Even More Rassmussen Plantation!!

Chapter Four

Cinnamon finished signing the papers about a half-hour later. She was not certain what to do afterwards, but she thanked Mr. Andrews and made small talk a while longer, and drank a few more glasses of lemonade, then showed him out.

            “I’m sorry if I scared you, miss,” Mr. Andrews said, as he descended her front steps.

            “Not at all,” Cinnamon laughed, looking at the deed and other papers in her hand, “I hardly believe in ghost stories anymore.”

Chapter Five

          Cinnamon felt like she was abandoning poor Abram when she told him she would be leaving. She asked him to leave a note for Eddie, since he still hadn’t shown up, and then hurried off to catch the eleven o’clock bus to New Orleans.

            She had only her knapsack on her back by way of possessions, and a duffle bag over her shoulder. Tybalt was stuffed into her knapsack, protesting and mewing at first, but now he seemed to have resigned himself to his fate, and lay in the bag as if sleeping. Somewhere on the highway the bus broke down, so Cinnamon spent an unhappy night on the cramped bus seat. The bus didn’t drive clear into Eau d’Noir, but it had a stop within walking distance. When they reached it the sky was still dark, a few stars sprinkled overhead and the far to the east the navy color of the sky was letting go to a lighter shade. Cinnamon took a quick look around at her unfamiliar surroundings, and pulled her worn, brown jacket close around her, then picked up her frayed duffle bag and slung it over her shoulder, starting down the road towards the mansion. The Louisiana air was thick and humid, and a lazy breeze swayed the Spanish moss on the trees and occasionally brought a welcome scent of magnolia over the swamp mud. She felt very lonely, and thought of her family as she walked, marveling that she should have ever found herself in such a situation. The land around her seemed to be watching her, the owls from their perches, and occasional flashing eyes from deeper in the trees. Cinnamon quickened her pace. She had never liked the dark.

            A snap behind her made her turn instinctively. Were those flashing eyes she saw, turning quickly off the road into the trees? She shuddered.

“Cougar maybe, even a wolf. Just keep walking. Walk quickly, walk calmly,” she told herself.

 The wind picked up a little bit, and blew her red hair out of it’s messy bun. She cast another nervous look over her shoulder. Were those footsteps? Did animals have footsteps like that?

“Calm down, Cinnamon. You are scaring yourself.”

She remembered quickly how easy it had always been to scare her; as a little girl she could not be left alone or she would start crying hysterically of fright, and her brothers and sisters had always made sport of making her jump and gasp.

Cinnamon felt that old, familiar feeling of fear clutch in her throat, and shiver down her arms, felt her heart beating almost violently, and her head began to spin. Tears began to form in her eyes, and she wiped at them impatiently.

“Stop it! Stop it! Get ahold of yourself. You are scaring yourself, this is nothing but your imagination- the wind, and your imagination.”

Or was it?

The hair on Cinnamon’s neck stood straight. The wind continued to blow, and in the swamp a twig snapped.

“Who’s there?” she shouted into the darkness.

Silence.

But from far off, she could hear the wind rushing faster thru the trees. She started to run down the road, hoping to reach a house or a village before…before what? Before the night could reach her, before…something, something, before the darkness conspired against her. She could barely see the road as she ran, but put one foot in front of the other, her mind reeling, her lungs burning. She began to cough and choke for air, but she kept running and running until her foot stumbled over a rock or a dip in the road and she fell forward.

She screamed and threw a protective arm over her head, but nothing attacked. After a moment she peeked out from under her arm and saw… daylight. The sun had broken over the horizon, and nothing had attacked her. She sat up in the dusty road and realized that she must have had a panic attack. She had heard of girls who had scared themselves to death before, and she wondered if she, too, would end up that way.

She brushed herself off and sullenly glared at the surrounding woods, then picked her things up and, feeling foolish, started back down the road. The walk wasn’t nearly so bad in the new dawn, and as she walked, she wondered if she might even learn to like it here. Having grown up in the bayous, she was used to the steady undercurrent of eeriness that the swamps afforded, but there was something enchanting here also. Something about the way the moss blew in the breeze, or the light thru the trees, that seemed to smile flirtatiously at her.

She lost track of the time as she walked, but later estimated it to be about an hour and a half trek. She took a turn in the road, and then, suddenly, there it was.

Eau D’Noir

The old iron gate proclaimed the name is twisting, twirling letters. The gate was so covered in vines that at first she could not make out what it said, but after she had torn away a few fistfuls of vines, she recognized the old French name. Black Water; her new home. She fumbled for the key Mr. Andrews had given her, and with it opened the padlock which secured the fence. The gate opened with a great deal of complaining and difficulty, and closed behind her in the same way.

 She couldn’t see far down the driveway for all the fog, but she could make out the huge, ancient oak trees that lined the road as she walked down it, towards the mansion. She saw only a huge, dark outline ahead of her before she could discern it was a house. The fog was lightening gradually and the sun was becoming stronger as she got her first proper look at her new home.

She had seen sketches of the place from Mr. Andrews, but drawings did not permit a proper print of what the mansion really was. It was enormous, and sprawling, and seemed keenly aware of the fact, and sat with the air of a rich, beautiful woman in her finest jewels. Cinnamon stopped a moment, and just looked at it. The house seemed alive, as if watching her, and asking just who exactly she was. A little frightened, even in the raising sunlight, she walked up onto the rickety old porch. Rocking chairs still sat on the dilapidated old deck, vines growing up around their legs and over their backs. Cinnamon bit back the urge to knock on the massive, wooden door.

“This is my home now.” She said to no one.

Speaking to no one reminded her of the unhappy cat in her bag, so she swung it around her and opened it up, giving unfortunate Tybalt a bit of fresh air. She let him out of his keeping place and onto the porch. He stretched his legs a moment, and then sat at her ankles, looking up at her.

“I suppose I should go in.” Cinnamon said uncertainly to her cat.

Tybalt just blinked.

She inserted her key into the old lock, turned it, and heard the deadbolt unlock. She bit her lower lip a little, and pushed the door open.

The house was entirely quiet. Cinnamon made sure that Tybalt was inside with her, but left the door open to provide a little bit of much needed light. The main room was covered in dust, a quarter inch thick. Vines could be seen creeping up some of the windows, and even within the house in a few places. The grand, sweeping staircase’s paint was beginning to peel, and the carpets were so coated in dust, Cinnamon could not tell what color they were meant to be. Suddenly a realization struck her.

The room was fully furnished. The mirrors, the carpets, the marble bust near the door… surely these things would have been taken along by a vacating master, or peddled off if times were hard enough to prompt an abandonment. She ran a finger through the thick dust coating a beautiful dresser that sat along the wall. When she saw the color beneath it, she gave a big puff of breath to dispel more dust, and then ran her palm along the top of the furniture to clear it completely. It was gold overlay, with hand-painted rosettes and lilacs running along the edges. Marvelous.

Very curious now, she laid aside her baggage, and walked for the next room, Tybalt following after her. It was a Library, fully stocked still with leather bound books, a marble painted globe near the fireplace, and a fine oak desk sitting near the darkened window, papers still strewn across it, as if it’s master had just stepped out for a moment was expected back at any time. The name signed to many of the papers was one she knew; Caspar Rassmussen- her great great grandfather, who had willed the mansion to her.

A sudden gust of wind opened the window nearest the desk and scattered the papers across the room. Cinnamon rushed to the window and closed the latch before too much damage could be done. As she closed the window, she saw a tangled garden below, just a glimpse, and of an orchard near it, fallen into sorry disarray. She locked the window and took another look about her. Slowly, she began to tour her new home, with her cat close behind her. Room after room, parlors, bedrooms, billiard rooms, drawing rooms, maids quarters, and then, at last, the dining hall.

She wasn’t sure at first is what she saw was real. The grand tables were still laden with food, with a feast fit for a grand party. Rotten platters of meat, spoiled fruit, and molded bread were lain out as if waiting to be eaten. Empty pitchers sat with the feast, the wine long evaporated, but stopped bottles of brandy and scotch still sat, covered with sixty years of dust on them. Spiderwebs covered the lot of it, like a film of dirty lace.

“Do you see this, Tybalt?” Cinnamon asked her companion, “What do you make of it all? It’s like they just walked out the front door one day, and left everything just as it was.”

The dull glint of dusted metal caught her eye, and she walked a few paces away and picked up something off the floor.

A silver mask, with stars engraven onto it, and two navy blue ribbons to secure it. Remembering Mr. Andrews’ story, she dropped it to the ground as if it were a severed head. It clinked as it hit the floor, and lay there still, it’s empty eyes watching her. She shuddered, and walked quickly out of the troubled room.

“Enough!” she shouted, running back into the main room, “Enough ghosts and stories! Eau D’Noir is mine now, not Caspar’s or Madeline’s or Alyce’s. MINE!”

She emphasized her last word by grabbing hold of the drapes and giving them a mighty tug, ripping them to the ground.