Why do the shutters close themselves against approaching storms? What's causing those intricate patterns in the courtyard moss? How do wind chimes play Creole melodies without any breeze? What makes the old rocking chair move in perfect rhythm with the distant steamboat whistles, and why do visitors smell yesterday's gumbo in empty rooms?
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Pushed times make a monkey chew pepper.
― Creole proverb
Margaret had inherited more than just the weathered Creole cottage from her great-aunt Celeste---she had inherited its hunger. The raised structure sat like a patient predator among the ancient oaks, its wide galleries and French doors seeming to beckon with false hospitality.
The first night, she noticed how the floorboards sagged in specific patterns, as if something heavy had paced the same route for decades. The locals had warned her about the house’s “moods,” but she dismissed their superstitions until she found herself walking those same worn paths at 3 AM, her bare feet following grooves carved by generations of sleepwalkers.
The cottage’s bones creaked with memory---every room held phantom conversations in Creole French that she somehow understood despite never learning the language. In the parlor, she’d catch glimpses of figures in period dress gesturing frantically at the walls, their mouths moving in silent screams. The kitchen still smelled of pralines and something metallic that made her stomach turn.
By the third week, Margaret realized the truth that had driven her great-aunt to madness: the house didn’t just shelter the living. It collected them. Each family member who’d died within its walls remained, their consciousness absorbed into the cypress and brick, forever pacing, forever trying to warn the next generation of what awaited.
Now Margaret understands why the deed could never be sold to strangers---only blood could hear the house’s true voice. As she feels her own memories beginning to blur with those of her ancestors, she knows she must find the next willing heir before the cottage claims her completely, adding her footsteps to the eternal dance of the damned.
