Well, it’s part of why she did.
A creative soul needs an outlet, Leonor, and you’re suffocating without it.
She said that to me after basically breaking into my apartment and sending me into a panic attack, but her intentions were good, and she wasn’t wrong.
I’d accepted my life for what it was, accepted that when I died everything inside me did as well, regardless of surviving, and I was just waiting for the end. I was done, and I didn’t care what happened to me.
I still journaled, I wrote almost daily after the last time I tried to kill myself but that wasn’t enough to bring me back. And Justine knew that.
So, she dragged me kicking and screaming to the mansion, set up all of my shit with HR, then made sure I showed up every single day. I’ll never be able to repay her for still believing in me the way she did, for having faith despite not having any myself, and now I have this incredible new chapter starting complete with endless possibilities I haven’t entertained in years.
Justine might not have carried me for nine months but she truly is my mother. She’s the reason for my rebirth, and that makes it ironclad in my eyes.
With a smile, I close the window and French doors then hit the lights before locking up.
We lock up every room with a door in addition to the front, back and side of the mansion because the stuff in this house is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, regardless of where it came from.
Personally, I wouldn’t care if the fucker burned to the ground.
Monsieur Bissonnettewas a gigantic bag of soggy, limp dicks, and he did absolutely horrible things to the people he employed as well as his wife and children. I understand the historical value of the property—it was a Civil War hospital and a TB Ward on top of originally being a plantation that produced a huge amount of this parish’s goods, which boosted the economy at the time—but I’ll never understand all the trouble we’re going to when you could easily throw up ropes, designate a path, and make it a museum as is.
It feels like we’re immortalizing a racist, bigoted, sexist, tyrannical murderer, and I can’t see the value inthat.
Plus, it gives me wicked heebie jeebies.
But, it’s not my place to say anything, and it means a lot to Justine to have the property taken care of. Apparently her father traced their family line back to the Bissonnette Plantation after he’d been working here for decades, and she’s had a weird connection to it ever since.
I glance back at the grand staircase before walking out, checking to make sure I turned out all of the lights, then shudder as my eyes linger over the third floor banister.
That’s where Mrs. Bissonnette allegedly hung herself.
Allegedly.
But you do enough digging and you’ll find reports that allude to her husband losing his shit when he found out she was cheating, so he wrapped a rope around her neck, dragged her through the house by it, and tried to hang her himself. But the banister broke, the rope got caught and she didn’t die, so he threw her from the third floor. She landed on a decorative table, broke it under the force, and one of the legs went through her stomach. Her neck broke on impact, so hopefully she didn’t feel it.
Which is just one of the many reasons I don’t like coming here no matter how good for me it might be. True or not, that is a grizzly story, and it adds to the overall creep factor.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I stare at the original rug, still sporting a stain that no one will confirm is blood, then shake it off and quickly walk outside.
No ghosts for me today, thanks.
I rush down the stairs, holding the straps of my backpack tight but when I realize I’m basically running from a house, I start to laugh.
“Get a grip, Leonor. God.” I roll my eyes as I slow my pace, taking a deep breath while I count backwards from ten.
This place isn’t so bad during the day, it doesn’t give off as ominous vibes anyway but when the sun starts to set like it is now, that’s when it’s harder to keep from getting all kinds of paranoid. And since I already have a predisposition to paranoia, it takes a lot more for me to stay calm.
My heart starts to pick up speed as I trek my way toward the carriage house. I don’t know why I stayed so late tonight, I didn’t even want to come to work to begin with but I was so in the zone once I got here that I lost track of time. I’m known for that already but after last night, my mood has been spectacular, and I’ve been in la la land most of the day.
“Excuse me.”
I jump and nearly scream as a hand lands on my shoulder, swinging my backpack around like a bag of bricks at the ready. My heart is pounding, my pulse is through the roof and when my vision clears enough to see Lurch—that new security guard—standing there with wide, green eyes and a surprised look, I blow out a ragged breath.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come up behind me.”
He drops his hand and nods with an embarrassed smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s fine. I didn’t know anyone else was here.”
