Whispers of the Devil

Layla

There isn’t much that can scare me. Maybe that’s why I became a nurse.

Maybe that’s why I didn’t balk at the idea of spending a summer in an entirely creepy, and no doubt haunted, French Colonial style mansion smack dab in the center of a swamp, cypress lined property in Hahnville, Louisiana.

I’ve seen scarier places. I’ve walked the haunted halls of hospitals all over the country during my four years of being a travel nurse. I’ve seen things in emergency rooms that would make someone’s nightmares look and sound like child's play.

This place doesn’t scare me. Although, maybe it should.

Mom’s voice rattles in my ear as she pleads, “Layla, seriously, you can turn around and come home!”

“I already signed the paperwork,” I say with a sigh, narrowing my eyes at the gargantuan structure looming in the distant haze of summer.

Overhead, cypress trees hang with vines that dust the top of my Toyota 4-Runner, the only major purchase I’ve ever made in my life. Before this moment, I’d been sleeping in bunk beds or on couches in whatever cramped apartments I could find during my nursing rotations. I’ve never stayed in one place very long. Not long enough to need a car, or to sign for my own apartment, that’s for sure. The winding driveway is several miles long by my estimation, guarded by a rotting iron gate covered in vines. The columns on either side were cloaked in wisteria, a stunning purple against the age and decay that seems to ooze from this place like a festering wound.

This place is rotting, like whatever lurks inside the boundary of this property should have been dead a long, long time ago.

“She’s bat-shit crazy, Layla. There’s a reason the rest of the family keeps their distance.” Speaking of something that should have died a long time ago, at least in my mom’s opinion. “Your great-aunt has been a raving lunatic since she was sixteen.”

“Well, I’ll be the judge of that, given that I’ve never met her and only have your exaggerated family stories to back up those claims.”

Mom huffs, her voice cracking down the line as the connection shudders. I have one bar of service out here. Maybe that’s a good thing, given that my mom has it in mind to call me repeatedly now that she knows of my intentions here. “She’s been cooped up in the house for decades, sweetie. I’m talking fifty or sixty years. The place is sinking, you know. Falling into the swamp. Your uncle wanted it condemned back in the eighties, but she flat out refused to leave, and there’s nothing that can be done.”

“I’m not here to save the house,” I argue as my car bumps along the desperately cracked concrete driveway. Cypress roots have sprung from the cement, fanning out like dark claws that dig into the stone like talons. “I’m here because she needs a new night nurse, and the executor of her estate reached out to me directly.”

“He never said you needed to be the one to bring your life to a grinding halt to make sure she doesn’t asphyxiate in her sleep, for Christ’s sake!”

I grind my teeth and stare out of the windshield as the house bounds into view, it’s once white paint now gray and peeling. Four stories of darkened windows greet me as I pull into the driveway beside a rusted out sedan. “Look, I’m here. I’m fine, okay? I needed a break from the emergency room setting, and this is only a short-term gig. Once a permanent night nurse has been found, I’ll be back in Washington, and I’ll find another job close by this time.”

Mom isn’t happy. I imagine her stalking back and forth in front of the bay window in my old childhood home in Kirkland, Washington, just outside of Seattle. “There’s a reason no one goes there, Layla.”

“Because it’s haunted?” I laugh, leaning my head back against the headrest and letting my car idle. “I should tell you about some of the stuff I’ve seen in emergency rooms, Mom.”

Whatever she says next crackles with static, the line breaking up, and then the call drops.

It’s for the best, I think. Mom has been trying to talk me out of this since the day I told her I’d been contacted by a lawyer in New Orleans whose practice has my great-aunt Penny as a client.

I’ve never met my aunt. All I know is that she never married, is childless, and is the heir to the family estate that dates back to the early 1800s. This place used to be a plantation, which is sordid enough, but add in the family lore about this particular line….

My fingertips tingle as I slowly get out of the car and shut the door, shielding my eyes from the sun as I look up at the windows. The screened-in front porch rattles as someone opens an interior door, and then a petite dark-haired woman peeks her head around the screen door. She holds it open, a beautiful, kind smile touching her lips. “You must be Layla Bryant!”

Her thick creole accent immediately calms my nerves. I smile back at her, saying, “Yeah, that’s me. I’m glad I’m in the right place. It took ages to get here after passing the gate.”

“There’s a faster way off the property.” She glances at my car. “Especially if you have four-wheel drive. It’s a dirt road that connects with the neighbor’s property. Come on in, it’s stifling today. I just made iced tea. You thirsty?” Her golden-brown skin glistens in the unforgiving sunlight as she clutches the screen door.

I am thirsty. Hot, sweaty, and absolutely parched. I nod and walk to the trunk of my car. I hike my duffle bag over my shoulder–all that I have in the world besides my car.

“I’m Bailey Elliott, by the way,” she says from the porch.

“It’s nice to meet you, Bailey. Are you Penny Gregory’s day nurse, then?”

“I am.” Her smile is bright, all of her teeth shining white in the sunlight.