Voo Doo

They had lived in their home for 50 years. The house reflected the eccentric preferences of the New Orleans population. It was painted pink, had turquoise shutters and was trimmed in green. The picket fence was white.

In the yard were several holes and Wayne could be seen leaning on his shovel awaiting directions from Mabel, who paced the ground tapping her teeth with the long fingernails of her left hand. In her right arm she cradled a shoe box.

“Over there, Wayne. That’ll be the spot. Right there by the corner of the house. That way he’ll be right close to us.”

Wayne shuffled over to the spot indicated by his wife and placed his foot on the spade of the shovel, then looked up at her for confirmation. She nodded her head and he continued. Step. Scoop. Lift. Toss. He had done this half a dozen times so far this morning, digging a few feet and then stopping each time Mabel cried that he was digging in the wrong place.

He expected to be arrested this time too, after a few shovelfuls, but to his surprise Mabel allowed him to continue digging the grave for her cockatiel.

“Yes, Brewster will be very happy here, by the stoop. We’ll be able to talk to him when we sit on the porch swing” she said to him. As Wayne continued to dig Mabel grieved aloud.

“I remember when Thelma passed on. Poor Brewster was so sad and lonely, even after he came to live with us. I wondered if he’d ever talk again. Do you recollect how sorrowful he was, Wayne?”

“Yup. He was a mighty sorrowful bird. But you cheered him right up, Mabel. You did that for him. And you taught him new words and he sure got happy again. You was a good mother to him, don’t you forget that.”

Mabel nodded her head and let the tears run freely.

“Ho, boy. What’s this now?” Wayne’s shovel had hit an obstruction. He dug around a bit then reached in and pulled out what he had encountered. When she saw what it was, Mabel screamed.

It was a ram’s head, clearly at least as old as the house, dry skull and horns. Wayne held it up and Mabel cried, “Voo doo, voo doo!” She ran into the house to check her candles.

Twenty years ago she and Wayne had been in the front yard raking the autumn leaves. Mabel noticed an old ragged woman walking down the sidewalk, carrying a long staff with beads and feathers dangling from the end, secured there by a leather thong wrapped around the rod. As she approached the house Mabel could hear the song of the staff as the beads rang against each other with each of the woman’s steps.

Mabel expected the woman to pass by, but she stopped at the gate to their yard and opening it, let herself in. She walked right up to the stoop and spat upon the steps. Then she raised her staff above her head, whispered an unintelligible chant, and spat again. Lifting herself on her toes she turned and glided out the gate and down the sidewalk, having never even looked at Wayne or Mabel.

“Voo doo!” Mabel cried and ran into the house to fetch candles. She gathered a few half burned candles, thrust them into her chipped candle stick holders and lit them. From that moment her house was never without burning candles. It was an expense that required some sacrifices; candles burned up quickly and had to be replaced before they went out. It had been twenty years since she’d bought any butter pecan ice cream, but if she didn’t make sure of the candles she knew they’d be dead, or worse. A witch’s curse was not to be treated lightly.

She kept the candles in every room of her house – on the TV, buffet, dresser, kitchen table, even the bathroom sink. The ceilings were painted a musty black above the candles with their continuously burning flames. The soft-edged circles represented protection against all forms of voo-doo, including the kind that comes with the uncovering of a ram’s head.

When Mabel rushed into the house she was horrified to see that the candles were not burning. Not a single one. She ran from candle to candle and pressed the wick between her thumb and index finger. They were all cold.

She set Brewster on the table and opened the kitchen drawer to get her matches, which were not there. Thoroughly searching every drawer did no good; there were no matches. Frantically she tapped her teeth and turned, scanning the kitchen trying to remember where she might have put them. They were always right there, with the screwdrivers and tweezers. There had been a whole box of them.

What was that? A noise from the shoe box. The tapping slowed as she focused her attention on Brewster’s box. Definitely a scratching noise. “Oh my gosh! Did I almost bury him alive?” She snatched off the lid of the box and into her face flew three bats, flapping their wings in her eyes and ears. Mabel batted them away and tripped over the kitchen stool, landing face down on the stained linoleum.

This was when she saw the roaches. Big ones, lined up under the toe space of the cabinets, looking at her. She never realized they had eyes. “Maybe they don’t. Maybe these aren’t really cockroaches.” She scooted back, took the shoe off her left foot and waited for them to make the first move. They did. They stormed out, an army swarming her. She swatted with her shoe but they were too fast for her. To her amazement they rushed right past her and headed into the dining room.

“Wayne, come in here man, and help me!”

Wayne came in the back door, but he looked different somehow. He was shorter. And his long nose twitched. Before Mabel’s eyes, he shrunk and grew a tail. When he emerged from the pile of clothes he had been wearing he was covered in coarse hair. He looked at her with beady eyes, but got distracted by a piece of cheese that had dropped to the floor. Wayne scuttled under the table, snatched the cheese and ran off with the morsel in his mouth.

“I knew it was voo doo.” Mabel said, just before she passed out.

Prompt:
A rat running off with cheese
A man with a shovel
A frightened woman

1,073 WC