I sat in the old cane‑back chair across from Mémé Solange, drinkin’ her strong apple cider that always tasted like autumn and firewood. The air in her little house had grown chilled with the turnin’ of the fall season, that kind of cold that creeps in slow and settles in your bones before you realize it’s there. I told her everything; every vision, every whisper, every shadow I had seen and learned from the spirits in the Moreau house. She didn’t interrupt me once. She just sat there quiet, her lips pressed tight, her brow furrowed deep enough to hold a lifetime of worry.
When I finally finished, she let out a long, weary sigh. “I told yo’ mama,” she said, her voice low and gravelly, “when she came back from up north and took up with that man, that somethin’ was wrong with his blood. But she ain’t wanna hear nothin’. Hard‑headed and too blinded by her greed for a better life.”
She pushed herself up from her chair with a grunt and went to place more wood in the fireplace, the flames catchin’ quick and throwin’ warm light across her face. I had chosen to stay with her for the rest of the night, mostly because Liora had brought her ‘friends’ to the house again, and I didn’t want to run into any trouble. Ever since she turned sixteen, Liora had begun experimentin’ and actin’ in ways that made my stomach twist. It wasn’t uncommon in these times for men to take lovers, but women, no matter their shade, were expected to be discreet. Liora, though, had taken up a favorite.
Claude Landry. A young white boy with a handsome face and a wealthy father who owned half the agriculture and shippin’ businesses along the bayous. I didn’t have no problem with Claude. Truth be told, he was a kind soul, too kind for the likes of Liora. He had his own money, his own prospects, and I could see clear as day why she’d set her sights on him. I only hoped she wouldn’t do nothin’ to harm him, because he truly was a good man, and he didn’t deserve to be tangled up in her darkness.
“Chile, enough about that girl and that house,” Solange said suddenly, turnin’ to look at me with those sharp eyes that saw more than most folks ever would. “You need to worry about yourself. How long you think you can hide your own affairs from that demon? You and that carpenter from yonder ways, the one you met at church, Anthony Gallow.”
If a blush could be seen on my face, I would’ve been red as a berry. “Mémé, there’s nothin’ goin’ on with me and Anthony. He was just bein’ kind,” I muttered, lookin’ down at my cup.
Solange snorted loud enough to shake the rafters. “Yeah, a man that fine was bein’ kind. Waitin’ for you every Sunday after church, bringin’ you flowers like he ain’t got nothin’ better to do. I’m tellin’ you now, baby, reach for that man and keep him. Don’t let what that thing got goin’ on keep you from livin’ your life. I ain’t gon’ tell you to leave that house and abandon her, ’cause I know you done tied yourself to her in ways I’ll never understand. But don’t you let her control your whole life.”
I sat there quiet, thinkin’ on her words. I truly wanted to do just that. I had come to like Anthony. He was an honest, hard‑workin’ man with a somber way about him. He was tall and dark, gruff around the edges, but underneath all that he was just a sweet teddy bear of a man. At least to me. I hadn’t told Liora about my interest, afraid of what she might do. I didn’t want to expose Anthony to any of her games. Deep down, I knew the longer I waited, the worse her reaction would be. Liora still dabbled in hoodoo and whatever else she shouldn’t be touchin’, and I didn’t need her tryin’ to meddle with Anthony in any kind of way.
“I’m afraid, Mémé,” I whispered, my voice barely carryin’ over the cracklin’ fire.
Solange looked at me, her expression hard but not unkind. She didn’t offer comfort or false hope. She knew better than to pretend things weren’t as dire as they were. “Then be afraid, baby,” she said finally, her tone gruff but steady. “But don’t let that fear keep you stuck where you are. You ain’t helpless, Nadira. You just refuse to use your gifts the way they were intended. Your mama left scars on your heart, chile. Deep ones. But she gone now. Dead and buried. Let go of that hurt. Live in your truth. Stop hidin’ what you are.”
The fire cracked loud in the hearth, sendin’ sparks up the chimney like tiny spirits fleein’ into the night. I stared into the flames, feelin’ the heat on my face, but inside me everything felt cold. Solange’s words hung in the air heavy as swamp fog, and I didn’t know how to swallow them.
“I ain’t hidin’,” I said, though my voice sounded small, like even I didn’t believe it.
Solange gave me a look, one of those long, slow looks that stripped you bare without sayin’ a word. “Chile, you been hidin’ since the day you learned you could see what other folks can’t. You been shrinkin’ yourself down, tryin’ to fit into a world that ain’t never gon’ make room for you. And now you lettin’ that girl, bless her troubled soul, decide how much life you get to live.”
I felt my throat tighten. “It ain’t that simple, Mémé.”
She snorted. “It’s exactly that simple. You scared of her. Scared of losin’ her. Scared of what she’ll do if she feel you slippin’ away. But baby, you can’t keep lettin’ fear be the thing that chooses for you.”
I looked down at my hands, twistin’ the hem of my dress between my fingers. “If I tell her ’bout Anthony… she gon’ act out. She gon’ try somethin’. I know she will.”
Solange eased herself back into her chair, the old wood creakin’ beneath her. “Let her act out. Let her scream, let her cry, let her throw whatever tantrum she got in her. But you stand firm. You hear me? You stand firm. ’Cause if you keep lettin’ her think she own you, she gon’ take more and more until there ain’t nothin’ left of you but a shadow.”
My eyes burned, but I blinked the tears away. “I don’t wanna hurt her.”
“And she don’t mind hurtin’ you,” Solange said flatly. “That’s the difference.”
The truth of it hit me hard, like a slap. I felt it settle deep in my chest, heavy and painful.
Solange leaned forward, her voice softer now, but still sharp enough to cut. “Nadira, baby… you got a gift. A real one. A dangerous one, yes, but a powerful one too. And you been treatin’ it like it’s a curse ’cause your mama told you it was. But your mama ain’t here no more. Her hurt ain’t yours to carry.”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to stop bein’ afraid.”
“You don’t stop,” she said. “You move anyway.”
The wind howled outside, rattlin’ the shutters, and for a moment I thought I heard the house callin’ my name from miles away that was soft, mournful, hungry.
Solange’s eyes flicked toward the window, then back to me. “That house gon’ take everything from you if you let it. Don’t let it take your future too.”
I wrapped my arms around myself, feelin’ the weight of her words settle like a cloak over my shoulders. “I don’t know how to tell her,” I whispered.
Solange reached out and took my hand, her grip firm, warm, steady. “You tell her the truth. And you brace yourself. And you remember you ain’t alone. You got me. You got that carpenter boy who look at you like you hung the moon. And you got the spirits, yes, even them, watchin’ over you in their own way.”
Her thumb brushed my knuckles. “And baby… you got yourself. Don’t forget that.”
I nodded, though fear still curled tight in my stomach.
