wooden door that separated him from his father, whom he prayed had not left him behind. The scent of mildew, dirty underwear, and old blood swam in and out of his nostrils and roiled through his empty stomach. A tear trickled past the right side of his nose to his mouth, and Caster flicked his tongue over the droplet, capturing it. He needed to pee.

He didn’t know how long he’d been in the closet, but it felt like an eternity. When he and his father had first arrived at Madame Toussant’s, the sun had been clotted over with storm clouds, which made it feel like late afternoon. But Caster knew better. It had been morning. One of those bad mornings when he woke on his own instead of to the sound of his stepmother’s deep scratchy voice, yelling for him to get out of bed and go fetch her cigarettes in the living room.

She was gone again. He knew it, felt it before he rolled out of bed and crept into the empty kitchen. Knowing the really bad part would come as soon his father woke and discovered she was gone, Caster quickly poured himself a bowl of stale cornflakes. It would probably be the only chance he’d have to eat today. As usual, there was no milk in the refrigerator, so he doused the cereal with tap water and was about to dig a spoon into the swill when he heard a crash from his father’s bedroom. So much for breakfast.

Within a matter of minutes, his father’s curses echoed through their small apartment, escalating in volume and vehemence as he hurriedly dressed, pausing only long enough to hurl a perfume bottle, her hairbrush, a can of shaving cream across the room. Caster knew the drill because they’d been through it so many times before. Once the throwing began, he had about five minutes to dress before his father dragged him outside. The rest of the day would be spent combing the streets of New Orleans, looking for her, something Caster couldn’t understand. If the woman didn’t want to be with them, why did his father keep begging her to come back? He’d never been brave enough to ask that question aloud.

They’d only walked six blocks this time before his father pulled him into a narrow alleyway that ran between two storefronts on Rue Royal. Caster had balked, tempted to pull out of his father’s grasp and run in the opposite direction. He knew they were headed for Madame Toussant’s, and he wanted no part of it. They’d been here twice over the last three months, and each visit had left Caster so frightened, he’d had nightmares even during his daydreams. Toussant’s house was creepy and always filled with weird people who smelled like they hadn’t taken a bath—ever. But willing or not, his father had clamped down on his arm and all but shoved Caster past the white metal door as soon as it opened. He’d gripped Caster’s shoulders firmly, steering him down a maze of dark hallways until they’d reached an opening on the left. Over the opening hung long strands of multicolored beads that sparkled, tinkled and pinged when they pushed past them.

Beyond the beads lay a concrete floor and little furniture. Against the back wall of the dingy room stood a small table that looked ready to collapse under the weight of too many burning candles. Their collective glow highlighted a large picture of a scowling, heavyset black man that hung on the wall just above the table. Caster hadn’t seen this picture during his previous visits, and he wished more than anything he hadn’t seen it now. The man had bushy eyebrows, narrow black eyes, and a wide, crooked nose. A red and gold striped cap sat on top of his head, and it reminded Caster of the hats he’d seen men wearing once at a Shriner’s circus, only this one had a black tassel. The picture revealed the man from the waist up, but even dressed in a white, button-down shirt with a high, stiff collar, he still looked dangerous—evil, like the kind of person who’d stick razor blades in kids’ candy bars on Halloween.

Even more frightening was Madame Toussant, who sat on a bench in front of the candle-strewn table, babbling words Caster couldn’t understand. Her large body swayed from side to side as though to keep time with the sound of her voice.

Madame Toussant didn’t wear a black, pointy hat or have green skin like the witch on The Wizard of Oz. Instead, she wore a dull red bandanna over a shock of wiry black hair, and her skin was the color of roasted pecans. When she finally stood and turned toward them, her dark blue dress billowed around her large body like a wind-worried tent. The whites of her eyes overpowered small irises, and it gave her a stark, wild-eyed look that made Caster think, W itch! To make matters worse, her many heavy necklaces swayed and rattled against her huge bosom when she walked, and something about that sound made his teeth hurt, like he’d just bitten into tinfoil. It wasn’t until she was only a few feet away that he noticed the ornamentation that made up her necklaces—bits of bone, teeth, shale, and a few beads similar to the ones hanging over the doorway. If wearing necklaces of teeth and bone didn’t prove Toussant was a witch, Caster didn’t know what would. He turned to warn his father, to beg him to leave, but before he managed to utter a word, Caster found himself alone. His father had already rushed over to Madame Toussant, falling to his knees, crying for her to help him, for her to bring back his wife, his precious Ann Louise. Amid sobs and near hysterical supplications, the short, square-faced man promised to do anything, give anything to have the love of his life return home.

As Caster watched his father melt into an emotional puddle before the witch, he trembled with fear. He felt abandoned and more alone than he’d ever felt in his life. In one morning he’d lost what little family he’d had. His father knelt only a few feet away, but Caster instinctively knew it was not the same man who’d ranted and wailed through their apartment only an hour or so ago. This kneeling man was broken, too broken to think of his son. Too broken to survive.

Madame Toussant stood, watching Caster’s father with her hands on her hips, the whites of her eyes appearing even brighter, larger than before. She shook her head slowly, like someone disgusted over a pathetic sight. Caster took a tentative step toward his father, but stopped cold when Madame Toussant raised a hand in his direction. She peered over at him, lifting her chin and tilting her head slightly as though to size him up. Caster couldn’t read her expression. Was that pity or anger he saw in her weird, large eyes?

Then, without warning, Toussant bellowed, “Renee, Antoine, Marie, tout le monde, viens vite! Vite!”

Caster didn’t understand what Toussant said, but it sounded urgent, and before he knew it, people began pouring into the room from the beaded doorway. Men, women, most of them black, many of them half-dressed, all of them sweaty and barefoot. A few carried strange looking drums, some held thick cords, each decorated with bone, teeth, and shale, just like Toussant’s necklaces. Without instruction, they encircled Toussant and Caster’s father, their feet falling into a slow, shuffling march. Three men sat cross-legged on the floor near the table and placed V-shaped drums between their legs. They closed their eyes and began to beat the taut, weathered skin with their fingers.

It was then that Madame Toussant walked up to Caster, snatched one of his hands in hers, and pulled him toward the back of the room. “Dis not for little eyes to see,” she said, her voice deep and low.

“Let me go!” Caster cried, trying to pull out of her grasp. Her thick fingers wrapped tighter around his hand, and Caster threw a desperate, furtive glance over his shoulder. “Dad!”

“Hush,” Toussant demanded. “You daddy don’t hear nothin’ no how, not wit’ him blubberin’ like a fool idiot over dere. And look at dis, he leave me stuck wit’ you. I tell him not to bring de chil’ren, but he don’t listen. Dat’s not good. Not good for him. Not good for you.”

By this time, they’d reached a warped wooden door at the back of the room, and Madame Toussant shoved it open with a huff, then pushed Caster inside. He barely had time to register it was a closet before he tripped over his own feet and landed on his butt.

“Now listen up close,” Toussant said, glaring down at him with her white, witch eyes and rattling necklaces. “Dis gonna have to do ‘cause I got no place else to put you. So stay put up in here, you understand? Don’t matter what you hear, don’t matter what you t’ink you hear, you don’t look. You don’t come out dis closet ‘til I say!” With that, Toussant had slammed the door shut, leaving him to the dark and whatever crawled in dirty, mildewy places.

Whatever time had passed between then and now only compounded Caster’s fear. So did the sounds coming from the other room. He heard crying, singing, the babble of nonsensical words, the beat—beat—beat of drums accompanied by the stomp and slap of so many bare feet on concrete. Were all those people dancing? Did anyone even remember he was in the closet? What if Toussant kept him trapped in here forever? He was young but not stupid. He knew Toussant didn’t like him. She might keep him in this closet simply because she felt like it, just like his stepmother used to do. He wondered what trapped people died of first—starvation or thirst. Either sounded like a horrible way to die.

Working hard to hold back tears and keep his bladder in check, Caster inched forward once more on his knees. This time he was rewarded with the feel of the closet door beneath his fingertips. The clamor in the next room was growing to a fevered pitch, and the sounds vibrated through his small body. His stomach felt funny, like someone had filled it with bees and creepy-crawly things. He pressed an ear to the door, hoping to hear his father’s voice amidst the mayhem. What he heard instead was the unmistakable squawk of a chicken, a high-pitched, urgent squall that sounded like a scream for help. What on earth was a chicken doing in there?

Curious, Caster ran his hands along the doorknob, searching for a keyhole he might peer through. There was none. He lowered himself to the floor, lying on his right side, and pressed an eye against the crack beneath the door. It was too narrow for him to make out anything more than an occasional moving shadow, but from down here, the chicken’s squawking sounded even more desperate. What were they doing out there?

When his curiosity could bear no more, he scrambled back onto his knees and felt for the doorknob. He was shocked to discover it turned easily in his hand. The door wasn’t locked!

As if by magic, the door creaked open a couple inches before sticking fast. He remembered how Madame Toussant had to push hard against the door when she opened it earlier. Being inside the closet meant he’d have to pull hard to open it all the way, and that would surely get Toussant’s attention. No matter, at least now he had a bit of light, was able to breathe relatively fresher air, and could see what was going on with that stupid chicken.

Planting his small body between the jamb and door edge, Caster leaned his forehead against the opening and peered out.

Brown bodies were packed together, everyone jumping and dancing with wild, exaggerated movements, arms flinging in every direction, legs and feet rising and falling to a rhythm far different from that of the drums. Some had their eyes closed and their heads thrown back while others had only the whites of their eyes showing. Sweat ran like golden threads down their bodies, and spittle dripped from the corner of every mouth. Some people were completely naked now, and a few men were thrusting the lower halves of their body against women in gestures Caster knew he shouldn’t be watching. But he couldn’t turn away. The raw energy radiating from the group seemed to glue his eyes to their every movement. It wasn’t until he heard the squawk again that he remembered the chicken.

Squatting a little so he had a better angle from which to see past the bodies, Caster caught sight of Madame Toussant—just as she tore the chicken’s head off with her teeth.

Paralyzed with shock and awe, Caster watched as the bird’s wings continued to flap wildly. Blood splattered over Toussant’s face, across the concrete floor, over his father, who lay prone at her feet. No sooner had the bird’s wings come to rest than someone exchanged the dead bird with another live chicken. Once again, Toussant, her eyes now completely white, tore the head off the bird with her teeth. This time, however, she captured its blood in a roughly hewn wooden bowl, then drank from it. When she lowered the bowl, her eyes rolled back into her head, and her body began to shimmy and tremble. Pink spittle and blood flew from her lips.

Still writhing from whatever spell had overtaken her, Toussant grabbed a buck knife from the small table bedside her. She let out a barrage of strange words, then dropped into a squat beside his father and with no more ceremony than a loud grunt, Madame Toussant cut the smallest finger off his left hand. The drumming and dancing stopped.

Caster didn’t remember gasping, but he must have, loudly, because everyone except his father, who still lay on the floor unmoving and bleeding, turned to face him. His lungs felt vacuumed of air, and for the life of him, Caster couldn’t remember how to draw in a breath. He watched as Madame Toussant stood and turned toward him, her eyes bright with anger. Caster felt warm liquid trickle down his legs, and the pungent scent of fresh urine snapped him back to reality. He had disobeyed and witnessed something forbidden, and now there was little doubt he would pay for the transgression.

With a whimper, he quickly pushed away from the door and scrambled to the back of the closet. He was trying to hide beneath a smelly tarp that lay bunched up in a corner when someone kicked the closet door open.

Madame Toussant’s large body filled the doorway. The blood on her face, mouth, and hands made her look like she’d just slaughtered and eaten an entire army. She reached for him and with little effort, captured Caster by the collar of his t-shirt. She yanked him to her, and he gagged from the rancidity in her breath.

“What I told you, huh?” Toussant demanded. “Didn’t I say dis not for little eyes to see?” Still gripping his collar, she shook him hard. “Didn’t I say?”

“Y-y-yes,” Caster cried.

“But you gotta look anyway, huh? Curious gotta see, non?” She pulled him into the adjacent room, which was slowly emptying of people. “Den Madame will give you somet’ing to be curious about, little man.” She grabbed his right wrist so tight he yelped in pain. He wanted to pull free but was too frightened to move.

Toussant took the index finger of her right hand and dragged it down both sides of her face, collecting leftover chicken blood. When her fingertip was covered in crimson, she quickly drew on the back of his imprisoned hand. “Tu vouloir chercher mais jamais voir!”

Caster didn’t understand her words or the meaning of the symbol she drew, which looked like a snake eating its own tail, but somehow he knew—he felt—that Madame Toussant had just branded him for life—to a fate worse than death.