Embe Charpentier

A Fright of Flesh and Bone

 

 

According to South Carolina legend, a fearsome woman called a boohag can slip the bonds of her skin and slide through a small crack under a door. Her purpose? To lay atop a sleeping victim and breathe as they do, sapping them of energy. The terrifying sight of a hag in her bare flesh and bone can frighten even a brave sailor, as it does in the paranormal tale of “Beloved Dead” by Embe Charpentier, available through Kellan Books and on Amazon. This is an excerpt from Chapter Two.

 

Spring 1821, Charleston, South Carolina

 

   To his surprise, Micajah found his captain, seated alone at a narrow wooden table.  The midshipman’s swagger drew Captain Jones’s immediate interest. Micajah bragged of his encounter with the petticoated beauty.

 

     “A rich planter’s daughter made an appeal to ye?” the captain asked as the barmaid slid Micajah a sloshing mug of ale. “With what words?”

 

    “Her fan spoke to me,” Micajah explained. “There are ways ladies flirt with gentlemen.”

 

     The captain’s hearty laugh flickered the candle flame. “Gentleman? First off, that ye were able to feign charm is unlikely! Ye are called ‘Misery Mick’ by the men who serve beneath ye. The high-born Southern lady meant nothin’ by the use of her fan!”

 

        Since no explanation would serve, Micajah knew naught but proof would tell the tale. He spoke to Zelda Mae, the innkeeper’s wife, as she served him a side order of gossip with his chicken stew.

 

    “So, the girls say that a man named Monroe scaled the school wall a few weeks ago, for to take himself a bride and he did so! T’was said the rogue took his husband’s privilege.” Zelda Mae’s loud voice and gesticulations gained the attentions of other interested parties. “And so the man in question returned the belle to the school that very night. Upon the following morn, he came with great fanfare to reclaim her. With a sweep of his arm, the rake Monroe commanded his wife to step forward. After the bride came forth, she left the school for his bed, much to her father’s shame.”

 

    Cackling among the women, guffawing among the men ensued. Then the eavesdroppers returned to their conversations. Micajah slurped his stew, sopping his gravy with a slab of bread. “So the rascal won the lady?”

 

     “Aye! According to my friend, the seamstress, the uppity women of the town say, ‘Oh, how rash!’ But though their money-grubbin’ daddies say otherwise, the daughters would likely adore such attentions from a man so bold. In the meantime, the Charleston families say that Vetivier cannot protect the young misses. Further failures could destroy her livelihood.”

 

   After slugging down his draught of bitter ale, Micajah asked where Madame Vetivier’s home could be found. “’Tis the grandest and largest manse on Lagare Street. Ye may know it by its gates, Midshipman. They’re called Falchion, for the iron sword of cut design, with a chop from its blade.” The innkeeper shook his head and took Micajah’s mug, tossing its contents on the floor. “No more drink. Men in their cups act in haste. Stay far from the school. Madame will punish trespassers. Ye may find yourself in the jail with scoundrels, which clearly ye are not.” His snicker led Micajah to slide coins across the bar and depart without looking back.

 

    Through dimming light, past beautiful homes and down lovely streets lined with live oaks, Micajah set a true course. Upon finding the Falchion Gates, his eyes looked past the wrought-iron and into the first garden. In the front garden far to the right, a great oval fountain cast water into a raised pool. One could not scarce see the source of the tumbling trickles, so like streams of life itself they fell. It was then he gazed upon the topmost level of the wall. From its crown protruded shards of glass, the merciless remnants of broken bottles. Such a gesture of cruelty to any who might trespass should have served as evidence to Micajah, but drink and desire impelled him onward.

 

   After surveilling for some time, Micajah espied a young house slave, out among the garden blooms. His repeated call not sufficing, he shouted, “Girl, speak to me.”

 

    A warm evening breeze transported her terror-struck voice. “I not supposed to talk to strangers.”

 

    Micajah noted the girl’s clean uniform. Assuming that she worked not in the kitchen, but in an area of the home which might provide her access to the gentlewomen, he pled with her: “Girl, if you deliver a message to Miss Betsy, I will pay you.”

 

    A few coins lured her closer. Soon, a call came from the door. “Sary girl, the flowers!”

 

    His few coins seemed a king’s ransom to Sary. She agreed to deliver the sailor’s message. “To meet Midshipman Aldrich at this gate at nine on the morrow. I shall await an answer.” Micajah stepped back, out of the line of sight.  

 

    Sary nodded. “I try to come back.” The slim young woman ran into the home.

 

    Sary’s stammering delivery of Micajah’s message led Betsy to appreciate the girl’s charms all the more. “Put the flowers in the vase.” She pointed to a crystal vase on an oval table. “Tell the sailor to be gone and not return.” After a sweep of her hand, Betsy returned to her embroidery hoop. “Such foolish men are bred up North,” she clucked.

 

    Seated beside her, Charlotte whispered, “Perhaps you should meet him. I would love to hear a tale myself.” Then she snickered. “A Northern sailor, eh? Tall? Handsome?”

 

   “Neither.” Betsy giggled. “But he has either an imagination or some measure of bravery. I doubt it is the latter. Do such flights of fancy interest you?”

 

    “Yes, I admit they do.” Charlotte covered her mouth with her hand.

 

    Sary heard her mistress bade her remain by the door. “Do you wish to hear his tall tale?” Betsy punctuated Micajah’s anecdote with “Can you believe that?” and “Imagine such a thing!” Charlotte’s rapt attention was fixed to every word.  

 

   Sary was sent outside with a message. “At nine.”

 

   Micajah’s last day in port was spent readying the ship for its dawn departure on the morrow. To their amazement, he worked among them, a model of pleasant humor. At eight, he parted company with his brethren. Picking flowers from private gardens all the way to Legare, he arrived at nine to find no fine lady present. After five minutes, Sary emerged to warn him away.

 

    “The Madame heard of your comin’.  She want me to let you in. Be wise, sir. Ye should run from the gates quick as ye can.”

 

    Micajah dropped the flowers and reached through the gates at the latch. “The Madame wishes to see me. Then she should,” believing no woman worthy of a stalwart sailor’s fear.

 

       Sary’s effort to force his hand from the latch burst the Falchion Gates apart with a loud rattle. “Go, I done told you!” Sary cried, but Micajah rushed past.

 

     “If the women of the South believe courage is for wealthy prigs, I prove it wrong!” He issued his challenge to the air as he stormed down the walkway.

 

   The commotion impelled three young gentlemen to emerge from the mansion. The three bolted toward him, but Micajah strode on, undeterred before meeting his fate at the fountain. One grasped him tight about his waist and held him fast while the other broke his nose. Micajah spat blood upon his assailant’s silk cravat.

 

     “Three men who fight one are cowards, not villains!” Micajah shouted.

 

      “Trespasser!” accused another man of means who joined the fray. After blow after heated blow, Micajah slumped to the bricks, his mind lost in a fog of pain.

 

     He woke to find himself hog-tied in a small brick room. Sary was tied to a hitching post feet away. A tall, bushy-haired man held the lash above her. The man’s large, muddied boots reeked of rot. He turned his head to spy a stunning, well-gowned woman. Her raven hair sat knotted at the nape of her neck; her eyes of china-blue mocked him.

 

   The sneering lady spoke: “Our visitor awakes. Now, Dr. Fox, you have your moment’s entertainment, to repay you for all you have done. You may teach our young Sary here not to talk to strangers.”

 

    “No, please,” Micajah mumbled through swelled lips. “I led her to do it. She tried to stop me. It was my fault…I’ll take her measure.”

 

    Fox counted before the raising of the lash. His anticipation, the speaking of each number in turn, took longer than the wretched act itself. By the time he had completed his vicious flogging, Sary had slumped to the dust.

 

    Fox bent down, a pot of thick paste in his hand. His wrinkled palm rubbed it into Sary’s flayed skin.

 

    “It’ll heal’er fast, Madame.” Dr. Fox said. “Potion on the back will kill the pain but keep the mark. She be useful soon enough. As for this one,” his foot kicked Macajah’s leg, “he belong to you, Madame. Test your new power on ‘im.”

 

    “The power you granted me, Fox. The previous hag was quite the fool.” Genevieve adjusted the thin choker around her neck. She peered down at Micajah. “I would prefer a more handsome specimen for my first ride.”

 

   “You got to learn to control the sight of your haggin’ and the pressin’ of your hag self on the chest of a man. Since this one ain’t goin’ nowhere hence, he be the one to test your limits.”

 

    Dr. Fox knelt down beside Micajah. “Boy, you done messed with somethin’ you never did see in the North. Miss Vetivier call for me from the Great Dismal Swamp in North Carolina. She done heard a wise conjure man such as I can make magic so’s a woman can stay young for as long as she please. But there be a price to pay for such things. Sary pay me, so now it be your turn. Madame’s gonna ride you and get strong.”

 

    Micajah struggled as the gag was tied. “You gonna scream, boy. She don’t know how to control the sight of her hag self. Look like a piece of raw meat, but live like a floppin’ fish. Keep your eyes closed while she done leave her skin behind in the carriage seat.  As for me, I ain’t lookin’ at such things if I don’t have cause.”

 

    After being tied hand and foot to sundry items, Micajah lay flat on the dirt of the carriage house floor. Bravery demanded his eyes remain open; he wished to live through whatever horror was to come. Genevieve Vetivier, disappointed that her first ride would be taken upon a common seaman, settled upon the carriage’s red leather bench. Dr. Fox explained the rising of her spirit from her body in tones soft as silk. “Think of one of them fancy French balloons,” he whispered. “Then rise, jus’ like the balloon, right outta yourself.”

 

     After a silence deep as the Atlantic, a strange squeal unlike anything Micajah had yet heard came from Genevieve’s throat, snapping her choker. An eerie wail followed. Above his body, a sight found but in the pit of hell rose above him. A pulsing venous, muscled mass rested on his chest. He struggled to remain conscious, but the gory corpus of meat on his body drove him to near madness. He could hear the beat of her heart thump against his chest, a battle drum; though he saw no stain upon his jacket, he envisioned himself drenched in thick maroon sheets of blood, a sanguine-swamp flood that drowned him in panic. The stench of iron, mud, and decay dwelled within him. His eyes beheld her flayed body before he forced them shut tight. Yet, when he did, the image persisted, the horror causing him to scream and squirm, a pinned insect against a hard keeping board.

 

     For five merciless hours, Genevieve rode Micajah. Though Dr. Fox instructed her to be silent during night rides, she wailed as a wind-borne Irish banshee, ripping every shred of energy from Micajah’s body. Beneath her flayed form, he wheezed and gasped. His vitality drained away; his chest collapsed; his legs twitched and knees buckled. He strained against the ropes that bound him, aching for relief. Before the dawn’s coming, he welcomed death. The vision of Sary’s flaying and the rending of his body, drawn and quartered by Vetivier’s depravity, had sullied him to his soul.

 

    As daylight rose, after hours of terror, the pressure retreated. With a shriek, Vetivier returned to her body, filling her skin under Dr. Fox’s tutelage.

 

   Drunk with newfound power, she hopped down from the carriage seat. Her face glowed, as though she’d wakened from a fitful slumber. She told Fox to lay a canvas bag on the floor. To Micajah’s horror, she knelt upon it and stared at him. Micajah averted his eyes.

 

    “Dr. Fox, it would seem this scraggy sailor possessed some measure of vigor. A sweet cordial, an evening’s restoration. ” Genevieve took a blade from Fox and cut the gag from Micajah’s mouth. A thin scratch brought a trickle of blood to his cheek. “Though no one can ever know about the events of this evening, we will give you the fairest trial my safety allows. Defend yourself, sir.”

 

     Through the fog, Micajah mumbled his plea. “I will say nothing. I will never return here, Madame…” He coughed violently, cracking the husk of dried blood that had tightened upon his face.

 

        Fox cut his hands loose. “A poor defense, son. Penalty for tresspassin’ is haintin’. Guilty as charged, and you’ll serve a long damn sentence ghostin’ this town. No possessin’ a human for you. No body made with God’s hands will accept you. I condemn you to roam these streets, since you a wanderin’ sorta man. In my own interest, I set a limit – cain’t go no more than ten miles from the tallest steeple in this town. A punishment befittin; the crime.”

 

    “He will be harmless?” Vetivier asked.

 

    “Just as he is now.”  Dr. Fox cut the ropes that held Micajah’s feet. Two terrified male slaves helped Fox jerk the canvas bag over Micajah’s limp body.  “Weak as a runt kitten, Madame. No chain rattlin’ for this haint.”

 

   Before Micajah’s head was covered by the canvas bag, Genevieve Vetivier’s unsmiling blue eyes met his. “No one will mourn your passing.”

 

    Thus, Micajah’s fate was sealed. In the light of an uneasy dawn, he was transported in the back of a carriage to a dinghy. The small blood spatters on the canvas sack ensured that no one inspected its contents before tossing it into Charleston Harbor.

 

 

Embe Charpentier's first two novels, Beloved Dead and Sparks, were published by Kellan Books. She has also been published in five anthologies and by over thirty online literary magazines such as Polychrome Ink, The Quotable, and Poydras Review. By day, she teaches high school English as a Second Language.